False Charity (24 page)

She scrutinized the papers Bea passed to her. ‘They're upping the numbers each time, aren't they? Tonight we're catering for two hundred and fifty.'

‘Among whom is at least one Member of Parliament who is bringing a party. I myself am bringing a party of four, which will include my ex-husband, the portrait painter. Everyone will be wearing evening dress, sporting jewellery, driving up in limousines. They'll have paid high prices for the tickets and they'll donate money freely under the impression that it will go to charity. They'll go away happy, but you, the caterer and the cabaret will be out of pocket. So will the charity.'

Ms McNeice was accustomed to making decisions. ‘Right. Two ways we can deal with this; cancel and cut our losses or go ahead. I don't want to cancel because it will upset all the people who've paid to attend. It's a cut-throat market, all of us hotels trying to attract corporate hospitality, and this is exactly the sort of function we want – no, that we need. I agree with you; the guests are not the ones who will suffer. If we go ahead, they'll have a good time and remember us when they want the same again.

‘The hotel will be out of pocket for the hire of the room, the wine we're serving and the wages of the people we've employed to set up. Under the circumstances I'm going to suggest that the hotel stands the loss. We were going to supply a rather good wine, but we can downgrade to plonk and that will save a few pennies.'

‘Maybe you can stand the loss,' said Bea, ‘but what about the caterer? A new, young firm, who are going to bust a gut to produce food to die for, thinking it's their golden opportunity to break into the market. What about them?'

Ms McNeice dismissed the uncomfortable thought. ‘They'll have some insurance.'

‘Would you care to check?'

Ms McNeice licked her upper lip. ‘You must understand my position.'

‘I do,' said Bea. ‘I can also see a second caterer being driven into bankruptcy. Plus all the other people these con men have hurt along the way. Plus the charities whom I think we may say will never see a penny of the money that's been raised for them.'

Ms McNeice fiddled with her earrings. They were faceted black earrings this time. She took them off. ‘I won't cancel. Anyway, it wouldn't help anyone if I did.'

‘Agreed. You mentioned the police earlier. They haven't been round asking about these people, have they?'

The woman blinked. ‘No, nothing like that. A member of staff went missing, that's all.'

Bea nodded. ‘Normally I'd say we should bring in the police, but two of the victims reject that idea.'

‘Yes, yes.' Ms McNeice was abstracted. ‘It's made us very short-handed. I shall have to get on to an agency for …' She picked up Bea's card. ‘You don't supply …? No, you said the agency was being wound down, didn't you?'

‘In normal times we would be able to help you out but … wait a minute. Would the services of a fully-trained silver service waitress help? I might just be able to help you there.' Would this be a way of getting Coral into the hotel that evening?

‘Heavens, yes. Anyone who can serve wine without spilling it all over the place.'

‘I'll see to it,' said Bea, making a note. ‘There's one other thing. This is exactly the sort of function where people like to have their photos taken and these people have been supplying their own photographer who likes to pose the guests with a pretty Asian girl. He sells Polaroids on the spot and pockets the cash, which means he can avoid snapping the organizers. So far I haven't been able to track down a single photograph of them.'

‘We asked if they wanted the photographer we normally use for these events, but they said they'd bring their own.'

‘Understandable. Can you arrange somehow for their photos to be taken this evening without them knowing? Perhaps with one of these new phone-cameras?'

‘Yes, I can do that. But …' She threw herself back in her chair. ‘Let's get this straight. If we go ahead, we lose. If we cancel, we lose. Any bright ideas about how we can come out of this in one piece?'

‘We know what they look like, and if we can take photographs of them, that will help. We've found their accommodation address – which is local – but we don't know where they're actually living. We don't even know if the names they've given are genuine. The best plan I can come up with is that we take them off into another room at the end of the evening and confront them with what they've done, and with the photographs we've taken of them. Then we ask for recompense. Can you let me have copies of the cheques they've given you so far?'

‘I'll give you copies now.' She switched on a printer-cum-photocopier, and set it to work. ‘You think they'll divvy up, just like that?'

‘No, I don't. I think we might have to threaten to go to the police if they don't pay us – and you – what they owe.'

‘I really don't want to bring in the police because it'll get into the papers and that frightens the customers away, but if they hold their nerve, they could just walk out of here and disappear.' She handed over photocopies of a couple of cheques.

‘Have you got a better idea?'

The woman pulled a face. ‘Not a legal one. I know a couple of guys who play rugby …' Her gaze shifted from Bea.

‘Tommy Banks, the manager of the Garden Room, would like to have a go at them, too. But would that sort of pressure work? I mean, we could get them to sign a bunch of cheques tonight, and they could cancel them first thing Monday morning.'

Ms McNeice continued to gaze at the ceiling. ‘It's only a fantasy, of course. I'd rather like to hold them incommunicado in one of our cellars till the cheques have been cleared.' She gave herself a little shake. ‘But of course we can't. It would be illegal and they could have us up for false imprisonment.'

Bea caught her eye, and they both laughed. ‘It's a tempting thought, but no, we can't do that. Leave it with me, will you? I have a computer geek who might be able to think up something. Meanwhile …'

‘I convince my managing director that we've got to go ahead, get a photographer lined up, and arrange for a suitable room to be available for a quiet after-hours chat with our friends. How many do you think there will be?'

‘We think there are four people operating the scam: Mrs Somers-Briggs – who seems to be the brains behind the outfit – that's one. Then there's the man who does the auction and acts as MC. He also plays the piano rather well. His name is Jerry, or Richard, something like it. Then there's a handsome lad who may or may not be Mrs Somers-Briggs' son. I'm not sure whether he's the DJ or the photographer, but either way, he's supposed to be a wow with the ladies.

‘Apart from those four there's an Asian girl, name unknown. We're not sure if she's part of the team or not; she's certainly helping them by telling a sob story and milking the punters. We're pretty certain that the cabaret people are victims rather than predators.'

‘I'll get on to it.' Ms McNeice replaced her earrings and stood up as one of her phones rang.

Bea stowed the photocopies of the cheques in her handbag, while Ms McNeice answered the phone. ‘Yes, well … tell her we're relying on her … yes, I know she's upset, but … no, the police have all gone now … tell her from me that if she doesn't turn up this evening, she's lost her job … yes. Must go.

‘Sorry about that,' said Ms McNeice, showing Bea to the door. ‘Another problem. A receptionist not wanting to work tonight. She's upset by what's been happening here but I really can't afford to have another of my staff go missing.'

‘Staff, always a problem,' said Bea, sympathizing.

‘He came with such good references, too. Eight years in a five-star hotel in Cheltenham. You'd think he'd know better. But there, the freedom of the great big city, I suppose it went to his head.'

‘Mm,' said Bea, not knowing or caring what that was all about. They halted in the foyer, shaking hands, one professional woman having earned the respect of the other. ‘See you this evening, then. I'll get my waitress to contact you direct, and if there's any problem you know where to find me.'

Bea went out into the busy street. The hotel had been on the gloomy side, but here the sun was shining. She checked her watch, wondering how Maggie and Oliver had been getting on. Which reminded her that she needed a word with young Oliver. Maybe he was just the right person to operate a scam on the scammers.

Oliver had been fielding messages from all sides since his return from the dress agency. He said Maggie was somewhere around and gave Bea a questioning look, expecting her to ask for details. Bea refused to take the hint. One thing at a time.

She said, ‘Oliver, how much do you think these people have raked in so far? Not just from not paying their bills, but also from the auctions and the promises they've got people to give for the charities.'

‘No idea. From what Coral was saying, it could be anything from half to a round million. Maybe more.'

Bea whistled. ‘Tell me about Internet banking.'

Oliver shrugged. ‘I'm no expert.'

‘Would it be possible for you to spirit money out of Mrs Somers-Briggs' bank accounts, to pay for what everyone has lost?'

‘You're joking.'

‘Explain. Hamilton never liked Internet banking, said it wasn't safe.'

‘Oh, it's safe enough, nowadays. Let's think what we'd have to know. First of all, we'd have to find out where her accounts are held. She may have used a different bank for each of her scams; let us say one at Lloyds, one at HSBC, one at NatWest, and so on. As far as I can see, she's set up two bank accounts for each of the false charities she's been running.'

‘We know this because …?'

‘She issues dud cheques which bounce, but she's been raking in the money from ticket sales and auction bids and donations so that money must be going somewhere else.'

Bea encouraged him. ‘Think like a poacher, Oliver. Tell me how it's done.'

‘If I were doing it, for each of the functions there'd be Account No. l – which takes cheques in – and Account No. 2, from which she pays out, but which doesn't contain enough money to cover the cheques which are drawn on it.'

Bea dived for her file, and rifled through it. Then she pulled the photocopies of the cheques from the hotel out of her handbag. Oliver leaned over to check as she compared them.

‘Yes, you're right. On the flier that Coral gave us, they specify Account No. l for paying cheques in, but the dud cheques all came from Account No. 2. What it is to have a criminal mind!'

Oliver blushed with pleasure. ‘I imagine that when she got all the money in from the first function at the Garden Room, she transferred it to another account which is probably in her name alone, maybe in a different bank altogether. Then she would close both the original accounts.

‘When she came to organize the second function – the one at the Country Club – she set up two more accounts using almost the same name – but not quite – as for the first charity. Can you see if she's used another bank? Maybe Lloyds for the first, and NatWest for the second? Something like that?'

‘Bank of Scotland for the first, Lloyds for the second and … where's the cheques from the hotel? … HSB for them.'

‘That's three banks, with two accounts for each.'

‘Right. So where's her slush fund? In NatWest? How do we get at it?'

‘I don't see how we can.'

‘Come on, Oliver. You're my only hope. If we can bluff her into paying back the money she owes this evening, could she transfer the money to us there and then by the Internet?'

‘In theory she could, yes.' Oliver was thinking hard. ‘I'd have to take my laptop with me, because she probably wouldn't take hers to the hotel. If she agreed to pay us, she'd have to input her bank account number and sort code, give a password on demand, and then quote from first one and then a second security numbers. These security numbers can be anything up to fifteen digits long and a mixed bag of numbers and letters.'

Bea digested that. ‘There's no way you can find out what those would be?'

He shook his head. ‘It's a pretty secure system.'

‘If we frightened her enough, she could do it?'

‘Yes, she could, but there's another problem. It depends which bank she's got her slush fund in. Some of the banks give you up to six working days' grace on Internet banking, which would enable her to cancel the transaction the following day.'

Bea gave a low whistle. ‘Six working days! Over a week?'

‘Not all of them take so much time. Some take only three days. It varies.'

‘Even so. She could set it up to pay us tonight, and then cancel on Monday morning. My idea's a non-starter, then. Bring your laptop tonight, though. Just in case. You couldn't …? No, I don't suppose you could.'

He grinned. ‘Milk her account by buying stuff on ebay and then selling it on? No, not unless I'd got her bank details. We don't even know which bank she's got her slush fund in, do we? Or even if she's put the money in an off-shore account.'

‘Go on, depress me, Oliver. What else can't we do?'

‘We can't let them get away with it.'

‘That's the cry of the underdog, the world over. Tell me how to stop them, and I'll – I'll help you to get to university.'

For a moment there was an eager look on his face, and then it faded. ‘Chance would be a fine thing, and I don't expect it. Oh, there's the phone again. Look, there's some people been phoning all morning. Do you think you could return one or two calls?' He put the sheaf of telephone messages on her desk and left the room.

The sun had gone in, and the sky had greyed over.

Bea pushed the telephone messages aside. She supposed she ought to eat something but really wasn't hungry.