False Charity (30 page)

‘Doing what you promised?' said Bea. ‘All those bouncing cheques you handed out, promised to pay for services delivered. So pay up, or we get the police.'

The woman looked at the door. ‘Do you intend to hold me here against my will? If the police come, I'll have you charged with kidnapping and blackmail and demanding money with menaces. Oh, and slander, too.'

Bea spread her hands. ‘What slander? What menaces? What blackmail? If you are arrested for the three scams that we know about, how many more people are going to crawl out of the woodwork to say that you've scammed them in the past? Won't your photograph be all over the papers? We're doing you a favour by asking you to settle up without making a fuss.'

The woman thought about it. ‘You're bluffing. You don't want to go to the police any more than I do. You'd have had them here already if you'd meant to bring them in on it.' She picked up the chequebook and put it back in her bag. ‘I'm leaving now, and if your man on the door tries to stop me or offers me violence in any way, I'll sue him for every penny he's got. Come on, Richie, we're out of here.'

Ms McNeice sprang to her feet. ‘What about everything you owe?'

‘I was going to give you a cheque tonight since you'd been so pressing about payment,' said Mrs Somers-Briggs, ‘Now you can send in your bill in the usual way. You know the address.'

Piers was on his feet, too. ‘Which address? The newsagent's? That's not good enough. Bea, I think we do have to bring in the police on this. I know Coral would prefer that we didn't, but—'

‘Nor the hotel,' said Ms McNeice, ‘but we can't—'

‘Mrs Briggs, or whatever your name is, you leave over my dead body,' said Tommy Banks, who remained, rock-like, blocking the doorway. ‘I'm likely to lose my job over this anyway, so I'm not bothered if we have to call the police.'

‘I agree,' said Bea.

Mrs Somers-Briggs produced a mobile phone, and pressed buttons. ‘I'm dialling my solicitor. He won't like being pulled out of bed at this hour, but—'

‘Who cares?' said Piers, also producing a mobile phone. ‘Nine nine nine it is.'

‘Hold on a minute,' said Ms McNeice. ‘What's that noise?'

They'd all been so wound up they'd not noticed that someone was banging on the office door, and shouting. Mrs Somers-Briggs stopped dialling, as did Piers. ‘What …! Who …?'

‘Your son?' asked Bea.

‘Noel? No. He's not involved, I tell you.' The woman was worried. For the first time she looked uncertain of herself.

Tommy Banks lifted an eyebrow at Bea, and then stood away from the door. In burst a young girl in receptionist's uniform. She was red in the face, her hair had come down, and she was crying. ‘Oh, why didn't you open the door? She may not be dead, you must get a doctor, quickly!'

She bit her fists, falling against the wall, laughing and crying, ‘He thinks I'm dead, too!'

Mrs Somers-Briggs turned to ice, but her confederate edged towards the door.

‘Oh, no you don't!' His exit was barred by a beefy arm.

Oliver shot to his feet. ‘Maggie? Is it Maggie? Where is she? No, she's gone clubbing. It can't be her.'

Bea was on her feet, her mind going into overdrive. ‘It can't be Maggie. She left us a message saying she'd gone on to a club, and not to wait for her.'

‘You idiots!' screamed the receptionist. ‘It was him, wasn't it! All the time it was him! He said he loved me and then he went off with her, didn't he, one of the guests, and he lied to me, he lied … and he hit me so hard, and I can't bear it!' She slid down to the floor, her legs all over the place. Her hair fell over her face. She pushed it back, revealing a darkening bruise on her jaw.

‘What girl? Who lied to you?' Bea restrained herself from shaking the girl with an effort.

The girl pointed at Mrs Somers-Briggs. ‘Her son, the photographer! He took her up there just to spite me, and then he hit me and she's dead!'

‘Dead?' whispered Oliver.

‘No!' said Piers, sharply.

‘What girl?' said Bea, her heart beating faster.

‘How should I know! A girl with dark red hair. Oooooh!'

Bea spotted a jug of water and a glass on a side table. She considered throwing the contents over the hysterical girl, but desisted in favour of less drastic action. She poured out a glass and took it over to the girl. What she wanted to do was to run out into the hotel and search for Maggie – if it was Maggie – but the hotel had many rooms, so where should she start?

‘Slander!' Mrs Somers-Briggs had hard work to get the word out, and suddenly she looked her age and more. ‘Noel wouldn't harm anyone. Not even a girl who'd spurned him. You are mistaken. We're leaving, right now.'

Bea knelt by the receptionist, and put the glass to her lips. ‘Drink this.'

Ms McNeice was on an internal phone, trying to raise someone at the front desk, but – Bea glanced at her watch – it was after two in the morning, and maybe the girl was the only one on duty?

The receptionist gulped and wept. Bea said, ‘Take another sip. That's right. Now, tell us what happened.'

The girl made an effort to comply. ‘I was watching, waiting for him to leave, but he didn't go out with the guests. The doorman said that he was looking in the mirror – you can see right down the corridor to the function room if you look in the mirror in the foyer – and he said he'd seen the photographer going up the stairs in a hurry. Oh, my face!'

Bea took out her handkerchief, dunked it in the water, and pressed it to the girl's jaw. ‘Go on.'

‘I thought he'd taken the Indian girl up to one of the rooms, but the doorman said she'd gone off in a cab, so Noel couldn't have been with her. I checked the register and there was this one name, something Middle-Eastern and nobody could remember a man who might be Middle-Eastern staying with us tonight, so I didn't know what to do, but I couldn't leave it, could I, so I took the master key and went up to the honeymoon suite and knocked on the door saying it was room service, and oh … he opened the door and … oh!'

At this point she started to hyperventilate. Bea pushed the girl's head down between her knees and told her to breathe in and out, slowly, slowly. All the time she could feel a pulse beating in her throat, and she wanted to scream for Maggie … if it was Maggie and not some other poor girl, who surely couldn't be dead, no, she wouldn't believe it! But suppose she was? That Noel! She wanted to hit someone. Preferably Mrs Somers-Briggs. She made herself keep calm, and tried to help the girl.

‘Honeymoon suite!' said Ms McNeice, keeping calm, sorting out keys with hands that shook. ‘We'll just take a look, shall we?'

‘Nonsense!' Mrs Somers-Briggs' mouth worked some more. ‘You can't just break in on your guests at this hour of the morning, on the say-so of some hysterical little chit who's been stood up by her boyfriend and got herself into a state. Noel's gone home, of course. Or he's out clubbing with his new girlfriend. Noel has lots of girls.'

‘You, Mrs Briggs, or whatever your name is,' said Ms McNeice, ‘sit down there! And your side-kick over there. Sit still and don't move an inch. The men will stay here and watch that you don't move. In fact, I'm going to lock you in, so you can't walk out till we've got to the bottom of this affair.'

‘I'm coming with you,' said Oliver.

‘I rather think,' Piers began, ‘that we ought to call the police right away.'

Ms McNeice gave him a hard look. ‘Not till I've found out if there's anything to worry them about. You stay here and you,' she nodded to Tommy Banks, ‘while I go up and see what's what.'

Mrs Somers-Briggs sank into a chair, gazing into space. ‘The girl's hysterical.'

‘Hysterical she may be,' said Mrs McNeice, ‘but you must agree this has to be checked out, because if your son has indeed assaulted a girl …!'

The receptionist tried to raise her head, and Bea let her do so. ‘She's lying on the bed, tied up, blood all over her.' She shuddered, and began to cry again.

Bea felt herself go pale. If it was Maggie up there …! With an effort she stood up. She tried to keep her voice steady. ‘Coral, would you look after this girl, please? I want, no, I need to see what's happened upstairs.'

Oliver was hopping from one foot to the other. ‘If it's Maggie, if he's harmed her, I'll—'

Piers said, ‘If he's harmed Maggie, there'll be no pit of hell that he won't suffer, believe me. Bea, I think I'll be more use here than coming with you. Take my mobile phone, so's you can ring for the police if … if … the worst. That is, can you cope?'

Bea nodded. Tommy Banks stood away from the door, letting Ms McNeice, Oliver and Bea out into the corridor.

The door closed behind them, and the manageress locked it before setting off down the corridor. ‘We'll take the back stairs. This way.' She led the way through the foyer and round a corner to a stairwell.

Bea lifted her skirt in front to climb the stairs after the manageress' neat black shoes. Oliver followed, mumbling to himself what he would do if Maggie had been harmed. It sounded as if he were crying.

Bea's own eyes were dry. She castigated herself for having allowed Maggie to come that evening, for letting her dance with anyone she pleased, for not realizing until too late that the photographer and Maggie's earlier assailant were one and the same people. She went further. Maggie had come under her roof and she, Bea, had accepted responsibility for her. If Maggie had been killed … it didn't bear thinking about, but she couldn't stop thinking about it. Except, of course, it might not be Maggie, pray heaven it wasn't.
Dear Lord, please …

They reached the door marked ‘Honeymoon Here'. Mrs McNeice knocked, softly, and then more loudly. She got out her master key, and turned it in the lock.

The place was in darkness. Oliver was breathing hard, pushing his way in. ‘Maggie, are you there?'

There was no reply.

Noel told himself not to run. A man running through the streets at this time of night would look suspicious. People might remember him, especially as he was wearing red-stained evening dress. That slag! Who'd have thought she'd have so much fight in her?

He didn't think he'd killed the other girl, but maybe he had. It was so easy to hit them a little too hard and, pfut! They went limp and died. It really wasn't his fault.

He forced himself to walk normally. He passed a couple arguing about whose flat they should go to. Don't make eye contact. That way they won't register your face. Anyway, they're too absorbed in themselves.

He wished he'd brought his own car; he'd decided against it because it was so recognizable. That was one good thing about Richie, that he always knew where to borrow a car for you. For now, he was reduced to walking. He couldn't take a taxi at this time of night because the driver might remember him. He couldn't risk checking to see if Mummy's car was still there, either. Anyway, she'd be long gone.

Passing a lighted shop window, he gave himself a bad fright. Who was the dishevelled figure mirrored there? He ran his fingers through his hair, straightened his jacket. He'd lost his bow tie somewhere. Oh well, it didn't matter, did it?

He reached the front door of the flats and delved into pockets for his key, only to bring out one that he shouldn't have on him. The key to the honeymoon suite. He swore, shoved it back into his pocket. He sorted out the key to the front door of the flats and let himself in.

Sunday, the early hours of the morning

T
he honeymoon suite was in darkness. It smelt of something sweet. Wine?

Ms McNeice snapped on the overhead light and Oliver cried out, ‘Maggie?'

They entered a well-appointed sitting room. There was a comfortable seating area to the right, with a plasma screen TV on the wall above. Beyond that was a small bar. There were empty bottles and used glasses on the bar, some for wine and some for soft drinks. The room was empty.

Ms McNeice rushed to a door on the left and went in, switching on more lights. This was the bedroom, lavishly furnished with a four-poster bed and a lot of drapery. Doors led off to a walk-in wardrobe and a bathroom.

Maggie was lying on the bed with her arms stretched out above her head, her wrists tied to the bed posts at either side. Something white had been thrust into her mouth. Her eyes were closed. Her dress had been ripped apart to the waist, and pushed up above her hips. Her legs were bare, but she was still wearing her high heeled strappy sandals, which had done some damage to the bed covers in her struggle to free herself.

Bea clapped her hands to her mouth. Was Maggie dead? Pray God, no! Yet there was a horrible red stain running down from her mouth and over her throat and shoulder.

‘Maggie!' Oliver thrust past Bea to run to her side. He stumbled and nearly fell over an empty wine bottle, which rolled away under the bed.

Bea told herself to keep calm. It did no good panicking. Maggie's eyelids fluttered. She wasn't dead! Praise the Lord!

The girl had been tied up with her own tights, one leg to each arm. The more she'd struggled, the more the nylon had tightened around her wrists. It wouldn't do any good trying to tackle the knots. Bea dived into her evening bag for a pair of nail scissors.

Oliver tugged fruitlessly at one of Maggie's arms. ‘Who was it? Was it Noel? I'll kill him!'

At that moment Maggie opened her eyes fully and moaned. Oliver was getting nowhere with the knots. Bea eased the gag out of Maggie's mouth. The girl spat and moved her lips, tried to speak and failed.

Ms McNeice disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a glass of water while Bea started to saw through the nylon on Maggie's right wrist. The material was so taut that it was hard to cut but Bea concentrated, clipping her way through the material till one of Maggie's wrists was free.