False Step (10 page)

What of the cigarettes in the ashtray, and the ash on the carpet? Why didn't he clean that up while he had the hoover in his hand?

Because … because his guest was still there? No, no. Of course not. His guest must have been here some other time, perhaps the previous night. At any time since Kasia's last visit. Quite simply, Matthew must have missed the ash and ashtray when he was cleaning up. He was a tidy man. He left everything neat and tidy before he committed suicide.

And he didn't even see the ashtray? He might have missed the ash, but surely not the ashtray?

It would depend if he were standing beside the chair or not. If he were, he wouldn't have caught sight of it, because it was tucked right under the chair, wasn't it? Bea bent over the chair to check. Couldn't see it. Peeped under the chair. It wasn't there. And at that moment a musical note twanged through the air.

She shot upright, breathing rapid. Was she beginning to hear things as well as see them?

The note rang out through the room again. The piano? No, the lid was down, and there was no one sitting on the stool in front of it. Superstition rules, OK? She shifted her feet and again the note resounded.

She stifled a laugh. Really, she was becoming unhinged.

She rocked to and fro, and the floorboard beneath her feet shifted. A loose floorboard. When you trod on it in a certain way, the far end of the floorboard moved under the piano and a sensitive string on the piano responded. She giggled. First the mirror and now the piano. Anyone would think …

No, she did not, certainly not believe in ghosts.

Dear Lord, I'm not going crazy, am I? I do not believe in ghostly manifestations. If we're not talking uneasy spirits, coming back to haunt the living – and we're definitely not, are we? – and if I'm reading clues subliminally – if that's the right word – then something is very wrong. Do you want me to do something about it, because if so, I'd be obliged if you'd point me in the right direction?

No voice answered her, but the air in the room seemed to settle down around her with a sigh of … relief?

‘This is ridiculous!' said Bea, and went out to the kitchen to investigate the contents of the rubbish bin, and the hoover. The hoover bag did contain tiny shards of glass, but the rubbish bin under the sink contained nothing but the usual household and kitchen refuse. She investigated further. There was a black bin bag tied up and ready to be disposed of, sitting on the patio in a sort of lean-to. On top of it was a small cardboard box marked ‘Glass'. She opened it with care to see the remains of a broken wine glass.

Just at that moment the phone rang. By the time she got back inside and had traced the phone to where it sat on the floor at the side of the Chesterfield, an answerphone had clicked in. It gave Bea more goosebumps to hear Matthew's voice.

‘I'm afraid I can't come to the phone at the moment, but if you'll leave a message, I'll get back to you as soon as possible.'

Well! thought Bea. He might have cancelled that before he committed suicide! Whoever was ringing, hadn't left a message. The answerphone light was blinking. There were six messages, unanswered.

She got out her pad and pencil, and listened to them. An enquiry as to whether Matthew could entertain a senior citizens do after Christmas; a voice confirming that they wanted Matthew on a certain date and would he please confirm the cost. Three hang-ups. A woman with a breathy voice wanting to know if he'd be able to judge a children's fancy dress parade for the church, same as last year.

Business as usual, thought Bea. There was a leaflet from St Mary Abbots church stuck into the bookcase at the side of Matthew's big chair. Bea wondered why the funeral wasn't taking place there. Obviously he was known there, and had attended a service recently. Bea wondered if she'd ever been at the same service as him. She might well have done. Hamilton, of course, had attended regularly …

She veered her thoughts away from Hamilton as the front doorbell rang.

This time it was Oliver, sheltering from the rain under an umbrella – one of Hamilton's, by the look of it – and carrying a laptop plus a bulging shopping bag.

‘Maggie thought you might be a bit peckish, since you missed elevenses. Also she made me bring one of your good sweaters since the weather's turned colder. And she's put up some sandwiches and a Thermos of hot soup for our lunch.'

‘Oliver, you're not supposed to leave the office unattended.'

‘Couldn't resist. I got your old bookkeeper in to hold the fort. She's such a dragon, nothing can go wrong with her around. Maggie's in love with the new plumber, by the way, so don't expect much in the way of sense from her. Oh, and Mr Max has been asking for you.' He thrust a thick grey sweater at Bea, who donned it with a shiver. Maggie had been right. She did need something warmer to wear.

Oliver was through into the sitting room and looking around him before she could stop him. ‘Is this where he was found? It doesn't smell like an old man's room, does it? Isn't there any central heating? Where shall we eat? Then I'll help you with the inventory and we can get it done so much quicker. That's why I brought the laptop. Oh, and you were right. The funeral's at Mortlake on Friday at noon. I haven't told Sylvester yet. The soup is hot, courgette and Brie, one of Maggie's best.'

Bea threw up her hands and followed him out to the kitchen. Maybe he was right and two heads were better than one on this job. Certainly the inventory would be done more quickly if she dictated the list and he took it down on his laptop.

Oliver found the central heating control on the wall by the broom cupboard. He fiddled with it, and was rewarded with a click. Soon the house would be warm enough to work in.

She took a seat at the table and reached for the shopping bag. ‘Let's get one thing clear, shall we? There is no murder. Matthew committed suicide. The trouble with you, Oliver, is that you want life to be exciting, to be full of high-speed chases and beautiful spies—'

‘No, that's the Thirties.'

‘Real life is about making inventories and trying to see that the right people get the right jobs and are properly paid for them.'

Oliver filled a mug to the brim with steaming hot soup and handed it to her. ‘Yes, of course.' He didn't sound convinced. He said, ‘Actually, I thought that I could ask you something. Sometime when you're not too busy …'

‘Mhm?' What was biting the boy now?

He wasn't looking at her, but at the sandwich in his fist. ‘The sandwiches are ham and Maggie's own sweet pickle. Good, aren't they?'

‘You wanted to ask me something?'

A distinct wriggle. ‘It's nothing, really. Just, I was thinking of applying for a passport. A couple of mates from the gym want me to join them, skiing in Austria in January. Should be fun.'

Bea frowned. So what was the problem? Ah, of course. Young Oliver had been thrown out of the family home after he'd discovered porn on his father's laptop. Maggie had rescued the lad, rather as she might have retrieved an abandoned puppy, and Bea had recognized his talents and given him a job as a live-in assistant. Bea had also helped him retrieve his belongings from his father's house and demanded that Mr Ingram send Oliver his highly successful A level results; also his birth certificate. She had suspected at the time that brown-eyed Oliver might not be the birth child of two blue-eyed parents. His skin and hair were perhaps a fraction darker than normal for a lad of Anglo-Saxon heritage, but she'd said nothing about this. Had Oliver shared her suspicions that he'd not been Mr Ingram's son at the time? Possibly not.

She said, ‘Well, if your father hasn't sent your birth certificate across, you can always get a copy.'

‘Mm. I've never been sure; is it better to travel hopefully than to arrive?'

Ouch. So Oliver did share her suspicions. ‘You have to decide that for yourself.'

He nodded. ‘There's a chocolate brownie for each of us for afters.'

The subject was closed.

After they'd eaten Oliver said, ‘Coffee?'

Bea licked up the last crumb of cake. ‘Damaris took the contents of the fridge away with her, so there's no milk.' She stared at the fridge. Did suicidal people leave a fridge full of food before they killed themselves? No, they didn't. They weren't interested in eating, only in dying. So why …?

Oh, well. Obviously the suicide was a spur of the moment job. Obviously.

Oliver crumpled up the sandwich papers, and threw them into the bin under the sink. ‘So what do we do first?'

‘I must ring Sylvester and give him the details of the funeral. You can start making an inventory here, in the kitchen.'

Oliver pulled a face but opened his laptop and began work. The central heating ticked merrily away. Bea grinned to herself; how dare Damaris ask people to work on her behalf in a cold, dark house?

She used Matthew's phone to call Sylvester and give him the news. He wasn't answering his phone, so she left a message on his machine. After that, she found Gail's telephone number – engaged – and did the same for her. She hadn't got Goldie's telephone number, so had to leave that.

The rain seemed to have set in for the day so she switched on all the side lights. Oliver came in from the kitchen. ‘Done that. What next?'

‘I haven't got a marvellous sense of smell, Oliver. You said this didn't smell like an old man's room and it doesn't, does it? But I don't think he was that old, or incapable. He was still working, even though there was some talk of his retiring. But then, if he was getting crippled with arthritis … oh, I don't know.'

She beckoned him over to the big chair. ‘Tell me what you smell on the arm of this chair.'

Oliver obeyed. ‘Wine. A red, heavy and sweet.'

She got down on the floor. ‘And on the hearth and carpet?'

‘Wine and …' He sniffed again. ‘I think … is it blood?'

‘I've tried to clean it up, but yes, I think it's blood. What must have happened is that he knocked his wine glass over on to the arm of the chair, it fell on the tiles and smashed in pieces. He cut himself clearing up. All right?'

Oliver looked bewildered. ‘When was this?'

Bea sighed. ‘Wish I knew. I don't suppose it matters, though.'

Oliver stood up and inadvertently trod on the suspect floorboard. The piano string twanged and he jumped.

Bea patted his arm. ‘It's all right. It's only the piano reacting to a loose floorboard. It startled me, too.'

‘I thought …! Ridiculous!'

‘I know. Let's try something else.' She led him down the stairs to the studio, turning on all the lights and ignoring the images that leaped out at her from the mirrors.

‘Wow!' said Oliver. ‘Will you look at this! That tape deck, the speakers, all that stuff … a new Apple Mac. That's a good printer, by the way. Even better than ours. This lot cost a pretty penny.'

Bea opened the first wardrobe to inspect the dresses within. Each costume had been carefully put on a padded hanger, and fitted into a zipped plastic cover. Full-length dresses, sequinned, cut high across the neckline, three-quarter sleeves. Shimmery sheaths. The grey satin outfit he'd worn for the portrait. Not much black. No red. Nothing to hint at a pantomime dame.

She pulled a full-length dusky pink sheath out at random and held it out to Oliver.

‘How tall are you? You've grown a bit recently. Five nine? About that. Do me a favour, and try this on.'

Oliver gaped. ‘No way!'

‘Don't be absurd, Oliver. I need to test a theory, a suspicion of … just do it, will you? I promise not to take photographs.'

‘I couldn't.'

‘The colour's too bright? Let's try this blue outfit, then.'

The blue outfit had a feather boa to go with it. A fine silk jersey, with a draped bodice, slender over the hips. She held it out to him with an expression that meant, Do this or else!

He winced, stripped off his heavy sweater and put the dress on over his T-shirt and jeans.

Bea walked around him, twitching the fabric here and there. Matthew was obviously broader in the shoulder and at the hips. The hem of the skirt pooled on the floor. ‘Of course, he'd be wearing high-heeled shoes.' She rummaged in the shoe closet, noting the shoes were all of the same size from a well-known theatrical costumier. No red shoes. She flourished a pair of blue ones that matched the outfit. Oliver screwed up his face as she set them on the floor before him. He shucked off his trainers, though, and stepped into the blue shoes. The skirt still dragged on the floor.

‘I'm not wearing a wig!'

‘That's an idea,' said Bea, opening the next cupboard along. She produced a dark, curly wig and handed it to Oliver. He gulped but put it on, checking himself in the nearest mirror to see if it were straight.

There was a long silence while Oliver looked at his image in the mirror, and Bea mused on the difference clothes could make to a man. She knew Oliver was very much a male and, from all accounts, Matthew had been, too. Yet with those clothes on, Oliver suffered a sea change. From sallow teenager, he turned into a striking woman.

Oliver said, ‘That's not me. It's someone else. Someone different. The shoes aren't very comfortable, though.'

‘I expect they were made for him. You can get back into your own clothes now.'

Oliver shrugged himself out of his finery. ‘So what was the point of that little exercise?'

Bea shrugged. ‘I'm not sure. I'm trying to get a picture of this man. He's a couple of inches taller than you, judging by the length of the skirt. He's broader than you across the shoulders and hips, but his head size is about the same as yours. That wig almost fits. In what way are the shoes uncomfortable?'

‘You don't want me to take up cross-dressing, do you? The shoes are a trifle big for me, but they pinch across the top. I've got a higher instep, I think. How can women wear high heels?'