False Step (19 page)

Someone padded softly into the kitchen and dropped car keys on the table. ‘Some dolly bird let me in. Not a new temp, is she?'

Bea blinked. ‘I thought you were up north somewhere.'

‘So I was,' said Piers. ‘The client was taken off by the police for questioning into some financial irregularity or other and I couldn't get Matthew's death out of my mind. Also, I was worried about you … can't think why. I never worried about you when we were married. You've always been able to look after yourself, haven't you? Anyway, you kept turning up in my head, so I thought I'd drop in, see if there was any food going.'

‘Help yourself.' Bea whizzed plates, knives and forks on to the table, and pulled up a stool for herself. Piers divided the pie into two, taking the larger portion for himself. The phone rang again. Piers raised an eyebrow, but she said, ‘Let it go. I've had enough for today.' She heard the caller asking about a car, and shrugged. Oliver could deal with it some time.

‘Isn't this nice. Just like Darby and Joan.' He reached a long arm for some fruit juice from the fridge.

Bea glowered. ‘We'd never have made Darby and Joan. I'm amazed I haven't spent the last twenty years in prison for murdering you.'

‘Manslaughter, surely. With me not able to keep my hands to myself and enough women on the jury, you'd probably have got off with a slap on your wrist. What's with the dolly bird?'

‘Her name is Lettice. She's Nicole's younger sister, and she's under the impression that she's only got to get Max in bed with her, and he'll switch partners. Max says her parents think Lettice is perfect and will happily back her choice. Nicole threw Max out because she found them kissing. He says Lettice came on to him, and that he prefers Nicole. He's abandoned hearth and home to avoid Lettice and has taken refuge here, but we're all topsy-turvy because of the builders and I haven't a clue how to mend the marriage.'

He took a knife to scrape the last of the pastry off the dish. ‘It's up to Max, surely? She's younger and prettier than Nicole. If her parents continue to support Max, why bother to do anything?'

Bea tried not to feel scandalized. Of course Piers would think that, being the tomcat he was. She supposed a lot of people would think that way. She could see his point of view, but … ‘If it were as straightforward as that I might not approve but I could probably live with it. Only, Max really seems to care for Nicole. He just doesn't know how to convince her that he does.'

‘Especially if he's bedded the blonde bombshell already.'

‘Oh, no. He wouldn't.'

Piers snorted. ‘Be your age. He's my son, isn't he? Of course he's had her. Only, since he's your son too, he's now conscience-stricken and doesn't know what to do next. Is there anything to eat for afters?'

‘Cake in that tin over there, if the builders haven't had it. I don't believe you, about Max.' But she did, really. With reluctance. ‘Well, even if you're right, he still wants to stick with Nicole. He ran away from Lettice tonight even though she was practically tearing the clothes off his back. I can see him ending up without a wife and without a constituency if this goes on. You're his father; can't you think of anything that would help?'

Piers took the last remaining lump of chocolate cake out of the tin. He didn't offer any to Bea, but bit into it with an expression of bliss. With his mouth full, he offered some words of advice, which Bea interpreted with an effort.

She couldn't help laughing. ‘What? Get Nicole to tell him she's pregnant? I can't do that. No, that's … Piers, you're incorrigible!'

‘Am I not?' he said, with pride, clearing his mouth. ‘It always worked for me when I wanted to end an affair. I'd tell the girl that my other girlfriend thought she was pregnant and with great sadness, I felt I must stand by her, et cetera. Even when there wasn't another girl in the offing. I got the idea from you.'

Bea felt herself go pale. ‘Piers, you didn't decide to stay with me just because Max was on the way, did you? I mean … no, that's despicable!'

‘Sort of, yes. I knew I wouldn't be able to keep it up, but I did think that I ought to play the good husband for a while. I haven't much of a conscience, I know, but it does twitch now and then.'

‘Well, you were no help at all when I had Max and he was nearly five when I finally threw you out. Do you mean that you stayed all that time because you were sorry for me? I … I'd like to do you an injury!'

‘Sure. I can understand that. I felt like hitting me, often. But the flesh was weak. In a way I was relieved when you threw me out. I was also sorry. You deserved better.'

‘Would you have stayed if I'd been a different kind of woman, more … I don't know … up for it?'

He sighed. ‘It wasn't that. I really did love you, you know. As much as I could. It's the way I'm made. I could never bear to do the same thing two days running, and there was a whole world out there to explore. At times I missed you terribly, but there was a certain sense of relief, too.'

She digested this in silence. Did this make her feel better, or worse?

‘Any coffee on the go? And, while it's brewing, suppose you tell me what you've got the builders in for. And have you any idea when Matthew's funeral's going to be?'

By nine o'clock in the morning, the agency answerphone was full, and had stopped taking any more messages.

Oliver appealed to Bea. ‘What do we do? They're all enquiring about Matthew's car.'

Bea gulped hot coffee. Piers had taken one look at the sheeted living room last night and taken her off to a pub where they'd talked about Matthew and listened to some rather good jazz till closing time. She didn't feel like work this morning. Still less did she feel like confronting builders with the instructions Piers had left with her for them. Fortunately Piers had said he'd drop in that morning and have words with the foreman himself. The men hadn't arrived yet, so the house was comparatively quiet, if dusty. Max had come in late, and hadn't surfaced yet. Just as well. She really didn't feel like coping with his melodramas.

‘Where's Maggie?'

‘Still in bed, I think. The plumber stood her up and she got all weepy last night, so I took her for a long walk …' He shrugged. ‘She said she was going to take the morning off and I didn't argue.'

Bea nodded. This was only her first cup of coffee; after the second she'd be able to think straight. She hoped. ‘First things first. Clear the answerphone tape. Put a message on it to say that if anyone is ringing about the car, it's been withdrawn from sale. Mrs Frasier did say we were to take messages about the car, but I have no instructions about how much to ask, where it is, and who has got the keys.'

Oliver pulled the morning papers towards him. ‘I suppose she put an advert in one of these?' He began to check. ‘If she gave them our telephone number, we should at least be able to work out what make of car it is and how much she wants for it.'

Bea refilled her cup. ‘If you've finished running off the inventory and the photos, I suppose I could take them round to Mr Frasier with the keys. Normally I'd put the stuff in the post – well, not the keys – but under the circumstances I think I'd better deliver them by hand. I'll be glad to get shot of this business.'

‘Two-year-old Jaguar, warranty, etc. Garaged, it says. I wonder where? Hm. A bargain. She could have asked more. Give me ten minutes and I'll have everything ready for you to take. You don't suppose they'd let me buy it, do you? I'm taking my test next week.'

Bea raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you so sure you'll pass?'

He raised an eyebrow in return. Of course he'd pass first time.

She said, ‘All right, being you, you probably will, but … first things first.'

‘Clear the answerphone. Right.'

It was still raining. Bea set the dishwasher running and cleaned down the surfaces. How long would it take for the dust to subside for good?

Oliver returned in record time. ‘Tape cleared. New message inserted. Here's the address for Mr Frasier. This envelope has two copies of the inventory in it, plus the photos, and our bill. There's also a release form for the keys, which are … where?'

‘I've got them. Mr Piers is coming round this morning to deal with the builders for us, so you can let him in. Miss Brook will be back today, too. Can you cope if I leave you in charge?'

He looked pleased and said of course he could. Well, it was nice that someone was feeling pleased with themselves that morning.

Bea rang Damaris's home number, introduced herself and said she knew it might be a difficult time for Mr Frasier, but if he could spare a moment or two that morning to clarify his wife's instructions regarding her stepfather's house?

‘Getting the house is the one bright spot on the horizon,' said a depressed male voice. ‘Come when you like. I'll be in all morning.'

Bea checked the Frasiers' address with the
A to Z
. At least she'd be travelling against the morning flow of traffic coming into London.

The Frasiers' house was a l930s semi-D in a quiet street lined with flowering trees. The house had been less well-maintained than its neighbours. The front garden wall had been removed to allow an elderly Escort to park off-street in what had once been a garden and was now an area of shingle ringed by unkempt bushes. The car had been in the wars, to judge by scratches on the doors and a dented wing.

Bea began to wonder if the Frasiers were living on the breadline and might not be able to meet her fee. Oh dear.

A long-haired black cat sat on the doorstep, waiting to be let in. When he saw Bea, he lifted one paw to her in supplication, blinking enormous golden eyes.

‘Charm gets you nowhere with me,' said Bea. She rang the doorbell. There was a recycling box in the porch, empty apart from last week's local free paper, which had been turned to the job section. A downpipe hung at an angle by the porch, allowing rain water to stain the pebble-dash and setting up perfect conditions for dry rot. The paintwork was shabby, to put it politely, and there were a couple of tiles missing off the roof.

The door opened. A middle-aged man with a weight problem stood there. He had thinning, improbably dark hair, drooping shoulders and wore an air of defeat which must tell against him every time he went for a job.

‘Mr Frasier? I'm Bea Abbot, of the Abbot Agency. I rang earlier.'

‘Come in, come in. All at sixes and sevens. Such a shock.' He put out a foot to stop the cat entering the house. ‘Mind the cat. It's hers. Was hers. Don't know what we're going to do with him now. I can't be bothered, that's for sure. I suppose he'd better go down the vet's this afternoon.'

He ushered her into a sitting room dominated by a huge flat-screen television set, brand new, tuned to a sports programme. The packaging for the television set had been left sprawling over the carpet. Would Damaris have left it there? Probably not. Apart from the discarded packaging, the room seemed to be clean and tidy.

A teenager with straggly hair over his eyes lounged in a bean bag which had seen better days. He was playing with some electronic game or other and didn't look up when Bea was shown to a chair and offered a drink. The packaging for the game was on the window sill, next to a vase of chrysanthemums. The water in the vase could have done with being topped up, but Bea guessed that wasn't going to happen now.

‘Would you like a drink? Whisky, gin? Or tea, if you prefer. I think there's some milk, isn't there, Tom?'

Tom shrugged, intent on his game. Mr Frasier made no move to turn off the television and when Bea gestured towards it, he said, ‘Got to have something to keep the old brainwaves ticking over, haven't we? You into sport?'

Bea shook her head. ‘We were so sorry to hear about your wife.'

‘Me too. I don't know how we're going to cope, I really don't. Tell the truth, neither of us is used to shopping, or cooking and cleaning.' He sounded more annoyed than upset.

‘What happened?'

‘She must have lost her balance, fell in front of an express train. Nothing anyone could do. The police said we wouldn't want to see her. I said I thought I could cope, but not Tom here, who has a delicate stomach. We're both on medication, you know. In the end, I met her mother up there, and we did it together. Weird woman. Didn't cry at all. I did. So did Tom.'

Tom didn't look particularly grief-stricken to Bea. She told herself; what did she know about it? ‘That's terrible. What a shock.'

‘It was. When they rang at first, I told them they'd made a mistake, but they said they'd found her handbag and it was her. And of course it was. No suicide note, thankfully. I don't know what I'd have done if they'd found a suicide note. No, it was an accident, pure and simple.'

‘Why did they think …?'

‘Her stepdad killing himself like that. They said it often happens, one set of miseries triggers another. I said Damaris wasn't at all upset by her stepfather's death, but they didn't like that, either. I suppose she was upset in a way. A terrible thing. Platform crowded with people all waiting for the local stopping train, express comes along, everyone warned to stand back, everyone does except for Damaris, who falls straight into its path. They shouldn't let the express trains run through the same platforms as the stopping trains. I'm surprised it doesn't happen more often.'

Bea shook her head in sympathy. ‘Dreadful for you. So sad.'

Tom abandoned his game and stood up. He must have been well over six foot, and thin with it. A slight odour emanated from him. Not too keen on washing? An immature face. Age twelve or thirteen? He ignored Bea to demand attention from his father. ‘Are we going down to get me those new trainers or not?'