False Step (3 page)

Man or woman? There was only one way to find out. Bea twitched up the dress to inspect the body beneath. So it was a man after all.

Hand to throat, Bea said, ‘I don't believe it! I simply cannot be seeing what I am seeing.'

She looked around the rest of the room. The walls were a pale grey-green. The blinds and curtains, closely drawn, had been made to match. Restful. The rest of the furniture matched the bed, being Victorian and well-polished. On the bedside stand was a bottle of wine, an empty glass, and a packet which had once contained sleeping tablets. Plus a note.

This wasn't – couldn't be – a death by natural causes. Bea's mind whirled around what Florrie had told her about her client having died of natural causes. What had Florrie actually said? Not much, really.

Natural causes, my foot!

Florrie had taken one look, realized this must be a suicide, and … and what? Had she even phoned for the medics? Because if she had, wouldn't they have done something else, phoned for the police, the doctor … whatever?

Bea leaned back against the bedroom door, which shut with a click, startling her. Getting over the shock, Bea began to get angry. How dare Florrie drop Bea in it like this!

That note … what did it say? The whole set-up screamed of suicide, but … perhaps a closer look …? She unglued herself from the door and rounded the bed, careful not to brush against the overhanging dress.

The note was a mere scrawl. It said ‘Sorry.'

So it was a suicide after all. It must have been, mustn't it? Hadn't Florrie seen the note? What on earth was the girl playing at?

Bea went downstairs to phone the police.

She took her sandwich to the tiny staff room in the basement, and made herself a cup of instant. The rest of the salesgirls knew enough not to talk to her when she didn't want to be disturbed. She ran through a mental checklist. Clothes; disposed of. Broken wine glass; wrapped in paper and put in the bin. Diary; removed. Blood stains; cleaned up. Files on computer; deleted. Publicity flyers taken away. Telephone book left out with her number prominently displayed. She didn't think they'd missed anything important.

She glanced at her watch. Time to get back to work. She wondered how soon the police would track her down in order to break the sad news?

By the time Bea got back home, she was both exhausted and angry. A bad combination for digestion. Maggie, who was not a particularly good timekeeper in some respects, could time a meal to perfection. Half past six, on the table. This allowed the two youngsters to go out for the evening and allowed Bea time to relax, chat to friends, watch telly or just sit and think.

She looked at her watch as she let herself into the house. Nearly six o'clock.

Oliver appeared like a jack-in-the-box from the basement. There was no sound of banging and crashing; presumably the workmen had departed for the day. Just as well. In her present mood, Bea would have been quite capable of yelling at them to get lost and never darken her door again. She knew in her head that it was entirely necessary for the agency quarters to be rewired, replumbed and redecorated. She just hated every minute of the disruption and noise and fuss concerned. And the cost.

Oliver said, ‘Oh-ho! Don't tell me it really was a murder!'

‘Certainly not!' Bea glared at him. ‘Suicide. And no, I don't know why. But I do know that if you don't get me Florrie Green's mobile telephone number at once, I shall … I don't know what I shall do, but I'll think of something! I need to speak to her before she finishes cleaning at the school and goes home.'

Maggie appeared from the kitchen, followed by the sound of the telly. Maggie was tall, skinny, noisy and lacking in self-confidence. She was on her own mobile, but on seeing Bea, took it away from her ear long enough to ask, ‘Is there something, Mrs Abbot? I'm afraid the plumber's got bad news. He's found a patch of damp so we shan't be back downstairs for quite a while. We'll have to get the computers working on the ground floor, somehow.'

‘Sorry, both of you,' said Bea. ‘I know I'm in a foul temper, but this is not directed at you. Oliver, if the computers are down, can you still find me Florrie's mobile phone number?'

Oliver, computer geek that he was, had his laptop up and running. ‘Just a sec … I think … yes, here it is. I've got this programme now which asks all our clients to keep their mobile numbers updated. Yes, I've got it. Shall I get her on the landline for you?'

Bea told herself that he was worth his weight in gold and she ought not to be cross with him. It didn't do any good. If he'd come within reach of her hand, he'd have got his ears boxed. Maggie, too.

Oliver handed the phone to Bea but stayed close, listening. Maggie cut off her own phone and draped her length against the doorway, also anxious to hear what had made the usually calm Mrs Abbot lose her temper.

‘Florrie Green,' said Bea, grinding out the words, ‘you dropped me right in it, didn't you? I want you here, at my house, within ten minutes.'

Florrie had had time to think what line she should take. ‘I don't know what you mean, Mrs Abbot. What am I supposed to have done?'

‘The police want to interview you about finding the body. Naturally I cooperated, told them everything. I gave them your home address but just in case you can come up with a good explanation for your actions, I said I wasn't sure where you'd be working this afternoon, so you'd better get over here and brief me properly before they get round to you.' She crashed the phone down.

Oliver narrowed his eyes. ‘Florrie found the body and told you it was natural causes. She left you there and went off to work? You found out it couldn't be natural causes and called the police. Is that right?'

‘There was a pack of pills, empty, at his bedside. Ditto a dead bottle of wine. A note saying “Sorry.” That enough for you?'

He was still hoping. ‘Not murder?'

Bea told herself she was not going to scream at him, but perhaps the look in her eye informed him that he'd better make himself scarce. Which he did.

Maggie went into mother hen mode. ‘You poor thing. Shall I get you a cup of coffee, some herbal tea? Oh, by the way, Mr Max rang here again and sounded quite cross that he couldn't get hold of you. He's out for the evening but will ring you again tomorrow, if that's all right.'

‘Did he, now? Well, it can't be anything very urgent. As for tea; no, thank you. I made tea for the police. I gave a statement. I was totally helpful, and calm and … I could kill Florrie! She knew perfectly well that it wasn't a natural death.'

Maggie said, ‘A cuppa is definitely called for.'

‘Grrr,' said Bea. She knew she needed to calm down. But how? She raged about her pretty sitting room, stepping around the piles of files and equipment which had been brought up from below. Backwards and forwards she went, from the dining table in the front window overlooking the road, to the card table and chair at the back of the house where her dear husband used to sit and play patience in the evenings.

Seated in his own big chair, he would look out over the garden below, see through the branches of the sycamore at the far end, to the spire of the church beyond. That view always seemed to give him pleasure. Normally, it gave Bea pleasure, too.

But not tonight.

She got the patience cards out and dealt to play Spider. Hamilton always said that the rhythmic slap of the cards kept the forefront of his mind occupied while the little men at the back of his head worked on whatever problem was bugging him. She didn't, herself, find it so helpful.
Slap, slap
, went the cards.

Playing patience didn't do anything for her.

The front doorbell rang and Oliver ushered Florrie into the sitting room.

Florrie looked around her. Usually her business was conducted in the offices downstairs, and she hadn't been up here before.

‘Well, Florrie?' Bea continued to lay out her cards,
slap, slap, slap
. This game was not going to work out.

Florrie seated herself, unasked. With an appearance of candour, she trotted out a prepared excuse. ‘Well, it was like this, Mrs Abbot. I'd never seen anything like it. It spooked me, completely. I couldn't get out of there fast enough. I thought you'd handle it better than me. With the police, I mean.'

Slap, slap
went the cards. Silence.

Florrie fidgeted, her eyes touching everything and resting on nothing. She cleared her throat. ‘You've got some nice furniture here. Was it Mr Abbot's, rest his soul?'

Bea put the rest of the cards down. ‘Florrie, if you saw your client and realized he was dead, you also saw the packet of pills and the note. Right?'

Florrie coloured up, unzipped her jacket, and zipped it up again. ‘If I don't work, I don't get paid. I knew if I called the police they'd keep me there for hours and I needed the money from the Mansfield cleaning job. I know what I did wasn't right, but I wasn't thinking straight. It was a shock, see.'

‘Oh, I see all right. What time did you get there?'

Florrie's nose seemed to sharpen as she drew in an audible breath.

Bea raised her voice. ‘Oliver, shut that door properly, and find yourself something to do.'

The door eased to, very quietly. The handle returned to its normal height.

Florrie looked shocked. ‘He was listening?'

‘He may be young but he's pretty good at knowing when people aren't telling the truth.'

‘I
am
telling the truth.'

‘But not the whole truth. You didn't tidy up well enough before I got there. You left a half-drunk cup of coffee in the kitchen. There was no scum on the top, and the contents hadn't had time to dry out so it must have been poured that morning. You don't make yourself coffee when you're working. You told me yourself that you hadn't made yourself a cup this morning. So someone else did. Who?'

Florrie reared her head. ‘Are you calling me a liar?'

‘Also,' said Bea, ‘you don't use aerosol polish on good furniture. You use a vinegar and water mix every week, and a good beeswax preparation once a month, yet the box of cleaning materials on the first landing contained aerosols. How do you account for that?'

‘Sometimes I have to be quick, like. Beeswax takes time.'

Bea swivelled around to face her. ‘Shall I ask the other members of your team what your first job was this morning … and what time you left them to do this one job on your own?'

Florrie swallowed, but was mute.

Bea abandoned her game to go and sit beside Florrie. Time to play soft cop, instead of hard. ‘Florrie, if the police weren't involved I could let it go, but as it is … if they start questioning you about what time you got to the house, what are you going to say?'

‘Do they have to know?'

‘Tell me the truth, and we can take it from there. I don't think you were the usual cleaner at that house. You've got enough and more than enough work, organizing the Green Girls. But you were greedy—'

‘Short of money. Donny lost his job a while back, can't seem to get another, you know how it is, he's on these pills but they don't seem to do much good.'

‘I know how it can be. I think you applied for the job as cleaner to that house but subcontracted the job out, taking a rake-off for your trouble. How much did you pay … whoever it was you got to do the job for you?'

‘She's Polish, was desperate for the job. I pay her every week in cash, and keep a bit back for arranging it. She hasn't complained.'

‘In that case, why did you panic this morning and get me to front for you to the police? You knew perfectly well that the death wasn't natural. You didn't want to be asked questions, did you?'

‘I haven't done anything wrong. He was dead and … ugh! If I'd known he was one of that sort I'd never have gone anywhere near him.'

‘You think he was a transvestite, a man who only feels right in women's clothes? No, Florrie. He was an entertainer of the old-fashioned variety. Stand-up comic, singer, that sort of thing. The flamboyant clothing was part of his act.'

Florrie shrugged.

Bea said, ‘The Polish woman. Is she a student?'

Florrie shrugged again. ‘How should I know? She advertised for a job in the newsagent's.'

‘If she's Polish, she's got every right to be here and work here. Did you employ and pay her properly, or was it cash in hand?' Florrie's face gave Bea her answer. ‘Oh, Florrie.'

‘No need to “Oh, Florrie” me! I got her some work, didn't I? I paid her on the dot every week, didn't I? My nose is clean.'

‘If so, then why did you get rid of her before you phoned me for help?'

Silence. Florrie pleated her jacket, fiddled with the zip.

Bea sighed, reaching a long arm for a pencil and paper. ‘Give me her name and mobile telephone number. The sooner I speak to her, the better.'

‘You won't tell the police about her?'

‘How can I avoid doing so?'

‘She knows nothing, saw nothing. She likes to work from the top down, so as soon as she arrived, she went upstairs to do the bathroom out and found him. She didn't touch anything, didn't know what to do, was too scared to phone a doctor, and definitely too scared to phone the police. I can't say for certain why she's scared of the police but maybe in Poland things are different. Or maybe she isn't Polish, but from one of those countries where they've got no right to be over here, taking the bread out of our mouths. I didn't ask. Maybe it was in her mind that if she got mixed up with the police, they'd send her home. All I know is, she rang me and I got over there straight away. She'd gone by that time, left the keys in the front door. I let myself in, saw what she'd seen and phoned you. At least I stayed till you arrived.'