False Step (4 page)

Bea deplored Florrie's racist attitude but now was not the time to say so. ‘Her name and contact number.' Bea handed Florrie pencil and paper. Florrie pulled a face, but wrote down a name and – after consulting a little book in her bag – also a mobile phone number. ‘That's all I know. I don't know her last name. Something unpronounceable. If you tell the police about her, she'll do something drastic, I'm sure she will. Throw herself under a train, maybe. Disappear, anyway.'

‘I'm sure she's no need to fear the police. If she's that scared, perhaps you can offer to go with her to see them.'

‘Count me out. I'm due for a holiday, anyway, and no, I don't know where I can be contacted. Donny and I'll be taking the camper van, travelling around.'

Well, that was a surprise! Bea wondered what Donny had been up to, that Florrie couldn't risk drawing the attention of the police to herself. ‘I have your mobile phone number and—'

‘My mobile phone is running out of credit. Which reminds me' – she took an envelope out of her bag – ‘her wages that I was going to give her after she'd finished this morning. You can tell her she won't be needed at the other places after this.'

‘What other places? You mean, you've subcontracted other jobs to her as well? How many?'

Florrie wriggled. ‘Four. I pay her at the end of each week, never miss. But I'll have to stop doing it now you know. Won't I?'

‘Yes, of course you will,' said Bea, mentally trying to work out how much money Florrie had been creaming off the Polish girl's wages each week. ‘I take it she's a good cleaner, worth her money?'

Florrie shrugged. ‘Better than most. She turns up on time, leaves a room tidy, doesn't mind cleaning the oven, empties the waste-paper bins and doesn't leave early. Yes, she's all right. I was even thinking of letting her join the Green Girls, when we need an extra hand and to cover holidays and that. But … well … you see how it is.' She stood up. ‘No hard feelings?'

Bea shook her head. She didn't like what Florrie had been doing, but she understood it. If she had a husband who was virtually unemployable due to clinical depression maybe she, too, would be looking for ways to rake in extra money.

‘And you'll still think of the Green Girls when cleaning contracts come up?'

‘Probably,' said Bea. ‘But only if you let me have a list of the jobs you've subcontracted out to this girl so that I can get them covered by another cleaner.'

Florrie pulled a face. ‘All right. I'll give the names and addresses to that young man of yours on the way out. You won't let on to the police about what I've been doing, will you?'

‘Not unless they ask, no. But if they do ask, I shall have to tell them you've had a sudden desire to leave town and they won't like that.'

‘But you won't tell them, will you?' Florrie regained her usual bounce. ‘All's well, then. And, er, I suppose, thanks.'

Only after the front door had banged to, did Bea realize that Florrie had ‘forgotten' to give Oliver the names and addresses of the other subcontracted jobs. Shaking her head at herself, Bea dialled the mobile phone number she'd been given for the Polish girl. The phone was switched off. Bea left a message for the girl to call.

Time to eat. Over supper in the kitchen, Bea brought her two assistants up to date with what had been happening. ‘… and I'm sorry if I was a bit short with you two when I came back, but it was worrying. It's still worrying me. I keep seeing …' She passed her hand over her eyes. ‘Hope I don't get nightmares.' She tried to laugh. Almost made it. The sight of that painted face sticking out from under the grotesque red and gold dress was something she wasn't going to be able to forget easily. And those red shoes!

The Polish girl failed to ring back that evening. Oliver went out to the gym as usual, and Maggie went to meet a new boyfriend in the pub. Maggie was the victim of a managing mother, who'd pushed her into a marriage doomed to failure, so nowadays she fell in love at regular intervals with men her mother would never have liked.

Bea descended to the agency rooms to see what had been done that day, and to wonder if they'd ever be straight again. Carpets had been taken up and stacked against walls, her big settee and visitors' chairs ditto. The replumbing had left their tiny kitchen and loo looking like a bomb site. There was dust and rubble everywhere, seeping up the stairs into the rooms on the ground floor as well. A dust sheet had been hung over the stairwell to contain the problem, but wasn't really up to the job.

Bea fell over a stack of files in her sitting room; she moved them to one side of the fireplace, and then moved them back again. She could settle to nothing, and eventually went to bed early, hoping she wouldn't dream of pantomime dames.

In the morning things seemed no better. Florrie Green was not at work; Bea checked. Kasia failed to ring. Bea forced herself to deal with routine matters, and succeeded fairly well until Max rang.

‘Sorry I missed you yesterday,' Bea said, trying to focus on what her son might want this time. ‘I had to do a site visit.'

‘You'd switched your mobile off.'

‘Only in the morning. Yes, sorry. So, how are you getting on?'

Heavy breathing. A long sigh. Bea realized she was expected to show sympathy, to rush with plasters and band aid to clean up the grazed knee, or whatever it was this time. She assumed his troubles were trivial; overspending by his almost-anorexic wife, Nicole? Being omitted from the guest list of some function or other?

‘The thing is …' he started and then stopped. ‘Well, Nicole's going through a bad time, health-wise. It makes her hypersensitive.'

Bea's eyebrows peaked. To her mind Nicole was as hypersensitive as a piledriver. ‘Oh dear,' was all she could say.

‘I've tried reasoning with her. I've bent over backwards to reassure her …'

Bea's tone sharpened. ‘She needs reassurance?'

‘The fact is … you'll laugh when you hear this … but she's jealous of … of my research assistant. And honestly, there's nothing in it.'

Bea rolled her eyes. ‘I suppose the girl's young and blonde?'

‘You've met her?'

‘When would I …? Never mind. Sack her, obviously. Not Nicole, the research assistant.'

‘I wish I could.' He sounded eight years old and tearful. ‘The thing is, Mother, Nicole's thrown me out. Would it be all right if I moved back home for a few days, just till she calms down?'

Bea closed her eyes, sending up an arrow prayer for patience. ‘You realize Oliver now lives in your old bedroom, and pays me rent for it? Plus we've got the builders in. I'm not sure you ought to be flying back here so quickly. Why can't you sack the troublemaker?'

‘She's Nicole's younger sister. It was Nicole's father – the chair of my local constituency party – who asked me to take the girl on. She's his favourite, you see. I couldn't refuse since he's helped us so much, buying a place for us in the constituency. I didn't realize the girl was, well, like she is. I have to talk to him, try to make him understand, but I'm afraid he might still take her part. It's no wonder, really, that Nicole's jealous.'

Bea sighed. ‘All right. Just for a few days. Use the guest bedroom. When will you arrive?'

‘As soon as. I'll be at the House most of the time, will eat there, and so on.'

‘You're very welcome, Max.' She put the phone down, thinking that of course it would be lovely to see him, but she wished he were better at handling his relationships.

He must have been sitting in his car outside, for he arrived within five minutes, lugged a couple of suitcases up the stairs to the guest bedroom and disappeared for the rest of the day. Bea informed Maggie that they had a guest for the week, and left it at that. She was not, definitely not, going to get involved in her son's problems.

Late in the afternoon there was a call from the Polish girl, asking about money due to her. Bea coaxed her to come round that evening, after she'd finished her cleaning jobs for the day.

Going home in the rush hour seemed worse than usual. Everyone bad-tempered, closely crammed into the Tube.

She got out at Ealing Broadway and trudged up the stairs in a moving queue of people. The formal identification had gone well. She'd even managed to weep a little. Poor old man. He'd been in a lot of pain with his arthritis … a merciful release … the autopsy would prove how he died … there'd be no problem with the death certificate … then she had to register the death … inform the solicitor.

They'd been understanding at work and given her some time off. So they jolly well should. How she hated that manageress. Well, soon she'd be able to tell her what to do with her piddling little job.

The family were over the moon at the news. The boys, bless them, wanted a monster telly. Well, why not, eh?

It was a pity that the pot of gold would have to be divided between two. If she'd had sufficient time to think, perhaps there might have been another way to do it. But the best laid plans, et cetera. Best not tell the boys the prize had to be shared.

She was a little concerned about the Polish girl. They'd planned that Kasia should report the death to the police, but apparently she'd chickened out and involved someone from the agency she worked for. They must have a word with the girl. For one thing, she had a set of keys, and they needed them.

Bea had been expecting some young Polish student, but Kasia was perhaps forty, a pretty woman dressed in a modest black top and well-cut trousers, not jeans. She was carrying a large leather handbag, wore good shoes and looked nervous. As Bea let her in, their eyes met and in that moment they recognized certain things about one another. When a woman has watched someone die, the knowledge stays in her eyes.

‘Come in,' said Bea. ‘I'm afraid we've got the builders in, so can't use the agency rooms at the moment. Tea, coffee? A soft drink?'

‘Thank you, but no.' Kasia held on to her handbag with both hands, but Bea thought that in ordinary circumstances this woman could have held her own in any stratum of society. She was definitely a cut above Florrie by birth, and possibly also by education. Bea told herself that she was a snob, but knew enough of the world to understand that different backgrounds created different expectations and patterns of behaviour.

Kasia moved with grace, looking around her at Bea's pretty sitting room just once and then concentrating on Bea. ‘I am so sorry. Yesterday, I did not behave good. It was bad to run away, but I was afraid. My papers are all right, but in my country … it is different here, the language, the police.'

‘Mrs Green has given you a good reference. How long have you been working for Mr Kent?'

‘A year. I put advertisement in window of paper shop. Mrs Green rings me and arranges.'

‘She collects the money from Mr Kent, and pays you?'

‘For that and for some other jobs. I am happy for this. It is hard to begin here. Then one of my ladies say, can I take on another job and another. And so is good now. I am, how you say, full up?'

‘I understand, but …' How to tell this nice woman that she had to stop working for Florrie? Was there any way around it? Bea handed over the envelope Florrie had given her. ‘This is from Mrs Green, for yesterday. I realize she has been giving you jobs to do which she could not spare the time to do herself, but this must stop. Oh, don't look so alarmed …'

Kasia half-started to her feet, then sat down again. ‘Something is wrong?'

Bea thought of the problems facing people who worked in the black economy; the paperwork, the difficulty of getting free medical care, the likelihood of there being no holiday pay or insurance. She decided not to talk about that for the moment. ‘It seems that Mrs Green didn't pay you the full amount each time. She was taking a rake-off.'

Kasia was resigned, not bitter. ‘Same like Polish agency. One big rake-off for people who need to work.'

‘If you will give the details of the other jobs you got through Mrs Green, I will contact them and arrange for you to continue with them, the money going direct to you. All of it. Have you ever considered getting a full-time job, maybe as a live-in housekeeper, for better pay? Our agency does this all the time.'

‘You will charge me a fee?'

‘There will be a registration fee, yes. But once you are on our books you will soon recover it, because you will be paid the proper rate in future. Everything will be legal, if you do it through us. We will help you with all the forms, getting a National Insurance number, everything. You understand?'

Kasia seemed to have heard it all before. ‘I will think about it.'

‘You do that. Now, tell me exactly what happened yesterday.'

Kasia stiffened. ‘Is bad. I not like to talk about it.'

Bea started again, trying to put Kasia at her ease. ‘What was Mr Kent like?'

Kasia relaxed. ‘So high, like my husband.' She got up to mime a man taller than herself, perhaps five foot ten. ‘His hair going away in front of his head. He laughs, I laugh. Nice man. Always kind, say I must have coffee, biscuits, some cake he makes, sit in the sun on the patio, take your time.'

‘You liked working for him. What time did you usually get there?'

‘Nine o'clock. Mr Kent say not to worry if bus is late, but I am there at nine o'clock, just right. Many times he is still in bed when I come because he works late, in the clubs, at parties. He is entertainer, you know. Dressing up, singing, telling jokes. But for some time not so much smiling, for he was sick in his stomach.' She shook her head. ‘I not like his look. But the last time he was, how you say, chipper? He say everything is all right. All smiles. So I come as usual on Thursday morning. I use my key to go in, and I say, “Hello”, like always. But he is quiet. I think maybe he sleeps.