False Alarm

by Veronica Heley

  Piers said, mildly enough, ‘Steady on, Oliver. You forget who you’re talking to.’

  Oliver was pale with fury. ‘I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, either. I think you’d better leave, both of you.’

  Piers put his hand on Bea’s arm, but she’d got herself under control. ‘Oliver, you didn’t ask me for help. Lady Ossett did. And, later on, Sir Lucas. I think perhaps there are two separate mysteries here, so suppose you get on with your industrial espionage – or whatever it is – while I deal with the other problems in the building.’

  ‘What problems? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Have you solved the mystery of the cat’s death, and of the marks where nails were driven into the side of the stairs?’

  ‘Cat? What cat? And I don’t know anything about nails on the stairs.’

  Bea reached past him to press the doorbell. ‘Exactly. Let’s each of us stick to our own line of enquiry, shall we? Why don’t you get on with your search for the rogue computer buff? I expect you can keep Tariq’s key because I don’t think he’ll be coming back. And, for your information, the reason his family’s not keen to keep in touch is that he’s gay and it’s not approved of in their culture.’

  The door opened, and Bea marched into the penthouse, followed by Piers who looked amused . . . only to be brought up short by a procession of workmen coming towards them down the hallway, carrying a large, swaddled package between them.

  The Lucian Freud picture? So Sir Lucas had sent for it, after all.

  Bea and Piers stood aside to let the workmen pass. Bea hesitated. Ought they to intrude on Lady O at this delicate moment?

  Bea had underestimated the lady, who appeared in the doorway to the living room, smiling brightly. ‘Come in. How good of you to call. You find me all at sixes and sevens. My dear husband finds he can’t be parted from my precious gift to him and has asked for it to be removed to his office, where he is staying at the moment, the dear boy, so inconvenient for him, but there; in such an important job, one has to make sacrifices, don’t you think? But what, I ask myself, can I put in place of what has been taken from me?’

  She indicated the bare space on the wall. ‘Perhaps the Picasso sketch from the spare bedroom? Though it will hardly be big enough to . . . Oh dear. I’m forgetting my manners. Professor, this is—’

  ‘I’ve already met Mrs Abbot,’ said the Professor, rising from a chair by the far window. He was still casually dressed, but there was a spruceness about him which had been lacking the previous day. His hair had been well brushed, his eyebrows trimmed. A hint of aftershave mingled with Lady O’s perfume.

  ‘And this is . . .?’ Lady O raised her eyebrows and fluttered her eyelashes at Piers, who was so accustomed to that sort of attention that he took it for granted.

  ‘My first husband, Piers, the portrait painter,’ said Bea.

  Piers was modesty itself. ‘Not in the same league as . . .’ He indicated the space where the Freud had been. ‘Bea and I are just good friends nowadays. I am so sorry to hear of your loss.’ He might have been referring to the loss of the picture, or of the husband.

  Bea gave him an old-fashioned look before turning back to their hostess. ‘We dropped in to see how you were getting on, but I understand Maggie is looking after you this weekend?’

  ‘The dear child,’ said Lady O, her thoughts obviously elsewhere. ‘I am so fortunate, so well looked after. This afternoon the Professor and I are going to inspect a litter of exceptionally beautiful pedigree kittens to see if he would like to have one to replace dear Momi, after which he has tickets for a perfectly splendid concert at the South Bank this evening. I am so looking forward to that. You’ll excuse me for a moment . . .?’ She made a rapid retreat to her bedroom, hankie to eyes.

  The Professor, ungainly but purposeful, came towards them. ‘Brave little thing, isn’t she?’ His tone was half mocking and half indulgent. ‘Reminds me of my second wife, who passed away two years ago, greatly missed. Lady Ossett will come out smiling in a little while to rearrange the furniture and make an appointment to see her solicitor about the divorce. I’m sure Sir Lucas will be generous in his arrangements, so she ought to come out of this pretty well.’

  Bea stifled a giggle. ‘It is splendid of her to want to replace your cat, when they’re not exactly her favourite animals.’

  A grin. ‘Nor mine. Momi was a gift from my daughter. We rubbed along well enough, he and I. I do miss him in a way, but remembering to feed him and cleaning out his toilet tray was a bit of a bind.’

  ‘So you’re happy to play along with what the lady wants?’

  He adopted a melancholy tone, but his eyes were bright with mischief. ‘I am a lonely old man now that Momi is no more, and she is a delightful woman, recently deserted by her husband. What harm is there in offering her companionship?’

  ‘In that case,’ said Bea, somewhat at a loss, ‘perhaps we should be on our way.’

  Out they went. Piers lent against the wall on the landing and gave way to laughter. Bea eyed him with disfavour. Eventually, he blew his nose, with gusto. ‘The Professor may be on the lookout for a cushy berth and someone to soothe his brow in his declining years, but she’s no fool and won’t accept him unless it suits her to do so. I don’t think he was responsible for setting Sir Lucas tumbling down the stairs, do you?’

  ‘Or for poisoning his own cat. Even if he’d disliked Momi and wanted to get rid of him, he wouldn’t have risked someone else eating poisoned meat, but have taken him to the vet to be put down. Which reminds me, Lady O still hasn’t given me a list of the guests at her bridge party. We know the Professor and the two biddies were there; I wonder who else?’

  ‘Not Tariq, presumably. It appears he’s not dead, either.’

  She led the way down the stairs and summoned the lift. ‘Let’s go and talk to the caretaker about Resurrection Man, shall we?’

  The lift worked just as it should. The caretaker was still in the foyer, using an industrial polisher to buff up the tiles on the floor. He didn’t give them a second look till Bea marched right up to him and said, ‘You can turn that off, now. Tariq escaped while you were giving Oliver the list of residents.’

  ‘What!’ The big man glowered at Bea but turned off the machine. ‘What you mean?’

  ‘You did your best, but you can’t be everywhere all the time. Am I right in thinking Sir Lucas told you not to let Tariq leave?’

  The big man produced a rag from his pocket and began to dust the top of his machine. Was he going to ignore Bea’s question? Finally, ‘Sir Lucas, he boss man. Man from his office tell Tariq, “You stay. Not go away.” His man say to me, “You watch Tariq.” So; I watch.’

  ‘You didn’t just watch him. You prevented him from leaving yesterday, didn’t you?’

  The big man mumbled, ‘Tariq stay put till Sir Lucas say he can go.’

  ‘He’s innocent . . . of plotting to kill Sir Lucas, anyway. Oh, believe me; Oliver would have spotted anything dicey on his computer.’

  ‘Then why he try to go?’

  ‘Because he was scared of what a powerful man like Sir Lucas might do to him. Or of what you might do to him, come to think of it. What did you do to him, anyway?’

  A shrug. ‘Nothing. He try fire escape; I put two wheelie bins against bottom door. I hear him, bang bang, clang clang, try to get out.’ He laughed. ‘No go. Back up he go. I laugh. He try again. Three times he try. Same no go.’

  Piers was outraged. ‘You blocked the exit from the fire escape? That’s illegal.’

  ‘Tariq, he stupid. I put my chair out back, with radio on. He think I sit there, on my break. He think it OK to come down in lift. I wait for him, he opens door, he sees me, and back up he goes again! Hah! Then is trouble with visitor. I listen. I watch. No need to interfere.

  ‘When all is quiet, the two ladies come down. They go out. So I think, Mr Tariq he will try again. How to stop him? I put notice on door, turn off electricity. Now he cannot use lift, must walk
down. I hear him coming. I wait here in the foyer. Cat and mouse, as you say. Down he come. He runs for the door and woosh! He fall over my mop with his big feet. Bang! His eyes roll round in his head. He sleep. Accident.’ He grinned, displaying inadequately brushed teeth.

  Bea sighed. ‘Let me guess what happened next. You had only meant to scare him into staying put, but now you had an unconscious man on your hands, and you didn’t know what to do with him. To gain time, you shoved him back in the lift, leaving your mop handle stuck in the door so he wouldn’t die from lack of air, and went to phone Sir Lucas to tell him what had happened, and to ask for instructions. While you were away, I returned with Ms Lessbury, and we tried to force the door open. I spotted Tariq lying in the lift and announced I was calling the police; you panicked, attacked me and destroyed my phone.’

  ‘No police,’ he said. ‘No phone. Sorry you hurt. Accident.’ He bared his horrible teeth in a grin.

  ‘Accident, my foot. Oliver arrived, knowing nothing of what had happened. You asked him to help the youngsters carry me into their flat and explained to Carmela what had happened, knowing she wouldn’t want to offend Sir Lucas and would help you cover up what you’d done. With all of us out of the way, you switched the electricity back on, opened the lift door and . . . hey presto . . . signs of life.’

  ‘He sick. Vomit. I tell him, “Now you stay put till Sir Lucas come.” I take him up in lift and put him into flat. I clean lift, once. I clean it twice. Phoo!’

  Bea felt very tired. ‘You do realize you’ve committed grievous bodily harm, among other crimes?’

  He grinned. ‘He fall over my mop; accident. You come, you interfere, you trip, you fall; accident. I tread on your phone. I big man, tread on small things. All accidents.’

  Bea realized that what he meant was that she was a small thing to him, and that he could tread on her with impunity. He probably could get away with it, too. Backed by Sir Lucas, he was beyond the law.

  How dare Sir Lucas think he could hold Tariq captive, and search his belongings, and corrupt Oliver, and leave his wife and not be answerable to the laws of the land!

  That bang on the head was getting to her. Another headache threatened. She said, ‘I feel very tired all of a sudden.’

  Piers hustled her out into the fresh air. ‘Come on, Bea. I need to make a couple of phone calls.’ He walked away, accessing his phone. Bea was annoyed. What! Was Piers abandoning her, too? It was all too much.

  Alternative waves of fear and fury shook her. First came fear. Sir Lucas thought he could get away with murder – well, metaphorically, as he probably hadn’t actually killed anyone yet, though she thought he was quite capable of doing so.

  If she got in his way he could squash her like a fly, and there was nothing she could do about it. No recourse to police or the law. CJ was on his side. Carmela & Co would back up the caretaker’s story. If Sir Lucas decided to ruin the Abbot Agency, he could start a rumour that she was suffering from dementia, or was in financial trouble . . . any old story. People would believe a man in his position. The agency could be torched that very night, without anyone being called to account for it. Oliver could be crippled for life in an ‘accident’. Or she could be run over on the way home.

  Fury took over. She announced to the neighbourhood, ‘No one should be above the law. I won’t have it.’

  ‘Quite right, too,’ said Piers, returning to take her elbow and steer her down the road. ‘There’s a little café along here. You look as if you could do with a sit down. Order me a double espresso, will you? And some kind of baguette or sandwich; preferably tuna.’

  He pushed open the door of the café and shoved her inside, letting the door swing to behind him as he returned to his phone call. It was the café she’d been to the day before with Carmela. It was full, but a couple were just leaving a table in the window. Bea stalked to it, testing out various expletives in her mind. None of them expressed exactly how she felt about Sir Lucas and his thug, the caretaker.

  She was angry with God, too. What did he mean by shoving her into a situation she was not equipped to deal with? She was way out of her depth.

  The menu offered soups, quiches and salads, and of course their range of wonderful cakes. She needed carbohydrates. Or, possibly, alcohol? No alcohol licence. A pity. She couldn’t remember when she last got drunk, but it seemed an attractive prospect at that moment. She ordered toasted sandwiches for two, fruit juice for herself, and a coffee for Piers, while glaring at a droopy woman who was trying to take the vacant chair opposite.

  Hah! If she couldn’t get back at Sir Lucas, she could at least prevent anyone else sharing her table.

  The thought that she might be overreacting wormed its way into her mind, but she told it to go away. If she wanted to have a tantrum she would do so, so there!

  The woman didn’t go away, but stood there, looking miserable. There wasn’t another chair vacant. Bea softened. It wasn’t this woman’s fault that Bea was in such a bad temper.

  ‘Look, my friend’s outside making a phone call at the moment, but why don’t you take the chair I was keeping for him? When he comes, we’ll ask the waitress if she can find us another.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Were those tears in her eyes? Goodness gracious.

  ‘I thought I’d be able to manage it easily, but I’m ready to drop.’ She was a washed-out blonde. Correction; her hair, though thin, had been freshly coloured, cut and curled at the hairdressers, but the face beneath the hairstyle looked tired and sallow. Almost, ill.

  Bea forced a smile. ‘He can eat his food standing up if necessary.’

  The waitress delivered the food Bea had ordered and said to the newcomer, ‘The usual?’

  A smile. ‘Yes. Thanks.’ A regular customer, then? And speaking to Bea, ‘I’m grateful.’

  Piers loomed above them, grinning, putting his mobile away. ‘Room for a little one?’ He smiled at the waitress, who responded to him as women always did, and magicked a chair for him from nowhere.

  ‘Well, Piers?’ said Bea, biting into her toasted sandwich. ‘What was so important?’

  ‘I had a word with a friend in the business, who tells me that Sir Lucas’s position is by no means impregnable. He’s facing a hostile takeover bid. It could go either way, and if he loses . . .’ He drew his hand across his throat in a cutting motion.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said the droopy woman. ‘Are you referring to Sir Lucas Ossett?’

  Bea stared at the woman. ‘Don’t tell me; you know him, too?’

  TEN

  ‘Of course,’ said the droopy woman. ‘We live in the same block of flats. May I ask how you know Sir Lucas?’

  ‘He asked me to investigate . . .’ Bea paused, at a loss. What if she were to say that he’d asked her to investigate an attack on his life? Would the woman summon the paramedics from the funny farm? She said, ‘Forgive me; my name’s Bea Abbot of the Abbot Agency, dealing with all matters domestic. I am acquainted with Lady Ossett because her daughter Maggie lodges with me.’

  ‘A dear girl. She always helps me up the stairs if the lift’s out of order, as it was most of yesterday.’ She produced a tired smile. ‘I had a little operation three weeks ago and I don’t seem to be snapping out of it as I should. Eliot said I’d feel better if only I’d stir myself to get my hair done and a facial but I was so tired when I came out from under the drier that I couldn’t face waiting around for the beautician, and I thought I’d better have something to eat before going home. I’m sorry; you don’t need to hear all this.’

  Piers tucked into his sandwich. ‘Going to an important “do” tonight?’

  ‘A dinner at the Guildhall. I’m not sure who for. Is it the Rotary Club? I’m a bit stupid about these things. I do try to keep up, but it’s true that my memory is not what it was.’

  She couldn’t be more than forty, but didn’t seem to have much self-confidence. ‘It’s the anaesthetic,’ said Bea. ‘Knocks you out for a good month, they say.’

&n
bsp; ‘Yes, but I must make the effort. It’s important, for Eliot’s sake.’ Her quiche and salad arrived. It looked good, but she only pecked at it.

  ‘Eliot works for . . .?’

  The woman grimaced. ‘He works in a private bank in the City and it’s all terribly hush-hush but he did say something the other day about Sir Lucas being under pressure. It’s a hostile takeover, is it? Oh dear. I used to understand all those things, but radiotherapy does rather take it out of you.’

  Bea thought, breast cancer. Lumpectomy to remove the tumour, followed by daily visits to the hospital for treatment. Not funny. No wonder the woman was feeling tired and her mind was not the sharp instrument it might once have been.

  ‘So sorry,’ said the woman, holding out her hand. ‘Helen McIntyre.’

  ‘Piers,’ said Bea, indicating that worthy. ‘Portrait painter. He’s my first husband, long divorced, but we’re still good friends.’

  ‘Oh. Are you that Piers? You painted the chairman of the board at Eliot’s bank, didn’t you? We went to see it at the National Portrait Gallery. Eliot was furious because I said his boss looked like the cat who’d been at the cream, which was very silly of me. As if I would know anything about it.’ She gave an uncertain smile, inviting them to share Eliot’s opinion of her lack of intelligence.

  Piers said, ‘That was very acute of you. Several people I know have called him a fat cat. Eliot probably has to toe the line by pretending his boss is a saint.’

  A faint colour came into Helen’s cheeks; she half-smiled and returned to picking at her food. Not much appetite, obviously.

  Bea said, ‘Do you go to the bridge parties?’

  ‘Yes, though I’m not very good. Eliot says it’s important and I can always help with the teas or sit out if there’s enough people without me.’ She put down her fork, hesitating. ‘If you know Maggie well, and . . . I don’t like to gossip but Lucy said something about Sir Lucas leaving his wife?’