It was not a simple question of right and wrong, though right and wrong came into it. Coral and her son-in-law had probably been greedy, had not bothered to check the client out, had been lax in their book-keeping. Yes. But they hadn’t deserved to lose all that money.
Bea opened the file, put on her reading glasses and discovered the total of how much they’d lost. Ouch. The agency could wash its hands of the affair. Naturally. They were not at fault in any way. Were they? No.
We-e-ll. Not in law, maybe. But yes, they were morally responsible, weren’t they? Hamilton would certainly have said so. He used to quote some lines about being ready to right wrongs, or being a knight or something. She couldn’t remember exactly what.
But there – Bea pushed the paperwork aside – this was no longer anything to do with her. She’d retired from the agency ages ago, and couldn’t possibly be held responsible. A mistake had been made but mistakes do happen even in the best regulated families and it was not her problem. Was it?
She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.
Wednesday, morning
The team had slept late but now there was work to be done. They’d dumped the bin bag containing the stained rug in a wheelie bin in Camden Town. The washing machine was working on the shower curtain, and Richie had dropped off their clothes to be dry-cleaned.
Lena, dressed in a black leotard and sequined slippers, put on some rubber gloves to check out the victim’s mobile phone. It was brand new, performing everything except the polka.
Noel was easing stylish boots over designer jeans. ‘If I’ve got to get rid of my mobile, why can’t I have his?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said his mother, accessing the address list. ‘Ouch, he’s got a couple – no, three – girls’ telephone numbers in his memory.’ She tapped her teeth. ‘He said he was playing the field. Suppose he wasn’t gay but—’
Noel pouted. ‘He was gay.’ He snatched the phone out of her hands. ‘Swap you mine for this, right?’ He fiddled with the phone. ‘Who shall I send a photo to?’
Richie slid into the room, another phone to his ear. ‘The hotel confirms the special offer on the wine. All right?’
‘Sure,’ said Lena, watching her son with a mixture of irritation and pleasure. ‘Noel, you know you can’t keep it.’
He whooped. ‘Will you look at this!’ He showed her an image of herself on the mobile.
She said, ‘Look!’ and pointed. Grabbed at the phone and missed.
Laughing, he opened his fingers and let the phone smash down on to the floor. And stamped on it. She drew the back of her hand across her forehead. ‘Oh, Noel!’
‘Was there anything on it?’ asked Richie, through his teeth.
‘You should have let me keep it,’ said Noel, spreading his hands wide. ‘Now look what you’ve made me do!’
Four
Wednesday, midday
Bea started up out of her nap. After a moment’s disorientation, she adjusted her glasses and picked up Coral’s file. Even though she was not responsible for the mess Coral had got into, she might be able to come up with a constructive suggestion.
The paperwork was not in chronological order. She spread the bits and pieces out on Hamilton’s desk, trying to get a picture of what had been going on.
Maggie blundered into the room, all arms and legs. ‘What can I do for you, you poor thing? How are you feeling? Jet lag’s terrible, isn’t it? Would some coffee help? I can make it in a trice.’
Bea told herself the girl was only trying to help. ‘You can tell Oliver to come in. He’s the computer buff around here, isn’t he? I assume he’s got Hamilton’s computer and if so, tell him to return it, pronto.’
Silence. Maggie twisted her lips together, displaying reluctance to do as Bea had asked. Where did she buy her clothes and what colour had her hair been originally? She wouldn’t be bad looking if she held herself better and paid a visit to a decent hairdresser. Was she anorexic, perhaps?
‘Promise you’ll be gentle with him,’ said Maggie. ‘He cries if people shout at him.’
Bea slammed her hands down on the desk. ‘Heavens above!’
Maggie winced, but stood her ground.
‘Oh, very well.’ Bea moderated her voice. ‘I promise to handle him as if he were made of glass. Just get him in here, fast.’
Oliver sidled into the room, looking about twelve years old. He was wearing a pair of moccasins in addition to the same casual gear as before. Bea gestured him to take a chair, which he only did after sending a pleading glance to Maggie. He was a finely cut lad, fine-boned – almost sparrow-boned. Too thin. If he put on a bit of weight, he might be handsome. There was a dusky tint to his skin. A mixed race ancestry, somewhere along the line?
‘You too, Maggie. Sit.’
Maggie sprawled on the settee but Oliver sat on the edge of a chair, looking terrified. Bea repressed an impulse to blast him into outer space. He really was victim material.
‘Now, I’d like an update, please. I want my husband’s computer back. Also I need to know how many outstanding jobs we have on our books, what we owe, what is owing to us, and what sort of timescale to shut down we’re talking about.’
Oliver gaped at her, wordless. Maggie shrugged, gazing out of the window, distancing herself from what was happening. Bea remembered that Maggie wasn’t supposed to be much good at office work. All right. But what about Oliver?
Bea sat on her impatience. All right, an outright order to Oliver didn’t work. She’d try another way. She put on her Little Woman act, almost batting her eyelids in an effort to convince them that she was the original nitwit and he was the White Knight of the keyboard who could ride to her rescue. In a soft voice she said, ‘You see how helpless I am, Oliver. Anyone could take me for a ride at the moment. I really need your help, to try to understand what’s been going on.’
Oliver’s narrow chest expanded as he got the point. Maggie gave a sharp nod, expressing approval of the way Bea was handling the boy.
Oliver said, in the tones of one who can hardly believe their ears, ‘You want me to show you what I’ve been doing?’
Give the boy a cherry. ‘Please.’ She tried to sound humble.
Having reduced her request to words that he understood, Oliver was happy enough to bring in various spreadsheets and analyses of computer programmes that he’d been running. He laid them out on the desk, and began to explain them to her.
It was soon clear that while Maggie had been acting as receptionist and housekeeper for Max and Nicole, Oliver had been running what was left of the business.
‘There’s a bit of a gap at the beginning of the month,’ said Oliver, as he began to wind down. ‘Someone was keeping the books straight before me but she left and I’m sorry but I haven’t been able to track every transaction down.’
‘You’ve done a remarkable job,’ said Bea, truthfully. ‘I couldn’t have done half as well.’
He managed to stop fidgeting at that, and even produced half a smile.
Bea put her elbows on her table, and rested her chin on her hands. ‘Does my son know how much you’ve been doing?’
A shrug. ‘He knew and he didn’t know, if you know what I mean.’ He shot a look at Maggie, asking for help. Shuffled his feet. ‘He said he couldn’t afford to pay me, but as I was Maggie’s boyfriend—’
‘Which he’s not,’ said Maggie, pugnacious in defence. ‘I was sorry for him. Like a puppy left out in a storm, he was. And the room upstairs wasn’t doing anything. To be frank, I’m not much good on the computer. I can produce the odd letter and make phone calls and that, but not this complicated stuff. So what I can’t do, he does for me and I feed him and keep the house clean. And that’s it, really.’
‘My son mentioned that there might be some cases outstanding, possibly people who’ve had cause for complaint?’
Oliver and Maggie exchanged glances. Maggie said, ‘One or two. But honest, nothing for us to worry about. Max had them checked out by his solicitor and
we’re in the clear.’
‘Including Coral’s case? Are we in the clear on that?’
‘Yes,’ said Oliver, but he looked unhappy about it.
‘Yes,’ said Maggie. ‘Strictly to the letter of the law. Max explained it to me; there’s always bad debts, and she should have been more careful.’
‘Did she pay us an introduction fee?’
Oliver said, ‘Yes, she did.’
Bea swung the big chair round and looked out over the garden. It was green and restful out there, and the temperature was rising. It would be another hot day. She unlocked and opened the grille and the French windows. Now she could hear the buzz of bees on the brightly coloured annuals in the big tubs outside. There were butterflies on the buddleia tree, and above the sycamore tree at the end of the garden rose the spire of the church.
She wasn’t much of a churchgoer, though Hamilton had gone once a month and sometimes more often. Hamilton had been a Christian, not just on Sundays, but every day of the week as well.
As clearly as if he’d been at her elbow, she heard his voice. Are we here just to make money, or to help people who can’t help themselves?
I can’t! I’m too tired, too old. I’ve been out of it too long.
You can do it, girl!
Could she? Dare she? Suppose she tried to think like Hamilton; what would he have done in this case?
She sighed. She knew exactly what he’d have said. Help them, of course. She couldn’t do it on her own; she’d been out of the business too long. What’s more, she seemed to remember their computers had been updated some while back. Would she even know how to turn one on nowadays? So, she needed Oliver to help her.
If Oliver stayed for a while, presumably Maggie would have to stay, too. Bea quailed at the thought. The girl was bossy, loud and had a laugh that could drill through steel. Bea shuddered. Could she face living with that laugh? Even if it were only for a week? She sighed. She supposed she must. Indeed, she had very little choice if she wanted to go on living with a quiet mind.
She returned to her desk. ‘I’d like to do something for Coral if I can. I understand you two are on notice to leave at the end of this week. Suppose I extend that deadline until the end of next week, which will give you more time to find somewhere else to go. If Oliver does any work for me, he gets paid for it, understood? I’d like to see what can be done to track down the con men who pretended to be a registered charity and took Coral for a ride. How does that strike you?’
Oliver and Maggie consulted one another without words. Oliver nodded.
Maggie said, ‘What would we have to do?’
Bea shuffled papers, trying desperately to think what Hamilton would have said, if he’d still been here. He’d say, First you check. Then you think. Only after that, you act. So what would you check first? She handed some paperwork from the charity to Oliver.
‘These people called themselves the International Relief Foundation, and the appeal fund was for helping the victims of the last tsunami. Find out everything you can about them.’
Oliver looked as if he wanted to drop the papers. ‘How do we do that?’
Bea suppressed impatience. ‘There’s a charity number given at the bottom of the letterhead. Is it genuine? Check on the board members. Ring them up. See if you can find someone who’ll talk to you about the charity they represent. Find out who is responsible for the day-to-day running. Is it one of the board members, or the secretary, or who? We need to find out how much of the information on the letterhead is genuine. If any.’
Oliver nodded. He still looked terrified, but maybe he’d do it. ‘Off you go, then,’ said Bea, and he scampered off, all eager beaver.
‘Now, Maggie. At the bottom of this letter there’s a signature which looks like Graham or Gordon Briggs, secretary. Coral says she spoke to an American woman, though. Can you find out who she is?’
Maggie pouted. ‘How do I do that?’
Bea wanted to grind her teeth, but told herself it would be too hard on her fillings. ‘Well, for a start, it wouldn’t be any good ringing the same people as Oliver. Coral told us about two places which have held events for these people. I want you to ring them and speak to whoever handles the bookings. Find out what they know about these people; for instance, who did they deal with at the charity? Can they give you a name? Does the charity have another address or telephone number, so that we can contact them? If you can, also find out if they’ve been paid for the functions the charity held there.’
At that moment her phone rang. She picked it up, saying smoothly, ‘Abbot Agency, how may I help you?’
A man’s voice, full of charm. With a laugh in it. ‘At long last! I was beginning to think you’d given us up for good and were staying in the Southern Hemisphere.’
Piers, her first husband. ‘What do you want, Piers?’
‘There’s a fine welcome. Can’t I just want to see you for old times’ sake?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘I’ll drop round later, all right?’ He put the phone down before she could tell him not to. Maggie was trying to look as if she were not dying of curiosity.
Bea said, ‘My ex-husband. From the time before I married Hamilton.’
Maggie was trying to work it out. ‘Max’s father?’
‘Yes. Not that he’s been much of a father to … well, never mind. We’ve got work to do.’
She watched Maggie leave, guessing she’d probably go straight to Oliver with the news that Mrs Abbot’s first husband had surfaced the day she got back from burying Hamilton. What next? Bea tried to open a drawer to find Hamilton’s address and telephone book because there were one or two people she knew who might have come across the fake charity. She broke a fingernail. Bother. Now she had to find a nail file.
And ‘bother’ Piers, too. They’d married young; and it had been a disaster. After suffering four years of his tomcatting around, she’d thrown him out. He’d taken it as lightly as he took everything except his work, moving in with first one of his women and then another. Never staying long with anyone. Being a freelance portrait painter and wickedly attractive with it, he’d been able to do that.
For five long years he’d avoided her, during which time she’d worked all hours at all sorts of jobs to keep herself and Max. Maintenance cheques had arrived now and then. Never enough and never often enough, but she supposed Piers had been doing his best. The divorce went through unopposed.
Then one day he’d turned up on the doorstep asking for a bed for the night as if he’d never been away. Not that she’d let him in. Oh, no. Though it had taken all her willpower to resist his charm. Sometimes she wondered what would have happened if she had let him in … but no. Tomcats don’t change their spots. Whatever.
Max had been nine when Piers returned. It was too late for him to play at fatherhood. Bea had been on the point of marrying Hamilton, and her son adored the large, laughing man who was always there for them.
After Hamilton adopted Max, the boy had declared he didn’t want to see Piers any more. That should have been that, but for some reason – guilt, perhaps? – Piers had kept in touch with Bea. Every so often he’d give her a ring and ask her out for a meal; sometimes he’d ask after his son, though he didn’t seem really interested in what she had to say. His career had taken off, the agency had thrived, they met without embarrassment.
She hadn’t seen him for nearly a year. Tea at Fortnum and Mason’s. They’d just been told that Hamilton’s cancer had returned, and he’d refused further treatment in favour of going around the world, seeing everything he’d always wanted to see, doing everything he’d not had time for. Piers had been a good friend that day, said the right things, said she could always rely on him … though he hadn’t said for what, the bastard.
Bea had to go and borrow a nail file from Maggie in the end. Then she got side-tracked as the front doorbell rang upstairs, and didn’t stop. Bea guessed it was Piers. Bother!
‘Shall I …?’ asked Maggie, waving her arms in s
emaphore fashion.
‘I’ll go,’ said Bea. Anything to stop him leaning on the bell. She opened the door. An orchid in a pot and a bottle of wine were thrust in her face. ‘Welcome home,’ said Piers, stepping inside the hall. ‘By the way, have you got a bed for the night? I seem to be temporarily homeless.’
Wednesday, midday
The team was listening to the news on the television.
‘… taking his dog for a walk on the Heath stumbled across the body of a man early this morning. If anyone has any information, they should contact …’
Lena used the remote to turn the television off. ‘Home and dry. No identification. No problem. The keys went down a drain, the jewellery I wiped clean and dropped into a charity shop. We’ve been lucky. But Noel, don’t you ever …!’
The lad pouted, and she bit back the rest of what she’d been about to say. She turned to Richie, who was folding menus with neat movements. ‘What’s the latest on the DJ? Can we get him again?’
‘Cash up front. I’ve not been able to beat him down at all. Do we play?’
She tucked a strand of blonded hair behind one ear. ‘Sometimes we have to spend, in order to rake it in. And the cabaret?’
‘I’ve found a lad who’s been on one of those talent shows on TV but never made it any further. He wants cash on the night.’
Lena nodded. ‘Give him half in cash on the night, and a cheque for the rest.’
Noel yawned, grabbing the remote to turn the TV back on. Neither Lena nor Richie remonstrated, though Richie looked as if he’d like to do so.
Noel said, ‘Is the Appealing Orphan coming out to play again?’
‘She’s upped her price,’ said Lena. ‘A minicab to pick her up and a fifty-pound note. I’ve told her not to embroider her story. Last time she said she’d lost five brothers and sisters, and six uncles and aunts. Two of each would be better.’
False Charity Page 5