False Charity

by Veronica Heley

  Richie nodded. ‘One child lost, is a tragedy. Two thousand dead is news.’

  ‘I think I’d better tell everyone about the tsunami, and let her add her voice at the end. That way, she can’t exaggerate. She’s so photogenic, we must use her.’ Lena raised her voice. ‘Do you hear me, Noel? You make sure Ana gets round to all the tables on Saturday night.’

  Noel grunted, and switched channels.

  Lena booted up her laptop. ‘There’s a thousand and one things still to do.’

  Richie folded the last menu and pushed the pile aside. ‘I’ll go and collect the cosmetic samples we’ve been promised for giveaways, but it’s going to take me a while because the warehouse is out in the sticks. Someone ought to check at the shop, see if there’s any more requests for tickets. I suppose I could do that on my way back.’

  Lena was frowning. ‘I promised I’d drop a replacement cheque into the hotel. We have to let them have some money today or they’ll cancel. I’ve still got to check on the caterers, get the balloons up, fetch my dress from the cleaners.’

  ‘I’ll collect the mail from the shop,’ said Noel, losing interest in the television programme. ‘Then on the way back I could drop the cheque in at the hotel, chat up the little receptionist, find out if our friend’s been missed yet.’

  Lena was uneasy. ‘I’m not happy with your going anywhere near that girl. It was bad enough your taking her out for the evening, but to give her your phone number was asking for it.’

  ‘It was only my mobile number, and she didn’t know why the barman wanted it.’

  Lena tried to convince herself he was right. ‘I suppose she’d have tried to blackmail us, too, if she’d caught on.’

  Noel shrugged and looked up at the ceiling. Richie glowered at Noel, but knew better than to say anything.

  One of Lena’s phones rang, she checked the label on it and answered. ‘International Relief and Development Fund … oh, how are you? It was a good night, wasn’t it! … What’s that? Our cheque bounced? No! It’s not possible. There must be some mistake. Give me the details and I’ll get on to the bank straight away to sort it out.’

  Five

  Wednesday, lunchtime

  Piers pulled a suitcase on wheels into the hall, closed the front door with his foot, and enveloped Bea in a hug.

  She struggled free. ‘How dare you!’

  She would have hit him, only her hands were full. He laughed, slapped her behind and walked into the drawing room. She followed him, telling herself that the poet was right to warn people about guests bringing gifts, because you never knew what they were really after. The bottle of wine looked a good one. He’d spent money on that, and on the orchid, too.

  Piers’ gaze fell on Maggie. He gave her a slow inspection from her pink topknot to the awkward-looking feet, and identified her place in the household. ‘Hello. I’m Piers. Could you come up with some coffee, do you think?’

  Maggie simpered and scampered off, saying she’d see what she could do.

  Like Max, Piers was tall and strongly built. Unlike Max, Piers hadn’t an ounce of fat on him. He had a mop of dark hair becomingly streaked with grey. His skin was bronzed, his eyes hazel, and his chin looked as if someone had pushed it over to one side. He wore a checked wool shirt over well-cut jeans and the clothes looked right on him, despite the fact that he was now in his early sixties. Time had been kind to him in many ways, perhaps because he’d never burdened himself with family responsibilities.

  ‘Piers,’ said Bea, dumping the orchid on the mantelpiece out of the sun. ‘Out!’

  ‘Now, now. Don’t be so hasty. So this is your home.’ He looked all round. ‘Nice place. Suits you. Are you going to keep it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bea. ‘Piers, I can’t give you a bed, so—’

  ‘I got back from Scotland this morning. My tenant’s not due to move out till Monday, so I thought I’d look you up.’

  Maggie banged her way back into the room carrying a tray with a cafetière of fresh coffee and two mugs on it. She brought it to Piers as a puppy brings a toy to its master.

  Piers thanked her with a smile, helped himself, and sank into a chair. ‘Seriously, Bea, if there’s anything I can do you’ve only to say.’

  ‘Thank you, Piers,’ said Bea, who didn’t for a moment believe he meant it. ‘Everything’s under control.’

  ‘Except for some old friend of hers who’s in trouble,’ said Maggie, interfering as usual. ‘Max said she wasn’t to worry about it, as it really is a lost cause.’

  ‘Maggie,’ warned Bea. ‘Zip it!’ And as Maggie opened her mouth to argue, Bea decided she’d had enough. ‘Haven’t you some work to do downstairs? Manning the phones, if you can’t cope with the computer? And if you can’t do that, can you find out if my old cleaner will come back to work for me?’

  Maggie turned puce. ‘I know my mother asked Max to give me a job, but surely you can find something better for me to do than scrubbing floors!’

  Bea tried to be patient. ‘Maggie, I didn’t ask you to scrub floors, though I realize you probably have been doing so, but you really must not—’

  ‘I’m leaving, right? Today. This afternoon!’ Clumsy footsteps ran away down the hall.

  Silence, while Bea wondered whether to go after the girl, or be thankful that she’d seen the last of her.

  Piers said, ‘Shall we change the subject? Or shall we talk about whatever mess you’ve got yourself into?’

  ‘I haven’t got myself into a mess. Coral has. Oh, never mind all that. Why are you here, Piers? Surely you’re not trying to pick up where we left off all those years ago? We can’t pretend you never left us.’

  ‘No, I’ve regretted it many a time, but –’ a shrug ‘– then I get down to work again and forget about everything else. I’d like to make amends, promise that I’d never leave you in the lurch again, but that would be a lie. Because I might.’ Piers shook himself. ‘I could do with a drink. Bea?’

  ‘First tell me why you’re here.’

  Piers sat down, and took a deep breath. ‘I’m no angel, I know, and you might have thought I walked away and forgot you, never felt any guilt. But I did. Feel guilty, I mean. Well, most of the time I didn’t, but then it would come up and hit me, and I’d curse myself for losing you. So when Hamilton asked me to look after you—’

  ‘What? When was this? You and Hamilton? But how did you know one another?’

  ‘We met by chance at the National Portrait Gallery. I had something hanging there and he’d wandered in by chance. If it had been anyone else, I suppose he’d have looked right through me, but Hamilton, he wasn’t like that, was he? We ended up having lunch together. After all, he’d gained what I’d lost. He was magnanimous. I rather think I apologized to him for having walked out on you, but he seemed to understand how it is to be driven by work. And what it is to run away from commitment. He was good about commitment, wasn’t he?’

  Bea nodded. Yes, if Hamilton had committed to anything, he saw it through.

  Piers said, ‘You never cared to watch cricket, did you? He liked it, and so did I. After that first meeting we used to run into one another at Lords every now and then, perhaps twice a year. He was restful to be with. I felt absolved from what I’d done, deserting you and Max. Three years ago Hamilton told me about the cancer. It was only at the start, and he hoped, various treatments were being offered, well, you know about that. It took years, didn’t it? We kept in touch. He never mentioned the cancer unless I asked him, right up to the last time we met. It was then he said you might need some help when he died. I said you wouldn’t want help from me, no way. He just smiled. So that’s why I’m here. One unreliable old man, offering whatever help you need.’

  Bea blinked. This was all rather a lot to take in at once, and it wasn’t very good for the ego to feel that Piers had only come looking for her because Hamilton had asked him to.

  There was a noise at the door, and Maggie edged her way in. She was red in the face, which clashed horribly w
ith her dyed hair. ‘Sorry I flew off the handle. You were quite right, I really am not much good at office work. So I’ll fish your washing out of the drier, take your dry-cleaning in, and be off.’

  Part of Bea said ‘Hurray!’ but the other part said she couldn’t let the girl go like this. She extended her free hand to Maggie, who came slowly across the room, angrily swiping the back of her hand across her face. Bea looked around. ‘I saw a box of paper tissues somewhere.’

  Piers made a long arm, rescued a box and handed it to Maggie, who snorted and sniffed into one tissue after the other.

  ‘What about the boy?’ asked Bea. ‘Is he leaving, too?’

  Maggie wiped reddened eyes. ‘He got thrown out by his father. He’s got nowhere to go. I’d better find him a hostel or something. I don’t think my mother would let him stay with us.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  Maggie said, ‘What you’ve got to understand is that it wasn’t his fault. He’s the youngest in a family that’s mad keen on sport, and he’s no good at it. He’s brainy, mind. He’s taken eight A levels and he thinks he got them all. The thing is, he’s a computer buff.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘He accessed something on his father’s computer, something he’d no right to be looking at. His father found out and beat him up. Then he threw him out. I found him in the park when I was taking Nicole’s dog for a walk. Down by the water. I startled him and he almost jumped in. I was afraid that if I left him there, he really would jump.’

  ‘Good heavens,’ said Bea, feeling faint.

  ‘So I brought him home – here – and found him some clothes. Got them at the charity shop, actually,’ said Maggie, gaining confidence as her story progressed. ‘I let him use the computer and he’s done all the work I was supposed to be doing while I looked after the house. He’s only a boy, you see.’

  ‘How old is he?’ asked Piers. ‘Couldn’t Social Services look after him?’

  ‘He’s just turned eighteen. They don’t want to know if you’re turned eighteen.’

  ‘And you are – how old?’

  ‘Twenty.’ The girl sniffed hard, tossed her head, well into Don’t Care mode. ‘Divorced already. Can’t cope with computers. Got fed up at home, waiting on Mummy hand and foot. She doesn’t really want me around, anyway, showing her up before her friends, because she looks so young, still. No wonder she asked Max to find something for me, just to get me out of the house!’ More angry sniffling.

  Bea pulled the girl down on to the settee and put her arm around her. ‘There, there. What on earth am I to do with you all, eh?’

  ‘Throw us all out. Make a clean start,’ said Piers. ‘I’ll be all right, you know. It’s true I’d rented out my place for a couple of months while I was busy with some commissions out of town, but I can easily go to a hotel till Monday when my tenant leaves. I’m not short of a penny.’

  Maggie was mopping up. ‘I keep telling Oliver that he’s got a marketable skill and could walk into a job anywhere, but he says that without his A level certificates, no one will employ him.’

  ‘He should ask the school for them.’

  ‘He can’t. His father’s the headmaster.’

  Bea didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. She chose laughter. It didn’t sound merry, but it was better than tears. Looking up, she caught Hamilton’s eye as he looked down from his photograph, and that sobered her up. Hamilton looked – of course it was a trick of the light – anxious.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘First things first. Something to eat.’

  Maggie cheered up at once. ‘Leave that to me. What would you like? Pasta? Scrambled eggs? A fry-up? No, you’d better not have fried stuff. Bad for you. I’ll do some pasta, right?’ The girl could switch from Orphan Annie to Boadicea in three seconds flat.

  Bea said, ‘After we’ve eaten we’ll have a Council of War. Piers, can you spare the time to eat with us?’

  ‘I keep trying to tell you I’m at your disposal. I’ve got nothing on for ten days, when I’m due to paint another of the great but not so good. A politician, needless to say. At least there’s something in their faces to paint. Which reminds me, Bea; you’re getting very paintable. Care to sit for me some time?’

  ‘In your dreams,’ said Bea. ‘I know what an old hag I look now.’

  ‘You’re just tired,’ said Maggie, with accuracy but without compassion.

  Piers looked at Bea with eyes that took in every line on her face, and the sag under her chin. ‘You look like someone I’d like beside me in a fight. I think I could do you justice, now.’

  Bea was flattered, but that didn’t stop her worrying about more pressing matters. ‘I must go and find Oliver. We don’t want him doing anything stupid, do we? Oh, and Maggie, did I dream it, or did you come up to tell me that you’d found something which might help Coral?’

  ‘Oh yes, that’s it. Oliver thinks he knows how they worked the false address.’

  Piers lifted both his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘I think it’s about time I put my foot down with a firm hand. What exactly is all this about?’

  Bea couldn’t make out if he were serious or not but launched into the tale of Coral’s woes, with Maggie chipping in every now and then.

  ‘Good grief,’ said Piers, when they’d finished. ‘Can’t the police—?’

  ‘No,’ said Bea, not bothering to elaborate. There was an awkward silence, and Maggie said, ‘I’d better see about lunch,’ and darted off.

  Piers said, ‘Am I right in thinking Coral would be in trouble with the taxman if she went to the police?’

  ‘Something like that, yes. She trusted a member of her family to deal with – er – certain aspects of the book-keeping, and he let her down. She’s putting it right.’

  ‘I’ve been in trouble with the taxman myself till I wised up and got a good accountant. That’s the trouble with freelance work. Feast or famine.’

  ‘You’re doing all right now?’

  ‘Bless you, yes. Got a penthouse flat in the Barbican, and a shack in the South of France that I can retreat to when everything gets a bit much here. You don’t need to worry about me.’

  Bea sighed. ‘I do, though. How come a busy man like you just happens to be able to drop everything and come to my rescue at a moment’s notice?’

  Was that a blush? ‘I knew roughly when you’d be back after Hamilton died. I knew who I was due to paint around this time, so I built in a bit of leeway. I’m totally at your disposal for ten days, right?’

  ‘Because Hamilton asked you to? I don’t think I can accept your offer, Piers. Besides which, tracking down con men isn’t exactly your scene, is it?’

  He sat upright. ‘I’m not going to track down con men. What I thought was, that there might be a family squabble going on that I could help you sort out. That I could come the heavy father act.’ He laughed, shortly. ‘Some father I’ve turned out to be. But now I’m here, well, yes. I’d like to help. It would take my mind off the dreary business of painting the sly, heavy faces of today’s power merchants, which is all I seem to do nowadays.’

  Bea didn’t know whether to believe him or not. In the past he’d been so driven by his art that he’d never had time for anything else but bedding the nearest available woman and ingesting a certain amount of food. And that only when reminded to eat. He hadn’t been selfish so much as absorbed by his art.

  She said, ‘I can’t have you sleeping here.’

  ‘No, of course not. I’ll book into a hotel locally. Do you know one?’

  ‘Maggie can do it for you.’

  ‘Don’t laugh, but I rather think I’d like to paint her, as well. All that gauche bravado. Why is she pretending to be Barbie doll?’

  Bea shrugged. ‘I only met her last night. There’s a capable girl somewhere under all that camouflage, but her manner is unfortunate, to say the least. She talks to me as if I were a toddler, and her laugh drives me insane. I’ll be glad to see the back of her.’

  Maggie popped her head aro
und the door, to say, ‘Five minutes.’

  Bea cringed. Had the girl overheard?

  Maggie was frowning. ‘Have you seen Oliver? I can’t find him anywhere.’

  At once Bea felt alarm. Knowing something of the boy’s history, might the prospect of being thrown out of his home and separated from Maggie have driven him to despair once more? ‘Piers, look downstairs. No, you won’t know the way. Go down the steps outside the French windows. Look in the little shed at the bottom of the garden. Maggie, see if Oliver’s taking anything from his room at the top of the house.’

  Bea ran down the stairs to the basement, while Maggie thundered her way up the stairs. What was the child wearing on her feet?

  The basement was eerily silent. Flickering light came from old-fashioned neon tubes overhead. Tiny spots of light showed where the computers were on standby. There was no Oliver in Hamilton’s room, in the interview room, kitchen, reception room, or toilet.

  Bea went back up the stairs, taking it at a more leisured pace. Thinking.

  Maggie came skittering down from the top floor. ‘Everything’s just as he left it this morning when I went in to make his bed.’ She reddened. ‘Well, he’s a boy and he’s never had to make his own bed.’

  ‘Then you should teach him,’ said Bea. She swung into the sitting room and looked out of the French windows at the peaceful garden below.

  Piers called up to her from where he stood at the end of the garden. ‘Nothing. He’s not in the shed and I don’t think he’s gone over the wall.’

  He climbed the outside stairs to rejoin them in the sitting room. ‘What do we do? Call the police?’ He was only half joking.

  Maggie caught her breath in dismay, but Bea said, ‘Do you think he’d go without a word to you, Maggie?’ Maggie shook her head.

  ‘Then,’ said Bea, ‘I think we need to look in the place he’d find it easiest to leave messages. That would be on his computer, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘But,’ said Maggie, ‘he knows I’m not much good at computers. What would I look for?’