False Charity

by Veronica Heley

  The manager’s vast hands clasped together, though his facial expression never altered. ‘I told your man on the phone, No Comment.’

  Bea persisted. ‘We know that she ran a function here some weeks ago. The caterer got paid with bum cheques, but foolishly believed their assurances that it was all a mistake, and went on to cater for an even bigger event at the Priory Country Club. She got a bum cheque for that, too.’

  Did his eyelids flicker? Bea went on. ‘You may remember her, Coral Catering?’

  ‘She did a good job. I said I’d recommend her for other functions in future.’

  ‘She hasn’t got a future,’ said Bea, in a flat voice, ‘unless we can help her to get her money back. She’s relying on us to do something because the introduction came through our agency …’ She explained how she’d come to take an interest in the matter, and what she’d learned so far. ‘We are currently trying to compile a list of what everyone is owed. I wondered if you’d like to come in on this.’

  His eyelids flickered again. ‘The management says, “No comment.”’

  Definitely, they’d been stung. Bea considered her options. ‘Do I take it that the management doesn’t wish to go to the police in the hypothetical case that they have made a loss on this event?’

  ‘The brewery runs a tight ship. The manager, in such a case, might well expect to lose his job.’

  ‘Ah. Still talking hypothetically, would the manager be prepared to give me a quote for a similar function? This would give me some idea of how much you are – correction – you might have been out of pocket.’

  He nodded. ‘I could give you a quote for the function you are thinking of staging, yes.’

  ‘Also, hypothetically, could you confirm how you might first have heard of a team similar to the one we’re talking about?’

  ‘She – Mrs Briggs – had been having a drink in the garden, noticed we did functions, asked if she could book one herself, for victims of the tsunami. Talked a lot about how much good it would do the pub if we went into raising money for such causes in a big way. We’ve always held the odd evening for charity, quizzes and the like, but yes, this would be a step up-market. She gave me a brochure for a similar event that she’d run out of town and it looked OK. Lots of well-known names on it. The cheque for the deposit arrived late but it cleared OK, no cause for worry. The cheque for the rest bounced and, as you say, the charity doesn’t exist.’

  ‘A familiar story. What did the team look like?’

  Mr Banks gazed over her head. ‘A rich bitch with a salon haircut and a smart-ass accent. A trendy youngish man acting as DJ; he was first-class. Then there was the photographer, her son or gigolo, can’t be sure which; film-star looks, had the girls swooning for him. And a sidekick, MC and auctioneer, who was a barrel of laughs, and a talented barroom piano player, probably from the East End.’

  ‘That’s them,’ said Bea. ‘So there are two young men involved? I thought there was only one. You haven’t a photograph, have you?’

  He went back into the main bar, and returned with a photograph of himself and a buxom woman – his wife? – on either side of a slender Asian girl with large dark eyes, wearing the headscarf and trouser suit of Pakistan.

  ‘I suppose the girl was in on it. She gave a spiel about how she’d lost her whole family in the disaster, a real tear-jerker. The organizer suggested we get photographed with her rather than with them. We thought they were being modest. We paid fifteen quid for the photo and that’s all we’ve got to show for it.’

  ‘What was the girl’s name? Do you know where we can find her?’

  He shook his head. ‘It wasn’t a name I’d remember, went in one ear and out the other.’

  Maybe they could track her down through the photographer. Bea turned the print over to look for the photographer’s label, but there wasn’t one.

  ‘I thought of looking him up, too,’ said Mr Banks. ‘But it was one of those Polaroid cameras that spits out the print straight away. I thought it was a bit amateur because professional photographers have digital cameras nowadays, but he said it was easier and quicker with a Polaroid. He took the photos, showed us the print, we paid him cash there and then. He said it was a good way of dealing with it, saving all that bother of ordering prints later on, and I agreed with him. Of course it also saved him from giving us a name and address.’

  ‘They think of everything, don’t they?’ said Bea.

  ‘I’m not sure how much the girl was involved, because she didn’t go off with the others at the end, but had a hire car come for her. The driver came into the bar and said he’d come for the Asian girl, I went and got her from the function room, and she went off with him and that was that. I don’t remember which cab firm it was. An Asian driver, that’s all I can tell you. But then, they’re mostly Asians who drive for the cab companies around here.’

  ‘Clever,’ said Bea. ‘So, no photo of them, no evidence. What about the singer?’

  ‘The real thing didn’t show up. A lookalike came, stand in, what have you. Stupid name, Mad Man? No, not that, but something like that. A rapper. Not bad, if you like that sort of thing. He went down all right with the crowd.’

  ‘Was he part of the team?’

  He thought about that. ‘No. In fact, there was a bit of a barney in the car park at the end of the evening. Him and the auctioneer, the one that played the piano. I know because I had to sort it out.’

  ‘The rapper didn’t get paid?’

  ‘He said he was supposed to get cash at the end of the evening, and they put him off with a cheque. He didn’t want a cheque. He was almost weeping. I thought maybe he’d needed cash to get drugs and that’s why he was so upset.’

  ‘What cars did they drive?’

  ‘The rapper? A white transit van, five years old. The DJ had his own van, of course, because of all his equipment. I’d say he was doing pretty well because it was last year’s model. The Asian girl, you know about. The others? A BMW, last year’s model, tax disc up to date. All three went off in that.’

  Bea sighed. ‘What a lot of misery these people leave behind them. I won’t bother to tell you the grief they’ve caused the caterer, and the man who supplied the wine at the next event is probably going to have to sell his car to cover his losses. Then there’s you, with your job under threat. If I could get some of the money back for you, would that help with the management? Hypothetically, of course.’

  ‘It might. The wife and I like this pub and don’t want to shift. It all looked so good on paper, too. I was properly taken in. When I checked, afterwards, I could have done myself an injury for being so stupid.’

  ‘Have you heard of them doing this kind of thing before? She showed you a brochure saying they’d run a similar event somewhere else? Do you have it?’

  ‘She kept it, saying it was the only one she had, but that she’d send me another. Which she didn’t. Cheltenham? Bath? Some place in the West Country.’

  Bea leaned forward. ‘We think we know where to find these people tomorrow night. Now we could bring in the police, but we won’t because the caterer doesn’t want that – it’s a long story – and I can see you wouldn’t want it, either. What I want to do is confront them, say that they must pay back what they owe or we hand them over to the police. It’s a bluff, I know, but it might work.’

  He flexed his fingers. ‘Need any help with persuasion?’

  Those fists of his! Yes, Mr Banks would be very ‘persuasive’, but was that sort of persuasion legal? Wouldn’t it get them into more trouble than they were in already? ‘I hope it’s going to be sufficient to present them with the facts and demand a cheque. No, not a cheque, come to think of it. Oh, they probably do Internet banking and I’ve got someone who’s good at that. Then I’ll say that we’ll give them twenty-four hours to scarper before we hand the file over to the police.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind hanging around, playing the heavy, make sure they pay up.’

  She thought that one punch from his enormou
s fist would probably be fatal, rather than gently persuasive. ‘It’s Saturday night,’ she said, soothingly, ‘you’ll be busy here, won’t you? If I’m successful, I could give you a ring Sunday morning and let you know how we’ve got on.’

  He grinned, revealing a set of beautiful teeth. False? ‘Hypothetically?’

  ‘Definitely. So if I could have a quote?’

  ‘How about a photocopy of the original invoice, and another of the cheque that bounced?’

  ‘You are brilliant!’

  He nodded. ‘Hypothetically. Would you like a drink, some food, while you’re here?’

  ‘Do you know, I rather think I would. A soft drink and a sandwich?’

  He nodded, was getting up to go when he stopped and said, ‘Baby on board.’

  ‘Unh?’

  ‘Sticker on the back of the car. Baby on board. I remembered because it didn’t match the passengers. Unless, of course, it referred to the grown-up baby, that pretty boy that the woman doted on. Nah, that doesn’t make sense, either.’

  ‘You think the car might have been stolen?’

  A shrug. ‘Tell you one thing, though. The playboy wouldn’t be seen dead driving a saloon like that. He’d want the full Monty, the sports car with a soft top, E-type or similar. And a personalized number plate.’

  She smiled. She was getting a very good picture of these people, now. It all helped.

  Friday, evening

  Noel couldn’t concentrate. Richie hadn’t noticed; all he could think about was checking over the goodies they’d extracted from different companies for the auction. His mother was busy with the table plan, but she could see he was distressed and came to sit beside him.

  ‘What’s the matter, my pet? Tell mummy.’

  He reverted to childhood in his grief. ‘There’s this girl, and I really thought she might be the one, she was just as keen. Now she’s dumped me, and I can’t stop thinking about her. She didn’t even dump me herself, but got her aunt to do it for her. Oh, what am I going to do, Mummy?’

  He fell across her, his head in her lap, real tears on his lashes. She soothed him. ‘There, there. If she could do a hurtful thing like that, she’s not worthy of you.’

  ‘No, she isn’t, is she?’ His lower lip came out. ‘She’s a slag, that’s what she is. I can’t think why I didn’t see it before. She’s coming to the do tomorrow night, and I’ll show her then.’ He smiled, thinking how he might punish her for dumping him.

  Richie pushed aside his lists and yawned. ‘Think I’ll go and pack. Might take some of my stuff over to my brother’s tonight, get it out of the way.’

  ‘What’s the rush? We’ve got the flat till the middle of next week.’ She followed him into his bedroom, which he always kept clean and tidy, something to do with his old army training. She knew she was a bit of a slut, but there, did it matter if the place wasn’t cleaned up till they were ready to leave? She said, ‘Losing your nerve?’

  ‘We’ve never done more than one event in any one town, before. Granted, this is London, but I think we should have called it a day after number two.’

  ‘We’ve never pulled in so much money before, either.’

  He packed socks into shoes and placed them in linen bags at the bottom of his case. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling, that’s all.’

  She snapped a frown at him. ‘You’re jealous of Noel.’

  He shook his head. ‘Jealous? No. It’s not as if you and I have ever had anything but a professional relationship, but … him and his girls, him and the barman; that makes me nervous. What I’m thinking is that after this, I might drop out for a bit.’

  ‘Richie, no! What would I do without you?’ But she knew he’d been thinking along those lines for some time, and maybe she had, too.

  Thirteen

  Friday, evening, continued

  Bea was locked into slow-moving traffic in her car, fuming at the waste of time, wondering if she dare use her mobile phone while driving. Everyone said it wasn’t safe to do so, but a lot of people did it all the same. She decided not to, and pulled into a garage forecourt to fill up with petrol. Afterwards, parking by the free air hose, she got out her mobile. Only this was Maggie’s mobile, and the battery was low.

  There were no more messages from lover boy, thank goodness.

  She rang home. Oliver answered. ‘Lots of messages. Mr Max popped in, but has gone again. There’s been two or three other calls, people wanting you to ring back. The theatrical agency has changed it’s name to Superstars. I found them in the files, but there was nothing about recommending any singers to Mrs Briggs. Of course that didn’t mean Max didn’t recommend them to anyone, because as you know, there’s a nice gap in the book-keeping about that time. So I rang them and spoke to someone called Sylvester—’

  ‘That’s the man.’

  ‘—and he says to welcome you back and he’s missed you. He says he hasn’t had any calls from Max for a long time, but he’s going to see if someone called Briggs has been in touch with them.’

  ‘Can you call him back if he’s still in the office, and ask if he knows about a rapper calling himself Mad Man, something like that? Even if Mad Man is not with Sylvester, he might know where he could be found.’

  ‘Will do. Maggie’s wanting to know when you want supper. She says she’s all right, but to tell the truth, I’m a spot worried about her.’

  ‘I’m trying to get to the Country Club before I head back, and it’s some way out. Tell her not to bother with supper for me. Now Oliver; I’ve been thinking. This scam has spread so much misery around, much more than we realized at first. People are losing their jobs, their cars, their houses. How much did you take off your father, and what will the loss do to him? Don’t you think you ought to contact him, pay him back what you took?’

  Silence. Oliver put the phone down.

  Bea was shaking. She hated having to tell people off. She was no good at it. Hamilton had always played the role of tough man when it was necessary for someone to do so. Oliver would probably turn round now and say it was none of her business. Her interference had probably confirmed him in his plot to fleece his father. She’d been amused when she’d first heard of it, thinking it served Mr Ingram right. Well, it did and it didn’t. Two wrongs didn’t make a right. No, definitely they did not. But she could understand that injured feelings and a sense of injustice might push Oliver into crime.

  She checked in her A–Z and continued on her way to the Country Club. This was not all that easy to find, being at the back of a private golf club in outer suburbia. It was in a modern building, nicely landscaped with plenty of parking. The cars were what you might call resplendent, nothing costing under thirty thousand, at a guess. The function room was off to one side, all lit up, busy with a wedding reception.

  Bea walked into the bar, very pleasant, lined with trophies. One wall was covered with photographs taken at various evening-dress functions. Perhaps there was one there from Mrs Briggs’ charity event?

  Bea looked around. A few eyebrows were raised as she wasn’t recognized as a member. Bea wondered how Mrs Briggs had managed to get in here? Through her son?

  A girl was serving behind the bar. Was she the one Oliver had tried to get information from on the phone? A buxom lass, not too many brains. Bea picked up a couple of leaflets from the bar. One advertised the prices for hiring the function room. Her eyebrows rose. Expensive, very. She asked to have a word with the manager, and the girl indicated a man sitting at the bar.

  This manager was a very different type from Tommy Banks at the Garden Room. This was a smoothie with a middle-class accent and a smile that came and went in a flash. Good teeth, probably his own.

  She said, ‘Might I have a word in private?’

  ‘Not a member, are you?’ His tone indicated he didn’t think she was the kind of person he’d want to accept as a member, either.

  ‘No,’ said Bea. ‘The name is Somers-Briggs. Mrs Somers-Briggs.’ She saw the name register with a shock but he flashed his sm
ile nevertheless. ‘Come this way.’

  He led her into a small office, very businesslike, equipped with the latest computer. His dark hair was very smooth, thinning on the top at the back. He wasn’t as tall as she was, but tried to make up for it with a fussy manner designed to impress.

  He took the big chair behind the desk, and waved her to an upright, opposite. He flashed his teeth at her, steepling his fingers and touching his chin lightly with his fingertips. ‘You are Mrs Somers-Briggs?’

  ‘You know very well that I’m not.’ She put one of her agency cards on the desk. ‘My name is Bea Abbot of the Abbot Agency.’

  ‘A private eye?’ He was amused, patronizing even.

  ‘Certainly not.’ She went into the spiel of what the agency did – used to do, concluding, ‘… the agency is now being wound up, but there is one last case outstanding, which concerns an event held here a couple of weeks ago, arranged by Mrs Somers-Briggs. Apparently she’s been arranging functions for charity and vanishing without paying her bills.’

  Again, that flash of a smile, as insincere as a meringue. ‘So why come to me?’

  Bea leaned back in her chair, trying to understand him. If he hadn’t been stung, then he’d have thrown her out before now. If he had been stung, then why wasn’t he being more helpful? Was he, too, in danger of losing his job over the unpaid bill? ‘May I ask how you came to know Mrs Briggs?’

  ‘We are very particular about who we accept as members.’

  ‘In other words, she was introduced by a member?’

  He neither confirmed not denied this.

  She said, ‘We are trying to find out exactly how much they owe everyone before we arrange a confrontation.’

  He pulled on his earlobe. ‘You know where to find them, then?’

  ‘We know where they’ll be tomorrow night. Hosting yet another function for charity.’

  ‘We insist on a deposit of twenty-five per cent, two months before the event. Naturally.’

  Bea inclined her head. ‘Naturally. To give you plenty of time for the cheque to be honoured.’