‘Staff, always a problem,’ said Bea, sympathizing.
‘He came with such good references, too. Eight years in a five-star hotel in Cheltenham. You’d think he’d know better. But there, the freedom of the great big city, I suppose it went to his head.’
‘Mm,’ said Bea, not knowing or caring what that was all about. They halted in the foyer, shaking hands, one professional woman having earned the respect of the other. ‘See you this evening, then. I’ll get my waitress to contact you direct, and if there’s any problem you know where to find me.’
Bea went out into the busy street. The hotel had been on the gloomy side, but here the sun was shining. She checked her watch, wondering how Maggie and Oliver had been getting on. Which reminded her that she needed a word with young Oliver. Maybe he was just the right person to operate a scam on the scammers.
Oliver had been fielding messages from all sides since his return from the dress agency. He said Maggie was somewhere around and gave Bea a questioning look, expecting her to ask for details. Bea refused to take the hint. One thing at a time.
She said, ‘Oliver, how much do you think these people have raked in so far? Not just from not paying their bills, but also from the auctions and the promises they’ve got people to give for the charities.’
‘No idea. From what Coral was saying, it could be anything from half to a round million. Maybe more.’
Bea whistled. ‘Tell me about Internet banking.’
Oliver shrugged. ‘I’m no expert.’
‘Would it be possible for you to spirit money out of Mrs Somers-Briggs’ bank accounts, to pay for what everyone has lost?’
‘You’re joking.’
‘Explain. Hamilton never liked Internet banking, said it wasn’t safe.’
‘Oh, it’s safe enough, nowadays. Let’s think what we’d have to know. First of all, we’d have to find out where her accounts are held. She may have used a different bank for each of her scams; let us say one at Lloyds, one at HSBC, one at NatWest, and so on. As far as I can see, she’s set up two bank accounts for each of the false charities she’s been running.’
‘We know this because …?’
‘She issues dud cheques which bounce, but she’s been raking in the money from ticket sales and auction bids and donations so that money must be going somewhere else.’
Bea encouraged him. ‘Think like a poacher, Oliver. Tell me how it’s done.’
‘If I were doing it, for each of the functions there’d be Account No. l – which takes cheques in – and Account No. 2, from which she pays out, but which doesn’t contain enough money to cover the cheques which are drawn on it.’
Bea dived for her file, and rifled through it. Then she pulled the photocopies of the cheques from the hotel out of her handbag. Oliver leaned over to check as she compared them.
‘Yes, you’re right. On the flier that Coral gave us, they specify Account No. l for paying cheques in, but the dud cheques all came from Account No. 2. What it is to have a criminal mind!’
Oliver blushed with pleasure. ‘I imagine that when she got all the money in from the first function at the Garden Room, she transferred it to another account which is probably in her name alone, maybe in a different bank altogether. Then she would close both the original accounts.
‘When she came to organize the second function – the one at the Country Club – she set up two more accounts using almost the same name – but not quite – as for the first charity. Can you see if she’s used another bank? Maybe Lloyds for the first, and NatWest for the second? Something like that?’
‘Bank of Scotland for the first, Lloyds for the second and … where’s the cheques from the hotel? … HSB for them.’
‘That’s three banks, with two accounts for each.’
‘Right. So where’s her slush fund? In NatWest? How do we get at it?’
‘I don’t see how we can.’
‘Come on, Oliver. You’re my only hope. If we can bluff her into paying back the money she owes this evening, could she transfer the money to us there and then by the Internet?’
‘In theory she could, yes.’ Oliver was thinking hard. ‘I’d have to take my laptop with me, because she probably wouldn’t take hers to the hotel. If she agreed to pay us, she’d have to input her bank account number and sort code, give a password on demand, and then quote from first one and then a second security numbers. These security numbers can be anything up to fifteen digits long and a mixed bag of numbers and letters.’
Bea digested that. ‘There’s no way you can find out what those would be?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s a pretty secure system.’
‘If we frightened her enough, she could do it?’
‘Yes, she could, but there’s another problem. It depends which bank she’s got her slush fund in. Some of the banks give you up to six working days’ grace on Internet banking, which would enable her to cancel the transaction the following day.’
Bea gave a low whistle. ‘Six working days! Over a week?’
‘Not all of them take so much time. Some take only three days. It varies.’
‘Even so. She could set it up to pay us tonight, and then cancel on Monday morning. My idea’s a non-starter, then. Bring your laptop tonight, though. Just in case. You couldn’t …? No, I don’t suppose you could.’
He grinned. ‘Milk her account by buying stuff on ebay and then selling it on? No, not unless I’d got her bank details. We don’t even know which bank she’s got her slush fund in, do we? Or even if she’s put the money in an off-shore account.’
‘Go on, depress me, Oliver. What else can’t we do?’
‘We can’t let them get away with it.’
‘That’s the cry of the underdog, the world over. Tell me how to stop them, and I’ll – I’ll help you to get to university.’
For a moment there was an eager look on his face, and then it faded. ‘Chance would be a fine thing, and I don’t expect it. Oh, there’s the phone again. Look, there’s some people been phoning all morning. Do you think you could return one or two calls?’ He put the sheaf of telephone messages on her desk and left the room.
The sun had gone in, and the sky had greyed over.
Bea pushed the telephone messages aside. She supposed she ought to eat something but really wasn’t hungry.
Saturday, noon
Noel was stretching his imagination with the aid of some porn he’d downloaded on to his mother’s laptop. He heard his mother letting herself into the flat, and switched off. He was stretched out on the settee with the newspaper by the time she’d slipped off her shoes and asked how his day had been.
There was something about the body on the Heath in the paper. No leads, just a general plea for anyone who knew anything, to come forward. Fat chance.
His mobile rang. It was the receptionist, again. He wondered if he had time to do something about her before they lit out for pastures new. Regretfully, he decided that he could only take on one at a time and tonight was the night for Maggie.
Fifteen
Saturday, noon
Maggie wasn’t in the kitchen, or in the garden. She was nowhere to be seen. But Bea could hear noises coming from the top floor, so she climbed the stairs to find the girl polishing the bathroom taps.
Bea suppressed an urge to shout at the girl. Weren’t there more urgent tasks to be performed? ‘Dear Maggie, whatever is the matter now?’
‘Nothing,’ said Maggie, short and sharp, head well down, swilling clean water round the bath. ‘You really must pay more attention to cleaning taps. They can’t have been touched for ages. I’ll be off in a minute but I couldn’t leave them like this.’
‘But you’ve got another six days here, haven’t you?’
‘You could be renting my room out and I’m no good at this agency lark, so it’s best I go. I’ll keep in touch with Oliver.’
‘What’s brought this on?’
Maggie poured a bottle of brown liquid down the loo. ‘Now don’t
you bother with all those expensive limescale removers. Vinegar works better and is cheaper. Just don’t flush it for a while, let it get to work.’
‘I thought you were happy here.’
‘Well, of course. In a way. It’s more interesting than most jobs but I’m not exactly pulling my weight, am I? Not like Oliver. My mother’s got a dinner party on tonight, so I might as well make myself useful at home.’
Bea thought she understood. ‘You’ve been on the phone to your mother, and she’s said …?’
Maggie wiped over the mirror. ‘She says my husband – my ex-husband – is going to be there at this do tonight, with her, his girlfriend. They’re an item again. So even though you’ve gone to all that trouble to get me a dress, I couldn’t possibly … and now I’ve cut my hair, I look like something the cat brought in. You do see, don’t you?’
What Bea saw was an angry, deeply unhappy girl, whose mother was not saying the right things to help her. Well, there was something she could do for Maggie, and that was to pass on her own hair appointment. Bea knew how much better she’d be able to cope if she were properly groomed, not to mention appearing in public at a big function, where every other woman would have spent most of the day in one salon or other.
Bea hesitated. Why should she keep trying to help someone who clearly didn’t want to be helped, and who irritated the life out of her most of the time?
At the back of her head, she heard Hamilton say, ‘If you let the girl go like this, she’ll never fulfil her potential. You look fine as you are, girl. Give Maggie the chance to look good, too.’
Bea said, ‘Maggie, my dear. You are worth your weight in gold, or platinum, or whatever is the latest currency. Euros, I suppose. We’ve only known one another for a short time, but I can’t imagine how I’d ever have managed this last week without you. If you want to leave at the end of next week, then that’s your privilege. But don’t sell yourself short.’ Almost, she meant it.
Maggie polished the seat of the toilet.
Bea said, ‘You’re a lovely girl, inside and out, and all you need is a good haircut and a tweak or two in your wardrobe to bring out the best in you. It will be my privilege to act as Fairy Godmother. Cinderella shall go to the ball tonight, with a brand new hairdo and a becoming dress, and trust me; she’ll wow the punters, and make her faithless ex-husband wish he’d not been so hasty.’ She checked her watch. ‘Get yourself tidied up and I’ll take you round to the hairdressers and see you settled, right? And no more nonsense about leaving today. Understood?’
‘As if anything like that could make a difference to what I am.’
‘Believe me, it will,’ said Bea, holding open the door. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got for lunch, and then we’ll get going on the transformation scene. Remember, I’m relying on you for tonight, and so is Oliver.’
The girl hung back. ‘I know my limits. It’s really better if I go back home and make myself useful.’
Bea steered Maggie to the stairs. ‘I don’t suppose your mother will pay you for skivvying for her, while I’m paying you a proper wage, remember. Oh, and please do give Oliver a kind word. I know he’s worried about letting us all down tonight, because he’s never worn a dinner jacket before. Do you know how to do a bow tie? I can never get it right.’
Burbling gently away, Bea managed to get Maggie down to the kitchen, and busy supplying them with a scratch lunch. Oliver appeared, looking anxious. Bea continued to chat away about the garden, and the weather and how much Hamilton had been looking forward to seeing Australia, where the weather was of course quite different. She hadn’t a clue, afterwards, what she’d said, but whatever it was, it got them through a difficult half-hour.
Twice Maggie opened her mouth to say something, but Bea gently overrode her, refusing to acknowledge that anything was wrong. Oliver followed Bea’s lead and actually contributed some chatter of his own. Good for Oliver.
None of them were particularly hungry and there wasn’t much clearing up to do afterwards, so Bea took Maggie by her elbow and walked her round the corner into the High Street. There they waited at the pedestrian crossing for the lights to change. Halfway across Maggie stood still and said, ‘Look, this is crazy!’
Bea said, ‘Humour me, humour me!’ and got the girl moving again. Bea was welcomed into the salon with open arms. Oh, Mrs Abbot, how lovely to see you, how are you bearing up, they’d heard the bad news, so sorry, so very sorry, but it was lovely to see her again, but who had she allowed to cut her hair like that? Come this way, we’ll soon put you to rights again.
Bea was very tempted to sink into a chair and let her favourite stylist take over, but – with a promise to come in again the following week – she explained that her protégée needed the appointment more than she did. There was some in-drawing of breath as the magnitude of the task set by Maggie’s punk style sunk into the stylist’s mind, but she nobly shouldered the burden, and bore Maggie off to be dealt with.
‘You’ll have a manicure now you’re here, Mrs Abbot? I’m sure I can fit you in if you can just wait a while.’
Yes, Bea did need a manicure, but she was too restless to sit and wait. ‘Make sure Maggie gets one instead,’ she said, proffering her gold card by way of payment.
The noise of the traffic enveloped Bea as she left the salon. She hesitated, standing on the kerb. She’d forgotten how loud London traffic could be. She thought of the peace and quiet of the far away hospital in which Hamilton had died. She’d sat by his bedside holding his hand till he left his body behind.
He’d asked for a Christian burial. He hadn’t wanted her to have the bother of bringing his ashes back home with her. He’d said it didn’t matter where he was laid to rest. In a way, she wished he hadn’t been so unselfish. It would have been a comfort, wouldn’t it, to have brought his ashes back with her, perhaps to be buried in the garden? But no, he wouldn’t have wanted that, either.
‘No plaques, no flowers, no mourning. Think of me sometimes, as if I’ve just popped out of the house for a while, but will be back to hear all the gossip later. I’m going on another journey, that’s all. To tell the truth, I’ve got rather tired of all the stresses and strains of this world, and this body of mine is pretty well worn out. It’ll be good to be able to rest for a while, and then perhaps there’ll be some other task for me to do, but it’ll be under a new boss, and He’s promised I’ll enjoy it.’
Bea blinked. It wasn’t safe to cry when crossing a busy road so she turned into Café Nero, and ordered a latte. She tried to relax. One moment she wished she’d stayed in the salon and had a manicure, and the next she was glad she hadn’t. She needed space around her, nobody talking at her. Since she’d got back – no, since Hamilton had died – she’d hardly ever had the luxury of being alone and able to relax.
Here in this busy café she could be quiet for a while, taking time out of her busy schedule with no one wanting her to solve problems, no phones ringing, no old friends demanding this and that. No Oliver or Maggie. No family.
It was bliss, she thought. She sipped her latte. She told herself it was good to take time out now and then. Hamilton had always made a rule to take Sundays off, plus at least one other day – sometimes it was only a half day – for them to go out together to an exhibition, to see friends, or just to pootle around the shops and have a coffee and a cake together. They’d often end up in this very place. Gossiping. Making plans. Snatching time to allow the world to settle around them.
She closed her ears to the hubbub around her.
‘Well, if it isn’t Bea Abbot, back from the dead! Whoops, I didn’t mean that exactly, did I? You look good, considering …’
Someone she recognized? A face from the past. A blast of good-natured gossip from the past. A divorcee with grown-up children, whose name Bea couldn’t for the life of her recall. Not that it mattered. The woman plumped down opposite Bea, disposing of various purchases around her, and chattered away. Key words floated to the surface, complaints about her chiropodist, h
er husband’s new secretary, the new treatment she was on for this, and the investigative procedure for that and … and … Bea couldn’t cope. She stood up without warning. She saw the other woman’s mouth gape, and realized she’d been rude.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Got an urgent … have to … let’s catch up next week some time?’
She got herself out of the coffee shop somehow or other, bumping into people who were entering as she was leaving. Where could she go to be quiet by herself? She crossed the busy High Street at the traffic lights. What about St Mary Abbot’s church on the corner of the street? The gates were open and she made her way along the crooked cloisters that led to the church, only to be met by a wave of sound as the bells rang out above her and a noisy wedding party gathered in the porch for pictures. There was no way she could push past them into the peace and quiet of the church, so she fled into the flag-stoned alleyway beyond.
The noise of the traffic was muted here, though the bells still rang in her ears. She remembered other weddings. Max and Nicole’s splendid marriage had been in the country church which her family attended, but Bea’s mind went back to the quieter, perhaps more meaningful blessing for herself and Hamilton after their civil ceremony.
The joyful clamour of the bells drained her energy. She stood in the oasis of St Mary Abbot’s garden, but the benches there were all full of people chattering, playing with children, reading, taking a nap.
She clung to the railings for support. Whatever was the matter with her, giving way like this? She bowed her head, wondering with one part of her mind whether passers-by might take her for a bag lady, living on the streets. Or drunk. Or ill.
If she were to pass out now, did she have any identification on her, to enable people to trace her nearest and dearest? It made her giggle a bit to think of them ringing up Max at the House of Commons to report that his mother had been found wandering around the back streets of Kensington, half out of her mind. Bea knew what Nicole would do; that was easy. Nicole would sweep her mother-in-law into an old people’s home, tidying her mercilessly away as someone not capable of looking after herself.
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