False Charity

by Veronica Heley

  ‘Is that man over there bothering you, little lady?’ he asked, all geniality.

  ‘My ex,’ said Maggie, gracelessly. ‘Are you married?’

  That was too abrupt, thought Bea. But the man apparently didn’t think so, because he launched into a spiel which turned into, My Wife Doesn’t Understand Me.

  Piers put a warm hand on Bea’s shoulder, and resumed his seat at her side. ‘The auction’s going well. I’ve spoken to a few people I know, and they all say this is a really worthwhile charity to support. You’re looking a little peaky. Are you all right?’

  ‘As right as I’ll ever be, I suppose. I’ve just realized why I’ve been getting some odd looks from people. In their eyes I’m a scarlet woman, shuffling off one husband only to take up again immediately with you. They think it’s a bit naff, and come to think of it, so do I. Whatever am I doing here, Piers? I’d far rather be tucked up in bed with a glass of hot milk.’

  ‘You’re here to stop an unscrupulous gang tricking generous hearts out of a fortune. I’m here because Hamilton asked me to look after you, which is not to say that I wouldn’t have come, anyway. I disapprove of Robin Hoods who steal from the rich but don’t pass the money on to the deserving poor.’

  On the platform, it was time for the DJ to start up. He turned up the volume. Bea winced, feeling pale. A well-known MP came over to talk to Piers, and had to bend close to his ear to be heard. Piers stood up and they went off to the bar together. Possibly the noise level was a trifle lower there. The dance floor was small but was soon crowded with people dancing on the spot, gesticulating wildly, enjoying themselves. Bea bent over to Oliver and suggested he ask Maggie to dance.

  Oliver recoiled. ‘I don’t dance.’

  ‘There’s always a first time,’ said Bea. ‘I don’t want Maggie’s husband to think she hasn’t anyone to dance with.’

  Oliver gulped, but leaned over to Maggie to issue an invitation. Maggie’s eyebrows went up and she hesitated, but finally nodded. Of course she dwarfed Oliver when she stood up in her high heels, but that didn’t matter. The great thing was that she wasn’t seen to be a wallflower.

  Mrs Somers-Briggs circulated, sweeping up all the fivers that had been donated for the favours earlier that evening and stowing them in a capacious black velvet bag. She was gracious to everyone. Bea wondered which of the Royal Family the woman had based her act on. When she arrived at their table, Bea excused herself to visit the ladies’. No way did she want to have a confrontation before the proceedings were over.

  On her return, Bea found the noise from the disco even more overpowering. The DJ couldn’t possibly have upped the volume again, could he?

  Oliver leant over and said something into her left ear. She said, ‘What?’ He repeated it. Something about going to the gents’. Was he leaving Maggie to sit all by herself? No, Maggie wasn’t in her chair. Maggie was on the dance floor with the middle-aged man from Max’s party who’d been chatting her up earlier. Well, that was all right. A trendy young man cut in on Maggie, and her middle-aged partner returned to their table, perspiring. Good.

  This left Bea isolated in her chair at the table, with just one of Max’s party opposite her, smiling gently into the middle distance. Everyone else seemed to be on the dance floor.

  The DJ announced that they’d worn him out and he was taking five, but the pianist tinkled the ivories and quite a few people stayed to dance to the golden oldies he was playing. Including Maggie and her new partner.

  The photographer was working his way around the tables on the outside of the room. Bea wriggled round in her chair to see if she could get a good look at him, but he was mostly standing with his back to her, jollying people along into having their photographs taken with the little Pakistani girl who, to give her her due, was doing her best to sing for her supper, smiling at all the women, demure with all the men.

  Would the evening never end? Their table filled up again. Oliver returned, looking pale. Had the food not agreed with him? Or was it excitement? He hadn’t had more than one glass of wine, had he? Maggie was still dancing with her new admirer. They were well matched, he being over average in height.

  Piers drifted back, eyes snapping, mouth curving at some story he’d just been told. The photographer finally reached their table, armed with his Polaroid camera for instant results. Piers said he’d love to be photographed with Ana, so Bea and Oliver pushed their chairs closer together and Bea collected another snap to put into her bag.

  The DJ returned with a rousing number or two, and then began to wind down. Finally he announced he was going home to his mother, who fretted if he was out after midnight … which got quite a laugh as he didn’t look the sort to be still living at home. Besides which it was after one in the morning. The boss woman thanked everyone for coming and for helping to give so many people a better future, and wished them all a safe journey home.

  People began to leave, looking pleased with themselves and the way the evening had gone. Piers was engaged in close conversation by one of Max’s guests.

  Some people were still standing on the dance floor, and the photographer was taking his last few shots there.

  Max and Nicole were being thanked for making up the party. Max put his arm round Bea. ‘Are you all right, Mother? I can put Nicole into a taxi and stay on to help you, if you like?’

  ‘No, dear. Thank you. I’ve got lots of back-up and it’s best you don’t get involved, don’t you think?’

  Piers said, ‘I’ll take good care of her, Max. You look after your wife and guests.’

  Bea thought Max might argue, but he didn’t. The room was clearing fast. Bea looked round for Maggie, but she was nowhere to be seen. Before Bea could become anxious, one of the waitresses hurried up to her. ‘Are you Mrs Abbot? I have a message from the girl in your party. She’s gone on to a club with someone, said not to wait for her.’

  Bea was a little annoyed, thinking that Maggie might have had the courtesy to make her apologies in person. But there; youngsters nowadays never thought to say ‘thank you’ when given a present, didn’t bother to reply to written invitations, or even think it was important to do so. It was a sign of the times. Bea reminded herself that Maggie had been going through a bad patch and deserved to find a boyfriend who’d treat her well. If she hadn’t thought fit to advise Bea of her plans, well, Bea wasn’t her mother, was she? And it didn’t matter very much if Maggie opted out of the forthcoming showdown, because she’d no particular role to play in it. Unlike Oliver, who was drinking a glass of water, and shaking his head to clear it. Nerves, definitely. Hopefully Oliver would be all right.

  Bea could see the manageress of the hotel hovering near the bar, which had now been cleared of drinks. Bea collected Oliver and Piers and, making the usual farewell noises to all and sundry, she led them off to where Ms McNeice was waiting for them.

  ‘My office,’ said Ms McNeice. ‘You know the way? I’ll bring them there as soon as I can.’

  Bea nodded and led the two men down the corridor. The manageress’ office was just as she’d seen it the previous day, except that all the paperwork had been cleared away, apart from one file on the desk. The room was shadowy, lit only by a desk lamp.

  Coral was there already, huddled into a padded jacket. Also there was Tommy Banks, the bulky manager from the Garden Room. Even as she greeted them, Bea thought that the moment the gang saw them and made the connection, they’d realize they’d been found out, and try to run for it. How was she going to stop them? By brute force? By bringing in the hotel staff to form a human barrier?

  Coral said, ‘Where’s Maggie?’

  ‘Gone on to a club with someone,’ said Bea. ‘The man she was dancing with, I suppose.’

  ‘Hope you don’t mind my butting in,’ said Tommy.

  Coral was bursting with news. ‘Tommy turned up to help us clear the bar, but I said he had to keep out of sight and he did. But what I wanted to say was, that the DJ is not one of the gang. He’s well known around here, the oth
er bar staff say he’s been around this area for yonks and they know his name and where he lives and all. He played at a function here only last week, not a charity do, and he’s doing another at the Town Hall at the end of the month. So if you do want to talk to him at any time, you can.’

  Bea stroked her temples. ‘He’s not her son, is he?’

  ‘Who? Oh, no. No way. I think her son’s Noel, the photographer. One of the receptionists here has been going out with him, thinks he’s gorgeous, which I suppose he is if you like that sort of thing. She made an excuse to come into the function to see if he was making up to the Asian girl because of his working with her behind the camera. Anyway, it seems to be just a business arrangement, because there’s a minicab booked to take her – the Asian girl – back home at the end of the evening, and she’ll be going back solo. Or so the receptionist says.’

  Bea was worried. ‘You didn’t let on to her that we suspect Noel of being crooked, did you?’

  ‘No way! All she wanted was to feast her eyes on him, make sure he wasn’t kissing and cuddling the Asian girl. Which he wasn’t. From what I could see, he was being very professional, concentrating on the guests. Then Ms McNeice spotted the receptionist where she wasn’t supposed to be, and shooed her back to her desk. She went off to text him a love message, hoping to connect up with him when he leaves tonight. So what happens now?’

  Bea had been trying to think about this all evening. ‘We have the advantage of surprise, and Ms McNeice is on our side. She says she’ll bring them here to her office for a confrontation. I expect they’ll bluster and argue but in the end we should be able to make them see the wisdom of paying up. What we don’t want is them taking one look at us and running for their lives. We want them to get well into the room before they realize anything’s wrong, and then I think we must block the door so they can’t get out till we’ve made them see reason.’

  Tommy Banks folded beefy arms across his chest. ‘Count on me for that. I’ll lurk behind the door and when they’re well in, I’ll close it and stand in front of it. They won’t get past me in a hurry.’

  ‘They may be some time,’ said Bea. ‘They have to clear up, pay the singer, give out dud cheques to one or two people. I think – if you’re all agreed – that we should turn off the light and sit down in the dark to wait for them. That way, they won’t realize they’re walking into a trap until they’re well into the room and find they can’t get out.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Piers, with his hand on the lamp. ‘Everybody take their seats, concentrate on how much money they’ve raised this evening and how little they intend to pass on. Oliver, any idea how much yet?’

  Oliver gave a little cough. ‘Fifty thousand from the auction, then there’s the favours on the table, the tickets, the promises. Two hundred and fifty thousand? Multiply by three, to include what they took on the other dates.’

  ‘Something to think about,’ said Piers. ‘Is everyone sitting comfortably? Then I’ll switch off the light.’

  Noel was pleased with himself. He’d raked in a good amount with the photographs and it amused him to think that it was all honestly earned. Mummy always let him keep what he earned from photography, as well as giving him a cut of the proceeds.

  He’d taken the key off Ana and given her a fifty-pound note when it was time for her to go. Money well spent.

  Mummy was looking tired. Well, she did bear the brunt of it on these occasions. Richie was helping the DJ take his stuff out to his van. Richie was stupid. Why bother to help the DJ? They’d never see him again. Noel stuffed a wad of notes into his pocket and gave the rest, with his camera, to Richie to take out to the car. Richie grumbled but did it.

  Noel put a careless arm around his mother’s shoulders. ‘Forgive me if I cut and run. Some unfinished business.’

  She was writing a cheque for the singer, who didn’t realize it was from Account No. 2. ‘Not the receptionist, I hope? I saw her leering at you earlier.’

  He laughed. ‘Not the receptionist. I’ll make my own way back. Don’t wait up.’

  He kissed his mother’s cheek and left the function room, loosening his tie. He wouldn’t take the lift to the honeymoon suite because he wanted to avoid reception. However, there was an unobtrusive staircase around the corner which would take him up to the first floor unobserved.

  Now let the fun commence!

  Eighteen

  Sunday, two in the morning

  A clock ticked somewhere in the darkened room. Bea rubbed her temples. Her headache was not going away. Was it just nervous tension? She massaged the back of her neck. There were several green points of light on the far side of the room. Standby lights for the computer and printer? As her eyesight became adjusted to the lack of central light, Bea made out the seated figures of her friends, and of the darker shadow where Tommy Banks stood beside the closed door.

  She fancied, after a while, that she could distinguish between Oliver’s rapid breathing, and Piers’ slower tempo.

  She tried to relax, to slow her own breathing. Perhaps that would help with her headache. She tried counting to five as she drew in a deep breath, and then counting to five again as she let it out. She’d heard somewhere that this exercise helped one to get to sleep. She was too tense for that, but it did help. This might be a good time to pray a little. She uncurled her hands, closed her eyes and tried to think what words to use. She thought she wasn’t much good at this lark because words always eluded her and though she knew in her head that He didn’t need her to go into detail when she was in trouble, she suspected He might like her to make an effort. All she could manage was, Please. Please. Please.

  What was the time? She opened her eyes to glance at where her watch would be, but it didn’t have a luminous dial. She heard a ruffle of cloth as one of the men turned their wrists to check the time. Piers.

  The corridor outside was heavily carpeted, as was the office itself, so it was something of a shock – even though they’d been expecting it – when the door opened, and Ms McNeice said, ‘Go on in, and I’ll turn the light on.’

  Bea closed her eyes, blinking, as an overhead light came on.

  She heard the door close. She’d been expecting to see three people from the gang, but there were only two; the woman known as Mrs Somers-Briggs, and her partner. No gorgeous young man.

  Mrs Somers-Briggs looked at Bea and Piers, and didn’t know them from Adam. She looked at Oliver, and frowned. What was this?

  Coral made a small movement with her hands, and Mrs Somers-Briggs focused on her. It was clear that, out of context, the boss woman didn’t recognize Coral. And then, she did. Bea saw her eyes widen slightly, and then the woman’s face froze. Her eyes glittered in a porcelain mask. Bea saw her decide to play the ‘bewildered’ card. ‘What …? I’m afraid I don’t understand …’

  The man behind her was looking around him. His eyes seemed to recede into his head as he narrowed the lids. He stood stock still, mentally computing the facts. Then he turned his head and saw Tommy Banks standing with folded arms in front of the door.

  Ms McNeice eeled around the woman and seated herself behind her desk. ‘Let me introduce you. Mrs Somers-Briggs; you know Coral, of Coral Catering, of course. And Mr Banks, the manager from the Garden Room. These others are friends of theirs, anxious to see that all debts are paid before you leave.’

  The woman firmed her jaw. ‘Ms McNeice, you asked me to accompany you to your office to pay the balance owing to you. Naturally I am more than happy to do so. I don’t know what you’ve heard from these … these others. I have come across them before, and I will admit that quite frankly no, we didn’t pay them everything they demanded. The services they rendered were not up to the standard we expect, and naturally we discounted their very overpriced bills. I’m amazed that they have the nerve to complain to you about their sordid little scams. Also, if they’d any real grounds for complaint, they’d have gone to the police, right?’

  Coral’s face flared red, but Ms McNeice put up h
er hand to forestall an outburst. Bea couldn’t help but admire Mrs Somers-Briggs’ nerve, and for the first time she wondered whether Coral’s bill really had been inflated. She remembered the man at the Priory Country Club; yes, his bill probably had been inflated. But no, Coral wouldn’t do that. And neither would Tommy Banks.

  ‘The police?’ said Ms McNeice, ‘Yes, we’ll bring them in if we have to.’

  The woman wavered for only a second, and then returned to the attack. ‘If we owe anything – which I dispute, by the way – then the remedy is simple. These people should apply to the small claims court for recompense.’

  ‘We would have done,’ said Coral, through clenched teeth, ‘if we could have tracked you down. You gave us a false address and a discontinued phone number, remember?’

  ‘You are mistaken. True, I lost my mobile phone recently, but that’s no reason to say I’ve given you false information.’

  Oliver lifted a finger. ‘On the adverts, the phone number was for the Bolivian Embassy, right?’

  The woman stared at him. ‘Who might you be?’

  Oliver stared back. ‘A friend of Coral’s.’

  ‘As are we all,’ said Piers, speaking for the first time. ‘I don’t suppose you realized you’d left a trail behind you, but you did. We know all about the accommodation address, and the way you’ve cheated everyone you come across.’

  The woman reared her head on her long neck, making her diamond earrings flash in the light. ‘Of course we used an accommodation address. We were moving house, and needed a base for our mail. I’ve already explained about the mobile phone.’

  ‘Losing one mobile phone,’ said Bea, softly, ‘is a nuisance. Losing two is a tragedy for all those concerned.’

  ‘Who might you be?’

  ‘Bea Abbot of the Abbot Agency. Coral is an old friend and I want to see her righted.’

  ‘A detective agency?’ The woman was scornful. ‘I suppose you’re charging the earth by way of retainers and hourly rates? I pity Coral, for I don’t suppose she’ll see a quarter of what she’s owed in the end.’