Oliver got outside his plate of cereal in record time. ‘I’ve applied to join the gym. It’s good there, lots of help given to first-timers. They’ll give me a regime to start on and I can also use the pool, have a juice or a snack afterwards. I paid on my credit card and they didn’t need references. I said Philip Weston had told me about the place, that I’d met him in a pub. I’d hoped Philip would be there, but he wasn’t. They said he hadn’t been around for a while.’
‘Do you mean that he hasn’t been around since the burglary?’
‘I don’t know. I couldn’t get a look at their records last night, but they do keep track of who comes and when, so it shouldn’t be impossible for me to suss that out. Then an old schoolfriend was just coming out as I was leaving. I thought he might have known Philip, but lots of people use that gym and my friend couldn’t be sure whether he knew him or not. I must take a copy of Philip’s photo with me when I see him again.’
Oliver had had one good friend at school but had lost touch when he left home; correction, when he was kicked out by his father. Well, well. Little Oliver was growing up at last. Bea noticed he hadn’t mentioned his friend’s name. Would it do any good to ask, or merely irritate him? She understood that teenagers didn’t like to be cross-questioned about their doings, and she could trust Oliver to be sensible, couldn’t she? At least she now knew why he’d got home so late.
He helped himself to another bowl of muesli, and looked at the stove. ‘Any chance of a couple of eggs?’
Bea put some eggs on to boil, adding vinegar to the water to prevent the eggs from bursting in the pan.
Oliver’s appetite seemed to have improved with the exercise. ‘I’d rather you didn’t tell Maggie I’ve joined the gym. She’s been ribbing me about being on the small side and she’ll think I’ve done it to impress her, which isn’t true. I can’t help being on the small side. It’s genetic.’
Bea hid a smile. Oliver was definitely growing up. ‘Napoleon was the same, and Nelson.’
‘I’m not really the fighting type.’
Bea served him his boiled eggs and toast as the front door burst inwards and Maggie appeared, waving the morning papers.
‘Am I good, or am I good!’ she said, whacking them down on the table. ‘Mission accomplished, etcetera. And oh, he’s totally, utterly gorgeous, and I seem to have made quite an impression on him, too, because he was all over me till I disentangled myself to get some kip. A bit quick, I thought, but I can’t say I disliked it. Oh, my! I turn my back for five minutes and look at the mess you’re in.’
She swept their cereal bowls into the dishwasher, removed the milk bottle, threw off her jacket, and went on talking. ‘I just love this job. Going into a flat share is the best thing that could have happened to me. There’s two other flats in the block rented by young people and they’re in and out of one another’s rooms, with a party in one flat or the other every weekend. There’s one tonight upstairs that we’re all going to and Charlotte – she’s a sort of ugly duckling, but she seems to be responsible for the running of the flat – but if you, Mrs Abbot, were to take her in hand maybe you could stop her wearing those heavy dark glasses and hair all over her face as if trying to hide behind it, and her skirts are the wrong length, you know?’
Oliver said, ‘Calm down, sit down, and tell us more about your latest conquest.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘He’s got a voice like whipped cream mixed with ginger and chocolate, and his skin’s that colour too. He says his parents came from Grenada, but he’s as British as you and me, and clever with it. He’s going places, is Zander.’
‘Hang about,’ said Oliver. ‘I thought you were there to get close to someone called Philip?’
Maggie put out her tongue at Oliver, but hooked the teapot towards her, and poured herself a mug. ‘Philip? I didn’t see him. It took me some time to work out who was who, because like I said, people from the flat upstairs seem to spend time in our flat, and vice versa. I nearly made a booboo with one man, thinking he might be Philip, but he wasn’t; he was from upstairs.
‘Anyway I did ask Charlotte – that’s the ugly duckling – who the other men in the flat might be because I’m sharing a huge bedroom and a shower room with her, but there are three other bedrooms and one of them must be Philip’s. She said one of the men seemed to be out and another went out early, I don’t know where, but his name’s Lee or something like that. Not Philip. Then I met Zander, that’s the poppet I’ve been telling you about. He said Lee, or whatever his name is, had gone out for the evening and that Philip was a bit erratic, might be working late, they could never tell his movements, and that he might be in later, but he wasn’t.’
Bea was beginning to feel anxious about the absent Philip. ‘When did they see him last?’
‘Dunno. I couldn’t ask outright or it would have looked suspicious. I mean, I’m not supposed to know anything about him, and especially not that he’s a murderer.’
‘He may not be,’ said Bea. ‘We don’t know that. We don’t really know anything much about him.’
Maggie downed her mug of tea and said, ‘Aah. I needed that, though I must admit I prefer coffee to kickstart me in the mornings. I didn’t like to drink out of any of their mugs at the flat, because they’re all stained and the dirt round the handles has to be seen to be believed. The place is a tip. I asked Charlotte why they didn’t have a cleaner and she said that they had had one but there’d been arguments about paying her, and then they’d tried to get a roster going, everyone doing their share, but of course the men didn’t lift a finger, and Charlotte’s got enough to do at work without taking on a cleaning job as well, and why should she? I mean, it’s not right, is it? So she asked me if I could find someone for them at the agency, because of course I was quite open about what I do as you said I was to be, and of course I said yes – and ta-da! Aren’t I Miss Clever Clogs?’
Bea said, ‘But we don’t have any cleaners on our books who are capable of ferreting out the truth about Philip.’
‘No, but you could,’ said Maggie, dancing around the room. ‘I said, I know just the person, someone a bit older but experienced and tactful. I said she’s a widow, fallen on hard times, and she could start straight away. So here are your keys, Mrs Abbot, and if you like I’ll take you over there and you can get started right away.’
Oliver choked on his tea. Maggie hit him on his back, and Bea … Bea didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘But I haven’t been out cleaning for years.’
‘Keys,’ said Maggie, dangling them in front of Bea, ‘to the outer door, to the flat. There’s a porter, has a cubby hole off the foyer, acts as janitor. Charlotte introduced me to him last night. She went down and told him I was going to bring in a cleaner, so it’s all been cleared with Higher Authority. I’ll help you get started and then I can get back here and get on with the usual, because it doesn’t look like they’ve a reasonable hoover, or duster or a smidgeon of bleach anywhere. So, shall we get started, then?’
Bea couldn’t go out to clean wearing one of her boutique outfits, so borrowed a gaudy T-shirt from Maggie, found some old black jogging trousers and a pair of reasonably decent trainers to wear. When she’d gone out on jobs for the agency in the old days she’d worn an outfit of black T-shirt and slacks, with a many-pocketed apron to carry her tools around with her. By great good fortune, she found it neatly folded in her closet, and slung it into a large plastic bag to take with her.
She took off her make-up and looked at herself in the mirror, feeling frowsty and boring, especially when she brushed her fringe straight down over her eyes, instead of at an angle.
Meanwhile, Maggie scurried around, putting together a basket of cleaning materials. ‘If we can’t get their hoover to work we might have to take ours, in which case we’ll need a taxi to get everything there and back.’
Down Church Street they went, carrying the basket between them. Bea had a job to keep up with Maggie, who would have been hopping and skipping along if she hadn�
�t had to wait for the older woman.
‘I’m getting too old for this,’ said Bea, as she sorted keys under Maggie’s eye and let them into the hallway of the flats.
‘You’re doing all right for your age,’ said Maggie, unconsciously making Bea feel even worse. ‘Oh, this is Randolph, our wonderful doorman. Randolph, this is the cleaner that Charlotte told you about, all right?’ She led the way to the lift, saying to Bea, ‘You need a holiday, that’s all.’
‘You haven’t forgotten I’ve only just come back from a trip halfway round the world?’
‘Yes, but you were nursing your poor dear husband all the time, and for ages before, weren’t you? So, why not take off for a bit? Zander says he’s been to Bruges and likes it. He thinks you should go on a package tour of some kind, so that you didn’t have to go alone.’
Bea shuddered at the thought of a package holiday. She’d have to make an effort to be nice when she didn’t feel like it, and probably have to share a bedroom with someone who snored. Not a good idea. However, Maggie had brought up a subject she hadn’t thought about. What was she going to do about holidays in future? Find another widow to go around with?
The flat was on the third floor. As Bea opened the front door and sniffed the air, she knew what she’d find; closed windows, dirty socks, inadequately cleaned bathroom and kitchen. The fridge probably had mould growing behind it, the oven would be unused and the microwave brand new. The dishwasher might work, but the washing machine probably didn’t. On the other hand, there would probably be a giant television in the sitting room, plus stereo equipment capable of filling the Albert Hall.
She sniffed the air. ‘Ah, me. It takes me back to the days when I first worked for Hamilton, cleaning, cooking, doing everything bar plumbing jobs. I could even rewire plugs in those days. Is the sitting room at the end of the corridor?’
This particular block of flats had gone up in the early years of the twentieth century. Some of the original features, such as coving, picture rails, and fireplaces, had been retained, while an attempt had been made to combine ancient and modern by introducing good quality modern furniture and furnishings. The streamlined seating arrangements in blonde leather matched the cream carpet and the Venetian blinds at the windows. Two rather beautiful Swedish rugs provided accents of colour, but their patterns were smudged with coffee and other, less easily identifiable stains. As was everything else in sight.
Bea sighed. This particular lot of tenants had not been taking good care of things, had they? A blind at one window hung askew, broken, and nobody had bothered to empty the wastepaper basket, attend to rings on the furniture left by coffee mugs and wine glasses, or to clear away the debris left after several takeaways.
‘How long did you say they’ve been without a cleaner?’
Maggie stripped off her jacket. ‘Too long. I couldn’t start clearing up last night, or they’d have me down to clean the place all the time. I’ll begin on the kitchen and the boys’ bathroom, shall I? Give you time to poke about, see what you can find. Our room’s right at the other end of the corridor, you can’t miss it. The ugly duckling says she could have moved into a single and made two of the boys share but no one else wanted to share, and anyway our room’s enormous, almost like a little flat in itself, and she keeps that and our shower room next door clean enough. She won’t let the boys anywhere near it, so you can forget our bit. Zander’s room is next to the living room, and the other bod, the one who went out early, he’s opposite. Which means that Philip must be …’
Bea tried doors. The boys’ bathroom was going to need Mr Muscle himself to make an impression on the grime, the same went for a toilet next door … and the one after that was Philip’s room.
Bea donned apron and rubber gloves before touching anything. There was a mixture of modern and Edwardian furniture in Philip’s room, which was not large and whose window overlooked a wall and not the street. The bed looked new, as did the carpet and curtains, but both bore the marks of someone who drank – and smoked – in bed. ‘Yuck!’ said Maggie. ‘What a fug!’
There was no sign of a Victorian oil painting, or of a package which might have contained one. The room smelled of dirty washing, the curtains were drawn against the light, the bedclothes were all over the place and a pair of pyjama bottoms was on the floor. The doors of a large built-in wardrobe hung open, the clothes inside were mostly on the floor instead of hanging on the rail, though a couple of empty dry-cleaners’ plastic bags informed Bea that he – or someone else – had looked after his belongings better in the past.
A digital clock flashed on the bedside table, beside an empty wine bottle, a dirtied tumbler, some used tissues, an empty pack of cigarettes and a burned out lighter.
‘Typical,’ said Maggie, arms akimbo.
Bea waded through the stir fry on the floor to the window. She drew back the curtains and opened the window so that they could see and breathe properly, almost falling over something on the carpet, which turned out to be a mobile phone. On the table by the window was a takeaway foil dish which Philip had been using for an ashtray, a freebie paper a couple of days old, and a stained and almost empty coffee mug.
Bea picked the mobile phone up, dusted it down and tried to switch it on, but the battery was dead. Bea slipped it into one of the large envelopes she’d brought with her, tucking it into the largest pocket in her apron.
Maggie objected. ‘You can’t do that. It’s stealing.’
‘There may be some messages on it. If he’s disappeared, it may just help us – or the police – to find him.’
Maggie’s mouth made an ‘o’ and she made no further objection. ‘I expect you’ll want to search his clothes. You won’t need me for that. See you in a bit.’
Bea looked around. Still no sign of the missing picture. There was no laptop, either, but there was a spell-checker, and a couple of boys’ toys, music orientated, a scatter of DVDs on the floor, a small telly which looked second-hand and possibly didn’t work, a dead whisky bottle in the wastepaper basket and another under the bed.
Might the picture be under the bed? Alas, no. There was enough dust to make Bea sneeze plus a broken pen and some screwed-up pieces of paper. She teased the scraps out. Receipts for wine and whisky from a local convenience store. Oh, and the charger for the phone, which he’d probably dropped and kicked under the bed by accident. She surmised that without the charger the phone was no use to him, so he’d abandoned it, as he seemed to have abandoned many of his other belongings. She fished the phone out of her pocket, plugged it in to charge and switched it on.
A couple of drawers in the table by the window were filled with coupons torn from newspapers but never redeemed, out of date lottery tickets, some contraceptives and repeat prescriptions from a local doctor. Philip had been on antibiotics recently, but his ongoing repeat prescriptions were for antidepressants. Antidepressants, antibiotics and whisky didn’t go together, did they?
There were two unframed photos propped up against a pile of Men Only type magazines on a scuffed chest of drawers. Girls in the almost altogether. Or had they been cut from magazines? No, they were real photos. Philip had obviously had the occasional girlfriend in the past, but not recently – according to Velma, who might or might not be biased. The dust was thick on the chest of drawers, except where a couple of framed photos seemed to have been standing until recently. Had Philip taken them away for some reason? Perhaps they had been of his father and mother? Or another girlfriend?
The bedside table drawer yielded aspirins, empty packs of prescription drugs, a couple of condoms. Dust. A small notebook filled with columns of numbers … what was that all about?
The bedclothes were rank. Bea stripped the bed and bundled the dirty bedclothes into one of the dry-cleaners’ bags. ‘Do we have any clean bedding?’
‘He should have his own,’ Maggie yelled back from down the corridor. ‘Charlotte told me to bring my own and I did. Well, I borrowed from you, but I suppose that’s all right.’
&n
bsp; Bea opened a double-fronted, built-in cupboard, cascading smelly sports equipment on to the floor. On the top shelf of the cupboard were two sets of laundered bedlinen, still in their laundry bags. Bea smiled to herself, imagining Velma making sure he had everything clean when he moved in. Mind you, it didn’t look as if he’d changed the sheets in weeks.
There was also a space where a man might conceivably have stored an empty suitcase or rucksack. Surely that was one item a flat-sharer would be bound to have? She thought of the items of luggage Maggie had brought with her the previous night; a large old suitcase which predated wheels, a sports bag and a couple of outsize carrier bags. So what luggage had Philip brought with him when he moved in? And where was it now? It did rather look as if he’d hastily packed a few things into – whatever – and lit out for parts unknown.
Bea started to make the bed with the clean linen, only to find that one set was incomplete. There was a duvet cover and two pillow cases, but no bottom sheet. What on earth had he done with it? She checked over the second set. That was complete.
Then she had an idea. She tipped up the mattress and discovered a flattened business envelope addressed to Mr P. Weston. It contained a flock of bank and credit card statements which made dire reading and a letter from a production company in Soho, dated a fortnight ago, terminating Mr Weston’s employment after he’d ignored three previous written warnings about being drunk at work. There was also a polite letter on good notepaper from a club Bea had never heard of, reminding Mr Weston to pay his overdue account.
‘Trouble.’ Bea was thinking aloud. ‘No job. No income. What was he living on?’
Maggie, also rubber-gloved, appeared in the doorway. ‘I forgot to say, I think Philip’s not paid his rent for a while. I was only half listening but the men were griping about it, saying it was just as well I’d come to join them to help with the rent.’
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