False Picture

by Veronica Heley

  ‘You must be joking,’ said Maggie, hunching her shoulders and taking both hands to her mug of tea.

  Bea looked at her watch. How many hours till Mr Van discovered that he’d been fooled? Answer; not enough.

  She said, ‘Charlotte, cards on the table. For your own safety, you’d better stay here. I’d never forgive myself if you went back to the flat and ended up in hospital.’

  ‘Why should I? I’m in no danger.’

  ‘As soon as Mr Van discovers he’s getting two litre bottles of water instead of gold boxes and miniatures, he’s going to—’

  ‘What? Why should he? You handed the presents over, didn’t you?’

  Bea told herself not to lose her temper. Through her teeth, she said, ‘Of course I didn’t hand them over. I substituted something that weighed approximately the same as—’

  Charlotte said, ‘I don’t believe this! You cannot be serious! Why, when he finds out, he’ll—’

  ‘Be rather cross,’ said Bea. ‘Yes. He’ll come after us with a hatchet, if I read him aright.’

  ‘But that’s … you’ve got to ring the police!’ Charlotte thought about that, and recanted. ‘But that would get Liam into trouble, wouldn’t it? We must warn him.’

  ‘Liam,’ said Maggie, ‘can go to—’

  Bea intervened. ‘That’s not helpful, Maggie. Charlotte, Liam’s back in Ireland, we think. With a girlfriend, who is not, repeat not, called Patsy. He’s applied for a job in a travel agency there. If you can think of any way to contact him, then please do. We need to talk to him, urgently. Somewhere out there Liam’s boss is waiting to hear that the stolen goods have reached Mr Van safely. Some time tomorrow morning he’s going to hear that they haven’t, and he’s going to come looking for Liam. When he doesn’t find Liam, he’s going to come looking for you two girls, and he won’t be bringing you bunches of flowers. Think, Charlotte! Who is it who got you into this smuggling lark? It must be someone who knows you as well as Liam.’

  Charlotte put on a sulky face. ‘I don’t know anyone like that.’

  Maggie stared at Charlotte, unbelieving. ‘Think, Charlotte. This man’s capable of murder.’

  Bea went one further. ‘You think, too, Maggie. There’s a limited time scale here. You only moved into the flat last Friday. Who did you meet who fits the bill? Remember, this is someone who knows you, or knows about you through Liam and Charlotte. Think hard. Who did you meet at the flat?’

  Maggie put her hands to her head. ‘Not Philip; he’d already disappeared. Zander; it can’t be him, can it? No, no. He’s no mastermind, and anyway, he’s been in hospital since Sunday night.’

  Charlotte gaped. ‘Zander in hospital? Why?’

  ‘He got knifed and beaten up.’

  Charlotte grinned. ‘There you are then. He’s the mastermind and it was he who persuaded Liam to take us over to Belgium. He’s the one!’

  Maggie snapped a look at Bea, shaking her head slightly. ‘It’s not Zander; he’s too scared to admit who he is. It’s not Liam; he’s so scared, he’s done a runner. The only other people I met at the flat were upstairs at the party.’

  Charlotte was scornful. ‘Not a party. Just a friendly get-together, which we have most Friday nights. Sometimes it’s up in their flat, sometimes it’s in ours. Sometimes next door. It’s the same people, all the time. Well, mostly. They come and go. Brian and Fudge from upstairs got married in May and moved out and someone else moved into Brian’s room, but they’re keeping Fudge’s room on for a bit because they’ve got the builders in at their new place and so they’re storing a lot of their stuff at the flat for a while. A girl called Lou something moved into Brian’s room. Works in a bank. Tall girl.’

  ‘I remember her,’ said Maggie. ‘Six foot two plus high heels. Black. All over a tubby little fellow with thinning hair—’

  ‘That’s Alfred. He’s something important in the City, gets big bonuses. He’s moving out soon, buying a flat in St Katherine’s Dock. Then there’s the gay couple who share the biggest bedroom, the one that’s like mine, but it wouldn’t be them. Nor Ralph. He works in an art gallery somewhere, never has anything to say for himself but always brings a girl, never the same girl twice, don’t know where he gets them from or what they see in him. And Sprouts. Well, his name’s not really that, of course; it’s a nickname because he says he likes Brussel sprouts. Now he’s weird, if you like. Sort of dark and glowering, eats crisps all the time, drinks Perrier water, no fun at all, if you ask me. Though sometimes we get stuck with one another watching a DVD late at night, if you know what I mean. It can’t be any of them … except perhaps Sprouts, I suppose. Yes, it could be him.’

  ‘That’s six people,’ said Bea, who’d been counting on her fingers. ‘I thought the flats only held five?’

  ‘Well, a couple of them are from another flat across the landing. Sprouts and the banker. Either of them could be it, I suppose.’

  Bea was trying to keep up. ‘Are you telling me that anyone in the building has an open invitation to your Friday nights?’

  ‘Sort of. I suppose. People bring friends. People move on and come back to visit us. Brian and Fudge came back last Friday … no, maybe it was the Friday before. Do you remember them, Maggie?’

  ‘I didn’t talk to anyone much except Zander,’ said Maggie. ‘Wish I had.’

  Oliver was trying to slot names into box shapes on his pad. ‘How do you divide up the rent, and how do you get new flatmates?’

  Charlotte explained, ‘One of us takes on the lease and collects the rent, which we divide equally between the five of us, even though some rooms are nicer than others. I hold the lease for our flat. If a room falls vacant we usually know someone who’s looking for a place, or we advertise in the Telegraph. Occasionally the estate agency contacts us to say they’ve got someone enquiring for a room but usually, between all the people we know, we can fill the vacancy.’

  The front doorbell rang. A solid, urgent peal. Everyone jumped. Piers said, ‘I’m nearest,’ and went to open the door.

  In stalked Velma.

  At least, it was a walking, trembling semblance of Bea’s old friend. Her lipstick – usually so carefully applied – was a scarlet slash that went crookedly over one cheek. She was wearing a designer black-and-white summer dress … and bedroom slippers.

  She didn’t take her eyes off Bea. In a high, unnatural-sounding voice, she said, ‘I don’t think I parked the car too well. Would someone see to it, please?’

  Bea said, ‘My dear, what is it?’

  Velma opened her mouth wide and screamed. Eyes closed, hands clenched, she screeched so loudly that birds in the garden below took off in fright.

  Bea whispered, ‘My God. Sandy’s dead!’

  Velma flung herself on Bea, still screaming, punching her, hands raised to scratch.

  Piers grabbed Velma from behind and hauled her off, kicking, still screaming.

  Bea tried to grab Velma’s flailing hands, and managed to capture and hold one of them, while Oliver caught the other.

  Velma went limp, head going down, arms relaxing, knees buckling.

  Piers said, ‘I’ve got her. I’ll carry her through to the sitting room. Get her a brandy, someone.’

  ‘We don’t have any,’ murmured Bea, her mind racing. Velma was in shock. What an awful thing! Piers laid Velma out on the settee and pulled the spare-room duvet over her. Velma’s eyes were closed. She still trembled, but there was no more fight in her.

  Bea pulled up a stool and sat beside Velma, taking one of her hands in hers, stroking it, feeling her friend’s grief flow into her.

  Charlotte said, loudly, ‘So that’s where the duvet off my bed went to!’

  ‘Hush,’ said Maggie. ‘Mrs Abbot, what can I do to help?’

  Velma opened her eyes, staringly bright, whites showing. She focused on Bea. ‘I trusted you to find Philip, and you failed me.’

  ‘We did our best,’ said Bea.

  ‘Not good enough,’ said Velma. She shook off
the duvet and threw Bea’s hand aside. ‘I was going mad at the hospital, sitting at his bedside, talking to him, telling him he was getting better all the time when I could see that he was marking time, waiting for Philip. And then I realized, silly me, that of course he loved Philip far more than he loved me, and I hadn’t let myself believe it before, but finally I did and I went off home for a break to change my clothes and have a shower and they rang me … they rang me. A massive heart attack, they said. So sorry, they said.’

  She pulled herself into a sitting position, head hanging, fingers twitching.

  ‘Yes,’ said Bea, pulling one of Velma’s hands back into her own and chafing it. ‘You felt guilty at leaving him even for such a short time and …’

  ‘Did you?’ Velma asked, tucking in her chin, lifting her head to look sideways at Bea.

  Bea nodded. There had been one day when she’d left Hamilton’s bedside and walked and walked, she didn’t know or care where, so long as it was away from the hospital. When she got back, worn out, later that evening, they told her he’d asked for her, before slipping into the coma from which he never woke. Yes, she knew that guilt.

  Velma pulled away from Bea, and clapped both hands over her eyes. She rocked to and fro, keening. ‘He died as soon as my back was turned. He loves me, he loves me not. He loves Philip, he loves me not.’

  ‘He loved you a lot,’ said Bea. ‘I saw it in his face when we met. Of course he loved his son, too. But he loved you with all his heart.’

  ‘Stupid, stupid!’ Velma struck at her breasts, her eyes wide, unfocused. ‘He loved me not. And now I’ve got to start all over again.’ She got to her feet. ‘Did I come in the car? Where’s my handbag? Has someone got my car keys? I must go home and see to things. I don’t know exactly what it is I have to see to, but there must be something.’

  ‘I’ll drive you,’ said Piers.

  She flinched. ‘Do you think I’m not capable? I know that I’m not quite myself at the moment, but I am perfectly capable of driving myself home.’

  Oliver said, ‘I’m learning to drive. Can I sit in the car with you, watch how you do it?’

  Velma smiled at him, and the smile almost came naturally. ‘What a nice boy you are. Of course you may. Oh, and Bea,’ she turned back to her old friend, ‘that’s it, for Philip. He can go to the devil now, for all I care. Tell the police he’s missing and has taken a Millais with him. Let them sort it out. I’m not spending another penny on him.’

  She made a three-point turn, eyeing up the door, focusing on it. She took a deep breath and walked in a dead straight line through it and out into the hall. Oliver scuttled ahead of her, opening and shutting the front door for her.

  Bea let herself down on to the settee which Velma had just vacated. She, also, stared into space. Sandy dead! So everything they’d done to find Philip had been in vain. They could have gone straight to the police the moment the girls had been involved! They could have given Mr Van away to the cops in Belgium.

  Poor Velma. Heart-stricken.

  All was dust and ashes.

  Bea was sure that Sandy had loved Velma more than he’d loved Philip, but maybe he’d worried about his son more than he’d worried about Velma. Because, let’s face it, Velma was a pretty strong personality when you looked under the fluffy blonde exterior. Velma had been knocked off balance by guilt at having left her husband’s side for an hour, and by grief, but she would survive.

  Philip might not.

  Bea didn’t give a toss about Philip. Selfish, weak, needy … he hadn’t only wrecked his own life, but his father’s and Velma’s as well.

  Someone was shouting. Bea blinked, and brought herself back to the task on hand. Maggie was trying to soothe Charlotte, who was crying. Of course, she would cry. Piers was standing with his back to the room, looking out on to the garden. The sky beyond Piers’ figure was a dull blue, the leaves of the big sycamore tree losing their colour as the sun dropped lower and lower in the sky.

  Charlotte sobbed, ‘I don’t understand anything! Who was that woman, and why is she going on about Philip?’

  Maggie controlled her irritation pretty well. ‘That was Mrs Weston, who is your landlady, by the way. If you speak nicely to her – no, not at this minute! Can’t you tell she’s upset? – she might be understanding about the rent. Philip was her stepson. She asked us to find him because … oh, why do I bother! Mrs Abbot, would you like me to rustle up something to eat? It seems ages since breakfast.’

  Bea started, trying to deal with thoughts which were rushing round her head screaming Urgent! And Action! ‘Yes, Maggie. That would be good. Or get takeaways for once.’

  Charlotte revived at the thought of food. ‘I wouldn’t mind a Chinese, but not sweet and sour pork.’

  Maggie said, ‘Come and help me choose,’ and deftly removed Charlotte from the room.

  Piers was fiddling with his shirt cuff, an annoying habit he’d had as long as she’d known him. ‘Bea, if I’ve followed this correctly, as of tomorrow morning you’re going to be number one target for Mastermind and his cohorts?’

  Bea was already punching numbers on her mobile. ‘You’re telling me. Mr Goldstone, can you talk? I’m a little concerned about what’s going to happen tomorrow when … oh, I see.’ She held up her hand to stop Piers interrupting as she listened to what the art gallery had to say. Which was quite a lot. Eventually she nodded. ‘Right. I follow your thinking. Have you a name for your contact in the Fraud Squad or whatever it calls itself? The Art and …? No, I haven’t got that right, have I? What’s his name again?’ She seized the phone pad and made some notes. ‘Well, thank you. Have you heard anything more about the Millais, or the frame? No? Oh well. It was a long shot, I suppose … yes, I will keep in touch. Promise.’

  She switched her phone off. ‘Piers, my friend Mr Goldstone has already given the boxes and the miniatures to someone in the insurance company, someone who welcomes the return of stolen goods without asking any questions. As far as he’s concerned, he’s done his bit and all he has to do now is wait for the reward to plop through his letterbox. He’s not contacted the police about the thefts because he thought I’d do it, and he wasn’t sure how much to say since he knows I wanted to keep quiet about Philip, which of course I did. Then. He’s not worried about Mastermind, because Mastermind doesn’t know he exists.’

  ‘Mastermind knows far too much about all of you, to my way of thinking. First he’ll try Charlotte; at least, that’s what I’d do. Can we trust her to keep her mouth shut?’ Piers answered his own question. ‘No, we can’t. We might persuade her not to answer any calls to her mobile, but some time or other she’s going to have to go back to work and to the flat. If asked, she’ll tell the world what she knows, and I can’t see any way to stop her.

  ‘However, a moment’s thought will make it clear to Mastermind that it’s you and not Charlotte who knows where the goods are. You used your own name in your dealings with him, yes? Well, even if Charlotte doesn’t give him chapter and verse, there aren’t that many Abbots in the phone book. So, within days – or more likely hours – he’s going to know how to get hold of you. Yes, it’s definitely time to call in the police.’

  ‘It’s late. I hope someone’s still there who can deal with it.’ She punched numbers and asked for the man whose name Mr Goldstone had given her. She was passed on to someone else, began to explain … only to be passed on to a third person. She had barely got her name and address recorded the third time when she put the phone down with a grimace.

  ‘They took a message but want me to ring back tomorrow morning. Office hours. I suppose I’d better alert the local nick and ask for protection.’ She looked doubtful. Piers did, too. She braced herself, reaching for the phone directory as her landline rang.

  Piers muttered, ‘I’ll get that.’ He picked up the receiver, listened … and said he’d ring back in a minute.

  Bea, punching numbers, raised her eyebrows to ask who it was who’d called.

  ‘Oliver. W
orried about Velma, who’s coming unbuttoned. I said you’d ring him as soon as you could.’

  Bea hesitated, but decided to contact the police first. The following quarter-hour was one of the most frustrating of her life. She gave her name and address twice to different people, said she had some information about a robbery which had led to the murder of Lady Farne, repeated her name and address to a third person, was asked to hold – which she did. Then asked if she wished to leave a message.

  By the time she got round to doing so, Piers was answering the phone again, frowning, fiddling with a pen he’d picked up. She tried to hear what he was saying, at the same time as she talked to the police.

  She spoke slowly into the phone. ‘Yes, that’s right. We realized that there was a link between Lady Farne’s murder and her godson who lived locally. Then …’ She was interrupted by someone at the other end. She listened, biting the remains of lipstick off her mouth, not liking what she heard. ‘No, I quite understand. It is rather complicated. The problem is that I think the man who masterminded the theft and presumably committed the murder is going to find out some time tomorrow morning that he’s been fooled, and as he’s killed at least once already … yes, yes. Of course I really need to talk to whoever is dealing with Lady Farne’s death. You say he’ll be in tomorrow morning and will contact me then? Yes, I’ll be here.’

  She put the phone down with a gesture of defeat. ‘How much do I tell them? Do we leave Zander’s name out of it? Is it really Zander in hospital? If we blow his cover, won’t that put him into danger again? I mean, he must be safe while he’s in hospital and Mastermind thinks he’s dead. What do we say about Philip and Liam? They’ve disappeared into the undergrowth like rabbits diving into their burrows. Possibly different burrows, but possibly the same one. Has Philip fled to Ireland, I ask myself? And what’s going on with you, Piers?’

  Piers cupped the receiver of the landline in both hands. ‘Oliver again. You’d better speak to him.’