False Pretences

by Veronica Heley

  ‘Is that all?’ He resumed his helmet. ‘Here, take my daughter’s helmet and hop on the back.’ To his daughter, ‘You look after this lady’s son, right. Oh, and Darren – and you, Jojo. You keep an eye on the lady’s car, right?’

  Bea gulped. She was wearing lightweight trousers rather than a tight skirt, true. But her pretty sandals were not the most suitable for riding a bike. Well, what must be, must be. She’d never been on a motorbike in her life before. Should she send Chris, who would relish the opportunity? But no, the nice biker had offered her a ride, and she would do it if it killed her . . . which she sincerely hoped it wouldn’t.

  Chris was already eyeing up the teenaged blonde. What was it with men and teenaged blondes? First Denzil and now Chris!

  The biker was already back on his steed, giving it a kick start. Bea put the helmet on, slung her handbag over her back and managed to get her leg over the pillion of the bike without hurting herself. She seemed to remember that passengers held tight to something behind them. Yes, there it was. And the other hand went on the belt round his body? Yes, that felt right.

  Goodness me! Her head nearly snapped off as the bike was turned and roared off. The biker yelled something at her, and hoping she’d interpreted correctly, she yelled back, ‘The Feathers’. He seemed to know where the pub was. It was probably the only one for miles.

  It wasn’t that far off. They passed Della’s house in a whirr and a whizz, turned sharply left, and then right, and finally panted to a stop outside a hostelry which looked as if it had grown out of the earth, it was so low and ancient. The car park was packed, and yes, there was a sign outside advertising a Quiz Nite. ‘Nite’ as in ‘nit’ with an ‘e’. Oh, well. Why not, if it made people stop and stare?

  The biker kept his machine growling away. Bea got off, with some difficulty, and said, ‘That was wonderful.’ And meant it.

  The biker removed one of his huge gauntlets and tipped up his helmet while killing his engine. ‘Busy in there, quiz nights. I’ll come in with you, make sure you don’t get stranded. What does this woman look like?’

  ‘Della’s a fifytish brunette with a fine bust. Mid-brown hair, good-looking in a way. Her niece serves behind the bar, and she’s a young blonde. I think she’s called Milly.’

  He nodded. ‘I think I know who you mean. Della smokes like a chimney, always complaining because she can’t smoke inside the pub any more. Milly’s newish, that right?’

  ‘That’s right. You’re very kind.’

  ‘George.’

  ‘Bea.’

  He led the way into the public bar – there was a ‘snug’ which had once been a separate domain, but the whole ground floor was now a series of interconnecting rooms. Pillars here and there upheld the ceiling, and the floor was now of tile and now of wood – what you could see of it. The place was, indeed, crowded. And noisy.

  George bent over to shout in Bea’s ear. ‘Can you see her?’

  Bea scanned the crowd. Shook her head.

  George pushed his way through the crowd along the back wall till they got to the end by the toilets. The noise was unbearable. The quizmaster was in full swing, using a mike and getting the laughs.

  No Della. Perhaps she was in the loo? Bea signalled she was going to check, and he nodded. There were a couple of people in the toilets. Bea waited till both were out. No Della.

  She went back to George, who was standing with his arms folded, looking dour. He approached his mouth to her ear. ‘No luck?’

  She shouted back. ‘She said she was coming. Was looking forward to it. She might be helping out behind the bar?’

  ‘Hang on to me, and I’ll push.’

  Push he did, and they eventually ended up at the bar, with a dozen men and women all holding out their hands to pay or give orders. No blondie. No Della. They shook their heads at one another. George signalled he was going to work round to another section of the bar, and Bea followed, grimly holding on to his belt.

  In the next section, the press of people eased up. And an unmistakeable Milly was serving behind the bar. No Della, but they could easily have missed her in the crowd.

  George pushed Bea under arms and around shoulders till she was at the bar, with him jammed up against her back. Milly was a tousle-headed poppet, almost naturally blonde, with a plunging neckline and a pert manner.

  ‘Milly!’ yelled George. The girl laughed and said, ‘You wait your turn, you!’

  She was quick and deft and able to attend to them quickly enough. ‘Milly,’ said George, ‘I’ll have a pint in a minute, but first, this lady left her keys in your aunt’s house by mistake. Do you know where she is?’

  ‘Haven’t seen her tonight,’ said Milly, rapidly polishing glasses. ‘She said she was coming in, never misses a quiz night. Truth to tell, I was beginning to wonder where she was. She always rings me if she can’t make it, and the landlord’s expecting her to help out at closing time, as usual.’ She switched her eyes to a rough lad at George’s side. ‘Yes, sir? What can I get you . . . apart from what you’re looking at?’

  The lad laughed, and so did one or two others. Bea and George withdrew to the back wall.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ said Bea. ‘I wonder if something’s happened, if she’s fallen and hurt herself or something. She was expecting a neighbour who’d taken in a parcel for her, but she was quite definite that she was coming on here afterwards. Chris – that’s the boy who drove me over – he went and rang her bell but no one came to the door.’

  ‘Back on the bike, luv. Let’s investigate.’

  Dead sober, unlike everyone else in the pub, they got back on the bike and went tearing back through the quiet streets to Della’s house. The daylight was fading, and the occasional street lamps were beginning to glow. As Chris had said, there was a light on in the hall at Della’s, but all the other rooms were dark and no curtains had been drawn. George pressed the bell. They could hear it ringing inside, but no one came to the door.

  Bea pressed her face to the bay window, but though she could see the furniture clearly enough, there was no Della. Wait a minute, was that another light at the back?

  She jerked back her head. ‘George, I’m a bit worried. The door into the hall from the sitting room is not quite shut, and I think I can see a sort of flickering glow through it.’

  He pushed open the letter box and yelled, ‘Della, are you there?’ And swore. ‘You’re right.’

  ‘Fire?’ said Bea, feeling around in her handbag for her mobile.

  George already had his out and was summoning the fire brigade.

  ‘Should we break in?’ asked Bea.

  He chewed his lower lip. ‘If we do, the fire will go woosh through the house. Ditto if we break a window.’

  ‘But if she’s lying there unconscious . . .’

  ‘I know.’ He took a step back, eyed up the windows of the bay. ‘I could break just one pane and open up, but . . . No, I can’t. She’s got locks on all the windows.’ He stamped around, cursing.

  ‘We should alert the neighbours,’ suggested Bea, stepping through a spindly hedge to reach next door’s bell.

  ‘Fire, dammit. I hate fires.’

  ‘Ditto.’ Bea hung on next door’s bell, and eventually a tired looking young woman came to the door while a man’s voice told her to send whoever it was selling things away.

  The woman said, ‘We don’t buy at the door.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ said Bea. ‘Just to let you know your next-door neighbour’s house is on fire, and we think she’s still in there.’

  ‘What’s that to do with the price of bread?’ But she relayed the information to the man inside, and he came out to join them. George said the fire brigade was on its way, and they couldn’t do anything till it came.

  The fire brigade arrived and took over. The front door was broken in, and the fire did indeed go woosh, but was sharply contained by the men.

  The chief fireman reported, ‘Not much of a fire. Luckily all the upstairs doors were shut and
there were no windows open, so it hardly got going. We found her in the kitchen. A heavy smoker, what? They can be so careless. Sorry, luv, is she some relation?’

  Bea asked, ‘Is she all right?’ Silly question, of course she wasn’t.

  ‘Fell and hit her head, looks like. The ambulance is on its way.’

  The police dead-heated with the ambulance.

  George informed the police that Della’s niece, who shared the house with her aunt, was working at the Three Feathers pub and ought to be informed of what had happened.

  They nodded. A police car peeled off to collect the girl. Meanwhile, neighbours twitched curtains or came out to stare, arms folded across chests in the evening air. Dog walkers appeared, as if by osmosis, and met to gossip by the lamp posts. Eventually Milly arrived in the police car, only to see her aunt being carried off on a stretcher. Still alive, but only just.

  Milly, crying, wanted to go with her aunt, but the police and fire brigade detained her with questions. ‘Your aunt was a heavy smoker? Did she have any heart trouble, or could she have tripped over something . . .?’

  Milly seemed genuinely upset about her aunt. She said she couldn’t think straight, didn’t know anything except that she had to go with Della to the hospital. Bea pulled out one of her business cards and wrote on the back.

  ‘Milly, you don’t know me, but we came to see your aunt earlier. Can you find somewhere else to stay tonight?’

  ‘What? What do you mean? Oh, because the back of the house . . .? Oh, poor aunt! She does love her house. The police said they’ll secure the back door, and there’s not much damage except to the kitchen. Oh, and I suppose the smoke and the water . . . Oh, whatever will I do?’

  ‘Can you stay at the pub?’

  ‘I suppose so. Yes, I promised to ring them, let them know what’s happened. I had to leave them with all the clearing up to do, you see.’

  The police and the firemen said she should go in the ambulance. There’d be more questions on the morrow though it looked open and shut: heavy smoker loses her balance, starts a fire as she falls and hits her head. Finally Milly got into the ambulance and it drove off.

  ‘And if you believe that,’ muttered Bea to herself, ‘you’ll believe anything.’

  Bea and George gave their names and addresses to the police and retired to George’s house, where they found Chris flirting with the teenaged daughter and were regaled with cups of tea.

  Wearily, Bea got out her mobile phone to contact Oliver.

  Thursday evening

  Honoria hummed to herself as she drove back home. Another good job well done.

  She’d noticed the back alleyway as she drove up to Della’s house. Taken the bag containing the overalls and hammer down the alley, changed there behind ragged high hedges and fences which concealed her from view. Counted houses along till she got to Della’s, forced open the back gate – a rickety affair – trod up the garden path, tried the kitchen door and found it unlocked.

  The woman had been lighting a cigarette in the kitchen – filthy habit – and turned to see the hammer descending.

  There’d been a lot of blood. Unfortunately more had got on her shoes. Well, there was nothing for it. They’d have to be disposed of now. In the river, perhaps? Burned? A pity that the young one hadn’t been there as well, but one down and one to go, as you might say. Oh, and she must get round to Kylie as well some day.

  But not just yet. Get the funeral over first.

  FOURTEEN

  Late Thursday night

  Bea rang home to ask Oliver for help. There was no reply to her landline. She tried his mobile with more success and gave him the bad news. ‘You’ll have to bring my other keys out by taxi. Take some money from petty cash to pay for it, and leave an IOU. I’ll settle up with you in the morning.’

  He said, ‘Hold on a mo,’ while he consulted someone in the room with him. He was at CJ’s house. Of course. After a couple of minutes he got back to her. ‘Mr Cambridge is going to ferry me out to you, but we’ll have to make a detour back home first, to get your other keys. What’s the address?’

  She gave it to him and glanced at her watch. It was getting late, and she was flagging. How long would it take for them to get her other keys and drive out here?

  George the biker had been marvellous up to that point, but now Bea found keeping the conversation going was a strain. To her mixed horror and amusement, he inched along the sofa on which they were sitting to press his thigh against hers. His wife didn’t seem to notice. Chris was occupied in teasing the blonde daughter, and altogether Bea felt it was way past her bedtime.

  Eventually CJ and Oliver arrived. Bea was so tired by that time that she could have fallen on their shoulders and wept. But she didn’t, of course. She thanked George and his wife, promised to keep in touch to let them know what transpired, and left them her card.

  During their farewells, Bea noticed Oliver shooting dark glances at her and Chris. What was going on there? He seemed to be angry with both of them. Could Oliver be jealous of Chris? How absurd!

  Oliver said he would retrieve Bea’s car and drive her home in it, but Chris invoked his seniority – he was one month older than Oliver – and insisted that Bea go with his father. Bea thought this was probably to avoid a rollicking from CJ but was too weary to care.

  George insisted on seeing them down to their cars. Although the two young hoodies were nowhere to be seen, rather to her surprise Bea found her car still intact. CJ had parked his a little way back. As they reached CJ’s car, George enveloped Bea in a hug and gave her a smacking great kiss. ‘Soon as I laid eyes on you,’ said George, ‘I thought to myself, there’s a girl I’d like to buy a pint for.’

  ‘Er, thank you,’ said Bea, shaken. ‘You really have been marvellous. I don’t know what I’d have done without you. And my love to your wife.’ She got into CJ’s car, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. He drove off, smooth as silk. Looking as grim as young Oliver.

  She sniffed, found her handkerchief, blew her nose. ‘I gather there’s more bad news?’

  ‘You first.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Should she skate over Chris losing her bunch of keys? No, he’d have to know because they were still in Della’s house somewhere. ‘Well, we had a chat with Della, who certainly did not make the phone call enticing Zander out here on the night of the murder. I think, if she’d been a blonde, she might have flirted with Denzil. But no, of course not. He only went for very young blondes, didn’t he? Anyway . . .’ She talked herself out, finishing up with, ‘but there can’t be any connection with Mrs Perrot’s murder, can there?’

  He didn’t bother to say she was being stupid, but one raised eyebrow did the trick.

  She sighed. ‘All right. It’s pretty obvious that there is a connection, though it’s probably a different police authority out here from the Kensington one, and unless we drop them a hint, they’ll treat the two murders as separate cases. Look, we can’t keep on pretending we don’t know what’s behind all this, because bodies are beginning to build up in the morgue, and if I’m right, then young Milly’s next in line. I know we have no proof and that this is all circumstantial, but do we hang on till every single blonde chick that Denzil’s cast eyes on wakes up dead one morning? I don’t think Tommy’s embargo on going public can hold.’

  ‘Tommy’s very ill.’

  Her voice rose, despite her best effort at keeping it down. ‘I know. And the Trust was started by one of his ancestors and we should all respect that, shouldn’t we? Even if the institution is now totally out of date and its directors are corrupt? Ancestors are pretty useless allies when we come up against modern murderers, aren’t they?’ She grimaced. ‘Sorry. Overtired. But what else can we do now but tell the truth?’

  ‘Sandy Corcoran’s body was found this morning when the cleaners went into his office. A shotgun had been fired at the back of his head.’

  It was all too much for Bea. She shifted her seat belt into a more comfortable position, leaned back an
d closed her eyes. ‘That does it. Count me out for the rest of the night. Let me know when we get home, will you?’

  Friday morning

  Bea forced herself to get out of bed and tottered over to the window to draw back the curtains. And blenched. Too much sun, too bright, too early.

  It was half an hour after her usual time to get up, and she didn’t care if she was late. There were days when it was allowable to sleep on for a while.

  She decided that the greenish tint under her eyes needed attention. And wasn’t it time for a visit to the beauty salon? Her hair looked lifeless. She discovered a grease spot on the front of the blouse she’d put on and had to discard it. Her tights laddered.

  If it’s going to be one of those days, Lord, would you kindly take extra care of me? The way I feel now, I’m liable to walk into doors and trip over paving stones. As for solving murders and soothing ruffled feelings . . . is Oliver really jealous of Chris’s charm? Oh dear. Please, Lord; give me the right words to say.

  She made it downstairs, holding on to the banister and telling herself that today surely couldn’t hold anything worse than yesterday.

  The house was unnaturally quiet. No TV, no radio on. No clashing of pans in the kitchen. When Maggie was in the kitchen, she surrounded herself by noise, so she must have gone out already. Bea checked the time by her watch and found a gap on her wrist. She’d forgotten to put it on. The day had indeed started badly.

  As she turned into the kitchen her ears caught murmured conversation and the susurrus of frying, which her nose informed her meant spicy sausages and bacon.

  Oliver was sitting at the table, spooning cereal into his mouth with an air of great concentration. Opposite him lounged Chris, peeling an orange while chatting to Maggie, who was being polite. What was Chris doing here?

  And Zander!

  Wearing one of Maggie’s aprons, Zander was distributing sausages, bacon and fried bread from a frying pan. Zander here? Zander doing the cooking? And Maggie letting him do it? Wonders would never cease.