False Money

by Veronica Heley

  ‘We don’t know anything for certain as yet. Luckily you have the text message as evidence that someone used her phone last night. Do you think you could eat something now?’ Bea put four pieces of bread in the toaster.

  ‘Not after . . .’ He shook his head at the packet of muesli, but accepted a mug of strong black coffee instead. He grimaced, trying to smile. ‘What you must have thought when I landed on your doorstep! Oliver’s right, and you’re the one person we need when the world turns topsy-turvy.’ He pulled out his mobile. ‘I’ll have to tell the police about the text message, won’t I? I wish I could remember who Tomi went off with, the last time I saw her. I must have been one of the last people to talk to her.’

  A plateful of crispy bacon and glistening scrambled eggs arrived in front of Bea, and she tackled it with relish. ‘Let’s try to reconstruct what happened. Close your eyes, and think back. It was a Saturday. Noontime? You’d been to the pub with Tomi, and then you went across to the library to get out some books. You got out more than you could carry, so she offered to carry some for you. Two, three?’

  ‘Two, but they were big ones. Coffee table type books.’

  ‘Someone came up to talk to you. Or was it someone in a car?’

  He was impatient. ‘Not in a car. He was walking up from the High Street, had been doing some shopping for the weekend. He lives in a flat just up the road from there.’

  ‘Let’s recreate the scene for you. How was he dressed?’

  ‘Dressed? How should I remember? He’s called—’

  ‘Of course you can remember how he was dressed. Sit down. Do you want sugar in your coffee? Or perhaps some more orange juice?’

  ‘What? What does it matter how he – I suppose, yes, brown jacket, grey denims, boots. A scarf. It was a really cold day. We were all huddling up against the wind. He was in a hurry because of it. He’d just come from getting in some food at Marks & Spencers, said there was a party on that night just off the Brompton Road, and was I going, and I said yes, probably, and though the wind was bitter, the sun was bright, and he was wearing these shades, wrap-around, heavy side pieces. I thought they didn’t really suit him, but I wouldn’t mind a pair. I’d forgotten that.’

  ‘His name?’

  ‘Brian. A bit of a bore about . . .’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Horse racing. His father owns one leg of a horse. Brian’s always on about it. I turned away from the sun – yes, that’s right, the sun was in my eyes – and I turned away from Tomi, and she said she’d seen someone across the road and would talk to me later. That’s the last I saw of her.’

  ‘You didn’t see her cross the road?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, not really. No.’

  ‘Tomi knew Brian, too?’

  A shrug. ‘I can’t be sure, but I don’t think so. On the other hand, we meet all sorts at parties. It’s like we’re all in different circles, and some of them intersect.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that. You may need to find out where Brian lives, to confirm your story. How do you know him?’

  ‘Someone at the Health Club introduced us. He said his father’s horse was running that weekend. We’d nothing much else on so we went to watch and the horse won and there was a party afterwards. The way it is. You know?’

  Bea thought of the party at Miss Drobny’s house. ‘Are these parties open to everyone?’

  ‘Not really. People bring their friends, sometimes. If it gets on Facebook then it can get out of hand. When it’s at our place Dad goes away for the weekend, but since the last one I’ve promised him I’ll keep the numbers down and pay for the cleaner to come in afterwards.’

  ‘How did you meet Tomi?’

  He was vague. ‘At a party somewhere, about a year ago, I suppose. She wasn’t with Harry then, was she? Maggie, you were there, weren’t you, with Oliver? Something vaguely theatrical. Can you remember?’

  Maggie tried to help. ‘It was at Von and Simone’s, wasn’t it? There was this leggy blonde you were going out with at the time, who invited you. Oliver and I came along because we were all going on to some crazy comedy show in a pub afterwards. The blonde didn’t want to come, so you shed her and invited Tomi instead.’

  ‘I remember.’ Chris pulled his coffee towards him and drank it black. Quiet descended on the room. Winston the cat jumped from Chris’s lap to Bea’s, to be fed the last scrap of bacon.

  Chris said, ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘We try your father’s phone again, and if he’s still not in, we contact the police.’

  Sunday morning

  Claire smiled to herself, painting her toenails bright red. Beside her was an array of mobile phones. Tomi’s. Harry’s. Leo’s. And hers.

  Their weight at the bottom of her handbag reminded her of how much she’d achieved so far, and of what still remained to be done. Every now and then she turned them on to listen to their friends’ frantic messages: ‘Please call, please ring me.’ That amused her.

  She’d used Harry’s mobile to tell the police where Tomi was to be found because she wanted them to think he’d been responsible for Tomi’s death. Then she’d texted Chris using Tomi’s mobile, asking him to pick the dear girl up. Claire hoped he’d acted on it and been found by the police cradling Tomi’s body. That would muddy the waters nicely.

  Claire didn’t like Chris much. She’d met him a couple of times at parties, but he’d never taken any notice of her, even though he was supposed to be passionate about blondes. He deserved to be hassled for that. Not that he was on the list, exactly.

  Not like the others.

  She put her head on one side to consider the particular shade of nail varnish she’d used. Would her beloved like it? He was a trifle old-fashioned, liked his girlfriends in high heels, short skirts, and giggles. But his wife? Perhaps he’d prefer something a little more restrained? It was a problem, how much to tone down her behaviour to catch him.

  No more babies. Aaah. Well, maybe they’d adopt.

  Meanwhile, her time was nearly up with her present employers. She’d been booked to go on to a wealthy family in Knightsbridge, but the woman had miscarried, so Claire wouldn’t be needed. Where should she go next? She could pick and choose her jobs nowadays. Perhaps a titled family? Or a millionaire’s? Or a pop star’s? She must call into the agency, see what they’d got to offer.

  SIX

  Sunday morning

  Before Bea could ring CJ, he rang her

  ‘News,’ he said. ‘Not good.’

  ‘We suspected the worst. We have Chris here. He got a text from Tomi’s phone this morning.’

  ‘What! I’ll be right round.’

  ‘Was that—?’ said Chris.

  ‘Yes. Why don’t you wash and brush up before he gets here?’

  Chris blundered out while Bea helped Maggie put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. Maggie found her big handbag and started to apply make-up. Bea stood at the window overlooking the garden. A few fluffy clots of snow drifted out of the sky, but didn’t settle. The sun tried to break through heavy clouds, and the temperature rose. If it got much higher, the snow would vanish.

  The bells would be ringing for the church service any minute now, but Bea wasn’t going to get there this morning, was she?

  Maggie came to stand beside Bea. They put their arms around one another. Maggie sighed. Bea wondered whether at some point in the future it would be Maggie supporting her, and not the other way around.

  Maggie said, ‘I keep thinking of Tomi lying out there all by herself. Was she . . . you know?’

  ‘Raped? I don’t know.’

  ‘Horrible, to happen like that. All alone. Screaming, probably.’ She shuddered.

  ‘I wish Oliver were back.’

  ‘Wednesday.’

  The doorbell rang, announcing CJ’s arrival. Chris thundered down the stairs, and Bea ushered them all into the sitting room. ‘Coffee?’ Being bright. No one accepted.

  CJ glared at his son. ‘Where were you last night?’

  Chris’s sho
ulders rose defensively. ‘A party. The usual. I stayed overnight. Yes, I drank too much, I’ve got a hangover, and before you can say it, yes, it serves me right.’

  ‘Bea said you’d had a text?’

  Chris handed his phone over, and CJ nodded. ‘Not from her, of course. She’s been dead for ten to fourteen days – probably died the day you last saw her.’

  ‘Not raped?’ Maggie feared the worst.

  ‘No. That would have been understandable, I suppose. The police will want to see you, Chris. I’ll go with you. Her death’s official now, but we’ll have to wait for an autopsy. It’s not clear how she died.’

  Chris straightened his shoulders. ‘I understand. Shall we go now?’

  CJ didn’t take his eyes off his son. ‘Who in your lot introduced Tomi to drugs?’

  Chris was startled. ‘Drugs? Well, I suppose, yes, one or two took this and that, party style, you know. Are you saying that . . . ? But Tomi never—’

  ‘You’ve admitted you all experimented.’

  ‘No! I didn’t because it would take the edge off things and—’

  ‘Doesn’t getting drunk do that, too?’

  ‘Yes, but . . . I don’t usually, you know that. As for Tomi, she thought people who took drugs were stupid. There was a row at a party once when someone was handing out pills. She came over to me, asked me to see her home, said she’d slapped a man’s face when he’d offered her—’

  ‘Who was it?’

  A shrug. ‘I didn’t see. I was in the other room when she stormed in, woman on the war path. I didn’t take it seriously. After all, lots of people—’

  ‘Who? Names!’

  ‘I can’t. None of my friends, except maybe a couple of times to prolong the party spirit, you know. Are you saying that Tomi died from taking drugs? I don’t believe it.’

  ‘The police will need names.’

  ‘It’s that serious? But –’ he gestured wildly – ‘this is ridiculous. Tomi did not do drugs.’

  ‘Just one dose would be enough for someone who hadn’t done it before.’

  Chris collapsed on to the nearest chair. ‘I’ve heard that the first time can be fatal. But no, not Tomi.’

  ‘They all say that,’ observed CJ, stone-faced.

  Maggie was hugging herself. ‘I second what Chris says. Tomi didn’t do drugs. If anything, she was more judgemental than I was about it, talking about slippery slopes and beginning small and ending up dead. She wouldn’t do drugs.’

  Bea filled in the dots. ‘Was it, perhaps, done to her?’

  CJ looked hard at Bea. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Everything that everyone has said about her. Searching through her belongings, piecing her lifestyle together. There was nothing in her medicine kit. No syringes, no unidentified twists of powder. Nothing. So how did she die?’

  He twisted his lips. ‘There’ll have to be an autopsy. There was a syringe sticking out of her thigh.’

  There was an indrawn breath from Maggie and Chris. Chris shook his head, over and over. ‘No, she wouldn’t. She didn’t. This is just not right!’

  Bea said, ‘If she died a fortnight ago, then who sent the texts from her phone? And where is her phone?’

  Silence.

  Bea went on, ‘What was she wearing? Were Chris’s library books with her?’

  CJ shook his head. ‘Pass.’

  Maggie put her hand to her head. ‘Why would anyone want to kill Tomi?’

  Chris shot out of his chair. ‘Harry! He’s the only one who had a motive. He needed to get rid of her, so that he could make up to Hermia.’

  ‘You’ve tried that line already,’ said Bea. ‘Hermia gave him a sort of alibi.’

  ‘Yes, well; he laid it on thick, didn’t he? To impress her? He could have killed her before the party and dumped her, then cried into his beer to attract Hermia’s attention. Why not?’

  ‘It feels wrong, that’s why not,’ said Bea. ‘What happened between you and Hermia yesterday?’

  ‘Hermia had other fish to fry last night, some important charity dinner or other.’ He grabbed Bea’s handbag, extracted the keys ‘Let’s get going. I’ll need a witness, so you’d better come, too.’

  CJ was, uncharacteristically, dithering. He wanted to get his son to the police, of course, but Chris had forgotten all about that. Bea reached for her big coat. ‘Give me back my keys, Chris. You know perfectly well you’re not allowed to drive my car. Come on, CJ, let’s see what all the fuss is about. Maggie, do you want to come, too?’

  Maggie shook her head. ‘I don’t think he would have needed to kill Tomi to shake her off. Whatever he may have thought, she wasn’t that keen on him. Look, I’ve a cracking headache. I’ll see you later. Give me a ring when you find out what’s happened.’

  Bea didn’t think Maggie had a headache but, as the girl was obviously keen to do something else, there was no point in querying it.

  On a Sunday morning, the mews was creepily quiet. Nothing moved, except for a well-fed cat. There were several parked cars. The sound of traffic on the main road outside was muted.

  Bea parked her car outside Harry’s door. Hermia’s distinctive sports car was nowhere to be seen. Snowflakes were still descending at intervals in half-hearted fashion. There was a light dusting of snow on the ground, but no footprints led to or from Harry’s door. His windows upstairs were closed and the curtains drawn. Had he had a heavy night, not got up yet?

  Chris rang the bell. Nothing happened.

  He thumped the door. Kicked it. It swung open. ‘That’s odd.’

  CJ caught his son’s arm. ‘Let me go first.’ CJ climbed the stairs in the shallow grey light and the others followed him into the living room on the first floor.

  ‘No one here,’ said Chris, pushing his way between them and opening doors. A tiny kitchen, very clean. A shower room, and loo.

  Bea homed in on a laptop, up-to-date version, open and running, but on a screen saver. A bottle of wine stood nearby, open, with a used wine glass.

  ‘Don’t touch anything,’ said CJ.

  Too late. Chris tried to open the door into the bedroom, and failed. Something resisted him as he tried to open it.

  ‘What the . . .!’ said Chris, and he gave an extra big heave. The door rebounded on him. ‘There’s something behind the door. Help me to—’ Another heave and he got his shoulder and head round the door, took one long look, retreated and let the door slam to in his face. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Harry?’ said CJ, getting out his mobile.

  Chris swallowed. ‘His face is . . . He’s very dead. Hanging from . . . Oh God!’

  He dived for the loo, and they heard him throw up. CJ thrust his head and one hand round the door, and returned. ‘Icy cold. No point trying to cut him down.’ He got out his mobile. ‘Cambridge here. Is Inspector . . . ?’

  Bea turned away to look out of the window. Dear Lord, what is going on? I’m not a betting woman, but I’d lay odds that there’s a suicide note on that laptop. I don’t like anything about this. It doesn’t feel right.

  ‘Don’t touch anything,’ said CJ, clicking off his phone. ‘The police will be here directly. We’d better wait downstairs in the car.’

  Chris came out of the loo, looking shaky. ‘I pushed this and the bedroom door open.’

  ‘They’ll take your prints for comparison.’

  ‘We were both here yesterday morning,’ said Bea. ‘I’ll try to remember what either of us touched.’

  ‘Anything different?’ CJ, very sharp.

  ‘There were newspapers all over the place then. They’re in the waste-paper basket now. There were two coffee cups on the table, one each for Harry and Hermia. A cafetière. No wine, bottle or glass. He was wearing a dressing gown over pyjamas, slippers. The laptop? I think it was on the floor in a case by the television.’

  ‘Anything else? I trust your eyes.’

  ‘He had a mobile phone with him. The latest. It was on the coffee table with . . . Let me think . . .’ She closed her
eyes to recall the scene. ‘There was dust on the coffee table. It has a glass top, difficult to keep clean. There were some crumbs on the floor; he’d been eating a croissant for breakfast, perhaps? Since then the floor’s been hoovered and the table top cleaned. The doors leading out of this room weren’t open when we came yesterday, so I didn’t see inside the other rooms.’

  ‘Thank you, Bea. Will you two wait downstairs now?’

  Sunday afternoon

  Police. Paramedics. A doctor.

  Bea and Chris sat in her car. Bea turned the engine on, so that they could get warm.

  The snow stopped. Started again without really meaning it. Later footprints smudged earlier footprints. Bea tried to ring Maggie, but the line was engaged. Bea knew that once Maggie got on to the phone, she might be on for hours. Eventually Bea got through and said they’d be some time, as Harry had been found dead. Maggie was shocked and wanted to know details.

  More police arrived. After conferring upstairs, an inspector asked Bea and Chris to accompany them to the station, so that their statements could be taken. It looked open and shut; suicide, of course. But still, better to be safe than sorry, eh?

  Bea made a statement, telling the police what she had seen. She asked what message Harry had left on the laptop and where his mobile had got to. They smiled and said she wasn’t to worry about all that, leave it to them, they knew what they were doing, etcetera.

  The station was warm enough. Fingerprints were taken. ‘For elimination purposes’. She didn’t think she’d touched anything at Harry’s, but supposed she might have done, without thinking. On further consideration, no, she really didn’t think she’d touched anything. Fingerprints still had to be taken. She was given a cup of tea.

  Chris was taciturn, monosyllabic. Polite. CJ was nowhere to be seen. He was ‘known’ to the police, in the best possible way, of course. He was some sort of expert, called upon in emergencies. Bea thought that sometime she might ask him to define ‘emergencies’.

  Bea considered that if anyone had done anything to Harry – and of course that was a big ‘if’ – then his visitor, if he’d had a visitor, must have been and gone before the snow started in the night. What time had the snow started? It had been snowing for some time before she got up.