False Money

by Veronica Heley

‘I wouldn’t discount anyone at this point in time. Are you sure Julian was really killed in Afghanistan? Or were the rumours of his death exaggerated, and he’s now back in London, disguised as a civilian, tracking down all the other members of the birthday party?’

  His mouth twitched, which could be annoyance or amusement. ‘You want me to check?’

  She flounced in her seat. ‘I think someone should, yes. And the car accident, too. Shirley something. That’s something you could find out about with your police connections, isn’t it?’

  ‘Aren’t you intrigued by the set-up? I thought you would be, or I’d never have involved you.’

  ‘Humph! Pull the other one. You deliberately involved me in this because . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ A bland look of enquiry.

  ‘Because,’ said Bea, thinking hard, ‘you like solving puzzles. People aren’t real to you. Numbers are. You don’t get emotionally involved, except perhaps if Chris or one of your old friends is involved. You didn’t know any of these people or their families before, did you? Ah, except for Hermia and Lord Fairley. So how well did you know them?’

  ‘I hold no brief for either. I know them slightly, as one knows perhaps a hundred people who trundle along in the charity and business circuits.’

  ‘Give me a thumbnail sketch of Hermia.’

  He lifted one eyebrow. ‘You’ve met her. She’s been seen around with this and that man in her circle, but always goes back to his lordship. Their families hope they’ll walk down the aisle some time this year. It’s true that I don’t particularly want her playing around with Chris. She’s out of his league; too old for him and too experienced.’

  ‘Too rich. If she’s won all that money, she might do worse than finance Chris’s next film.’

  Silence. Bea sighed. ‘All right, what about his lordship?’

  ‘Known to his friends as “Jamie”. He’s from an ancient line which he doesn’t seem eager to perpetuate. Not exactly Brain of Britain material, but masses of boyish charm. An estate in the Shires, a house in Chelsea. Likes to shoot; birds, the winged variety. Part-time job finding country locations for a film company. Too lazy to have a career, though to do him justice, he’s said to look after his estate well enough. He and Hermia go back a long way.’

  ‘She’s twice the man he is?’

  ‘She has more energy, I suppose.’

  Bea thought back over the evening. ‘What did you make of Duncan?’

  CJ drew up outside her house and parked. ‘What did you make of him?’

  ‘I’m not sure. At first I thought he might be gay, but fighting it. Then I thought he wasn’t. He’s bright enough to have given considerable thought to the problem of who wants to bump who off, but he’s not frightened enough to tell us his conclusions. All that guff about Gregor Whatsit was a red herring. I assume you’ll be responsible for investigating Gregor?’

  ‘You think so?’ He kept the engine running. ‘Do you mind if I don’t come in? I rather think I’ve a cold coming.’

  She got out and restrained herself from slamming the car door. Just.

  What on earth had she let herself in for now?

  Thursday evening

  Claire sometimes wore a cheap ring on the fourth finger of her left hand when she went to work, to make sure her employers realized she was not in the market for a squeeze from Mister. She’d known Misters wanting her to play around in their bedroom before now. Soon now, there’d be a really good diamond on her hand. Oh yes!

  The precaution wasn’t necessary in this case. Mr was abstracted, worried, on the phone, papers spread around the living room. Mrs was worn out, overtired and not capable of thinking of anything but her baby, and of getting some sleep.

  Mrs explained that when she’d taken the baby to the clinic to be weighed they’d been most unpleasant. It was no fun being an elderly primate, as they called older women having their first babies, and how was it her fault that Pippin refused to thrive no matter how carefully she followed the routine which had been worked out for him? And her mother-in-law was being most unhelpful about giving her a helping hand about the flat and was such an interfering old bitch that Mrs had been driven to distraction.

  The people at the clinic had scared Mrs into hysterics, until one of the doctors had taken the trouble to listen to her, and advise – oh, so gently, so kindly – that she could do with a spot of professional help. The name of the Nursing Agency was whisked before the nose of Mrs, and a telephone call had resulted in Claire’s appearance on their doorstep.

  Claire got all the details without even having to ask for them. So this wasn’t the interfering Mrs Abbot who’d left that disturbing message on Leo’s old phone, but the daughter-in-law. Well, well! Claire listened – really some mothers were more childlike than their children – and knew exactly what needed to be done. She sent Mrs off to bed and made up an alternative formula for Baby, who took four ounces almost without drawing breath.

  Baby looked up at her with large, considering eyes, withholding judgement. Could he see the tide of red which sometimes overtook her? It was only very occasionally that young babies saw it. Calm down, Claire. That’s it. Calm down.

  This baby had had a bad start in life, that’s all. From now on, she’d see to it that he did well. Or not, if things went badly. Fate had handed her a nice weapon to use if the older Mrs Abbot became a nuisance.

  Oh, interfering Mrs Abbot, little do you know it, but your grandson’s life is in my hands.

  ELEVEN

  Thursday evening

  Bea walked in on a scene of chaos. Had she been descended upon by a crowd of locusts? Every seat in the sitting room was occupied, every inch of table space covered with sheets of paper. There were empty and half empty mugs of coffee everywhere, crumbs from biscuits on the carpet and a pair of trainers, untenanted, just inside the door.

  It occurred to her that if she were to continue housing her two young assistants, they must be provided with their own sitting room, preferably soundproof. Tomorrow morning first thing she would investigate how to turn the large junk room in the eaves over to youth.

  Her arrival caused heads to turn.

  ‘Oh, sorry!’ said a scratty looking youth, removing the trainers and stuffing his feet back into them. ‘I think better with bare feet.’

  ‘Um?’ said Oliver, who was lying prone on the floor for some reason. Scrutinizing a script? ‘You’re back, then?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Maggie, trying to sweep the papers on the table into a manageable pile. ‘The kitchen table wasn’t big enough.’

  Chris got to his feet, with one of his most charming grins. ‘We were trying to work on a storyboard. Hermia’s a genius, but she’s also a slave driver.’ Bea looked hard at him and realized he knew nothing about lottery wins, nor that Hermia was – on paper at least – a millionairess.

  Hermia had been standing at the back window, staring up at the picture of Bea’s husband, but now returned to where she’d left her laptop open on the settee. She’d fluffed out her hair and was wearing a touch of blusher as well as lipstick today.

  A girl with blazing red hair and high cheekbones had a sketch pad on her knee and was working on it with a soft pencil. Not an actress, but an artist, sketching in possible backgrounds?

  Hermia was playing at being a film producer. ‘So sorry, Mrs Abbot. We have rather taken over, haven’t we?’

  Bea wanted to hit Hermia, but refrained. There were other people in the room who hadn’t been introduced, but the two women might have been alone. Messages passed from one to the other.

  Hermia communicated, without words, that she’d staked her claim to work on Chris’s next film.

  Also without words, Bea made it clear to Hermia that she was not a happy bunny at this invasion of her territory, and that she objected to Hermia’s taking Chris over.

  Bea smiled at everyone. ‘Carry on, children. Don’t worry about me. I’m for a cup of cocoa and early bed. Hermia; a word?’

  Hermia snapped off her laptop
and followed Bea out to the kitchen.

  What Bea wanted to ask Hermia was whether she was serious about Chris or not, but she didn’t. Hermia would tell her to take a running jump. Politely, of course.

  Bea opened fire from a different angle. ‘CJ and I have just been talking to Duncan. He’s told us all about the lottery. I understand you gave your permission for us to see what we could do to help.’

  Hermia was wearing brown and cream, a cowl-necked jumper over well-cut trousers; cashmere and silk. With a pair of the most beautiful leather boots Bea had ever seen. Bea liked boots and yearned for a pair like them. Before she could stop herself, she said, ‘Beautiful boots. Where did you get them?’

  ‘Milan. I do a lot of my clothes shopping there.’

  Of course. How parochial Hermia made Bea feel. She mixed cocoa and milk in a mug and put it in the microwave. ‘Do you agree with Duncan that someone has been knocking you off, one by one?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think.’

  ‘Julian; did you go to his funeral?’

  ‘Yes. Wootton Bassett. The whole town turns out to see the coffins taken through the streets. Impressive.’ There were lines of strain around Hermia’s mouth that you wouldn’t notice unless you were another woman.

  ‘Shirley; did you go to her funeral, too?’

  ‘As it happens, no. I was away. I work for a children’s charity, was setting up a big event for them in a friend’s house in the country.’

  ‘Which friend?’ As if Bea didn’t know.

  ‘Lord Fairley. Jamie. He isn’t the sort to go round knocking off his old friends.’

  ‘I haven’t met him yet. I suppose I’ll do so tomorrow. May I ask if your job gives you enough time off to – to—’

  ‘Play around making films with Chris? He says you’ve been like a mother to him. Very . . . praiseworthy.’

  Bea gave a sharp laugh. She took the mug out of the microwave and sipped her cocoa. Too hot now. ‘You want to take over as his mother?’

  Hermia reddened. ‘No, of course not.’ She didn’t like the implication that she was old enough to be Chris’s mother.

  Ah, so Hermia did realize there was an age gap there. Eight years? Ten? However, the girl was not to be defeated so easily. She tossed her head, making her well-cut cap of dark hair swing, before it settled back into its usual perfect shape. ‘I thought we’d get on to the subject of Chris sooner rather than later. He’s got a rare talent, and if I can help him get started, I will.’

  ‘If you’re not knocked off next.’

  ‘I could ask him to move in with me, act as my bodyguard.’

  ‘You wouldn’t ask Lord Fairley?’

  An urchin grin. ‘He’d be useless. Shall I ask Chris, then?’

  Bea moved in for the kill. ‘You’ve studied him. You know what he’d be like if he knew you were in danger. He’d go all romantic on you and throw himself wholeheartedly into being your bodyguard. He’d want to wrap you in chain mail, incarcerate you in a castle. Suffocate you. You wouldn’t be able to stand it.’

  Hermia threw back her head. ‘Touché. He’s very single-minded, isn’t he? We’ll let him get on with the preparations for his film; he’s got a young writer there who’s going places, if we can keep him chained to his word processor long enough. Sorry about him taking off his shoes. His feet didn’t smell, did they? His artist friend has a good imagination, too. Oliver and Maggie will keep their feet on the ground for them, while I do the finances and chivvy everyone along.’

  ‘Can you find him another Tomi?’

  ‘Tomi was special. But yes, it’ll be my job to find a replacement. Never fear, I won’t let anything stand in the way of his career.’

  ‘So you’ll carry on wrapping Chris in cotton wool until he’s made his name. And then what?’

  Hermia shrugged. ‘Perhaps the magic will last. Hope springs eternal, etcetera.’

  ‘And there’s always Jamie to fall back on.’

  A sigh. ‘I’ve grown away from him, and he’s grown away from me.’ She straightened up. ‘I’ve been frank with you. I can’t make any promises for the future. Who can?’

  Chris came in, recognized the fact that the two women were at odds, and put his arm around Hermia. ‘What’s up, Puss?’

  PUSS! Bea nearly choked. That Chris should give Hermia a nickname was a strong indication of how he felt about her, but that Hermia would accept it was almost unbelievable.

  Hermia did accept it. She was nearly as tall as Chris in her high-heeled boots, and instead of using an elbow to push him away from her, she turned within his arm, to look into his eyes. ‘I’m accused of cradle-snatching.’ No smiles now. She was serious, searching his face for a reaction.

  Chris looked back at her, also serious. ‘Time will mend that.’

  ‘Mrs Abbot thinks someone’s out to kill me.’

  Frowning, he looked across at Bea. ‘To kill Hermia? Why?’ He made one of his intuitive leaps. ‘Tomi, Harry . . . You’ve discovered something?’

  Bea appreciated Hermia’s tactics, which were designed to bind Chris to her and which were succeeding. ‘I’ve been sworn to secrecy.’

  Hermia wasn’t having any of that. ‘Chris, will you move in with me for a couple of days, till things get sorted?’

  ‘What? Yes, of course, but . . .’ He drew back, loosening his hold upon her. ‘You have to tell me what’s going on first.’

  ‘I don’t know that I should.’

  Bea realized she’d lost the battle to stop Chris getting involved with Hermia. ‘Tell him. He won’t be able to keep his mouth shut and the news will be all over the neighbourhood by lunchtime tomorrow, but tell him. Hermia, I’d like to talk to you tomorrow morning, if you’re free.’

  ‘I only work part-time. I’ll be here at eleven, right? If I last through the night.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Chris. ‘I’ll stick to you like glue.’

  Bea took another sip of her drink, which was cooling rapidly. She felt old, old, old. Of course the young ones would cleave to one another. That was the way of the world, and she was ancient, long past her heyday. Also long past her bedtime. ‘Make sure the alarm’s switched on when you leave.’ She tested the back door to make sure it was locked and bolted, and went up to bed. Winston was there already, stretched out on his back, paws in the air. Snoring. What a comfort he was!

  Friday morning

  ‘No problem,’ said Maggie, stuffing her mouth with a bacon sandwich while she checked over her schedule for the day. ‘I’ll get the junk moved out of the attic this weekend – although you’d better look it over first – and with a splash of paint, a couple of cheap rugs and an oil heater, Oliver can move his stuff in there, which means we can use his present bedroom as our sitting room. It’s not an ideal solution, but it will do for now. Then I know someone who can draw up plans for a loft extension at the back. We could get one more big room out of it, plus a small kitchen. Possibly rejig the bathroom up there as well. Take out the old fitments, install a walk-in shower, extend the central heating – and, by the way, the boiler down here could do with being looked at while we’re at it. No problem.’

  Bea grunted. ‘Cost. Disruption.’

  ‘Mm. I’ll manage the project and, being in the business, I know where to get everything. Just leave it to me.’

  ‘You’ve been planning this behind my back.’

  ‘We thought about it, but we didn’t want to say anything till you suggested it yourself.’

  Bea gnashed her teeth. ‘So holding that party here last night was meant to give me a nudge in the right direction?’

  Maggie laughed, blew Bea a kiss and left the house, banging the front door behind her. She returned to fetch her scarf and cap, said the front door step was icy, so watch it! And went out again. Finally there was silence.

  A creak of floorboards, and down came Oliver. ‘Sorry. Got carried away last night. Hermia’s quite something, isn’t she?’

  ‘Make your own breakfast and put everything in
the dishwasher afterwards.’ Bea took her last cup of coffee down the stairs, where the phones were already ringing. It was going to be a busy morning, but first she must try Max to see if Pippin was any better.

  The phone rang and rang. Eventually Nicole answered. ‘I don’t want to talk to you. If it hadn’t been for your interference, we’d have got this problem sorted out long ago. It’s no thanks to you that he’s doing well now.’ Down went the phone.

  Bea stared at her receiver. What on earth did that mean? Had she been an interfering busybody? Oh dear. Perhaps it might have looked that way, although she had meant well, hadn’t she? What did Nicole mean by saying that they’d got their problem sorted out? Had they changed Pippin’s formula? If so, then let us rejoice. What else could it mean? Did it matter, so long as Pippin was thriving at long last?

  Her thoughts squirrelled round and round, till she realized she was deleting emails without reading them. Concentrate, Bea! You can ring Nicole later and find out what’s going on, but for the time being, concentrate on work. The agency was busy enough, wasn’t it?

  In the middle of a telephone conversation with a tiresome client who rang several times a week, but never accepted any of the agency’s suggestions, Miss Brook announced that they had a caller who insisted on speaking to Mrs Abbot there and then, that very minute. ‘She’s probably from the Embassy, got that manner, you know? Nigerian.’

  Nigerian. Tomi was Nigerian. Bea told her caller that she’d ring back later and put down the phone. ‘Send her in.’

  Tomi’s mother. Of course. Tall, dignified, beautiful in middle age, with a long elegant neck and superb clothes. Bea rose to her feet and gestured for her visitor to join her in the group of chairs by the window.

  ‘Mrs Abbot?’ The woman remained standing. ‘You have something of mine, I believe.’ Perfect English.

  ‘I do?’ For a moment Bea couldn’t think what it might be. ‘Ah, your daughter’s bible?’

  ‘It is not enough that my daughter is murdered, but that her belongings should be stolen passes belief.’

  A soft answer turns away wrath. Maybe. ‘I’m so sorry. There seems to have been a misunderstanding—’