False Report

by Veronica Heley

  He nodded. ‘Eunice insisted on a prenuptial agreement because she was earning so much and at that time I just had my teacher’s salary and the house. She said it wouldn’t be fair to split everything down the middle, and of course she was right. She worked hard for her money. We both made new wills. I left everything to her then, and she divided everything between me and Clarissa. That was before I started to get such a lot of work for television. I’ve had several songs published, too, one of which got into the top twenty for a while. I’d like to see Josie’s ballad in the top twenty. I understand from CJ that you’re a dab hand at solving murders. I want to leave you some money to find out who killed Josie.’

  ELEVEN

  Bea was taken aback. ‘Me? Find out who killed Josie? Oh, but I—’

  ‘I know you’ll do your best. Josie brought a lot of happiness into my life. I know she was on the make, but not all the time. She had a great gift – she really listened to what people said. Most people don’t really listen, you know. You can see that while someone else is talking they’re thinking about what they’re going to say next. But Josie really listened. I used to play her some of the music that was running around my head, and she encouraged me to write it down, which I hadn’t been doing. She made me talk to people about it, and no one was more thrilled than she was when I began to get commissions. She made me realize I wasn’t totally past it.’

  Bea blinked. Did he mean that Eunice and Clarissa thought of him as ‘past it’?

  He shook his head at himself. ‘I let things slide, didn’t I? I knew things weren’t right at home. I knew Eunice was bored with me, and I sort of knew, without admitting it to myself, that she was seeing someone else. I knew Clarissa thought she’d outgrown me, although I could have told her she needed to work hard to improve her technique on . . . But she’d stopped listening to me, about music. About anything.

  ‘Neither of them listened when I tried to tell them about the commissions I was getting, but to be honest, I’m not sure that I listened properly when Eunice told me about her work. In a way, it was understandable, for we were in such different fields. It was like talking another language. You could say that Eunice ought to have made more of an effort to understand what was going on in my life, but I don’t think I was any better at listening to her.

  ‘It was such a wonderful release for me, to be able to write music which people actually wanted to hear. For so many years I’d sat on my talent, thinking it wasn’t good enough, thinking I had to earn my living as a teacher, thinking that one day perhaps I’d have the time to write my melodies down and see if anyone might be interested. Then it happened, almost overnight. It was glorious and frightening and I suppose it took over my life.

  ‘I realize now that I ought to have made them stop and listen, made them understand what was happening to me, but I didn’t. It’s no good saying Eunice was responsible for the breakdown of our marriage, because I was just as blind and deaf to her as she was to me. The only surprise, looking back, is that it took so long for the penny to drop. I just didn’t see it coming, did I? It was a bad shock. Knocked me right out for a while.’

  Bea wondered if the shock were more to do with Josie’s betrayal, than his wife turning him out of the house.

  He said, ‘I want to finish the song for Josie and to make a will. I’d better find some paper and rough out what I want to say.’ He wandered off.

  Bea went on grooming Winston, thinking that what Jeremy said clarified Eunice’s motives. If Eunice had always known about Jeremy’s medical problem – which he said that she had – then she oughtn’t to have acted shocked when she heard about him getting snapped with Josie in bed. She’d known it was impossible for him to stray, so why play the tragedy queen and throw him out of the house? Unless she’d been waiting for an opportunity to get rid of him. Which seemed all too likely.

  Or . . . carrying that thought one stage further, was it possible that Eunice had actually organized the trap in order to get rid of her husband?

  Oh, no. Ridiculous. That would mean Eunice was in league with the Badger Game gang, or knew someone who was. Or, more likely, had passed the word along to her friends and acquaintances that she’d be willing to pay a fee if someone would just set him up with a girl and take some pictures of the event.

  Mm. A bit extreme. Would a high-stepping, top lady barrister stoop so low?

  All right; she might if she had another man in mind whom she wanted to pop into her bed. But, if she wanted to divorce Jeremy, surely there were easier ways of doing it?

  Ah, but she loved the house, didn’t she? A good house in a good location. Mm. Yes. The house belonged to Jeremy, and by rights it would remain his property after a divorce, because of the prenuptial agreement. But who would know better than she that possession is nine points of the law? Suppose she’d arranged the entrapment so as to push him off balance, thinking that when she ordered him out of the house, he would go without making a fuss? Which he had done.

  She hadn’t given him time to reflect, had she? Or to consult a solicitor on his own behalf ?

  Hm. It was a possible scenario, but it all depended what sort of person Eunice Barrow might be.

  Winston the cat gave her a pretend bite on her wrist to indicate that he’d had enough of being groomed today, thank you. She let him jump down off the table, and then cleared away all the dirty mugs and plates.

  Which reminded her that the little man was still going around without shoes. What had he done with them? Left them in some corner, somewhere?

  She went into the living room. Sheets of music were scattered around and over the keyboard he was using. She picked one up. She couldn’t read music, unfortunately, and there were so many crossings-out and arrows going in all directions that she wondered how anyone could make sense of it. As far as she could make out, there was a series of verses, some in minor and some in major key. One verse was meant to be sung-spoken – whatever that might mean.

  She spoke the words aloud, falling into the rhythm as she did so:

  ‘You promised me – a life of ease.

  You promised me – our love would last.

  I asked how I’d repay you – for this precious gift of love,

  And you answered – “with a kiss”.’

  Rather sweet. A bit mawkish? This would be Josie’s story; the tale of an innocent little Irish girl, swept off her feet by a dashing young man from the big city. Bea sat down to read the next part, which was marked ‘to be spoken, while Josie’s tune continues in the background’.

  ‘You promised me a kitchen,

  With a set of sliding drawers,

  A penthouse with an outlook,

  And a wedding with a ring.

  I asked how I’d repay you,

  And you answered – “with a kiss”.’

  So far, so good. The girl had been seduced in the time-honoured way, with sugared promises. And then what happened? The next bit was marked ‘in a different key’. A sadder one, presumably?

  ‘You brought me to this country,

  Where the streets are paved with rain . . .’

  The words tailed off into a heavily-crossed out section which Bea couldn’t read.

  Bea shivered. The inspector had told her Josie had been walking the streets for a while. Presumably, she’d left that life in order to become an enthusiastic partner in the Badger Game?

  Bea shuffled the sheets together and laid them back on the keyboard. The little man had a talent, didn’t he? She wondered how soon the police would be able to find Josie’s killer . . . Someone from her seedy past? Perhaps her original pimp? Was ‘pimp’ the right term for the man who’d seduced her and brought her to this country, or was her pimp the man who’d set her up in the Badger Game? Bea decided she didn’t know enough about it.

  Now, while everything was quiet, and before the others returned, she’d have time to ring her dear friend from the old agency days, Miss Brook, and see how she was getting on. If that old warhorse was still aching to get back to
work, then perhaps . . . Maggie needed someone to keep her accounts straight, didn’t she?

  Bea also felt the need to contact Celia again. Years ago the woman had been in an abusive relationship, until Hamilton and Bea had rescued her by arranging for her to have a job abroad. Away from her partner and with a demanding job, Celia had regained her confidence to such an extent that, after her return to this country, she had repaid the agency by helping to run it . . . together with the indomitable Miss Brook.

  Celia had been a trusted key worker until Bea had taken that fatal holiday.

  Bea wondered whether or not Celia could now be induced to look after Jeremy part time? Or, could she perhaps be enticed back to work at the agency, if Ianthe were to leave?

  Bea sighed. No, she couldn’t rely on Ianthe upping sticks and leaving. Or not of her own accord, anyway.

  Perhaps Celia could be enticed back to sort out Maggie’s office? Everything depended on whether or not Celia had got another job yet. So, Bea would make some phone calls and find out how the two women were placed.

  After that, she must find Jeremy’s shoes.

  Saturday supper-time

  ‘We’re back!’ Maggie and Oliver banged the front door shut behind them and thundered along the hall to the kitchen. Or rather, Maggie stampeded along, while Oliver brought up the rear, smiling, noiseless.

  ‘About time, too,’ said Bea, lifting the casserole out of the oven. ‘I was getting anxious. Hope you’re hungry.’

  ‘Ah, food.’ Jeremy appeared from nowhere and slid on to a stool. He was wearing bedroom slippers. They weren’t even his own bedroom slippers. Bea recognized the bunny rabbit slip-ons which Maggie normally wore; they were far too big for him, but he didn’t seem to care. Bea hadn’t had time to look for his shoes and was annoyed with herself. Where had he left them?

  Maggie shucked off her huge tote bag. ‘We stood over the tiler till he’d finished—’

  Oliver shovelled knives and forks from the drawer on to the table. ‘He’s made a good job of it, I must say—’

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t get back in time to cook. What are we having?’

  ‘Beef stew, with dumplings.’

  The landline phone rang. Oliver picked it up, passed the receiver to Jeremy. ‘It’s for you.’

  ‘Oh, but . . .’ Bea was worried. Who might be calling Jeremy here?

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Jeremy. ‘It’s my landlord.’ The phone quacked at him, and Jeremy rolled his eyes, trying to get a word in edgeways. ‘Yes, I know that . . . Yes, the police do . . . Yes, but . . . No, I can’t, because I’m just sitting down to supper. Yes, I realize that . . . Well, perhaps after . . . In an hour’s time? I suppose so. Yes, yes. But I don’t understand why you’re not dealing with the agency. I gave them a . . .’

  He put the receiver back on its cradle. ‘He rang off. Actually, the flat is a wreck and I can’t blame him for getting in a state. I’ll pop over there after supper, calm him down, and see if I can unearth my diary because I can’t find it anywhere.’

  Any more than he could find his shoes. Bea considered making a list of things Jeremy had mislaid, and then going through the house looking for them.

  ‘Oliver and I are going to the pub after supper,’ said Maggie, who had recovered her usual high spirits. ‘He says he hasn’t got a girlfriend, but he let it drop that he went to a concert with a girl who’s a bit of all right, and I’m going to bully him till he tells me everything.’

  Bea felt as if she’d been slapped in the face. She’d hoped – but how silly of her – that she would be the only woman in Oliver’s life for some time to come. Ah, stupid, stupid! Of course, he ought to be going out with girls now. It would be all wrong if he weren’t. At least . . . she floundered among contradictory thoughts about what one ought to feel, and what one actually did.

  Jeremy held up his plate for a second helping. How could he stow so much away so quickly? ‘It’s not far, but I’d better take a taxi if I can’t find my shoes.’

  ‘We’ll find your shoes after supper and then I’ll walk you over there,’ said Bea. ‘It’s a lovely evening. Do me good.’

  ‘What’s for afters?’ Oliver ate almost as fast as Jeremy.

  ‘I made a cake.’ Bea lifted the plate down and didn’t know whether to smash it over the little man’s head, or cry. She’d quite clearly told him the two large pieces left on the plate were for Oliver and Maggie. Now there were two pieces, yes. But they were no longer a decent size. In fact, they were small enough to offer a child. She had no doubt he’d cut each slice in half and eaten the rest, but what good would it do to tax him with it?

  She said, ‘I’ll make some custard to go with them.’

  ‘May I have some, too?’ asked Jeremy. ‘With a banana in it? I love banana custard. What a treat.’

  Saturday evening

  By great good fortune, Jonno managed to park the van opposite the coffee bar as it was closing up for the night. They could see Jason inside as he put chairs on tables and turned the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’.

  ‘Good and bad,’ said Phil, adjusting his toupee and giving Jonno a baseball cap to cover his shaven crown. ‘Good, because it’s so close we can hustle the little man across the pavement and into the back of the van without exposing ourselves to prying eyes—’

  ‘And bad,’ said Jonno, slipping on some dark aviator glasses, ‘because some bad-tempered old lady will probably come along and tell us we haven’t any right to park in this road unless we’ve got a visitor ticket – which we haven’t. Well, this usually works.’ He put a ‘Disabled’ parking sticker on the dashboard, where it could be spotted by anyone who passed.

  Phil tilted the driving mirror to provide a view of his face as he darkened his eyebrows. ‘Haven’t you got a “Doctor On Call” notice?’

  ‘I must get Nance to make me one.’ He yawned. ‘Not many people about. All at the pub or watching the football on telly. He’ll come down the road towards us, won’t he?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Hah! I think that’s the landlord’s car, just driven up. Look at him; tub of lard. Bet he never takes any exercise. Probably got asthma and diabetes. Where does he think he’s going to park, eh?’

  They watched as Jason opened the café door and yelled to the fat little man to pull over with his wheels up on the pavement.

  ‘The traffic warden will have him for that.’

  ‘It’s Saturday night, stupid. They’ll all be watching the footie.’

  The fat man parked and, wheezing, followed Jason into the shop. His neck bulged over his shirt.

  ‘High blood pressure,’ said Phil. ‘Ought to take more exercise.’

  Jason and the landlord came out of the coffee bar and went round the corner to tackle the door to the upstairs flat. Jason was a big lad. He used a crowbar to tear off the plywood that had been nailed over the door, and then followed the landlord inside and up the stairs. A light went on in the first-floor flat.

  Phil slid out of the passenger door. ‘I’m going to wait for the target round the corner from the café.’ He took a bundle out of the back of the van and crossed the road. Jonno returned the driving mirror to its original position.

  Dusk softened the distances and muted the sound of traffic in the streets nearby.

  Saturday evening

  Twilight was upon them, and the temperature was dropping. Bea decided that Jeremy would need something to put on over his T-shirt as well as change his slippers for some shoes. He seemed to have left his belongings on every floor, and in almost every room of the house. He himself hadn’t a clue where he’d put anything, but it didn’t seem to bother him, for while Bea played Hunt the Shoes, he went back to tinkering with Josie’s melody on his keyboard.

  Bea tried to work out where he’d left his belongings and why. On the first night she and Maggie had hauled his belongings up to the top floor and Jeremy had slept in Oliver’s bed. There was still a lot of Jeremy’s stuff strewn around Oliver’s room. Oliver would have to lump it.

 
Bea pounced on a plastic bag and found two pairs of Jeremy’s shoes: dress shoes and some sandals. In a pile of clothes on the floor there was a denim jacket which would go with the jeans he was wearing.

  On the second night, he’d crashed out in the spare bedroom, and Bea found more of his things there, including the pile of clothes he’d washed, which Bea had asked him to put away. Oh well. She picked out a clean T-shirt without a hole in it and found another pair of sandals under the bed.

  She sighed. He’d slept in both beds without changing the sheets. Well, perhaps Oliver wouldn’t mind sleeping in the sheets Jeremy had used once, because Bea didn’t have the time to change them, and she couldn’t ask Maggie to help her do this because she’d gone off with Oliver straight after shoving the supper things into the dishwasher. As she took Jeremy’s things downstairs, Bea wondered where the little man would try to sleep tonight, and what Oliver might have to say about it.

  ‘Shoes.’ She handed them to him. ‘Clean T-shirt. Jacket. Have you got a cheque book with you?’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘To pay the landlord for the damage.’

  ‘Won’t the agent take it out of my deposit?’

  ‘Would it be enough?’

  ‘Three months rent in advance, plus a whacking great deposit? I should hope so.’ He shucked off his torn T-shirt.

  And the phone rang.

  This time it was Piers. ‘Bea, my love. Fancy a night on the tiles?’

  ‘You’re only asking me out because you want something from me.’

  ‘You wound me deeply. Would I . . .? No, don’t answer that. But it’s a beautiful evening, and I thought you might be at a loose end.’

  ‘Far from it. I’m babysitting. Someone trashed the flat Jeremy was living in, and his landlord is on the warpath, so I promised to walk him over there to face the music . . . Forgive the mixed metaphors.’

  ‘What? Well, it won’t take long, will it? I could pick you up after, and we could—’

  Exasperation fought with affection. ‘One thing at a time, Piers. Looking after Jeremy is like herding cats.’