False Report

by Veronica Heley

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Bea, and she tucked him up in bed in the guest room. She checked that Oliver and Maggie were all right – they were having a quiet snack in the kitchen – and absent-mindedly gave Piers a kiss on his cheek when she saw him out of the front door. Then she set the alarm, took off her make-up and, without bothering to have a shower, fell into bed.

  Sunday morning

  They all slept late. Bea opened her curtains to see a morning haze lifting, hinting at a warm, bright day to come. She heard the bells of the church calling her to worship and wished she had no other calls on her time. It would be pleasant to set aside all her responsibilities, to walk out of the house and attend the service. She was sure she’d feel refreshed, and better able to cope, if she did.

  But knew she couldn’t.

  And then wondered if it was fatigue or inertia that held her in the house.

  Dear Lord . . . decisions, decisions! If I go to church, I shall worry about the problems here. Oh yes, I understand that I ought to be able to leave my problems behind when I go to church, in order to concentrate on You. Rightly or wrongly, I feel I ought to try to sort things out here first. Perhaps there’ll be an opportunity for me to drop into the church later on today and have a quiet time with You?

  She had a bowl of cereal, made a cafetière of coffee and took a cup into the living room, to stand by the open French windows, looking down on to the garden. And there was Jeremy, still dressed in his pyjamas, sitting on a garden chair, staring at nothing.

  A rustle of cloth, and Maggie put an arm around Bea. Her hair was still green, but she was wearing bright red today. ‘I offered him breakfast. He refused.’

  Bea nodded. The little man was taking it hard.

  Oliver put his arm around Bea from the other side. ‘He’s wearing Maggie’s bunny slippers. Regressing to childhood?’

  Bea sighed. ‘He’s got a lot to think about.’

  Oliver tightened his arm around her in a hug. ‘Mother Hen . . .’

  Bea laughed, shook her head.

  ‘I like it,’ said Maggie. ‘Mother Hen. You are definitely Mother Hen.’

  ‘Idiots!’ Bea’s tone was affectionate.

  ‘What can we do to help?’

  ‘Ah. Yes. Can you two find a lock and fit it to the door of your office downstairs? Three keys needed; one for you, one for me, and one for your part-time secretary.’

  ‘What? Who?’

  Bea nodded. ‘I’m going to arrange for you to have a part-time secretary cum assistant, mornings only to start with, and Miss Brook is going to come in every Friday afternoon to keep your accounts straight. As from today it’s going to be your office, and that of your part-time office staff.’

  ‘Whoopee!’ Maggie threw both arms up in the air, and then sobered. ‘That’s wonderful. But, can I afford to pay them? Panic, panic! I’m not sure—’

  ‘I am,’ said Bea, smiling. ‘We’re going to set you up in business for yourself. I will rent you office space and two part-time assistants and—’

  ‘I’ll do you a website!’ Oliver wasn’t going to be left out. ‘I’ll set up all the systems for your secretary and Miss Brook to handle. Can we afford a new computer?’

  ‘Maggie will buy one from the Abbot Agency,’ said Bea. ‘Second-hand. I’ll get Miss Brook to work out the details for us. For the moment you’ll have to use your mobile phone for office work, but when you’re properly sorted out with a new business name, you can get a landline installed in your name.’

  ‘What name?’ Maggie started to dance around. ‘What do I call myself ?’

  ‘The Mother Hen Agency?’ Oliver thought this was hilarious.

  ‘Stupid!’ Maggie aimed a blow at him – and missed.

  He pretended to be mortally wounded. ‘Aaargh! I’m dying. How about Maggie May Transformations?’

  Maggie hit out again – and missed a second time. ‘That’s for wigs, stupid!’

  Bea separated them. ‘We’ll think of the right name in time. When do you go back to uni, Oliver?’

  He scowled. ‘Don’t you dare try to send me back till this is over.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘This is more important. Do you think I’d leave you to face Ianthe alone – never mind trying to keep Jeremy from falling victim to general mayhem? All right, I know I shall have to go back for a few days. Later on. When this is finished, right?’

  Bea was touched. In a husky voice, she said, ‘Thank you, Oliver.’ Then she clapped her hands, returning to normal. ‘Well, my dears; you must set about getting a lock put on the office door while I sort out something for lunch and have a chat to Jeremy.’

  No sooner were the youngsters out of the house than the doorbell rang. Bea let Detective Inspector Durrell in. He sighed at her. ‘Now what have you been up to?’

  She shook her head. ‘You may well ask. Come through to the kitchen; I’m just checking what food we’ve got left for the weekend. Coffee?’

  He slid on to a stool. ‘I got an incoherent message from some plod on the beat. The only bit that made sense was to ring you.’

  ‘Oh yes. That was about an attempted kidnapping, a murder and an illegal removal of a corpse.’

  ‘Is that all?’ He stretched, sighed. ‘I should be at a family barbecue today. The wife is not amused.’

  She set a mug of coffee before him.

  ‘On the other hand –’ ladling sugar into his cup – ‘my brother-in-law has a habit of criticizing me about the way I bring up my children, my relationship with my in-laws, the type of car I drive, the insurance companies I patronize, and the clothes I wear. So I suppose I’m well out of it.’

  Amused, Bea delved into the freezer, bringing out some home-made pizza bases which would do for lunch . . . and a pack of frozen chicken fillets. ‘What does your wife say to all this?’

  ‘He criticizes her, too. She wishes she, too, had a job which enabled her to skive off these difficult family occasions. She knows I’ll make it up to her, later. She knew I was a hunter when she married me, and that when I’m on the job, nothing else matters. You’re something of a hunter yourself, aren’t you?’

  She was startled. ‘Am I? I wouldn’t have said . . . Well, I suppose every now and then I get drawn into odd situations where I can do some good. But this time it was Not. My. Fault. An acquaintance asked me to find someone to look after Jeremy, and things just happened from then on.’

  ‘You could have turned the other cheek. Pushed him out into the great wide world.’

  She sent him a withering look and requested he pass over a couple of onions from the vegetable stand by the back door.

  He drained his mug and said, ‘Ah,’ in a satisfied voice. ‘Now, could you bear to tell me what happened last night? Oh, and you don’t mind if I record this, do you? I have a suspicion it’s going to take some time, and it would save me taking notes.’

  So she told him what had happened while she sautéed onions in some olive oil, thickened the mixture with some cornflour, threw in a couple of tins of tomatoes, salt and pepper, and tasted it. Nodded to herself. She spread the pizza bases out on baking trays, put some of the tomato mixture on each, and rummaged for some hard cheese – preferably Parmesan – in the fridge. And didn’t find any.

  ‘Where’s the cheese gone? Surely we haven’t finished all of it, have we?’

  He was staring at his little tape recorder. ‘You mean, you really saw this man being murdered?’

  ‘Mm. I assume. His eyes and tongue bulged like this . . .’ And she stuck out her tongue and lolled her head. ‘Then he fell back across the seat as his killer – I assume it was a man and not a woman, though I can’t be sure . . .’

  ‘Describe him. Or her.’

  ‘Can’t. Big. Thickset. It was getting dark. There’s no street light in that bit of road. He or she – no, I do think it must have been a man – was dressed in dark clothing; sweater and jogging trousers? Probably. Trainers, I think. Not because I saw them, but because he made no sound as he ran away.’
>
  ‘It wasn’t the same man who drove off in the van?’

  ‘No. He’s not as big, and I got a good look at him, anyway. He’s the man who pretended to be a police officer the other day. You know, the one with the toupee.’ She tried the cupboards and found some cheese flakes. Not wonderful, but they’d do. She sprinkled some on each of the bases. ‘Do you like anchovies on your pizzas?’

  ‘Mm? Not much. Pepperoni?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can find.’ She pulled the sliding section of cupboard out to investigate. ‘Mr Toupee was one cool hombre. He checked to see if his partner was dead, shoved him further across the seat, got in, and drove out of there just as the police car arrived.’

  ‘Has the world gone mad?’

  THIRTEEN

  Bea had to agree; they did seem to be living in the middle of a farce.

  ‘Mm. I wonder if Mr Jason of Jason’s Place might be able to throw more light on the situation. He says he observed the whole thing from the first floor flat, the one that used to be Jeremy’s, which is directly above the café. It was he who rang for the police, and an ambulance, and it was he who cut Jeremy out of the sack and provided the water we used to treat the effects of the mace attack. If mace is what it is.

  ‘Mr Jason seemed to recognize it as such, which makes me wonder exactly what experience he’s had with such matters. Isn’t it illegal to attack people with mace in this country? So how did he know about it? Has he worked as a security officer, perhaps? Or . . . he was so helpful, but . . . why am I ambivalent about him?’

  ‘Trust your instincts.’

  ‘Mm. Well, however he came by his knowledge of mace, he did us a favour, because he knew that swabbing Jeremy’s eyes with water was the thing to do. By the way, he took the sack that Jeremy had been put into.’

  ‘Why on earth did you let him take the sack?’

  ‘What was I supposed to do with it? Take it off to the hospital in the ambulance? Your policeman was no help at all. All he wanted to do was find someone to charge with assault or carrying a knife, or . . . Well, I suppose he’d have liked anything which enlivened Saturday night’s patrol. I can’t really blame him, as there was I saying that Jeremy had been kidnapped and put into a van – and the van had disappeared by the time he came along. All he saw was Jeremy lying on the ground trying to fight his way out of the sack. He thought it was a prank gone wrong, although . . . I can see his point of view. Reluctantly.

  ‘At the same time the landlord was fulminating – good word, fulminating; don’t think I’ve ever had cause to use it before – while Mr Jason . . . Would you mind turning that tape recorder off for a moment? Thank you. I was going to say something I’d rather you didn’t put on tape. You see, Mr Jason used a sharp knife to free Jeremy . . . A knife which I assume he fetched for that purpose from his café, although . . .’

  The inspector picked up on that one. ‘You think he might normally carry a knife, but in this case you’re not prepared to swear to its existence, since he used it to free your friend?’

  Bea was pleased with the way the inspector had interpreted the situation. ‘That’s about it. The policeman wanted to charge Jason with carrying a knife, so we – that is Piers and myself – denied we’d ever seen one, and I expect you would have done so, too, in our shoes. If you visit Mr Jason, I suppose he might not be all that cooperative if you start by asking him about knives. You understand that we couldn’t have got Jeremy out of the sack without his help, and the paramedics say that the prompt treatment with water saved Jeremy hours of agony.’

  ‘And if Jason does habitually carry a knife, then that might be another reason why he was so eager to go off with the sack. Getting rid of the evidence, so to speak.’

  ‘Would he go so far as that?’ Bea considered the question and shook her head. ‘I suppose he might, yes. He gave the impression of finding the whole situation one big laugh. Oh dear. How difficult for you.’

  ‘That’s life,’ said the inspector, sounding depressed. ‘Now, I’m turning the recorder back on again, so be careful what you say. The officer reported that he took a statement from a man called Landis, whoever he may be—’

  ‘The landlord of Jeremy’s flat. The place that was trashed by . . . whoever.’

  ‘You say it wasn’t trashed by Jeremy. Who do you think did it? The men who were trying to kidnap him?’

  ‘Well, it makes sense. They were definitely lying in wait for Jeremy, who’d been lured there by a phone call from the landlord. Did you say his name was Landis?’

  ‘Don’t rely on the spelling.’

  Bea found a tin of anchovies and a packet of pepperoni. ‘It occurs to me, and I’m sure to you, too, to wonder how the gang knew Jeremy was going to be there.’

  ‘And how do you think they knew it?’

  ‘I have a horrid sinking feeling that it must be through Mr Jason. I can’t see any other point of contact. He’s a chatty soul, Mr Jason. I can see him leaning on his counter, gossiping away about the man upstairs being accused of killing a girl, and then relaying the news that his flat had been trashed, and gracious me! the landlord’s coming round this evening to have it out with him, and won’t that be a scene and a half ! His customers would come in for the latest instalment in the soap opera, treat themselves to coffee and a snack, and a good time would be had by one and all. There need not be any ulterior motive in Jason passing on information about what was happening.’

  ‘Taking that one step further, and presuming that you did indeed see a third man kill the driver of the van – then how did the killer know that Jeremy and the two members of the gang were going to be there? And don’t tell me it was an entirely unrelated coincidence.’

  ‘Mm. What’s wrong with both Mr Toupee and the killer popping into the café for a latte and the latest news? Or even giving Mr Jason a ring for an update? I suspect that one would sell news of his granny for a fiver.’

  ‘I like it. Any more coffee in that jug?’

  She poured him some. ‘Taking it one step further, why does this other man want to kill the driver of the van?’

  Silence. They both frowned into space.

  She said, ‘I do know why Mr Toupee was after Jeremy, if that’s any help. He said it was because Jeremy had killed Josie. I pointed out that his colleague was being killed while Mr Toupee was holding Jeremy down inside the van . . . so he does now realize that Jeremy isn’t his only problem . . . which is good news for Jeremy. Presumably, there won’t be any more attempts to kidnap and kill him.’

  ‘If you’re right – and I suspect you are – it means that there’s a third party, or parties unknown, who are also on the warpath. Why?’

  ‘Do you think it’s possible that the man who killed the driver also killed Josie?’

  The inspector looked into the bottom of his empty mug. ‘Well, we know it wasn’t Jeremy who killed Josie; he’s not tall enough, and he has an alibi.’

  ‘And if you can imagine him working through an accomplice – well, I can’t.’

  ‘So who else . . .?’

  Bea sat on the nearest stool, still holding the pepperoni and the anchovies. ‘I’ve heard some gossip recently about a gang – though it might not be the same one – that has been playing the Badger Game. They target older, wealthy men with something to lose, using a pretty girl who might well have been Josie. She sets the men up in a compromising situation, the photographer snaps away, and the victims pay up rather than own up. Mostly. Some didn’t.’

  ‘Names, addresses?’

  She shook her head, thinking how much trouble Piers would be in if she let the names he’d given her, to the police. Besides, she only had first names to go on: Sir Thomas. Sir Charles. Basil. ‘Sorry . . . Gossip. No names. Sympathetic grins on the part of the men who told me the stories. I can understand why no one wants to give names. Do you think perhaps one of these men has turned on the blackmailers and is killing them all off, one by one, rather than pay up? Starting with Josie . . . and then the driver of the van . . . tho
ugh I suppose we really don’t know for sure if he was part of the gang.’

  ‘He was in the company of the man with the toupee, who I think we can presume is one of the Badgers.’

  ‘Could there be two sets of people going around dishing out crime and punishment? But if so, how on earth are you going to find out who is killing who – and why?’

  ‘You can get me some names and addresses for a start.’

  ‘I suppose I could try, but whether anyone would be prepared to give me a name . . . I’m not sure that they would.’

  ‘Are you obstructing the police in the performance of their duties?’

  Was he serious? Partly.

  She shook her head. ‘Sorry. I can get back to my sources and ask if they’d be prepared to let you have names and addresses, but that’s as far as I can go.’

  He lifted his hands in a gesture of submission. ‘Don’t forget, time’s running out. Two dead – so far. How many more?’

  ‘I know.’ She felt miserable about it, but wouldn’t give in.

  He got off his stool. ‘Well, this has all been very pleasant, but I suppose I must interview Mr Waite before I finish for the weekend. Where is he? Still in bed?’

  Bea looked out through the back door. ‘He’s in the garden. He’s not got dressed yet, or eaten anything. He’s in shock, I think.’

  The inspector grimaced, stowed away his little tape recorder, and went down the stairs into the garden. Bea finished putting toppings on the pizzas and made some lentil soup. It wasn’t really the weather for lentil soup, but needs must when there was nothing else available. Once the chicken fillets had thawed, she’d cook them in a good sauce and serve them with mushrooms and rice for the evening meal.

  There was a ‘halloo!’ from the hall. Maggie and Oliver had returned. Oliver appeared in the doorway. ‘We’re going down to put a lock on Maggie’s office door, now. Unless you need us for anything?’

  She didn’t. She told herself how pleasant it was to spend time in the kitchen. She enjoyed it; of course she did. But by the time she’d thrown together and baked another sponge cake, she’d had more than enough of domesticity.