False Report

by Veronica Heley

  Bea thought: memo to self. Must get a lockable door put in at the bottom of the stairs.

  Mr Butcher was patting his forehead and neck with a handkerchief. He looked as if he spent more time in front of a mirror than working out at a gym. He glanced from one to the other of the two women and did a double-take. ‘Which one’s which? Why are there two of them? What’s going on here?’

  ‘That’s what I’m just about to find out,’ said the leader of the pack. ‘This one is Mrs Abbot, the one you wanted to do business with. That one over there is the cause of all our problems. Want to take a turn at getting the information out of her?’

  Mr Butcher was not up for confrontation, and he stayed where he was. It looked to Bea as if he were giving at the knees. His fingers strayed to his mouth. Not a man used to physical violence . . . but none the less dangerous. ‘Has she got my file? Where’s Waite? You said he’d be here. You said we could use him as a scapegoat, so where is he?’

  ‘That’s what I’m about to find out,’ said Mr Cigar. ‘Want to watch? It won’t be pretty, but one of them will tell me in the end.’

  Jason shook his ponderous head. ‘I went right through everything at her flat, including her car. She’d cleaned the place out. No files. She must have everything on her laptop. I watched her leave with it. She had it with her on the tube.’

  Mr Butcher approached Ms Butt, making an effort to play the part of a bully. ‘What have you done with my file, eh? Tell me, or it will be the worse for you!’

  Ms Butt stared straight ahead, ignoring him. The woman had courage.

  Bea knew where the woman’s handbag and carry-on was, but she hadn’t seen the laptop. She had every confidence in Angie’s ability. If the woman had dropped it off somewhere – perhaps put it into storage overnight? – it was not going to be found easily.

  How long before the cavalry arrived?

  Mr Butcher bit his thumbnail, dancing on his toes with impatience. ‘Make her tell! Time’s running out! I thought we’d be ready to move out by now. It’s dark enough, isn’t it? Find Waite, fill them all up with gin, take them for a drive in the car and set it alight somewhere . . . then he’ll be blamed for everything. But we’ve got to have those files first.’

  Bea repressed a shudder.

  Someone opened the front door and cried out, ‘Halloo! It’s me!’

  Bea shivered. Which of her men had walked into the trap?

  ‘Hello, hello.’ Max appeared in the doorway, a bottle of wine in his hand. He’d obviously dined well. Perhaps too well. He was flushed and happily smiling. ‘I’d recognize the scent of that cigar of yours anywhere, Charles. Didn’t realize you knew my mother. How are you?’ He stood in the doorway, looking owlishly around. ‘You having a party, Mother?’

  The three conspirators froze.

  At long last, nee-nah, nee-nah. The cavalry had arrived.

  The Fire Brigade, to be exact.

  They’d have to double-park, which would stall all the traffic.

  Jason made for the front window. ‘They’ve stopped right outside. There’s no way out back through the garden, is there? What do we do now?’

  ‘Keep calm.’ Mr Cigar, aka Sir Charles, was holding on to his temper. Just. ‘It won’t be for us. They’ll go away in a minute.’

  Max waved his bottle around. ‘Did the fire start up again, Mother?’

  Bea said, ‘Don’t you ever listen to your phone messages?’

  The front doorbell pealed and was pushed open. Heavy footsteps came tramping through the hall. ‘Hello, there? In trouble again, I hear?’

  ‘Come in!’ cried Bea.

  The chief fireman and one of his men filled the doorway with their bulk.

  Bea pointed to Sir Charles. ‘It was he who set the fire earlier. And his accomplices. No, not the one flourishing a bottle. That’s my son.’

  Sir Charles gaped at the newcomers. Bea could almost see the thoughts thundering through his head. He’d recognized Max, as Max had recognized him. He’d attacked Bea, the householder. Jeremy was nowhere to be seen.

  The game was up.

  She could see his shoulders bunch. He hurled himself at the doorway, in a desperate attempt to get past the firemen and escape.

  ‘Hang about!’ The firemen caught him and held him fast.

  Mr Butcher sank into a chair. Was he going to burst into tears?

  A scrape and a shout. Jason had jumped out of the front window, not realizing or not remembering the drop below.

  Aaaargh. A nice, long, juicy scream. He’d hurt himself. What a shame!

  Shouts from below as the other members of the fire brigade went to Jason’s rescue.

  Max was trying to shadow-box. Yes, he’d had far too much to drink, hadn’t he? ‘Where . . .? Who . . .? What’s going on here?’

  Freed from constraint, Bea pushed herself to her feet. She was trembling but able to function, after a fashion. Max was more than half seas over, waving his bottle around. She took the bottle off him and pushed him towards the settee. He collapsed, eyes at half mast.

  Sir Charles was trying to fight his way out of the firemen’s grip. Not that it would do him any good. With Max’s identification, he must have realized any possible parliamentary career was over. But he was not the sort to give in easily, and he seemed determined to fight his way out of the situation. He threw himself forwards, and then back, dragging the firemen with him.

  Out of the corner of her eye Bea saw a caramel-coloured skirt flick out through the French windows at the back of the room and disappear on to the balcony. Annie could retrieve her belongings but couldn’t go any further for there was no back way out of the garden in a terraced house.

  A scream. Sir Charles sank his teeth into the fireman’s hand on his arm. The man yelled and released his grip. Sir Charles turned on the second fireman and kicked him where it would hurt most.

  Sir Charles swayed, mouth bloodied. The way to the door and freedom was clear.

  Bea said, ‘Oh, really!’ She shifted her grip on the bottle of wine in her hand and swung at Sir Charles’s jaw with all her might. Thunk!

  His eyes rolled up in his head, and he staggered back against the wall, toppling an occasional table on the way. Which smashed. What a pity. It had been her long-dead mother’s.

  Bea stood over him with the bottle raised for one more strike. ‘Just give me an excuse and I’ll smash your nose in! For Josie, and Philip James, and John O’Dare.’

  As the two firemen gasped, Oliver came through the door, not a hair out of place. ‘I see you’ve managed without me. I rang for an ambulance, as Mr Jason appears to have broken both his legs. Oh, and the police, too. Is that your killer? DI Durrell will be delighted, won’t he?’

  Bea grinned. Good for you, Oliver. At least you had the sense to interpret my phone message and act on it. And I didn’t break my promise to Ms Butt about calling the police.

  ‘Hello, hello? What’s going on here?’

  Jeremy? Whatever was he doing here?

  Piers had also arrived and was looking over Jeremy’s shoulder. ‘Never a dull moment. Bea, are you all right? We were both hungry, and Jeremy remembered Maggie had made him some sandwiches but he’d forgotten to pick them up, so we thought we might pop along and see if they were still going. Do I recognize . . .? Sir Charles?’ Piers’ voice tailed away. ‘Oh, so the rumours about his extra-curricular activities were true, were they? Bea, we’ll catch up with you later. Jeremy, we’re not needed here. Let’s get out to the kitchen and see what we can find to eat.’

  This was all TOO MUCH. Bea sagged against the wall, and then shot upright. For where was Maggie? ‘Oliver, where’s Maggie?’

  ‘Didn’t she tell you? She rang a friend while you were showing our visitor how to work the telly and arranged to go out to the cinema with him.’

  ‘But she’s turned off her mobile!’

  ‘Her friend insists that she does, whenever they go to the pictures.’

  Thank you, God. Thank you.

  Mr B
utcher sobbed into his hands. He was no help at all, was he! A man of straw, who would give away Sir Charles to the police as soon as pressure was put upon him.

  The chief fireman got to his feet with care, panting. His mate was groaning, holding on to his hand, which was dripping blood on to the carpet.

  Bea was annoyed. Blood on the carpet . . . she could do without that!

  Monday night to Tuesday morning

  It was a long night.

  Explanations.

  Cups of tea. Sandwiches.

  DI Durrell arrived, heavy-eyed but sharp of brain. He summoned more police.

  Everyone else became heavy-eyed from lack of sleep.

  Sir Charles was taken off in an ambulance with a police guard. A different ambulance took Mr Jason and his broken leg away; also under police guard. They fitted the fireman with his bitten hand in with them. Mr Butcher was arrested and removed by the police.

  Statements. The rest of the firemen removed themselves.

  Maggie returned, bright-eyed, from the cinema, to order pizzas all round. Max snored peacefully on the settee in the sitting room. Bea found a spare duvet and covered him with it.

  The police finally departed. Oliver and Maggie went up to bed in their own rooms. Jeremy returned to the spare room. Piers insisted on dossing down on the new Put-U-Up on the top floor.

  Finally, the house was quiet. Bea looked at the chaos in the sitting room and decided she would think about all that on the morrow. Max snored peacefully away.

  Dawn was breaking, not with a crash, but a sly peep over the horizon. Bea made sure all the windows and doors were shut and locked.

  She went down the stairs to the agency rooms, which were grey and full of shadows. She turned off the light in her office, opened the curtains, unlocked and drew back the grille and opened the French windows on to the garden.

  It must have been a long, tense wait in the garden for Annie Butt, but she didn’t show herself at once.

  Bea yawned widely, remarked that she needed to freshen up, and made her way back through her office and the main room to the cloakroom at the street end of the house. There she had a good wash and brush up.

  Did she hear someone leave by the agency front door? Perhaps. She certainly wasn’t going to look.

  She consulted her watch. Too late to go to bed.

  She returned to her office and there on her desk were a strange memory stick and a tiny coil from a recording machine.

  Somewhere on the journey from her flat to Bea’s house, Annie had got rid of her laptop. She’d probably stashed it in a locker at a station somewhere, so that she could retrieve it later. But just in case she lost it, she’d backed up everything on memory sticks, which could be conveniently stowed in her handbag, or tucked into the tip of a shoe in her carry-on case.

  So now she’d made Bea a present of the information she needed. Annie Butt paid her dues, didn’t she?

  Bea started up her computer and fed in the material on the memory stick. Good. Four files: on Sir Charles, Mr Butcher, Jeremy Waite and Eunice Barrow. Photographs of meetings, photographs of lots of crisp fifty pound notes in sequence, fresh from the bank and therefore traceable back to source. Nicely done.

  Bea set the printer going and found some plastic folders to put the evidence in.

  She played the tape. Recognizable voices, Ms Butt’s taking enquiries about framing a woman’s husband for divorce. The other woman on the tape must be Eunice Barrow. Good.

  DI Durrell would be pleased.

  She walked out into the garden. A slight breeze stirred the air. Perhaps it would not be quite so hot tomorrow . . . today.

  Five o’clock and the birds were singing their hearts out. Fly away, Nance or Annie or whatever your name may be. Fly away. And hopefully start a new life in another country in some profession which doesn’t involve entrapment and blackmail.

  At six o’clock Bea left her bedroom, having showered, made herself up and put on clean clothes.

  Max was still snoring. She could hear him from the landing. She didn’t disturb him. She woke Jeremy and told him to report downstairs in ten minutes.

  Oliver, who slept as lightly as a cat, joined them in the kitchen, where Bea was making some strong black coffee. ‘What’s up?’

  She handed Jeremy the folders containing the information Ms Butt had left for him. He looked at its contents and winced.

  She said, ‘If you can find your house keys, Jeremy, we’re going to pay a visit to Eunice now, before breakfast. With any luck we’ll catch her off balance. I’m taking my little recorder and a camera along, just in case. I don’t suppose she’s at her best much before nine in the morning, is she?’

  Jeremy was hollow-eyed. ‘Neither am I. I’m not sure I can do this.’

  ‘Celia would like to live in your house, wouldn’t she?’ It was a master stroke, because he knew, and Bea knew, that Celia would love it.

  Oliver said, ‘I’ll drive.’

  At seven o’clock Oliver turned the car into the driveway of a spacious, five-bedroomed house in a quiet, leafy street less than a mile away. Jeremy used his keys to let them into a large, square hall.

  A clock ticked. A man’s jacket hung over the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. An alarm clock went off upstairs. A radio came on. A man who looked to be in his late thirties – someone who worked out a lot to judge by his physique – came out of a bedroom on the first floor, yawning. Bea turned her little recorder on and got her camera ready. Goodie, goodie. She hadn’t expected the lover to be on the premises, so this was a bonus.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Jeremy. ‘Remember me?’

  The man gaped. ‘What . . .? How did you . . .?’

  A dishevelled fortyish blonde wearing a hip-length nightie came out on to the landing and drew in her breath. ‘But you’re supposed to be . . . How come you’re not . . .?’

  ‘Dead?’ said Jeremy. ‘Not everyone’s wishes come true. Does your new lover there know what you’ve been up to?’

  Bea gleefully snapped the pair of them with her little camera.

  The toy boy – well, he looked too young to be a match for Eunice – didn’t know what to make of this. ‘What? Who . . . Eunice? What’s going on? You told me Jeremy was wanted by the police for murder.’

  ‘Far from it,’ said Jeremy. ‘I have been helping them solve a couple of murders, though. Eunice is implicated in at least one of them.’

  ‘No!’ Eunice wasn’t going to cave in without a fight. ‘It’s not true. He’s making it all up. He was sacked by his school for interfering with an under-age girl, here, under my very roof !’

  ‘I’ve been cleared of all that. And it’s under my very roof,’ said Jeremy. ‘Not yours. Remember our prenuptial agreement? You didn’t want me making any claims on you, and I’m not going to do so. Likewise you can’t make any claims on me. I’m back now, and I’m staying. So take your lover and your daughter, pack what you can and get out. I’ll send the rest on.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous! The law is on my side and—’

  ‘Mr Butcher, Sir Charles and Mr Jason are now in custody and will be charged today with various offences, including murder. Sir Charles is not talking, but Mr Butcher is very vocal, especially about how he met you at a society function and exchanged confidences about this and that. He doesn’t want to go down for murder, you see, whereas Sir Charles definitely will. Besides which, Ms Butt recorded all the details of your attempts to frame me for having sex with Josie.’

  ‘Eunice, tell me it’s not true!’

  ‘Idiot! Don’t you see he’s trying to scare you? Well, I don’t scare that easily.’

  ‘I suggest you get some clothes on and start packing. Oh, and while you’re at it, you’d better wake Clarissa and tell her to start packing, too. And if she’s still got the keys to my car, she’d better let me have them. Now!’

  Bea was full of admiration. She hadn’t thought the little man had so much steel in him. Then she remembered that he’d risen to the occasion s
urprisingly well on various occasions recently.

  She wondered if there was plenty of food in the house, because he’d undoubtedly need feeding when he was through with his display as Master of the House.

  She’d better remind him to get a locksmith to change the locks on his doors, too, before Eunice thought of it. And to change the locks at her place, too. A woman’s work was never done . . .

  TWENTY

  Tuesday morning

  DI Durrell wandered in, saying, ‘I understand you’ve been collecting criminal cases for me to look at, but I’m not to ask how you came by them?’

  ‘Ask me no questions,’ said Bea, beyond exhaustion, ‘and I’ll tell you no lies. Or rather, I’ll tell you in confidence if you like, but I’m not doing so officially.’

  ‘Annie Kelly, I assume?’

  ‘Who? What . . .? Is that the name of the woman who masterminded the Badgers? I’ve never known what to call her.’

  ‘You told me the actor was killed in the foyer of her flats. Under the circumstances it was easy to find a body which matched. It was the man you called Mr Toupee. Shocked residents identified him as one Philip Kelly, who lived in a flat on the top floor with his sister Annie and their niece Josie. Annie Kelly was supposed to be some kind of businesswoman, as she seems to have kept office hours and held the lease to the flat. Neighbours say she occasionally invited one of her numerous family to live with them for a while. The place has been swept clean, no paperwork, no computers, no cameras. No sign of any pretty young girl, either. Presumably Annie Kelly told their latest protégée to make herself scarce when “uncle” was found dead.’

  ‘Not real relations, were they?’

  ‘It seems Annie and Philip were brother and sister, yes. Josie was their niece, or second cousin, can’t be sure which as yet. The other girl . . . probably not.’

  ‘Annie Kelly.’ Bea tested the name out. ‘It suits her.’

  ‘So what have you got for me?’

  ‘The files Annie left for me. They’re downstairs in my office, under lock and key. Care for some coffee? And I think there’s still some biscuits in the tin now Jeremy’s left us.’