CHAPTER ONE
Bea Abbot ran a domestic agency which didn’t ‘do’murder –
except that every now and then she found herself dealing
with just that. At sixty years of age, she thought she ought
to take it easy and let her two young protégés handle
routine cases, but what might be routine to some could be
murder to others.
Thursday evening
He told her the moment he got back. Scrambling down from
his Range Rover, he confessed the lot, admitted he’d been
found out. Perhaps, if she hadn’t that minute returned from
decimating the rabbit population, she wouldn’t have thought
of scaring him with the shotgun. But this latest mistake of
his, added to his recent shenanigans, was too much.
She aimed at his head.
‘No, no! Honoria, no! I was ever so careful, I swear!’ A
scream. ‘No, please! No one knows that it was you who . . .
Where’s my medication?’
He dived into one pocket after another but in his panic only
succeeded in scattering keys, cash and the all-important
pills on the ground around him.
She booted the pills beyond his reach.
He collapsed, clutching at his heart. Tried to speak.
Something about having left messages on his computer? She
lowered the shotgun to watch him die.
A week later, Friday afternoon
Bea couldn’t concentrate.
Sometimes she could go for a whole day and not think about
Hamilton. For whole weeks at a time, she was able – just –
to live with the fact that she’d never see him again. And
then, wham! Down she went.
She stared at the email on her computer screen, trying to
make sense of it. Her phone was ringing. She could hear it
but couldn’t make herself respond.
Stop work? Walk away from it all?
No, she couldn’t. This was a working day, and if she didn’t
work, she couldn’t pay her two assistants’ wages, or keep
the house going. So work she must. Only, she couldn’t
concentrate. She considered a crying bout and decided
against it. Tears didn’t help; they only gave her a
headache. Friends were no help, either. They said, ‘How well
you’re coping. But of course you’ve always been strong.’
Aren’t strong women occasionally allowed a day off on which
to weep?
No tears allowed in working hours. She got up, needing to
move, trying to shift the depression that threatened to
overwhelm her. She checked the collar of her plain white
shirt in the mirror and saw that she was now looking every
day of her sixty years. All the care she’d taken to have her
ash-blonde hair cut in a becoming style, and her still fine
‘eagle’ eyes, couldn’t disguise the fact that she was over
the hill.
The phone stopped ringing. And started again.
She put both hands over her eyes, and then moved them to her
ears, trying to block out the sound.
It was no good. She would have to take some time off. She
walked out of her office through French windows into the
seclusion of the back garden. Wrestling a reclining chair
into the shade under the sycamore tree, she collapsed on to it.
It was very warm. Almost too hot. She told herself there
were only so many days in the year when the sun shone in a
blue sky, unhindered by cloud, and that she should make an
effort to enjoy it. She told herself to count her blessings,
and couldn’t. In her head she knew that she had much to be
thankful for, but in her heart . . . ah, that was where the
trouble lay. She wriggled her toes free of her sandals and
ordered herself to lie back, close her eyes and let the
world go hang itself.
Only, as soon as she cleared her mind of one worry, another
leaped into its place. At least there was no rain forecast,
which was a blessing since she wasn’t at all happy about the
guttering at the top of the house. Neither of her live-in
assistants had complained about the drip-drip tack-tack
noise outside their rooms when it rained, but Bea could hear
it in her bedroom immediately below them, and she knew that
some time soon the guttering would have to be replaced. At
enormous cost, no doubt.
Then she was expecting a phone call from Max, her
selfimportant Member of Parliament son. Had she really
promised to go with him to a ‘do’ that evening?
Unfortunately his wife was heavily pregnant, and Max had
asked Bea to substitute at some important political function
or other. Boring, boring. Bea wasn’t looking forward to it.
There wasn’t anything much she did look forward to nowadays.
An angry exchange of words streamed out of the French
windows from her office.
What were the youngsters doing in there, anyway? Computer
geek Oliver had his own office beyond Bea’s, while Maggie
was supposed to be in reception at the front of the house.
A crash. Bea’s eyes flew open.
Maggie had dropped something? Maggie could be clumsy and,
when upset, she did tend to throw objects as well as words.
Silence.
Bea was not fooled. Something had happened indoors,
something that had caused Oliver and Maggie to have a
shouting match. Except that eighteen-year-old Oliver did not
shout.
That wasn’t his style.
Prompt on cue, Oliver appeared in the doorway; all
brighteyed intelligence. His hands were raised to his
shoulders in apology. ‘Sorry, Mrs Abbot. Maggie says you
won’t want to know, but I said you should decide for yourself.’
Bea’s eyes went beyond Oliver to where another man of mixed
race stood, holding a large cardboard box. A man perhaps ten
years older than Oliver and several inches taller, a
handsome man with a warm brown skin. Bea had never met him
but knew immediately who he was: Zander, short for
Alexander. Trouble.
‘Mrs Abbot. I must apologize for intruding without an
appointment. Could you spare me ten minutes? I’ve been
responsible for a man’s death, and I need help.’
His voice was pure chocolate cream. Maggie had gone
overboard for this man last year, and had then taken fright
and run away from him as fast as she could. Maggie wouldn’t
want him in her life again. Zander knew that, of course. So
it must be something important which had brought him here
today.
Bea closed her eyes, hoping she’d been dreaming. Knew she
hadn’t been. She pulled herself more or less upright. ‘Take
a seat,’ she said, indicating a folded-up chair nearby. She
realized she hadn’t anything on her feet and wondered
vaguely what had happened to her sandals.
Zander set the box down on the flagstones, pulled up the
second chair, opened it out and set it down nearby with a
mastery over inanimate objects which Bea was forced to admire.
He seemed to have recovered well from the beating which an
erstwhile colleague had inflicted on him. And the knifing,
too. Maggie had said he was shaven-headed, but he’d allowed
his hair to grow since then, possibly to cover his scars?
Oliver shrugged and padded back into the house, while from a
first-floor window came the sound of pots and pans being
crashed around. Maggie had retreated to the kitchen and was
making her displeasure felt.
Her visitor also looked up at the kitchen. He laughed, a
little self-conscious, oozing charm. ‘I didn’t mean to upset
Maggie.’
Bea felt and sounded sour. ‘But you wouldn’t let a little
thing like her being upset stand in your way?’
He looked down at his hands. Big hands, well shaped. ‘I did
consider it, but you are the only person I could think of
who might help me. I know Maggie often works out of the
office. She might not have been here today. I decided to
risk it.’
Her eyes went to the cardboard box. Something picked up from
a supermarket? Not new.
He pulled open a flap and withdrew a bronze figurine of a
dancer which he placed on the flagstones beside her chair.
‘Signed. French. Art deco. Worth a bit.’
She touched it with her fingertip. Smooth and classy, like
him. ‘Stolen?’
‘Now why would you think that?’
They both smiled, for it was his innocent involvement in
some stolen art treasures which had landed him in hospital
and his assailant in a coffin.
‘No, not stolen. But not mine, either.’ He delved into the
box again, and one by one he withdrew and placed on the
table: a silver photograph frame, a gold pen, a leather
diary, a Thermos flask and some other bits and pieces which
must have cost someone a small fortune. The collection was
the sort of thing which might normally be found on an
executive’s desk.
Bea’s eyebrows rose higher. ‘Not yours, and not stolen?’ He
sighed. ‘I need a witness, someone impartial but with a
sharp mind, to go with me when I return these things to the
dead man’s widow.’
‘The man whose death you brought about?’
He winced. From above came a burst of music. Maggie had
turned on the radio. And the television too, probably.
Maggie liked noise.
‘All right, you’ve earned yourself an interview. Let’s
adjourn to my office so that I can take some notes. If I can
find my sandals.’
He retrieved her sandals, and she eased her feet into them.
He packed everything back into the box and followed her into
her office, which was shady but still rather too warm on
that fine summer’s day. She switched on the fan.
Seating herself behind the big desk that had once been her
husband’s, Bea drew a pad of paper and a pen towards her and
waited for him to start.
‘When I left hospital,’ he said, looking out of the window
and not at her, ‘I found my balance had gone. Not my
physical balance – that came back quickly enough – but my
ability to live on the surface of life. I looked at myself
in the mirror and realized that, though I wore the same
clothes, I was no longer the same man.’
Bea nodded. A near death experience can do that to you.
‘Money and sex, that’s all my friends talked about. They
expected me to join them in the usual round of parties and
pub visits. I couldn’t. I rang Maggie a couple of times, but
she didn’t want to know. Oliver intercepted my last call to
her. He was kind enough to meet me at the pub and try to
explain how she felt. I understood she wasn’t ready to see
me again yet and left her alone.’
He hadn’t understood, of course. His forehead creased when
he spoke her name. But this was not the time to try to
explain Maggie’s complicated love life.
‘I’d lost my enthusiasm for my old job, couldn’t see the
point of updating websites to sell expensive trivia any
more. I gave my notice in at work, moved to a room in an
elderly lady’s house. It’s quiet there. Healing. And I can
make her life easier by doing odd jobs, mowing the lawn,
changing light bulbs, that sort of thing. It seemed to me
that if I’d been given my life back again I should try to do
something useful with it. Someone at church told me of a
temporary job that—’
‘Which church? St Mary Abbots?’This was her local church and
the one her husband had loved.
‘Er, no. That’s a bit – elaborate – I suppose you could say.
Beautiful but dark. No, I go to St Philip’s. Do you know it?
It’s not so fashionable, of course, but I found it friendly
and they’ve a beautiful garden. Anyway, I applied for the
job and got it. It was for the Tudor Trust. Have you ever
heard of it? It’s a charitable housing trust, very old
established, very respectable. They wanted someone to create
a website for them. I’d hardly started when the
receptionist-cum-office-manager left in a flurry of hissed
accusations and red faces. There was no one to answer the
phone, so I did, and somehow I slid into taking over most of
her work. They were pleased with me and asked if I would
stay on till they could reorganize the office. I found out
later that that was just an excuse. They hadn’t employed
anyone of mixed race before, and though some of them thought
it was the right thing to do, others took time to come round
to it.’ His tone was ironic; he’d dealt with slurs about his
background before.
‘The Trust was set up in the nineteenth century when some
well-to-do members of the aristocracy built blocks of flats
in the City to house deserving cases. They have an office
down there to assess applications, collect rents, deal with
everyday maintenance, but the headquarters is in an
early-Victorian house overlooking Kensington Gardens and
that’s where I work. It’s all very old-fashioned and upright
and well meaning. I liked the feeling that I was working
with good people, helping to make other people’s lives a bit
easier.’
He stopped, his eyes flickering over Bea, into the garden,
back to his fingers, and up again.
She prompted him. ‘It was your personal Garden of Eden. How
long did it take you to realize there was a snake in the
undergrowth?’
‘Months. I didn’t want to see the problems. I soon got to
grips with the office manager’s job in addition to handling
the website, and they made the post permanent. Yes, I was
naive, but so were most of the board. Do you know, only one
of the directors has ever had any business training, and the
only one who has an enquiring mind is the oldest of them all
and the frailest? The directors were all born with silver
spoons in their mouths. They treat the premises like a club,
come in for lunch most days – which does cost a lot, but
they regard it as their perk – and only a few actually put
in some time for the Trust.
‘They don’t take a salary; they’re entitled to an honorarium
and expenses, but not all of them take even that. When one
director retires or dies, someone of similar background is
suggested to take their place. Noblesse oblige, they said.
One of them was kind enough to explain it to me.’ A tight
smile. He was probably as well educated as any public school
boy. Bea grunted, all disbelief. ‘So because they were
members of the privileged classes, they did it for love not
money? Untrained? Not a sensible way to run a company. What
happened? No, let me guess. Somebody from the real world
exploded their bubble. Auditors?’
‘Yes. A new man. His father had retired, after having done
their books for some twenty years or more. The son
discovered the Trust was operating at a loss, and being a
trust all the directors were liable to make up for the
losses. He said they must bring in someone to sort it out
immediately. What a tempest that raised! They had never,
ever . . . couldn’t understand, etcetera. Lord Murchison –
he’s the great granddaddy, the one on the wrong side of
ninety – proposed bringing in a grandson of his to retrench,
reorganize and resurrect. But this young man – who’s in his
fifties, by the way – wouldn’t come without an appropriate
salary. It sounded sensible to me, but the proposal split
the directors. They couldn’t believe that a man should want
to be paid to work for a Trust! Unheard of! Obviously not a
pukka wallah.’
Again that tight smile. ‘Some of them really do talk like
that, you know. Unbelievable. Anyway, the board fragmented,
some wanting to bring in their own nominee, some wanting to
wind up the Trust, sell the buildings and be done with it.
The one thing they all wanted to avoid was publicity. I
could see the whole thing dragging on without resolution for
months. Meanwhile, we were haemorrhaging money.
‘So I started to look at the figures myself. My computer was
linked with the one at the office in the City so I could
access all the necessary information. The rents were coming
in OK and were on a par with similar accommodation in that
area. The staff in the offices – that includes those who
manage the day-to-day work of collecting rents, the people
who go out into the field to inspect the properties, and the
ones at head office – are paid at slightly below the going
rate, because they’ve been sold on the idea that it’s a
privilege to work for a Trust. The Trust owns the Kensington
HQ; the rates and utility bills are reasonable. True, if
that building were sold and the Trust moved to a smaller
place in the suburbs they’d save a mint, but the directors
can’t imagine locating to a less prestigious venue.
‘The biggest outgoing – and it’s huge – is on maintenance,
but the Director responsible was always saying that they
need to do more, because elderly buildings need money spent
on them to keep up with today’s Health & Safety
regulations. Fire doors. Lifts. Heating. Rewiring, and so on.
‘I started to look at the cost of maintaining the buildings.
For years the Trust had put all its maintenance work out to
a building contractor called Corcoran & Sons. Recently
Great Granddaddy – Lord Murchison – had suggested
diversifying by splitting the work between Corcorans and
another firm, in which he had shares. Naturally,’ his voice
flattened, ‘they wouldn’t consider using a firm whose
directors they didn’t know personally.’
‘As usual the directors had been divided in their opinion
about using a firm new to the Trust, but he’d overridden
them to arrange for this second firm to rewire one building
while Corcorans rewired another. Both contracts had just
been completed and the invoices received. As part of my job
I opened the post and took the bills through to the
Maintenance Director for checking and payment, and I
happened to notice that one bill was for twice the amount of
the other. For the same work.
‘We are not talking peanuts. The Maintenance Director saw
that I’d spotted the discrepancy and remarked that it was
always better to use good workmen, even if they were more
expensive, rather than those who bodged the job. He sold
that idea to the board, who agreed to continue with
Corcorans, though they did murmur that perhaps they ought to
ask one or two other firms to quote for jobs as well. The
figures burned into my brain. I started to go through
invoices from Corcorans for the past few months. They’d been
charging astronomical sums for changing a couple of light
bulbs. The repair of a door hinge would pay a family’s gas
bill for a quarter.
‘There were a number of small maintenance jobs on hand
waiting for attention. I arranged for half of these jobs to
go to Corcorans as usual, but I asked the firm recommended
by Lord Murchison to attend to the rest. Corcorans came in
at roughly double what the others would have charged.
‘I didn’t know what to do. I’d overstepped the mark, I’d
gone behind the director’s back, and I told myself that if
there really had been anything wrong, someone else would
have spotted it, and that if they continued to ask for
quotes, the scam – if there was a scam – would die a natural
death.’
Bea nodded. She could see how tempting it must have been to
do nothing.
‘Only, the more I played around with the figures, added up a
possible overspend here and there, the more I realized that,
if someone had been fiddling the books, they might have got
away with half a million, maybe more. I assume that
Corcorans had either been greedy and been taking the Trust
for a ride or, perhaps, that someone in the Trust had been
taking a kickback for throwing work their way.’
He braced himself. ‘The only person who could have swung
such a scam was the director in charge of maintenance, who
was on excellent terms with the managing director of
Corcorans, even had him in to lunch once a month. This
particular director bullied the staff and fawned on the
other directors. He referred to me by names that, well, if
I’d wanted to make trouble, meant I could have taken him to
a race tribunal. I told myself it was a cultural thing, that
he’d been brought up to think the British were top dogs, the
Empire lives on, public schools rule OK.’
Bea nodded. Oh yes, she could well believe that Zander would
bend over backwards to avoid being thought prejudiced.
‘Don’t tell me; he was a public school type who wasn’t
trained for the job but thought the world owed him a good
living? Someone with a triple-barrelled name such as
Montgomery-Peniston-Farquahar?’
A dimple appeared on Zander’s cheek. He really was a most
attractive man. ‘You’ve missed something. The title. He’s an
Honourable, and his wife is a Lady. He told me that, if we
ever met, I must call her “Lady Honoria” at first and then
“My lady”.’
‘But in the end you did take your research to the board of
directors. And . . .?’
‘I thought I might be laughed out of court, because the
evidence was all circumstantial. He put up a brilliant
defence. I wondered – I still wonder – if he was more stupid
than sly. I can hear him now, saying that good workmanship
always costs more but is economic in the long run. He
pointed out that he’d given the best years of his life to
the Trust and had never taken a penny more than the
honorarium and expenses which they were all allowed.’
‘What did he live on, if he only took an honorarium from the
Trust?’
‘Stocks and shares, inherited wealth. He said he’d done his
best, had been tearing his hair out trying to make ends
meet, and would of course resign if they wished. I could see
the board of directors thinking that of course he’d meant
well, and if he’d misjudged Corcorans, well, they might have
done the same thing. One of them even started to blame
himself that he hadn’t spotted the problem earlier.’
‘They preferred to think him incompetent rather than
criminal? Hmm. Ignorance is no defence in law, and usually
gets thumped for it.’
‘I could see they were going to close ranks against me and
that I’d be out on the street in no time. So I chanced
everything on one question. I asked if he’d show his bank
statements to Lord Murchison, to prove that he’d not
received any kickbacks from the builders. He collapsed, and
I was sent home. ‘I don’t know what went on after I left,
but that evening he had a heart attack and died. The verdict
of heart failure was accepted with some relief by all and
sundry, and no one uttered a word about people fiddling the
books. ‘Unfortunately his widow is a formidable person. She
said that we’d driven her husband to his grave. She vowed to
sue the Trust for libel, slander and the cost of
dry-cleaning the clothes he died in. The Trust couldn’t
afford to pay her off and couldn’t afford to let it be known
that one of their directors had been accused of
embezzlement. Delegates of directors traipsed out to see his
wife, trying to resolve the situation. Eventually they
succeeded . . . but she’s asked for my head on a platter.’
He flicked a finger at the cardboard box. ‘These are the
personal contents of his office. She’s requested that I take
them out to her, when I understand she’ll decide whether or
not I am to keep my job. The directors wipe sweat off their
brows. Most of them would be happy to see me go in order to
close the books, but one in particular would like to play
fair. He advised me to grovel and said that, if I do get the
sack, he’ll see that I get some kind of pay-off. It’s true
that I do feel responsible for the Honourable Denzil’s
death. If I hadn’t pointed the finger at him he’d probably
still be alive and, even if he was as corrupt as I imagined,
I couldn’t wish death upon anyone.’
‘It’s weighing on your mind?’
He lifted his hand and let it fall. Yes, it was. Bea
remembered now that this man believed in a loving God, that
he attended church and read his Bible. He was a man who
tried to do the right thing in a world which didn’t much
care about right and wrong any more. If it ever had done,
which she thought unlikely.
Bea laced her fingers and leaned her chin on them. ‘What do
you want me to do?’
‘I need backup, someone to come with me when I take this
stuff back to his wife. I need an impartial observer. I
understand that Lady Honoria shared her husband’s view of
people of mixed race, and to be frank I’m not sure how much
more racial abuse I can take. If she starts . . . No, I know
it’s no good losing my temper with her. When I was first
advised to grovel to her, I thought that I’d tell her to get
lost. But I like the job, and I don’t see why she should be
able to get me sacked for what I did. Then I thought that,
if she tried to sack me, I’d say I’d go to an industrial
tribunal and then all her husband’s little ways would come
out into the open. She wouldn’t want that, would she?
Oliver’s told me a lot about you and the problems you’ve
solved for other people. I thought False
Pretences 11 that if anyone could, you might be able to face
her down, point out the law to her.’
And he wasn’t averse to seeing Maggie again. Hmm.
He said, ‘You don’t actually have to pretend to be a
solicitor, but a hint of that might help?’ He produced a
chequebook. ‘Your fee? I’m willing to pay in advance.’
Bea swivelled round to look out of the window. If Zander was
right, and she rather thought he was, then a large-scale
fraud had been perpetrated – and possibly was still
continuing – on the people at the Trust.
Fatigue dragged her down. She simply hadn’t the energy to
help him. In any case, what excuse could she make to
accompany him to see the widow, and what difference could
she make if she did?
It was his own fault that he’d got himself into such a mess.
Such naivety was asking for it.
He exclaimed something, and she turned back to see a slow
tide of red climbing up from his throat to his hairline.
Ouch. Had she spoken her thoughts aloud? ‘Oh. I’m sorry. I
didn’t mean—’
‘Yes, you did. And you’re quite right. I always want to give
people the benefit of the doubt until . . . No, you’re
right. Forgive me. I shouldn’t have come.’
Bea pressed her fingers to her eyelids. Her dear dead
husband had always liked to look for the best in people,
too. Although he’d often been disappointed, he’d always gone
on hoping. But when he’d come across something nasty, he’d
not hesitated to do something about it. So what would he
have done in such a case?
She had a sudden vision of Hamilton wrinkling his nose,
saying, ‘I smell Roquefort!’
Yes, she could smell strong cheese, too.
She said, ‘It was a very timely death, wasn’t it? What were
the circumstances?’
‘I don’t know. I think he got home and just dropped dead.
There’s to be a big funeral and then a memorial service.’
She said, ‘I don’t fancy pretending to be a solicitor,
although I do agree that it might be as well for you to have
a witness when you see her. I suppose I could carry a
briefcase and look professional, but—’
‘That’s all I need. A witness with a cool head.’
‘When do you have to visit her?’
‘Tomorrow at eleven.’ He stood, smiling. ‘The only thing is,
can you drive me? I haven’t a car.’
Friday evening
Honoria contained her rage with an effort. If only Denzil
had been more careful! How often had she told him . . .! And
now look where he’d landed her, having to do battle with the
Trust to keep the manor going. Well, she could do it. Of
course she could. Hadn’t she been the power behind his
throne for ever?
The worst of it was, she’d have to find a replacement for
Corcorans. Sandy thought they could continue as before. More
fool him. On the other hand, it shouldn’t be too difficult
to find another building firm sympathetic to her point of
view, and if Sandy started to be difficult then . . . out
goes he!
First get the practicalities out of the way. The funeral. No
one had queried the death certificate. Dicky heart, natural
causes. She must put in another stint on the phone, advising
people about the funeral. Tiresome, but necessary. At least
no one expected her to act the part of the grieving widow,
since Denzil’s weakness for young girls had been well known.
Honoria grinned. In due course she was going to take her
revenge on the little sluts who’d encouraged him to stray,
but first things first. There would be time for pleasure
once the business end of things had been tied up.
Tomorrow she’d deal with the coffee-flavoured troublemaker.
She didn’t anticipate any difficulty. She’d teach him his
place, and that would be that.