False Pretences (16 page)

She dithered. The agency was doing well. Who did they have on their books who might come in for a day? No particular name jumped into her head. She looked at the clock. Again. Had it stopped? She went close to listen to its tick. No, it hadn't stopped.

She tried to read the newspapers, made some coffee as if this were a normal day. But it wasn't normal, was it? She ought to go downstairs and start work. Instead, she began to pace the floor.

At nine o'clock Maggie cracked and rang the Trust. No reply. Open from nine thirty. Leave a message.

‘I ought to be meeting the electrician in fifteen minutes,' said Maggie. ‘But I can't leave till I know. I'm going to start ringing the hospitals.'

Bea looked at the clock for the hundredth time and nodded. It was better than doing nothing.

The landline rang. Maggie was nearest the phone and snatched it up. She listened, put her hand to her forehead. She said, ‘Yes,' and handed the phone to Bea.

‘Is that Mrs Abbot? This is CID, Kensington police station. We are holding an Oliver Ingram here. He says he's eighteen years old and that you are his next of kin.'

‘Police?' said Bea, trying to keep her head. ‘What's happened? We've been worried sick. Has there been an accident? Is Oliver all right?'

‘Do you confirm that he's eighteen and that you are his next of kin?'

She sat down with a bump ‘Well, yes. Of course. At least . . . Yes to both. But what's going on? What's happened?'

Maggie was crying, both hands over her mouth, eyes imploring Bea to say that this wasn't really happening.

‘There was a fire at a house in North Kensington last night and a fatality, which we are currently investigating.'

‘Not Zander! Tell me Zander's not dead!'

‘You know him as well, do you? No, it's not him. A Mrs Parrot.'

‘Perrot. Her husband was French. That's Zander's landlady. He's very fond of her. Oh dear, he must be devastated. He's not hurt, is he?'

‘No, he's not hurt. This call is just to inform you that we are holding Oliver Ingram, who will be interviewed in the presence of a duty solicitor this morning. Since he is only eighteen, you may wish to be present.'

‘I don't understand. What's he supposed to have done?'

‘He maintains he was with his friend all evening, which may make him an accomplice to murder. Do you know where to find us?'

‘What? That's ridiculous!' She tried to think straight. ‘I'll be there.'

The phone went dead. Bea stared at the receiver in her hand and only put it down when Maggie shook her arm. ‘What's happening? That was the police? Why?'

‘Zander appears to be suspected of some crime or other. Oliver says they were together all evening, so he's implicated in whatever it is that's happened.'

‘That's stupid!'

‘Yes, of course it is.' Bea suddenly woke to consciousness of telephones ringing downstairs in the agency rooms . . . and was that the front doorbell as well?

‘Maggie, can you ring your electrician, put him off? And then cope downstairs for a bit?'

‘I'm coming with you to the police station.'

‘Don't be an idiot.' Bea picked up her handbag and delved into each pocket in turn. Where had she put it? Ah, here it was. Mr Cambridge's card. She dialled his number. It was a landline number, not a mobile. There was no reply. It switched to an answering service. She put the phone down.

‘Maggie; electrician! Phones downstairs!'

Maggie gave a little wail, but obeyed.

Bea dialled the number of the Trust, and this time got through. ‘Is it possible to speak to Lord Murchison?'

A breathless voice replied, ‘Sorry. We're not expecting him in today.' Thames Valley intonation, lacking consonants. Not accepted BBC pronunciation.

‘Major Buckstone?'

‘I really don't know. He might come in, he might not. Sorry, I'm afraid I really can't help you. Could you ring back later when our office manager gets in?'

Ah, but Zander wasn't coming in, was he? Not that Bea was going to say so. Think, Bea! Think! ‘It's really important that I speak to Lord Murchison. My name is Mrs Abbot. I had lunch with the directors on Monday at Lord Murchison's request and returned with him and his friend Mr Cambridge later in the evening. I'm trying to contact him or his friend, and it's rather urgent. Could you perhaps give me Lord Murchison's telephone number?'

‘So sorry. I'm not allowed to do that.'

Bea held on to her patience. ‘I understand. But, it is rather urgent that I speak with him. Could you perhaps ring him yourself and ask him to contact me? That would be all right, wouldn't it?'

‘What's your number?'

Bea gave it, and her mobile number. Then repeated it. Then corrected the girl, who'd got one digit wrong. Put the phone down. Rubbed both eyes.

The phone had stopped downstairs, and now it started up again. Then stopped.

Maggie erupted back into the room, breathless. ‘Miss Brook's arrived. She looks awful, but she says she can cope. Did you get through?'

‘Yes and no. Maggie, you've got a phone number for Mr Cambridge's son, haven't you? Oliver said you spent some time in that house. Wake up, girl. Oliver's friend.'

Maggie nodded like a Mandarin. ‘Of course, of course. Chris. He's a bit weird but nice. They were at school together and now Chris is at uni, but wants to study film-making. I haven't got his mobile number, though, because he's only interested in blondes.'

‘Would Oliver have his mobile number somewhere? Has he a personal address book, either a real one or one on his computer? After all, he's been to their house often enough.'

‘How will that help?'

Bea set her teeth. ‘No one's answering the landline at Mr Cambridge's house; it's switched through to an answerphone. If we can get someone in that household to answer, we may be able to get through to Mr Cambridge. Right?'

‘I'll look, I'll look.' Maggie dithered. ‘Upstairs in his room, do you think? Or down in his office.'

‘You take upstairs, I'll take down.'

Maggie thundered up the stairs, while Bea went down to the agency rooms. Miss Brook was there, with a swollen face but a straight back. The phone was clamped to her ear, and she was busy at her computer. Bea smiled and waved, mimed a ‘sorry' about the toothache, and went through into Oliver's den. She switched his computer on, hoping he hadn't put in so many safeguards that she wouldn't be able to access any information. Ah, yes. He had. Access code required. She typed in the one she used herself and was rewarded by being let in to the system.

She went into email, looked at the address list. She'd never bothered to fill in all the details on her address book in email, but Oliver was the meticulous sort who probably updated his every week.

Yes, there it was. Chris Cambridge, mobile and landline number. And also . . . hurray, an entry for someone called CJ Cambridge. Chris's father? Only a landline number. The landline number was the same as for Chris.

Bea dialled the mobile number for Chris Cambridge. And waited. The phone rang and rang. Pick up, man!

‘Yes?' A hoarse voice. A clearing of the throat.

‘Chris Cambridge? This is Bea Abbot here.'

‘Who?'

‘Oliver's employer and next of kin, apparently.'

‘Next of kin?' Chris's tone sharpened. ‘What's happened? He's not dead, is he?'

‘Far from it. But he is in trouble. I've been trying to ring your father but—'

‘Oh, he never answers the phone nowadays because it's always for me.'

‘And you don't pick up because . . .?'

‘Because anyone important would know my mobile number. What do you want him for?'

‘Oliver's been detained by the police, and they want me to go down there while they interview him. I know your father has some influence—'

‘What? Not pluperfect Oliver. I don't believe it. Anyway, Dad doesn't fix parking tickets.'

‘No, of course not. But, if you could put me through to him? I need his advice.'

‘Oh. Oh, all right. What a laugh! What have they got him for? I can't see old Oliver doing drugs or anything.'

‘Neither can I.'

From subsequent noises, it sounded as if Chris were on the move. Bea hoped his father was up and about and hadn't gone out of the house already. Maggie came storming back down the stairs, shaking her head. ‘Nothing there.'

Bea put her finger to her lips and whispered, ‘It's all right, I've got through to Chris.'

‘What was that?' Chris had overheard and wanted to know.

‘Nothing. Your father is in, isn't he?'

‘Far as I know.' His voice retreated. ‘Hey, Dad. That bird you fancied is on the phone.'

Bea shot upright. What was that Chris said? That Mr Cambridge fancied her? She didn't know whether to laugh or cry, but she had no time to do either.

‘Mrs Abbot?' Mr Cambridge, sounding surprised to hear from her.

‘Sorry, sorry, but I couldn't think who else to call for advice. Oliver's been held overnight by the Kensington police, and they're talking about his being an accomplice to murder. It seems Zander's landlady has been killed and . . . You do remember who Zander is, don't you? The Trust's office manager.'

‘The whistle-blower. Yes.'

Bea wanted to panic, to scream and run around like a headless chicken. She forced herself to keep to the point. ‘If I've understood correctly, the police suspect Zander killed his landlady and set fire to the place. Oliver is saying he was with Zander all evening, so they believe he was an accomplice to her murder.'

‘When was all this supposed to happen?'

‘Last night sometime? I don't know when. I know Oliver went out to meet Zander, and I thought they wanted to have another look at Denzil's computer, but now . . . I don't know what to think. They want me to go down to the station, to be present when he's questioned. Of course I'm going, but I've no experience of these things. Could you advise me?'

Silence.

Bea grimaced. Avoided Maggie's pleading eyes. ‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘I realize this is asking a lot of you. I had no right to ask. I'll get down there and see what's going on.'

‘What appallingly bad luck. I promised Tommy there'd be no repercussions, so this is going to be the devil to unsnarl. The boys were sworn to secrecy. Do you think they'll stand firm under questioning? We really don't want this coming out.'

‘You mean you got them to look at the computer, but it's important to the Trust that whatever they found is not going to be leaked to the press? Well, it may be important to the Trust, but if they're not able to give an alibi, I'm not sure how long they ought to keep quiet, and I shall tell them so if I get a chance.'

‘How will Oliver stand up to questioning? He's only a boy.'

‘But an unusual one, wouldn't you say? I think he'll stand firm – if he knows you're going to come to his rescue.'

A sigh. ‘Well, Mrs Abbot, I'll see what I can do, but in the meantime get down there and tell the boy I'm working on it.' He put down the phone, and so did Bea.

Maggie had crouched down by her side, trying to hear what was said on the phone. ‘Well? He's going to help, isn't he?'

Bea told herself to keep calm, took a deep breath. ‘He says I've got to get down to the police station and tell Oliver that he's working on it. So that's what I'd better do.' She felt tears threaten. ‘Maggie, he's given my name as next of kin.'

‘So he should. I would too, if I were in a fix.'

Bea cast her eyes around the office. Her answerphone light was blinking. There were emails piling up on the computer. But, she must go to Oliver. ‘Maggie; Lord Murchison will probably ring to speak to me. Will you tell him what's happened? Meanwhile, can you and Miss Brook keep the agency going?'

‘You can't expect me to work while this is going on!'

‘Yes, Maggie. I do expect it. Because if it turns out we have to pay for solicitors to defend Oliver, then we're going to need lots of money. And poor Miss Brook; she didn't look fit to be at work. I must have a word with her, see if we can arrange to get someone in to help. And then I'll go down to the station.'

The desk sergeant sniffed. He wasn't sniffing at Bea particularly. The sniff might be a habit he'd fallen into, or it might be that he was going down with, or had just got over, a bad cold. Either way, it drove Bea crazy.

‘You say you're his next of kin?'

‘Yes.' Look him in the eye, dare him to point out the difference in skin colour. She'd discussed adopting Oliver some time ago, anyway. Not that he'd been keen, then.

‘Proof of identity?'

She produced driving licence, bank cards.

‘And he's still only eighteen?'

‘Nineteen in August.'

‘Address?'

She gave it.

Sniff. ‘If you'll wait over there.'

A hard chair. She took out her mobile phone to check how Maggie was doing, and the desk sergeant pointed to a sign which said ‘No Mobile Phones'. And sniffed.

She waited. And prayed as hard as she could.
Dear Lord above.
And didn't know what other words to use.
Dear Lord, help.
She repeated the words over and over.