Death Trap (26 page)

Vera looked at her oddly. ‘As a matter of fact I do,' she said. ‘It's a while ago now, but she asked me to go with her to see him. She wasn't very steady on her feet, as you know, but I did wonder why she didn't get her son to take her, but she didn't seem to want to do that. Seemed a bit odd.'

‘Do you know why she wanted to see him?' Kate asked.

‘It was something to do with her will, she said. But she didn't say what. It was nothing to do with me and I didn't ask. I just walked down to Ladbroke Grove with her, and then walked her home again.'

‘You can tell me where to find him, then?' Kate said. ‘I think I need to ask him something.'

‘You're a nosy little cow, aren't you, dear,' Vera said equably. ‘Well, it's Finch and Finch, I think it was one-twenty, somewhere round there, on the left heading towards Holland Park Road. You should find it easily enough, though I shouldn't think they'll tell you anything. Lawyers won't usually talk about their clients, you should know that.'

‘Well, we'll see,' Kate said. ‘Thanks, Vera. I hope I'm wrong about what happened to Cecily, but I don't think I am. Perhaps Finch and Finch will be able to help.'

She followed Vera's directions, pulling her hood even further over her face as she passed Notting Hill police station, but she saw no one of interest and no one seemed the least bit interested in her and she was relieved to find that Finch and Finch were already open and the receptionist in the outer office reasonably friendly.

‘I'm trying to track down the lawyer who looks after Mrs Cecily Beauchamp, or rather the late Mrs Beauchamp. She's died, you know.'

The receptionist looked puzzled. ‘And you are?' she said.

‘My name is Kate O'Donnell. I'm staying in the house she owned in Argyll Gardens, number ninety-five,' Kate said. ‘My friends who are the tenants are worried because we don't really know who our landlord is now. They've been left a bit in the dark over what's happening.'

‘I think our Mr Martin Finch looks after Mrs Beauchamp's affairs, but this is a bit unusual. You don't have an appointment but I'll see if he can have a word with you.' She got up and knocked on one of the office doors leading off the small reception room and came out again quite quickly. ‘He will see you,' she said waving Kate into the office with a puzzled look.

Kate went into the office to find a man in a dark suit and sober tie, middle-aged and florid and clearly not in a good mood.

‘Did you say Mrs Beauchamp has died?' he asked angrily.

‘I'm afraid so,' Kate said. ‘About a week ago. I actually found her body. She had collapsed in the garden and the police were called.'

‘I haven't been informed,' Finch said, his colour even higher. ‘Her son hasn't informed me. It's most irregular, as I hold her will.'

‘If you contact Sergeant Lamb at Notting Hill police station he'll tell you all about it,' Kate said.

Finch made a note on the pad in front of him, his mouth pursed and his eyes angry. He glanced up at Kate again. ‘And you are concerned about the status of the tenants at ninety-five Argyll Gardens, is that it?'

Kate nodded. ‘Mr Miles Beauchamp is selling the house on and has given my friends notice to quit. The new landlord is already in there making plans to renovate the place. It all seems so quick that we wondered about our legal position  . . .' Kate let her voice drop, appealing for sympathy, but what she got in return was even more fury from the choleric Mr Finch.

‘Mr Miles Beauchamp has no right to sell the house to anyone,' he said, picking up his telephone. ‘I can't possibly tell you what is in Mrs Beauchamp's new will, Miss O'Donnell, but her son Miles is certainly not her heir. He has not inherited ninety-five Argyll Gardens in any shape or form. And if he is trying to sell it he will be in very serious trouble indeed. Thank you very much for your help in this matter.' He pressed a buzzer on his desk. ‘My receptionist will see you out,' he said, and watched in silence as Kate, reluctantly, bursting with questions, got to her feet and walked out, closing the door behind herself with rather more force than necessary.

All the way into the West End on the crowded Central Line she turned what the solicitor had told her over and over in her mind, trying to work out the implications. It was pretty obvious, she thought, that Cecily had changed her will recently. The appointment noted in her diary was probably when she did it, just a few months previously. It was possible that her son did not know what she had done, in which case he might innocently believe that he had inherited the house, as he obviously expected. On the other hand he might know that he had been cut out of the will, in which case the attempt at a quick sale to Lazlo Roman was undoubtedly fraud. And Harry Barnard needed to know about it sooner rather than later.

As soon as she reached the agency, she hung up her coat and picked up the phone. Barnard answered after a single ring.

‘I need to see you,' Kate said, glancing at the colleagues who as usual appeared to be watching her every move.

‘I'll meet you at the Blue Lagoon at one,' Barnard said, picking up the tension in her voice.

‘See you later, then,' Kate said, and hung up quickly. Ken Fellows had his head out of his office door and was bellowing her name. Another day, another assignment, she thought, and she didn't intend to suggest anything west of Regent Street today.

In the event, Kate was late. She had spent the morning at a photo shoot for a new band from Croydon, taking the best shots she could but secretly amused by the bland sounds the four young men, with their copycat Beatles haircuts and sharp suits, made. She wasn't sure what it was that made the Liverpool sound unique, just sure that it was exactly that, and that it would be a long time before anyone else caught up.

Barnard was already leaning on the bar chatting to Marie when Kate arrived, breathless and with her hair flying and her cheeks pink.

Marie laughed as she joined them. ‘I wouldn't rush for this kidder,' she said. ‘I'm not sure he's worth it.'

‘I don't have much time,' Kate said, not entirely truthfully. When she had got back from her assignment the rest of the photographers had gone off for lunch together, as usual, and Ken Fellows had also disappeared, leaving the office in the care of Brenda, the receptionist.

Barnard grinned. ‘So what's so important you had to see me again so soon?' he asked, ordering her a coffee and a sandwich. ‘I know I'm fascinating but  . . .?'

Kate did not reply until they had settled at a table.

‘Miles Beauchamp,' she said quietly. ‘I found his solicitor, and it seems he's not inheriting the house, even though he's busy trying to sell it to Lazlo Roman.'

Barnard whistled between his teeth. ‘Fraud, then?' he said. ‘If nothing else. I spoke to her doctor this morning, too. As we thought, she had plenty of insulin, and he reckoned that she would need to have missed several days' doses for her to have died in a coma. He says that when he was told what had happened he was astonished, and told the coroner's office so. He says she was getting a bit forgetful and her sight wasn't good but not to the extent that he was worried about her taking her insulin. She'd been taking it for years, he said. It had never been a problem.'

‘So he killed her? Took the insulin away and left her to collapse and die?'

‘It's certainly a possibility,' Barnard said. ‘But not easy to prove. I've sent the phials to be checked for fingerprints so there's a chance we might get him that way. In the meantime, I'd better tell Notting Hill to chase up this solicitor of yours. It's just possible they may be able to stop him getting away with fraud. And they'll probably know where he lives.'

‘Good,' Kate said.

Barnard walked Kate back to the office after they had finished lunch and took her arm for a moment when they reached the door.

‘I want you to promise me that you won't go wandering around the neighbourhood until this business is finished,' he said.

Kate saw Ken Fellows heading towards them and flushed slightly. ‘This is my boss,' she whispered.

‘Never mind him,' Barnard said, pulling her aside to let Fellows past. He passed them, giving them a curious look before he opened the door. ‘Promise me you'll stay away from trouble. Please,' Barnard insisted.

Kate sighed. ‘I'll do my best,' she said. ‘I promise.'

Barnard let go of her arm and turned away, unsatisfied.

Barnard headed back towards the nick. He picked up a file from his desk and went straight to DCI Keith Jackson's office, straightening his Liberty tie slightly self-consciously in the light of old Hellfire's dislike of the slightest hint of effeminacy. The DCI was sitting ramrod straight at his desk, facing a geometrically aligned set of papers and files, and looked as if he regretted inviting his junior officer in when he realised who it was.

‘What can I do for you, Sergeant?' he asked, not disguising his impatience.

‘A tricky one, sir,' Barnard said. ‘I didn't want to go back to Notting Hill without asking your advice first.'

‘Notting Hill? Why would you go back to them? Is this something more about Ray Robertson?'

‘No, this is something entirely different, sir,' Barnard said. ‘At least I think so. It's something that fell into my lap, as it were. It so happens that my girlfriend lives down there and she's discovered what looks like a major fraud and possibly a murder, though that might be difficult to prove.'

The DCI sighed and carefully pushed his pile of documents to one side of the desk, opened a pristine notepad and unscrewed the top of his fountain pen. ‘Sit down,' Jackson said. ‘You'd better tell me all about it. Didn't your girlfriend get involved in that other case of yours earlier in the year? It's the same girlfriend, I suppose?'

Barnard nodded, although he knew Kate would reject the title he had bestowed on her. The exact nature of their relationship was far too complicated, he thought, to explain to this censorious old puritan. Whoever at the Yard had promoted him to his present job in charge of Soho's square mile of sin must have a well-developed sense of humour. Or maybe a vindictive streak, he thought.

‘Well, I hope this one isn't going to damage us the way that one did.'

‘I hope so, too, sir,' Barnard said fervently. If it did, he thought, his own career might well be one of those which sank without trace this time.

T
ess and Kate walked slowly to Argyll Gardens from the tube station in a gloomy silence. Kate had persuaded her friend to meet her again in deference to her promise to Barnard that she would take care. But it irritated her to be nannied, and she had no doubt that it irritated Tess too to be called on to take an unnecessary walk after a long day's teaching. It couldn't go on like this, Kate thought. But as they approached the house and noticed a long shiny American car parked outside, Kate thought that maybe her caution was justified. As they approached, the door opened and to her relief she recognised Abraham Righton sliding out of the driving seat, hat pushed to the back of his head and a tentative smile on his face.

‘Miss Farrell,' he said, directing his greeting to Tess, somewhat to Kate's surprise. ‘You the teacher of young Benjamin Mackintosh?'

Surprised, Tess nodded.

‘This is Mr Righton, a friend of Ben's father,' Kate said quickly. ‘How is everything at the cafe now Nelson is back home?'

‘It's not so good,' Righton said. ‘Mrs Evelina Mackintosh ask me to come over to see if Miss Farrell could come to see her. She's very worried about the boy and about her husband. She thought maybe Nelson would listen to Ben's teacher. He won't listen to anyone else.'

Tess gave Kate an anxious glance. ‘What do you think?' she asked Kate, who shrugged in indecision.

‘If it would help, maybe  . . .' Kate said. She glanced at Righton's car, which on close inspection turned out to be considerably less sleek and more battered than it had seemed at first. ‘Could you take us to the cafe and bring us back again?' she asked and Righton nodded enthusiastically.

‘Do you like my wheels?' he asked, opening the passenger door with a flourish and ushering the two women onto the sagging back seat. ‘It belonged to an American GI. I had to go all the way to someplace in the sticks to collect it, an air force base out in Suffolk somewhere. He was going back home and I think he was a bit annoyed I turned out to be black. They're still like that, some Americans. But he sold it to me all the same. It was too late by then to pin a notice on: no blacks, no Irish.' He laughed, but there was not much humour in the sound.

He accelerated away from the kerb at a speed which made Kate catch her breath but it was a short ride and after parking outside the cafe he ushered the two of them inside, where a few subdued-looking customers were drinking and playing dominoes, and up the stairs to the Mackintosh's flat without much ceremony.

Evelina Mackintosh was sitting on the sofa in more or less the same position as Kate had seen her last, and looked almost as unhappy as she had done then. Her husband was standing at the window staring out at the street below, and did not turn round when the visitors arrived.

‘It was good of you to come, Miss Farrell,' Evelina said, her voice husky. ‘And your friend.' She nodded at Kate. ‘We just wondered if you had heard anything of Ben at school. From any of his friends, maybe.'

Tess shook her head. ‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘There doesn't seem to be any word of him.'

Nelson Mackintosh spun round at that. ‘I told you this was a waste of time, he's not going back to school,' he said.

Kate was shocked to see how grey he looked, as if he had aged years in a week, and how bitter he sounded.

‘You know where he is and who he's with, woman. He's on the streets, into drugs. The man Devine admitted it. He's taken him into his organisation deliberately to cause us trouble. He hates me and everything I have tried to do here just as much as I hate him and his criminal friends. Ben is just a pawn in a bigger game. He'll be used and then thrown away like so much rubbish. Sucked in by Devine and then spat out again.'