False Report (Abbot Agency Mysteries, 6) - Softcover

Heley, Veronica

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1847514081 ISBN 13: 9781847514080

Publisher: Severn House, 2013

Synopsis

An Abbot Agency Mystery

While Bea Abbot worries that she's lost control of her domestic agency, she's asked to find some domestic help for an eccentric little musician falsely accused of murder. She doesn';t realize how dangerous this might be until Jeremy, fleeing from attempts on his life, lands up on her doorstep. Researching the gang who'd used an attractive girl to entrap Jeremy, Bea finds traces of them throughout high society . . .

Can Bea keep Jeremy, and herself, alive, while all he thinks about is composing a song for pretty, dead Josie?

About this title

About the Author

Veronica Heley (www.veronicaheley.com) has published more than fifty books, including crime fiction, historical, and children's titles. She is currently involved in the Ellie Quicke series of crime stories and a variety of other projects. A full-time writer, she has been married to a London probation officer since 1964, and has one musician daughter.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

False Report

An Abbot Agency Mystery

By Veronica Heley

Severn House Publishers Limited

Copyright © 2012 Veronica Heley
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-84751-408-0

CHAPTER 1

As a successful business woman and owner of a thriving domestic agency, Bea Abbot knew perfectly well that there was no such thing as a free lunch ... or tea. And if she'd realized the offered treat was a bribe to get her to investigate a murder, she would have said, 'Certainly not!'

Wednesday, late evening

'Nance, where are you?' A man's voice, hoarse.

'At the conference. Where did you think I was?' A woman's voice, middle-aged, educated. Bored.

'Josie's dead! Flat on her face. In the bushes behind the church.'

'What? No, she can't be. What do you mean, dead?' 'Strangled, I think.'

'But ... who would ...? Are you sure? I know she was upset but —'

'That phone call from him spooked her out of her mind.'

'You shouldn't have let her out of your sight.'

'I couldn't lock her up, could I? If you'd been around —'

'You knew I was going to be away this week. Surely, between you and Jonno, you could have taken better care of her. How did he get hold of her mobile number, anyway?'

'She gave it to him while she was baiting the trap. Yes, I know she should have thrown the mobile away after we'd got him on film, but she went on using it. This evening he said he knew where she lived, which he couldn't know, but she believed him. She was wild with fright, wanted to go back home for a while. I told her punters never carry through their threats, but she wouldn't listen. She said if I didn't give her the cash for a ticket, she'd get it from someone who would. Then she ran out on to the street, right through the traffic, on the phone to the music man —'

'The music man? But he's history! He wouldn't help her, would he?'

'So I ran after her. She went down the alley and I could hear her begging him to meet her. Then a crowd of drunken yobs came storming through, and I lost her. I looked everywhere, into all the pubs, round to the little man's flat. There were no lights on there, though it was getting dark. I rang his doorbell, no reply. Came back through the alley, and saw something ... You know where the path widens out at the back of the church, and there's seats and a bed of flowers under the wall? I got in among the bushes and made sure. She's dead, all right.'

A heavy silence.

'Look, no one saw me, and I kept my head. I couldn't see her mobile, but I took that purse she hangs round her neck and her watch, so it'll look like a robbery gone wrong. I don't think she had any other ID on her, had she? No one can connect her with us.'

'Let me think.'

'What do you want me to do? Someone's going to spot her soon, there's always people walking their dogs through the alley.'

'Well, if the little music man killed her, why don't we point the police in his direction? Use a public phone; say you're Joe Public, reporting a body. Tell them you overheard a young girl pleading with a man on her mobile, and later saw her body in the bushes. Give the police his name. That should do it.'

Thursday afternoon

Bea knew there was no such thing as a free lunch, but an invitation for tea at the Ritz was different, wasn't it? Even if it was at the last minute? Apart from anything else, it meant getting away from the problems at the office for a while.

The Abbot Agency had a reputation for providing reliable domestic staff, but – although she couldn't quite put her finger on it – Bea felt something was amiss. True, she'd recently taken time off for a long overdue holiday, but ... No, she couldn't really say that the agency had done badly in her absence because business was booming. Turnover was increasing. Every month there was more money in the bank, and almost every month they were having to take on extra staff.

What could possibly be wrong with that? Well, nothing. Except that since her return Bea had had an uneasy feeling that she'd lost control of the business which had provided her with enjoyable work and an income since her husband died.

She laughed at herself, but the suspicion persisted. It was as if she were no longer in the driving seat of the car, but had been relegated to passenger status – back seat passenger status, at that.

Bea Abbot was not the sort of person who blamed other people for her mistakes. Somewhere along the line she was beginning to think that she'd made a bad decision at the agency ... but exactly what had it been?

She argued with herself. Was she uneasy because all her hand-picked, tried and trusted staff, recruited over many years, had left for one reason or another? Well, but staff did move on, get better offers, or decide to retire.

The old-timers had been replaced by a competent team who were making the place buzz. Bea might not feel so comfortable with the newcomers, but she couldn't fault their performance.

So why this dragging suspicion that all was not as it should be? Everything at the agency was operating like clockwork, tick tock, ting! as yet another payment fell into the bank account.

She wondered if she were getting old and losing her grip. Perhaps it was the very efficiency of the new staff that made her feel redundant?

Or perhaps her important son Max – who was a member of parliament and liked to tell people what to do – was right in saying that she was not up to running the agency any longer and should retire. He'd never thought she would be capable of running the business in the first place, so over the years she'd taken some pleasure in proving him wrong ... until now.

Had the time really come when she should sell the agency and her beautiful house in a prestigious part of London and retire to a small bungalow on the South Coast? Was she to end her life playing bridge with other senior citizens ... even though she didn't know how to play? The prospect appalled.

She needed advice. So when she received an invitation to tea from an old friend, she jumped at the chance – and only later realized she'd made another bad decision, because there really was no such thing as a free meal, was there?

In honour of the occasion Bea took the afternoon off work, brushed her ash-blonde hair so that her fringe lay slantwise across her forehead, renewed her make-up – paying careful attention to what her dear husband had always called her 'eagle's eyes' – and was ready on time.

She had decided that tea at the Ritz justified the wearing of a new outfit and picked out one which her clients at the domestic agency might have considered unsuitable for a business woman. Bea was well aware that a sleeveless silk sheath in crème caramel was a trifle daring for a woman in her early sixties, but she believed she was tall and slim enough to do it justice. And, for those who wondered whether an older woman's upper arms might still be her best feature, there was a matching gauzy jacket edged with satin ribbon of the same shade as the dress. She'd selected a shift dress not only because it echoed the colour of her ash-blonde hair, but also because it was loose enough round the waist to accommodate an intake of the delicious sandwiches, pastries and cakes which would be on offer at the Ritz.

She'd been acquainted with CJ for some time, as he was something of a guru to her adopted son, Oliver. CJ was a mandarin used by the police as an expert in various matters too complicated, he said, for the ordinary man or woman to understand. But no one talked of such things while having tea at the Ritz, did they?

Perhaps, then, she could be forgiven for not suspecting an ulterior motive when CJ called for her in a taxi and whisked her off to the Ritz; that prestigious, if slightly stolid hotel beside Green Park. The trees were looking lushly green after a recent shower, the clients in the world-famous hotel were dressed in their garden party best, the decor was well over the top with gilding on all the baroque twirls, there were stands of orchids everywhere, the waiters wore tail coats, and a pianist tinkled the ivories at the grand piano.

Bea relaxed. What a treat! Just fancy, there was a whole menu devoted to the different types of tea available: six different kinds of sandwiches; two of cake; and three different pastries. And would madam like a refill of tea, or perhaps another sandwich or two? Is there anything else madam fancies?

Bea did full justice to the tea, telling herself that she wouldn't need to think about getting any supper that evening. When she couldn't eat any more, she leaned back in her chair and gave a deep sigh of appreciation. What bliss!

'That was just wonderful, CJ. I'd been letting things get on top of me at the agency, and now I feel insulated against whatever happens next. Is insulated the right word? Possibly not. But you get the idea.'

'Ah. Hmm.' He steepled his long fingers and gave her a sideways glance.

She felt the first intimation of disquiet. She wanted to say, 'Whatever it is, I don't want to know.' Instead she frowned, remembering that he'd helped her clear up one or two nasty criminal cases in which her agency had become involved over the past few years. She owed it to him at least to listen to what he had to say. She supposed. 'More tea?'

He shook his head. She poured herself another half cup. The temperature had dropped around him, and it was nothing to do with the air conditioning, which was perfect.

He said, 'I don't suppose you ever doubt yourself, do you, Bea?'

'As a matter of fact, I was going to ask you about —'

'I need a second opinion. My ability to judge my fellow men has been called into question. I was visited this morning by the police, asking if I'd spent last evening with a man called Jeremy Waite. Which I had. The detective inspector pressed me for time and place. He tried to make me admit that Jeremy might have been out of my sight for ten minutes here or there. I said he hadn't.' CJ stopped, looked vaguely around, picked up his empty cup to sip from it, put it down.

'The inspector was not amused to find that I could give Jeremy an alibi, since he was suspected of killing an underage girl with whom he'd been having sexual relations.'

Bea stared at CJ, hoping against hope that he wasn't going to involve her in another murder.

'The inspector believed I'd provided Jeremy with an alibi out of a misguided sense of friendship. I must admit I was shocked, but it didn't alter the fact that I'd been with the man the whole of the previous evening. And I said so. However, after the inspector had removed himself, I began to wonder if I had, in fact, been set up to provide Jeremy with an alibi, while he arranged for someone else to kill the girl.'

At this point the head waiter intervened with the bill. Around them tables were being cleared and relaid. The Ritz allowed you only so much time to have tea, and then shot you out so that they could prepare for the next sitting.

CJ laid his card on the bill. 'Have you seen the latest exhibition at the Royal Academy? It's only just down the road.'

'Not my scene,' said Bea. 'And —'

'A stroll around the pictures is just what we need after that tea, don't you think?' It wasn't a question.

'And even if I didn't, you intend to prolong this conversation?'

'Certainly,' he said, returning his card to his wallet. 'He blushed, you see.'

Bea frowned. What had that got to do with it? Part of her wanted to tell CJ to get lost – but the other half was telling her that another hour away from the agency might help to clear her mind and enable her to think constructively about the mess she'd got herself into there. If, indeed, there was any such mess, which was a moot point.

She got to her feet, wondering if wearing a new pair of high-heeled shoes had been a good idea if they were going to walk the streets. They seemed comfortable enough so far. She was almost as tall as CJ when he stepped to her side. A grey man, well brushed, well tailored. A man who could melt into the background or take control of a gathering at will.

He held the door open for her. 'Do you ever go to concerts at our parish church in Kensington?'

She gave him an old-fashioned look. 'This is relevant?' He nodded.

She shrugged. 'Occasionally, when my dear husband was alive.'

'I hadn't intended to go last night, but there was nothing on the telly, it was a fine evening, and I thought I might stroll round to the church, see if there was anything on ... which there was. A man was reading the poster outside. He moved away, hesitated, came back to read it again. I thought I recognized his back view from somewhere but couldn't place him. I followed him in, checking my watch, wondering how long the concert was likely to last because I hadn't eaten yet. It was half seven. I found a seat at the back, saw him some way in front of me. Saw one or two other people I knew by sight. Nodded, that sort of thing.'

He gave a little cough. 'I have made a study of physiognomy, as you might expect. In idle moments I often catch myself studying the man across from me in the tube, or restaurant. Is he a fool or a villain, a saint or a sinner? Does he belong in the dock, or on the judge's bench? This particular man was an oddity. I seemed to recall seeing him in an academic setting, something to do with music.'

CJ steered Bea across the road, as if she were incapable of judging for herself when the traffic lights had turned green. He raised his voice to be heard over the noise of traffic.

'A middle-aged woman whom I knew slightly – we're both members of the local History Society – came to sit next to me. She was excited because her daughter was playing second violin in the chamber group for the first time. All young players, you know. Some on the way up. The oboist was particularly good. I made a note of the name. Afterwards, my neighbour introduced me to her daughter. Nice girl. Needs to lose a few pounds, but pretty enough if you like that sort of thing. I said the usual.

'The man I'd noticed, but couldn't place, was hovering, waiting to speak to one of the cellists. I'd noticed he'd been watching her throughout. She, on the other hand, didn't seem keen to be spoken to.

'My neighbour's daughter sent him such a look. "How dare he!" she said. She told us – alleged – that he'd seduced an under-age girl, been thrown out of the house by his wife, sacked from his teaching job, and quite right, too!'

Bea shrugged. 'It happens.'

'Yes, of course. Some girls look eighteen at twelve. I remembered where I'd seen him before. My old college had held a fund-raising event for a new music laboratory and he'd been on the same table at dinner, keeping us all amused. Someone told me that though he was a music teacher at a school in Kensington, he was beginning to develop another career under a different name, writing music for films and television programmes. I had to leave early so we were not formally introduced.'

CJ steered Bea through the archway into the comparative quiet of the Royal Academy's courtyard. There were seats in the sun and also under an awning where cups of tea and coffee were being served. CJ ushered Bea to a pair of isolated chairs near the water feature. She noticed he'd chosen their seats well, because the burbling of the fountains made it unlikely anyone could overhear them.

'Shall we sit awhile?' Again, it was not a request.

They sat. Bea tilted her head back and closed her eyes as a sign that she was not particularly interested in what he had to say. What was she going to do about the agency? And why hadn't she thought to bring her dark glasses with her?

He said, 'Have you noticed that even young girls fail to blush, nowadays? Is it a lost art, do you think? Older women rarely blush, but they're usually wearing so much make-up that I probably wouldn't notice if they did. As a woman, do you have an opinion on this?'

He was serious? Incredible.

She said, lightly, 'Modern society holds that there's nothing we can do that we need to be ashamed of, that every kind of behaviour is acceptable. I suppose I might blush from embarrassment if I'd made a really stupid remark and hurt someone's feelings.'

'Precisely my point. You might blush out of embarrassment but that's not the same thing as blushing for shame. My question was: did he blush from shame, or from embarrassment? I'd watched him psyche himself up to go to the concert. He sat by himself, talked to no one. He had gone there to watch the cellist perform. When she played a wrong note in her solo, he reddened out of embarrassment. He was concerned for her.

'Afterwards, he waited till she was free to speak to him. He congratulated her on her performance, and she rebuffed him. He overheard what my friend's daughter said. There was a general drawing back of skirts. And he blushed.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from False Report by Veronica Heley. Copyright © 2012 Veronica Heley. Excerpted by permission of Severn House Publishers Limited.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Edition details

• Publisher: Severn House
• Publication date: 2013
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 1847514081
• ISBN 13: 9781847514080
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 224