Read Online False Picture by Veronica Heley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Veronica Heley
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desisted in case the police had to be called in and looked for fingerprints. They wouldnât like her having changed the bed linen, either, but sheâd left everything else in place, hadnât she? Well, except for the mobile phone.
If Philip turned up, then sheâd have a go at the windows, which could do with a wash, and there were some unidentifiable stains on the carpet which needed specialist attention. However, the room looked and smelled a lot better than before.
She stood in the doorway, scanning the room. Had she overlooked anything? Possibly a trained policeman would have been able to draw a more accurate picture of Philip from looking over his things? Was she getting a false picture of him? She told herself it was wrong to jump to conclusions, but no, she didnât think she had. Philip was a bit of a layabout. Heâd not told anyone heâd lost his job, he was in debt, drinking and taking tranquillizers. Plus it rather looked as if heâd lit out for parts unknown with a valuable picture, leaving no forwarding address.
She unplugged his mobile phone, hoping that even this short period might have charged it up. It had, a bit. She saw there were various messages on it, but wasnât sure how to access them, as the phone was a different type from hers. So she popped it and the charger into one of the large pockets in her apron, to be looked at later.
She passed on to the next room, the one occupied by Maggieâs favourite, Zander. Was his name short for Alexander? Possibly. She wasnât going to search this room, but clean it quickly and pass on to the next. Correction; she would just check to see if the painting had been put in here for safe keeping.
Zanderâs room was slightly larger than Philipâs, better furnished and much better maintained. Unlike Philipâs room â which had given the impression of a transient dossing down for a few days â Zanderâs indicated a man whoâd made himself very much at home. Zander was tidy, and looked after his expensive clothes. There was fluff under his bed, but no oil painting. Nor was it in the wardrobe or closet, or any of the drawers. However, there was a large suitcase and a sports bag there, which was as it should be.
His paperwork was neatly docketed in files in the drawers of a modern desk, not locked. Everything looked above board. Squeaky clean? He kept all his monthly wage slips, had a healthy balance at the bank, paid off his credit cards on the dot, his job brought him in a decent salary, he had direct debits on. ⦠yes, yes. Very sensible, very well organized. She didnât know why she was looking at his paperwork. Habit, she supposed.
Another file contained his CV ⦠yes, yes. It all looked good. Almost too good to be true. There was a locked briefcase under the desk which probably contained his passport, cheque book, that sort of thing.
There was no laptop, but Bea could see the mark in the dust where it usually sat. Headphones for listening to music, a brand new flat-screen telly and DVD player. A stereo sound system. A camera, digital. Lots of books in a bookcase nearby; paperbacks of modern authors on the trendy side. Condoms in the bedside table drawer, no medication except some Piriton and a pack of paracetomol.
Zander had thrust some lovingly phrased notes from females into his bedside drawer, higgledy-piggledy, as if they didnât warrant being filed away. Bea got the impression that Zander probably operated most of his contacts by text message.
Two photos, not of girls, but of family groups; parents and siblings, presumably. Bea wondered vaguely what country Zanderâs family was from originally. Had Maggie said Grenada?
Bea looked under the mattress, but there was nothing there. She made the bed, charged around with the carpet sweeper and dusted with a damp cloth. The place looked a lot better.
And then ⦠the front door opened, and someone called out,
If Philip turned up, then sheâd have a go at the windows, which could do with a wash, and there were some unidentifiable stains on the carpet which needed specialist attention. However, the room looked and smelled a lot better than before.
She stood in the doorway, scanning the room. Had she overlooked anything? Possibly a trained policeman would have been able to draw a more accurate picture of Philip from looking over his things? Was she getting a false picture of him? She told herself it was wrong to jump to conclusions, but no, she didnât think she had. Philip was a bit of a layabout. Heâd not told anyone heâd lost his job, he was in debt, drinking and taking tranquillizers. Plus it rather looked as if heâd lit out for parts unknown with a valuable picture, leaving no forwarding address.
She unplugged his mobile phone, hoping that even this short period might have charged it up. It had, a bit. She saw there were various messages on it, but wasnât sure how to access them, as the phone was a different type from hers. So she popped it and the charger into one of the large pockets in her apron, to be looked at later.
She passed on to the next room, the one occupied by Maggieâs favourite, Zander. Was his name short for Alexander? Possibly. She wasnât going to search this room, but clean it quickly and pass on to the next. Correction; she would just check to see if the painting had been put in here for safe keeping.
Zanderâs room was slightly larger than Philipâs, better furnished and much better maintained. Unlike Philipâs room â which had given the impression of a transient dossing down for a few days â Zanderâs indicated a man whoâd made himself very much at home. Zander was tidy, and looked after his expensive clothes. There was fluff under his bed, but no oil painting. Nor was it in the wardrobe or closet, or any of the drawers. However, there was a large suitcase and a sports bag there, which was as it should be.
His paperwork was neatly docketed in files in the drawers of a modern desk, not locked. Everything looked above board. Squeaky clean? He kept all his monthly wage slips, had a healthy balance at the bank, paid off his credit cards on the dot, his job brought him in a decent salary, he had direct debits on. ⦠yes, yes. Very sensible, very well organized. She didnât know why she was looking at his paperwork. Habit, she supposed.
Another file contained his CV ⦠yes, yes. It all looked good. Almost too good to be true. There was a locked briefcase under the desk which probably contained his passport, cheque book, that sort of thing.
There was no laptop, but Bea could see the mark in the dust where it usually sat. Headphones for listening to music, a brand new flat-screen telly and DVD player. A stereo sound system. A camera, digital. Lots of books in a bookcase nearby; paperbacks of modern authors on the trendy side. Condoms in the bedside table drawer, no medication except some Piriton and a pack of paracetomol.
Zander had thrust some lovingly phrased notes from females into his bedside drawer, higgledy-piggledy, as if they didnât warrant being filed away. Bea got the impression that Zander probably operated most of his contacts by text message.
Two photos, not of girls, but of family groups; parents and siblings, presumably. Bea wondered vaguely what country Zanderâs family was from originally. Had Maggie said Grenada?
Bea looked under the mattress, but there was nothing there. She made the bed, charged around with the carpet sweeper and dusted with a damp cloth. The place looked a lot better.
And then ⦠the front door opened, and someone called out,
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