Read Online False Report by Veronica Heley - Free Book Online Page A

understand.’
    â€˜Neither do I. Maggie, I’m wondering if perhaps Ianthe has been a little too businesslike—’
    â€˜One can’t be businesslike enough, she says.’
    â€˜Oh yes, one can. It seems to me that in her care for one side of the business, she’s let you down.’
    â€˜Yes, but I’m not really part of the agency nowadays, am I? And she’s so busy. And the girl who’s replaced Celia is . . . Well, she doesn’t know me, does she? She doesn’t see why she should do any work for me, and she’s right.’
    Bea thought about that. And followed on with, ‘Have you any other jobs which you’ve asked Ianthe to see to?’
    â€˜Well, yes; and she’s trying hard to fit them in. I’m a bit worried about one estimate which needs to be in next week. Ianthe keeps putting me off, so I’m thinking of taking it to a typing agency I’ve heard about. It’s not your problem.’
    â€˜I think it is. Maggie; I want to help.’
    â€˜Bless you, but I can manage.’ Maggie looked at the clock, checked her watch, and gave a little scream. ‘I promised to ring someone back tonight. Do you mind if I . . .?’
    â€˜Go ahead.’
    â€˜Oh, but what about supper? I ate something earlier, but—’
    â€˜I’ve eaten already. Go on. Get on with your life. I’ll clear up here.’
    Maggie vanished, already talking into her mobile. Feeling better now she’d talked to Bea.
    Bea felt worse. Ianthe was right in thinking that Maggie ought to outsource her own typing. Or was she? The fact was that the agency was changing. Most people would say it was for the better. Bea wasn’t so sure.
    She made a phone call of her own. Her first husband Piers, who had tom-catted himself out of their marriage, had become a good friend over the last few years, and he could always be relied upon for some cool-headed advice . . . that is, if he weren’t totally absorbed in whatever subject it was that he was painting at the moment. He might have been the stereotypical painter who starved in a garret when he was younger – except that Bea had gone out to work to keep him going in those years – but nowadays he was a much sought-after portrait painter, wooed by all the great and sometimes not so good.
    â€˜Piers, can you spare me a minute or two tomorrow?’
    â€˜Ah. Yes. Been expecting this. Got a sitting at ten, early bird. Half eleven do you?’
    Yes, indeed.
    Someone was leaning on the front doorbell. What? At this time of night? After ten. Whoever it was had no intention of giving up.
    Maggie was returning back down the stairs, still with her mobile to her ear. ‘Who . . .?’
    Bea went to open the door, and the garden gnome tripped over the doorstep and fell into the hallway. Slap, bang, down he went, falling sideways, landing flat on his back. There was blood on his forehead, which he was trying to cover with one hand, while clutching a handful of manuscript paper to him with the other.
    â€˜So sorry,’ he said, not making any attempt to rise. ‘Shock. You know?’
    He closed his eyes.
    â€˜Who on earth . . .?’ Maggie switched off her mobile.
    â€˜Jeremy Waite,’ said Bea. ‘Musician. Murder suspect, though I don’t think he did it. It looks as if he’s been duffed up.’
    â€˜Not so.’ Jeremy opened his eyes but made no attempt to rise. ‘Shock. If I might just rest for a bit . . .’ His eyes went up to the ceiling and followed the plaster frieze around. ‘Nice bit of moulding, that. Early Victorian? Black and white tiled floor, probably. I do hope I’m not bleeding on to it.’
    â€˜Er, no,’ said Bea, seized with an inappropriate desire to laugh. ‘Do we call the police or an ambulance?’
    He jerked to a sitting position, still holding on to his head. ‘Neither. It was my flat they did in, not me. Fortunately, I was