False Alarm by Veronica Heley Page A

eyes to their coffee cups. Their ears were perfectly formed and set neatly to the sides of their heads, but to Bea’s inner eye had at least doubled in size during her telephone call.
    Bea produced a social smile. ‘A client in trouble. I must get back to her, but in the meantime . . .’
    Half an hour later she left Lucy Emerson’s flat, shutting the door firmly behind her. She had a notebook full of scribbles and a burning desire to be out in the fresh air. The air in the flat had seemed short of oxygen. An illusion, of course, born of the two ladies’ relentless gossiping. You met this in villages, where the inhabitants were more interested in the number of times a neighbouring man or woman might or might not change their underclothes or claim benefits to which they were not entitled. You met it in built-up areas of towns and cities where people never travelled more than five miles from home. You didn’t expect to meet it in a vibrant, capital city like London.
    It left a nasty taste in the mouth.
    Bea hung over the banister for a while, breathing deeply, knowing that her interview with Lady O was likely to call on all her reserves of patience. Still, if Oliver was going to be at Vicori House that afternoon, someone had got to keep Lady O company. The lift emitted a soft, almost inaudible whine as it passed Bea on its way upwards. She heard the gentle grind of the doors opening, a pause as someone entered, and the doors puffed shut. The lift descended; taking Oliver down to the ground floor?
    Prompt on cue, Bea’s mobile rang. Lady O.
    â€˜I’m on my way.’ Bea didn’t wait for the lift, but took the stairs.
Friday noon
    Bea paused on the landing outside the penthouse to catch her breath. Was she so badly out of condition that a couple of flights of stairs had her puffing and panting? Er, yes. She really must try to take more exercise.
    The morning had been cloudy but the sun was trying to break through. A ray shot across the landing. Bea checked to see if it would show up the tack or screw marks which she’d noted on her previous visit.
    The hole on the right had disappeared. What? It can’t have done. She hunkered down and got out her magnifying glass. No mark.
    She checked the opposite side of the staircase. No mark there, either. She sat back on her heels. Thought. Rubbed her finger across where the mark had been and . . . yes . . . there was the slightest of irregularities there, as if a spot of paint, or filler, or some other pliable material had been rammed into the hole to make it disappear from sight.
    On the opposite side, too. She hadn’t imagined the holes, had she?
    She got out her mobile phone and checked. No photos of the holes. None.
    She drew in her breath. Remembered handing her phone to Sir Lucas, who had taken it over to the window to inspect the evidence. He’d carried on the conversation for a few minutes with his back to her, before shutting up the phone and returning it to her.
    Conclusion; he’d deleted the photographs.
    Why had he done that? He’d said he thought he knew who was responsible for his tumble down the stairs, and he’d have needed the photographs in order to prosecute the man, or to persuade him to resign. Whatever. So he wouldn’t have destroyed the evidence.
    On the other hand, he didn’t want outsiders knowing that he was under attack because it might affect the share price of his company. So what had he done? He’d deleted the pictures on Bea’s phone so that she couldn’t use them in any way, but only after he’d first stored them somewhere for his own use.
    He must have used those few minutes when his back was turned to send them on to somebody else for safe-keeping and further investigation. To his own phone, perhaps? And only after that had he deleted Bea’s photographs.
    Bea shook her head. Whatever had she got herself into now? This man outclassed her in every way. Why didn’t