False Picture by Veronica Heley

cooking. Maggie loved cooking and hated office work, but had been indoctrinated by her ambitious mother to think that career women employed other people to do their housework, and that those who cleaned and cooked for others were second-class citizens.
    â€˜Oops!’ cried Maggie, when she saw Bea. ‘I’m meeting Cinderella, aka the ugly duckling, tonight for supper at Wagamama’s before the party, but couldn’t leave you and Oliver without anything to eat. Shall I yell for him to come and get at it?’
    Bea realized she’d missed lunch and was extremely hungry. When Maggie went to shout down the stairs at Oliver, Bea switched off the television and the radio, and laid the table.
    Maggie crashed back into the kitchen. ‘Mr Max rang, a couple of times. He’s tied up with visits in his constituency this afternoon and all day tomorrow. He said you’d been trying to get him and I said you were out on a job, though I didn’t say you were out cleaning because he’d have had a fit, wouldn’t he!’
    Bea nodded. Yes, he would. And bother, because she really did need to speak to Max. The tax bill … the solicitor’s letter. Ouch. ‘Any other calls?’
    â€˜Oliver dealt with them. Oh, and your first, the gorgeous Piers, came round, looking all worried. Said he’d drop by again later. He took that watercolour that ended up on the floor. I suppose that’s all right?’
    Bea nodded again. A wedge of savoury sausage-meat pie landed on a plate in front of her, with mashed potatoes and beans. Her salivary glands went into overtime.
    Oliver slid into the seat beside her, bearing a sheaf of messages on a clipboard. ‘We’re eating early? Good.’
    Bea indicated the clipboard with her fork, her mouth full. ‘Can those wait till we’ve eaten?’
    Maggie helped herself to a small portion of everything, saying, ‘I deserve a raise. Since you went off to the hospital, I thought I’d better finish the job at the flat for you. So I spent two hours ten minutes cleaning on your behalf.’
    â€˜You’re brilliant, Maggie,’ said Bea. ‘Did you find any paperwork, anything in the third man’s room? What’s his name?’
    â€˜Liam. I thought it was Lee, but it’s Liam. Irish, I suppose. I looked in all the usual hiding places men have—’
    Oliver snorted. ‘And what would they be?’
    â€˜You wouldn’t know,’ said Maggie, smugly.
    â€˜What did you find? A toy gun and a stash of cannabis?’
    â€˜Don’t be childish. Nothing like that. Some porn under the bed.’
    â€˜Paperwork?’ asked Bea. ‘Passport?’
    Maggie looked thoughtful. ‘Come to think of it, no.’
    Oliver guffawed. ‘You mean you didn’t find them.’
    â€˜Children, children!’ Bea reflected that when they had first taken refuge with her, Maggie and Oliver had practically been joined at the hip, but they were getting more like quarrelsome brother and sister every day. She put down her knife and fork with a sigh of repletion. ‘Maggie, you did well. I’ll have another go at the flat on Monday morning, but in the meantime let me bring you both up to date.’
    She did so, through a slice of cheesecake and a cup of decaffeinated coffee.
    â€˜So, you see, the situation is serious. Sandy needs Philip to be innocent and yet his actions point in another direction. Philip stayed out last night, the picture’s gone, and his shaving things aren’t in the flat. What’s more, there’s no sign of a rucksack or suitcase in his room which probably means he’s taken some of his belongings and lit out for parts unknown. He’s in debt, according to the bank and credit card statements, has let his gym membership lapse and owes money at a club in the West End. He’s on antidepressants – which are not in his room – and he’s been drinking