False Picture by Veronica Heley Page A

heavily. According to Velma he works for a company making television programmes called Tuesday Next, some name like that, but it seems he got the sack some time ago.’
    Oliver’s eyes narrowed. ‘You think he was so desperate for money that he stole the picture? And now the police are taking an interest in Lady Farne’s death, he’s taken off into the blue with it?’
    Bea threw up her hands. ‘What other interpretation can we put on it?’
    Maggie grimaced. ‘If he’s done a runner and is in debt, then what’s he going to live on?’
    Oliver knew the answer. ‘He’ll sell the picture.’
    Bea said, ‘Can you see a man they don’t know walking into Sotheby’s and saying, “Oh, by the way, I’ve just come by this painting, but no, I can’t tell you how I got it, and will you sell it for me?”’
    â€˜They’d call the police as soon as his back was turned,’ said Oliver. ‘So—’
    â€˜He’d fence it!’ Maggie gave a whoop of joy. ‘I’ve always wanted to be a policewoman, and say, “You’re nicked!”’
    â€˜Yes, dear,’ said Bea. ‘But in the meantime, is the spare bedroom fit to receive a guest? I thought I might bring Velma back here for the night if I can tear her away from Sandy’s bedside.’
    Oliver looked at his watch. ‘Hate to break this up, but I’m due to meet a friend this evening, and Maggie, aren’t you supposed to meet someone for supper?’
    â€˜And then on to the party!’ Maggie jigged around the kitchen, throwing plates and pans into the dishwasher. ‘I do hope Zander is going to be there. I really rather fancy him, you know.’
    They knew. Bea thought a warning might be appropriate. ‘I’d go carefully with Zander, if I were you. We really don’t know anything about him, and—’
    â€˜I know everything I need to know,’ said Maggie, nose in the air.
    Bea told herself to shut up and let the girl make her own mistakes.
    Bea felt sluggish after that repast but refused to allow herself to flop into a chair and turn on the telly. As Maggie banged out of the house, Oliver disappeared upstairs. Bea settled herself at her desk to go through some of the paperwork that had accumulated in her absence … what about that tax return? And the solicitor’s letter?
    Well, there was nothing she could do about any of those things on a Saturday evening when everyone sane would have gone home to their families, or be spending time with their friends. Only Bea was left alone and lonely.
    She stopped that thought in its tracks. Yes, she was lonely. Intensely, painfully lonely. Lonely for one special person. Occasionally she coasted through an hour without thinking about Hamilton too much, and then … bam! Something would come up and hit her and she’d be feeling as raw as ever. It was only a short couple of months since he’d died.
    She thought of going upstairs to look at his portrait, but didn’t. Instead she did what she’d often seen him do. She swivelled round in her chair to look out of the window, across the garden to the sycamore tree at the end, and above that to the spire of the church in the High Street. See a spire, and aspire, Hamilton would say, smiling, appreciating the horror of the pun.
    See the spire, and aspire. Bea thought about it, looking up at the spire, wondering how long it took for the agony of grief to subside. She knew he’d often broken off in his work to look at the spire and pray. He said it calmed him, made it clear what he should do in difficult situations.
    She took off her reading glasses to look at the spire better, and tried to pray herself.
Dearest Lord God, if you can hear me through all the noise outside … and the noise inside me, as well … would you show me the way through the tangle I’m in? Please? Look after Sandy, be with him and if