False Picture by Veronica Heley Page B

it is your will that he doesn’t
survive, then grant him strength and comfort. And the same for Velma. I’m afraid they’re both going to be badly hurt, whatever happens to Philip. As for Philip, only you know the truth about that matter … oh, it’s such a miserable mess, and I’m not the right person to deal with it. I suppose what I mean is, show me what I can do to help them, because I haven’t
a clue.
    She put on her reading glasses and opened the Complaints Folder. Somewhere here there must be the case which had brought the solicitor’s letter upon them. No, not this person. Nor that. The words ‘vexatious client’ came to mind on the third … a man complaining that his landlady had lost a pair of his socks. There really wasn’t much there to worry about.
    The house seemed very quiet, with Maggie out. Oliver appeared in the doorway, dressed in good but casual wear. ‘I’m off to the gym, and afterwards I thought I might go to the pub with my friend. Don’t worry; we’ll only be drinking halves of beer.’
    Bea nodded, astonished that all of a sudden this little grub of a schoolboy was turning into a butterfly. As he left, she clutched at her desk, realizing she was going to be left alone in the house. She wanted to call him back, to detain him … how stupid! At her age!
    She unstuck her hands from the desk and set her files to one side, deciding to make notes of everything she knew about Philip. If he stayed missing, there was no way his disappearance could be kept from the police, and she’d better be prepared to tell them what she knew. While she was about it, she’d better see what she could find out from Philip’s phone.
    Unfortunately, she hadn’t got a manual for this phone, which was the very latest of its kind, and quite impenetrable in its complicated workings to Bea. She pushed buttons and got nowhere. Besides which, it rather looked as if the battery were dead again. She sighed. She’d leave it to Oliver to sort out on the morrow. Meanwhile … she looked up the name of the club which had sent Philip a letter reminding him to pay his debts. She’d never heard of it, and it wasn’t in the phone book, but she traced a phone number through the directory.
    A suave voice with a slight accent answered the phone. ‘Yes, madam?’
    Bea didn’t have a good cover story ready. ‘I was given your name by a friend, who said I might need references to join. Is that right?’
    â€˜Certainly. What name do you have, please?’
    â€˜Weston. Mrs Weston.’
    â€˜If you will hold a moment, please.’ He put the phone on hold. Bea wondered why on earth she’d given Velma’s name. She’d been stupid. She hadn’t thought through what she should say. She cradled the phone, only to have it ring again.
    She stared at it, worrying that the club might have caller recognition and called her back, had perhaps been checking that this number was not the one registered for Mrs Weston. The ringing stopped. Then her own mobile rang.
    It was Piers. Without preamble he said, ‘The thing is, Bea, I went to a private view at a gallery last night. Everyone was talking about the Farne collection, telling stories about Lucky Lucinda and her dirty deeds in the past, and speculating as to who might have inherited the goodies; the odds-on favourites to inherit, by the way, are a home for fallen women and the cats’ home. One of the guests had a funny story to tell which might interest you. He said that someone had recently tried to sell him a fake Millais.’
    â€˜I’m all attention,’ said Bea.
    â€˜Thought you might be. I got a trickle down my spine when I remembered you mentioned the word Millais because you’ve never shown any interest in the pre-Raphaelites before. It’s been on my mind all day. I called round earlier, but you were out. What have you got yourself into