False Picture by Veronica Heley Page B

could you check on stuff in the fridge? I’ve a feeling there was some cream and milk in there that might be going off, and I expect the milkman’s left some more in the porch. If it hasn’t been nicked, could you take it in?’ She glanced back at Sandy, who seemed to be trying to raise one hand.
    â€˜I must go.’
    â€˜Velma, before you …’
    It was no good. Velma was already bending over her husband, soothing him. Bea shrugged. How could you question a client who was so ill?
    She took another taxi, this time to The Boltons. Billionaires’ row. The Boltons was rather special, the white or cream stuccoed residences curving round a graceful Victorian church situated on an island in the middle of the road.
    Although there was a self-contained flat for live-in help over the converted coach house at the side, Velma had managed without servants since her first husband died. Instead, she made do with the services of a cleaner twice a week. And yes, there was milk and cream on the doorstep and a bundle of mail sticking out of the letterbox.
    Before Bea could select the right keys to unlock the massive front door, she fished the piece of paper with the alarm code on it out of her handbag. She didn’t want to dither inside with bells ringing out over the neighbourhood. Got it. First the mortise lock, and then the Yale. Buzz went the alarm. Bother, where was the alarm box?
    Velma hadn’t said, so it must be obvious. Obvious to Velma was not obvious to Bea. She told herself she must have observed Velma cutting off the alarm on one of Bea’s visits to the house, but for the moment … ah, behind a small picture, yes? She set her teeth. Any minute now the alarm would go off and … got it, the third small picture frame opened to reveal the keypad inside. Bea keyed in the number and the buzzing ceased. She relaxed, and bent down to pick up the flurry of mail that had landed on the floor.
    â€˜Mrs Weston?’
    A large man in a not very good suit stood in the doorway, with a woman behind him on the top step. Bea’s mind suggested that they might be police, and her heartbeat accelerated. She dumped the pile of mail and said, ‘No, I’m not Mrs Weston, I’m …’
    They held up identification for her to see. ‘DI Hignett. Mrs Weston, we’d like a word with your husband.’
    â€˜So would I,’ said Bea, aiming for humour, ‘but he happens to be six feet under in Australia.’ Their expressions failed to lighten, so she hastened to explain. ‘I’m not Mrs Weston. I’m a friend of hers, Mrs Abbot. Would you like to see some proof? Driving licence, library card, leisure pass, bank cards?’ She reached for the handbag over her shoulder, but the man stopped her.
    â€˜Take it gently now. Suppose you pass your bag over to my colleague here, and she’ll check out your ID.’
    â€˜What?’ Bea started to laugh, but stopped herself. ‘You imagine I’ve got a gun in here? You’ve been watching too much TV.’ She handed over her bag, amused but also irritated. ‘What’s all this about?’ As if she didn’t know, or guess. This was about more than a missing picture, wasn’t it? ‘Look, I’m Bea Abbot, fetching a few things for my friend Mrs Weston. And when you’re satisfied that I am who I say I am, then perhaps you’ll explain why you’re here and help me by picking up the milk and cream that’s been left on the doorstep.’
    The woman looked in Bea’s handbag, and nodded to the man. ‘She’s who she says she is.’ She handed back the bag, and bent to pick up the items from the doorstep.
    â€˜Can’t be too careful,’ said the man. ‘You match the description, you see. Blonde hair, late fifties.’
    â€˜Thank you for the compliment,’ said Bea, accepting the milk and cream from the WPC and setting them down on the hall table.