False Report by Veronica Heley

unfocused.
    He had set up his keyboard by the French windows which overlooked the garden, pushing aside the table which Bea occupied when she played patience in the evenings, and using her chair.
    What was he playing? Something you could dance to; something by Mozart?
    Bea sank on to the settee. Maggie folded herself into an armchair.
    He was playing as if he were in a dream. The tune was there, and then it was gone, swept away by a new theme. It lifted you up and drifted you around like the petals from a cherry tree, floating here and there. A rare talent.
    Bea listened and remembered going to concerts with Hamilton before he became ill. Maggie listened . . . and remembered . . . what? She was smiling, not looking at anything in particular.
    Bea found her own lips had curved into a smile.
    He stopped. His hands rested on the keys, his head bent over them.
    Maggie shook herself. Bea’s first coherent thought was that the little man would say he was hungry in a minute.
    â€˜Any chance of a bacon sandwich?’
    Maggie uncurled herself, stood and stretched. ‘Coming up.’ She left her shoes behind her and went out to the kitchen.
    Bea sighed. ‘Was that one of your own compositions, Jeremy?’
    â€˜You liked it? Sometimes I just need to play. This is a beautiful room. I wish . . . I wish.’ He pulled the cover down over the keys. There were silver trails on his cheeks, sliding down into his beard. ‘I wanted to play something for her, for Josie. She didn’t deserve to die for what she did.’
    â€˜I know.’
    He turned to face her, not bothering to wipe away his tears. ‘Will you find out what happened to her? And . . . perhaps . . . get me my home back?’
    â€˜I’ll do my best.’ She got to her feet, too. ‘Would you like tea or coffee with your sandwich?’
    He didn’t answer.
    She went out to the kitchen. ‘I seem to have promised to solve his murder.’
    Maggie blew her nose on a tissue. ‘Poor little man. He needs a minder.’ She took the sandwich and a cup of tea into the sitting room.
    And came back to Bea in the kitchen. ‘He’s not there. He hasn’t gone out, has he?’
    â€˜We’d have heard the front door. Wouldn’t we?’
    â€˜Perhaps he’s gone upstairs. He must be wiped out, with all that he’s gone through.’ Maggie traipsed up the stairs to the top floor. And then called down, ‘He’s not here, either.’
    The front doorbell rang, and Bea answered it. CJ stood there, immaculately tailored, bearing a bouquet of flowers which had definitely not been bought from the stall at the bottom of the road, or plucked from a bucket inside the nearest convenience store. ‘Ready?’
    â€˜Um.’ Bea had forgotten she was meant to be going out for a meal with him. ‘Sorry, we’ve had a bit of a . . . Jeremy’s gone missing.’
    â€˜Found him!’ Maggie sang out from the first floor. ‘Sleeping like a babe in the guest room.’
    Bea ran halfway up the stairs then – feeling her age – slowed down for the last bit. Maggie held the door open for her to see the little man had shucked off his shoes and curled up under the duvet. And yes, he was fast asleep.
    Maggie said, ‘Tired out, poor love. Probably forgot that he was supposed to be using Oliver’s room up top.’
    CJ appeared in the doorway. ‘“Who’s been sleeping in my bed, said Daddy Bear?”’
    Bea closed the door. ‘This is all your fault, CJ. You wished him on me.’
    â€˜The police still fancy him for Josie’s murder. They think he paid someone to kill her for him.’
    â€˜Nonsense,’ said Bea.
    Maggie said, ‘No way!’
    â€˜Agreed.’ A wolfish smile. ‘So, Bea; are you ready? I have a car waiting.’
    She checked on what she was wearing. Heavens! A business suit, which was not at all appropriate for an evening out.