Free False Report by Veronica Heley

her mobile and keyed in CJ’s number. ‘Yes, I know it’s late, but you’ll never guess what’s just happened. I appear to be sheltering a suspect from a murder enquiry. Do the police need to know I’ve got him?’

FIVE
    Thursday evening
    â€˜ N ance, he’s slippery as an eel. We got in, no problem, the cafe downstairs had closed for the night, no one around, forced his front door open. He wasn’t there. We roughed the place up but couldn’t wait for him, because Jonno had double-parked the van outside and a car came up behind us, honking his horn and shouting, so we left and drove off before they called the police.
    â€˜We hadn’t got to the end of the road before I spotted him returning to his flat, but there was this car right up to our bumper and no room to turn round. We had to circle right round the block to get back to his place. I left Jonno in the van with the engine running and went back up the stairs, but he’d only been and gone again, hadn’t he!’
    â€˜How do you know he’d been and gone?’
    â€˜Dropped his pizza on the stairs. Mushroom and pepperoni. No sense it going to waste, so we brought it away with us. I’m thinking I might pay him another visit if you don’t want me for anything, right?’
    Friday morning
    Bea stumbled downstairs, yawning. The first person down – usually Maggie – turned off the house alarm. Bea, groggily, checked, because if it wasn’t turned off, the agency staff would be ringing their doorbell, trying to get in. Ianthe knew how to turn it off, of course, but she wasn’t always the first to arrive.
    It was off. Good.
    There was no sign of Rumpelstiltskin at breakfast. Maggie said the little man was still snoring, and she’d thought it best to leave him be. Bea agreed. Not even someone as resilient as Jeremy could have his flat trashed, his piano chopped up and survive a fall down the stairs, without suffering some degree of trauma.
    Maggie said she’d keep an eye out for him and accompany him back to his flat if the police arrived to inspect the damage. Besides which, he had only the clothes he stood up in, and it might be possible to rescue the rest of his belongings if someone held his hand while he did so.
    Maggie seemed to understand Jeremy, and Bea was happy to let the girl play at being nanny. Bea certainly didn’t feel like looking after him herself.
    â€˜Now, Maggie; about that estimate you wanted typed up. Give me the name of the client. I’ll get the paperwork from Ianthe and deal with it myself.’
    â€˜Would you really have the time?’
    â€˜I’ll make time,’ said Bea, and she marched down to her office. Her staff were already there and hard at work. Telephone lines were buzzing, computers were flickering, all was muted efficiency. Splendid.
    Ianthe smiled and bobbed her head at Bea as she passed through the main office. Ianthe was on the phone.
    Bea tried to boot up her computer, and it failed to respond. She unplugged it, put the plug back, tried again. It gulped at her and produced a blue screen. Bea stared at it in horror. Blue screens meant sudden death. Rest in Peace. Finis.
    â€˜Oh no, you don’t!’ Switch off. Unplug. Switch on again. This time the screen produced the usual start up . . . and then asked for the day’s password. Which of course she didn’t have.
    She left her desk to stand at the French windows, looking out into the garden. It was going to be another hot day. Her phone rang. She had an idle thought: would Ianthe pop in to give her the password, the moment Bea answered the phone?
    Of course not. That would mean that Ianthe was working against, and not for, Bea.
    She lifted the phone to find it was a complaint. Bea often dealt with complaints herself. Sometimes the client had been mismatched with the customer. Sometimes the customer had asked too much. Bea was always anxious to soothe ruffled feelings