Free False Report by Veronica Heley Page A

and make recompense if by any chance the agency had not been able to fulfil their brief to everyone’s satisfaction. As seemed to be the case this time. Didn’t there seem to be rather a lot of complaints recently?
    Bea let a torrent of abuse wash over her. With one part of her mind she was thinking that this woman had been badly served, and with the other she was half listening for . . . ah yes. There was a tap on the door, and in came Ianthe’s head.
    â€˜Oh, I see you’re busy, Mrs Abbot. The password is . . .’
    Bea covered the receiver with her free hand. ‘Will you write it down for me, please, Ianthe? Here, on my pad. You got my memo about writing down the password for me?’
    â€˜Oh, yes. Silly me. There’s such a lot happening . . . so busy as we are—’
    When had Bea realized Ianthe’s fluffy mannerisms hid a brain made of steel?
    â€˜Hold on a minute, will you?’ Bea put the receiver down on her desk, still quacking away to itself, and tapped the new password into her keyboard. Incorrect password. Well, now; there’s a surprise. Bea turned back to Ianthe, who was halfway out of the door by now. ‘Ianthe; I think I shall have to set the passwords in future. This one doesn’t seem to work.’
    â€˜Doesn’t it? Oh, how silly of me. Do you think I’ve given you yesterday’s password again? Dear me, so I have. Today we have all the numbers in the middle.’
    â€˜Right.’ Bea tried that, and it worked. ‘Don’t go, Ianthe. I understand there’s been a spot of bother with work for Maggie—’
    â€˜Well, yes. I hate to bring it up, because we all know she’s a great favourite of yours, but her handwriting is not at all easy to decipher, and the girls really don’t like taking time out to puzzle over her stuff when everything else is piling up around them.’
    â€˜If you’ll find the handwritten estimate she’s prepared – the one that’s got to go out this week – and bring it to me, I’ll type it up for her.’
    Ianthe’s hands twisted themselves together and her rings flashed. ‘Oh, but Mrs Abbot, are you sure you can spare the time when there’s so much else that needs attending to at the moment? We’re run off our feet and—’
    â€˜We always had time in the past.’
    â€˜Yes, but things have moved on, haven’t they? I put it down to the agency in the High Street going bust and all their clients transferring to us.’
    That might well be. Bea nodded and picked up the still quacking phone. It sounded as if the client had done the threatening-with-solicitors’-letters bit and got to the tearful stage. ‘Of course you’re upset. I would be, too,’ said Bea in her most soothing tone. ‘Now, give me the details again so that I can write them down and refund your money. And next time, ask for me and I’ll see to it personally that you have someone more satisfactory. Did you say you wanted someone next week as well . . .?’
    Two phone calls. An experienced chef located and booked. Client reassured. Problem solved.
    Bea put down the phone and went through to the main office. Ianthe was on the phone so Bea asked the nearest girl for the complaints folder and took it back with her to her own office.
    The file bulged in ominous fashion. Why hadn’t she been told there were so many complaints? In the old days there had been the odd problem client or customer. Sometimes the client had been mismatched with the customer, or there had been some mishap with the paperwork. That happened even in the best regulated of families.
    But the current file contained an appallingly high number of complaints which didn’t seem to have been dealt with, but left on file. Why hadn’t Ianthe brought them to Bea’s attention?
    The agency might be doing well on paper, but complaints meant clients would be wary of using their