Free False Report by Veronica Heley Page B

services again. Flicking through the letters, again and again Bea noted the words ‘inefficient’ and ‘badly trained’. This was not good news. The Abbot Agency always vetted their staff carefully. Or rather, Miss Brook had always done so. Query: who was vetting them now? Ianthe?
    Bea decided to have a word with Ianthe about this when things were quiet.
    In the meantime, she would go through the file herself to see how bad the situation might be. It was going to be a massive job. In the past . . . Ah, well, they didn’t get through so much business then, did they?
    She started to make notes. Where there had been complaints about the behaviour of the staff employed, she found a number of names unfamiliar to her . . . new to the Abbot Agency . . . interviewed for a job by . . .? One of the new members of staff. Previously employed by . . . Mm. Another agency. Now, she knew something about that other agency, didn’t she?
    She was interrupted in her work half an hour later, when Ianthe popped her head round the door with the news that Maggie’s paperwork couldn’t be found anywhere. Was Mrs Abbot absolutely certain that the girl had handed it in, because Maggie had been known to mislay things, hadn’t she?
    Bea said, ‘I will enquire,’ and went upstairs to find Maggie feeding their refugee’s face with a fry up and coffee.
    â€˜Maggie, they seem to have lost your paperwork downstairs. Can you rough it out again for me? I’m going out for an hour and will do it when I get back.’
    â€˜She’s going to help me rescue my clothes from the flat.’ Jeremy displayed the confident, hopeful smile of a child looking forward to a treat. ‘Then she says we’ll have to speak to the police and the letting agency about the damage, because I don’t suppose I’m insured though Maggie says I may be. After that we’re going to look at some electronic keyboards for me. The Japanese make a good one. I think I’ve got my gold credit card somewhere. I do hope I didn’t drop it in the street. I usually keep it in the back of my Oyster travel-card but I’m not sure I’ve still got it with me.’
    He rummaged through pockets and produced a torn orange plastic folder. ‘Triumph! I suppose I’d better get another mobile . . .’ And, at that very moment, his mobile phone fell out of his back pocket. He pounced on it with glee. ‘Eureka! My lucky day!’
    Bea rolled her eyes at Maggie, who rolled hers back.
    Bea said, ‘Back in an hour or so.’ And fled.
    â€˜Come!’ Piers had left the door to his studio ajar, so Bea walked in. Piers was something of a nomad, who liked a frequent change of scene. He was currently occupying a spacious flat at the top of a red brick terrace near Earls Court. The main room – doubling as sitting room and studio – had a good north light.
    Piers never seemed to feel the heat or the cold, and ate out when he felt like it.
    Bea would have taken a bet that the oven in the kitchen was pristine, but that his top-of-the-range coffee machine and microwave were in constant use.
    He was alone and at his easel. ‘Can you manage the coffee machine? If so, help yourself to a cup. There’s milk in the fridge, I think. Take a seat. I can do this bit in my sleep.’ He was painting a mayoral chain on to the head and shoulders portrait of a fat-faced businessman.
    Bea admired his technique as he flecked highlights on to the gold links. ‘You’ve caught a sly look in his eyes.’
    â€˜He’s so pleased with himself he won’t see it. Knighted in the last honour’s list, highly esteemed in his home city. This portrait has been commissioned by a grateful council to be hung in the mayoral parlour. Unless, of course, the law catches up with him first. I insisted on money in advance, just in case.’
    Piers was tall, dark, slender and not at all handsome; but he had