Free False Money by Veronica Heley

were enormous.
    â€˜Sorry, yes.’ To Maggie. And to Piers, ‘Look, Maggie’s just come in, and we’re both in shock. Can I ring you back?’
    â€˜I’ll come round.’
    â€˜No, don’t—’
    He’d already clicked off. Bea replaced the receiver on her landline phone and put her arm around Maggie. ‘It might not be Tomi.’
    Maggie shuddered. ‘If it isn’t, then where is she?’
    Bea held the girl close to her. Maggie burrowed her head into Bea’s shoulder and huffed. Then pulled away, swiped her hand across her eyes and got up to put the kettle on. ‘I’m dying for a cuppa. How about you?’
    â€˜I can’t think. Yes, I’d . . . No, better not. Piers is coming round. He’s supposed to be taking me out, but I’d forgotten and got those ducks’ breasts out of the freezer for supper.’
    â€˜It’s Saturday night. I was going to a party, but . . .’
    They stared, not at one another, but at the defrosting ducks’ breasts.
    Maggie said, ‘Where did they find her?’
    â€˜Beside a country road.’
    â€˜It’s not Tomi, then. She’s not exactly a country person.’
    â€˜No.’ Bea didn’t argue. CJ had sounded very sure.
    â€˜I’ll cook these for supper,’ said Maggie. ‘There’ll be enough for three. Piers will like home cooking for a change.’ She looked at the clock and reached for her apron. ‘I don’t think I’ll bother going out again tonight. It’s been a stressful week, what with this and that. I’ll knock up a pudding for us, shall I? Carbohydrates. Cold winter food. Keeps you going.’
    â€˜Yes. Thank you, Maggie.’
    â€˜If you feel too tired to go out with him, you don’t have to, do you?’
    Bea felt like saying ‘I’m not that decrepit,’ but kept her mouth shut. They might pretend all they liked, but the image of Tomi lying at the side of a country road was weighing them both down.
    Piers arrived, wearing lightweight clothing despite the chill in the air outside. He often wore black, partly because it was fashionable, but also because it suited him. While he’d never been handsome, black did set off his mop of greying black hair, slightly twisted nose and olive complexion. He didn’t wear suits, of course. At least, not the usual pinstripe city-style jobs. He wore silk shirts over denim in the daytime and silk over well-cut black trousers in the evening. His jackets were always made to measure.
    His son Max had all the good looks in the world – though he was running to seed a little lately – but he’d none of Piers’ immense charm, alas.
    â€˜My dear.’ Piers kissed Bea on both cheeks. ‘My beloved Maggie.’ Another hug and a kiss. ‘So tell Grandpa what’s happened.’ He made a joke of it, but he was pleased to have a grandchild and had already set up a savings account for little Pippin . . . which had caused Max to remark, sourly, that a spot of instant dosh would have been even more acceptable.
    Bea forced herself to smile. ‘Nothing yet. Rumours, people panicking. It may all be a storm in a teacup. Would you like to share supper with us before we go out?’
    He was not fooled, but was intelligent enough to accept that they’d decided to make light of whatever it was that was bothering them. ‘So, do we sit through the Messiah tonight? I must admit it’s years since I heard it. I very rarely go to a concert or listen to the radio. I work in silence, as you know. Even the tinkle of a mobile phone irritates me.’
    â€˜Who gave you the tickets? Someone who wants to widen your horizons?’
    â€˜In every way, probably. Not that I’m tempted. She’s patron of something in the music world, can’t remember what. Would you like to come too, Maggie? I dare say we can find another ticket for