False Report Read Online Free PDF Page B

set off for home. Should she take the bus? No, a taxi presented itself as she left the Academy. She settled herself into the seat and immediately another problem surfaced in her mind.
    Bea had caught her sort-of-adopted daughter Maggie in tears last night, but when Bea asked what was the matter, the girl had rebuffed all enquiries, saying she was going down with a cold. True? Hm. But if not true, what had upset her? Had her almost-boyfriend urged her to marry him? No, he was too sensible to do so before Maggie was ready for it. So what could be troubling her now?
    Maggie had been spectacularly unsuccessful as a member of the domestic agency, since her skills had never lain with either the telephone or the computer. But she’d discovered a flair for working as a project manager for various building jobs in the neighbourhood. And Maggie loved to cook . . . which reminded Bea that she wouldn’t need to eat again that night.
    She ought, perhaps, to ring Maggie and warn her not to provide a big supper. She got out her mobile phone and tried Maggie’s number. Engaged. Of course. The girl spent most of her life with her phone attached to her ear.
    Frustrated, Bea made a mental note to try again in a minute. She wondered if the last of the new furniture had arrived for the flat she’d created for her second family at the top of the house. Wasn’t there still a bed missing? She must check.
    Maggie and Oliver – Bea’s adopted son currently away at university – were very close to her heart and she cared deeply for both of them. She believed they cared for her, too, but . . .
    Bea frowned. Oliver hadn’t been in touch since she’d returned from her holiday; he must be busy. He’d made new friends, had been invited into some new line of research which was bringing him kudos in his chosen field of Higher Mathematics, but he usually emailed her several times a week. And hadn’t.
    It was a something and a nothing.
    For heaven’s sake, he was a grown man now, wasn’t he? She must stop being such a mother hen and pay the taxi driver, who’d drawn up on the opposite side of the road to her house.
    On a bright summer’s day the early Victorian buildings in her street were a sight for sore eyes. She admired the freshly-painted cream facade of her own mid-terrace house and the neat, paved forecourt with its matching bay trees in pots. A discreet sign indicated that the Abbot Agency could be found by descending the steps to the basement area, while four wider steps led up to the front door under its imposing portico.
    Ranks of tall sash windows glistened in the afternoon sun, reducing in size as they marked the positions of the large reception room and hall, and the bedrooms in the upper storeys.
    The sky was blue overhead. A jet crossed the sky in the distance, humming to itself.
    Bea got out her keys, thinking of Jeremy Waite, thrown out of his family house and confined to a small, rented flat, where he couldn’t even have his grand piano. She couldn’t be that sorry for him. He might have lost his wife, his job and his home, but she had to admire the way he was forging ahead with his new life.
    Bea still had her family, her home and her job. So what was she complaining about? If something was amiss at the agency, it was up to her not to whinge, but to do something about it. And if there wasn’t anything wrong at the agency, then . . . Oh well, retirement couldn’t be that dreadful, could it?
    There was permit parking only in the street. As she crossed the road, she checked that her own car was safe and undamaged from brushes with passing vehicles, which it was, and spotted another familiar car. Her important – in his own estimation at least – member of parliament son’s car. A Jaguar. She’d given him a book of visitor’s tickets some time ago and he’d stuck one in the window, just as he ought to do if he wished to avoid a fine for parking