False Charity Read Free

topped with spiky railings.
    Bea saw that the sycamore tree in the corner had not been lopped that summer, so that it threw a canopy of green over the bottom part of the garden. Everything had been well looked after; the paved area around the modern fountain in the centre was weed-free, and the rambling roses trained to climb the walls had been dead-headed. Huge pots filled with busy Lizzies and ivy-leaved geraniums had been watered recently.
    Garden chairs and a table had been placed beneath the tree, and Bea imagined Max and Nicole hosting a barbecue down there. Important people would attend; up-and-coming politicians, journalists, perhaps? People with money, definitely. Her mind went further back down the years … she remembered the boy Max riding his bike round and round, pretending it was a motorbike going vroom-vroom while Hamilton cooked the evening meal on the barbecue that he’d built himself. Later on, the four of them had been accustomed to eat alfresco meals at a trestle table Hamilton had found in a junk shop somewhere. She wondered where that table had gone.
    Just to look at the garden lifted her spirits.
    Neither Max nor Nicole were particularly light-hearted. Both were deeply serious about Max’s career. Nicole showed no signs of producing children and this had been a source of sorrow to Hamilton and Bea. Ah well, thought Bea. There’s still time. Hopefully.
    Bea’s dear husband Hamilton had been light-hearted on the surface, but he’d had a deep sympathy for the underdog and the wronged in society, particularly if they couldn’t afford to hire expensive lawyers or go to the police.
    Bea mourned his loss, greatly. They’d been together for many years; years of hard work in which they’d earned a good living while having the satisfaction of knowing they’d righted a lot of wrongs. Hamilton had been a good stepfather to Max. She didn’t like to think how her son might have turned out if Hamilton hadn’t been around to lend some stability to their lives. Max wasn’t perfect – too much under the thumb of his wife – but then, who was?
    She thought she’d done most of her mourning for Hamilton during the years he’d taken to die, though now and then something came back to catch at her throat and make her shake with the pain of her loss. They hadn’t been lovers for a long time, but they’d always been good friends. What did the future hold for her? She couldn’t think, daren’t think. Was too tired to think.
    She took out her mobile phone and listened to the message Piers had left on it. ‘Welcome back, and when can I drop round?’ She shook her head. Piers was best kept at a distance. She deleted the message.
    The agency doorbell rang again. Wasn’t it after office hours? Usually the strident doorbell was muted by the last person to leave the office at the end of the working day, which was when the telephone was switched to Hamilton and Bea’s living quarters. Presumably the Maggie person was still working.
    It needn’t concern her any more. Hamilton’s will had been a simple affair; everything to her, with keepsakes to the children and one or two old friends.
    Hamilton had advised her to close the business, sell the house and leave the area to make a fresh start, but now the time had come to put his plan into action, she realized that the last thing she wanted to do was retire to the seaside and play golf. That had been Hamilton’s dream, not hers. So what should she do?
    She’d think of something. Tomorrow.
    Now she must find an apron and start clearing up from the party. Trust Max to give a party in someone else’s house and leave them to do the washing-up.
    Someone had swept into the room behind her. A stick-thin girl with hair dyed pink, wearing too short a skirt over thin legs that didn’t warrant such exposure. Bea stifled a ‘Tut!’ and brought out a social smile. ‘You