False Charity by Veronica Heley

working on the shower curtain, and Richie had dropped off their clothes to be dry-cleaned.
    Lena, dressed in a black leotard and sequined slippers, put on some rubber gloves to check out the victim’s mobile phone. It was brand new, performing everything except the polka.
    Noel was easing stylish boots over designer jeans. ‘If I’ve got to get rid of my mobile, why can’t I have his?’
    â€˜Don’t be silly,’ said his mother, accessing the address list. ‘Ouch, he’s got a couple – no, three – girls’ telephone numbers in his memory.’ She tapped her teeth. ‘He said he was playing the field. Suppose he wasn’t gay but—’
    Noel pouted. ‘He was gay.’ He snatched the phone out of her hands. ‘Swap you mine for this, right?’ He fiddled with the phone. ‘Who shall I send a photo to?’
    Richie slid into the room, another phone to his ear. ‘The hotel confirms the special offer on the wine. All right?’
    â€˜Sure,’ said Lena, watching her son with a mixture of irritation and pleasure. ‘Noel, you know you can’t keep it.’
    He whooped. ‘Will you look at this!’ He showed her an image of herself on the mobile.
    She said, ‘Look!’ and pointed. Grabbed at the phone and missed.
    Laughing, he opened his fingers and let the phone smash down on to the floor. And stamped on it. She drew the back of her hand across her forehead. ‘Oh, Noel!’
    â€˜Was there anything on it?’ asked Richie, through his teeth.
    â€˜You should have let me keep it,’ said Noel, spreading his hands wide. ‘Now look what you’ve made me do!’

Four
    Wednesday, midday
    B ea started up out of her nap. After a moment’s disorientation, she adjusted her glasses and picked up Coral’s file. Even though she was not responsible for the mess Coral had got into, she might be able to come up with a constructive suggestion.
    The paperwork was not in chronological order. She spread the bits and pieces out on Hamilton’s desk, trying to get a picture of what had been going on.
    Maggie blundered into the room, all arms and legs. ‘What can I do for you, you poor thing? How are you feeling? Jet lag’s terrible, isn’t it? Would some coffee help? I can make it in a trice.’
    Bea told herself the girl was only trying to help. ‘You can tell Oliver to come in. He’s the computer buff around here, isn’t he? I assume he’s got Hamilton’s computer and if so, tell him to return it, pronto.’
    Silence. Maggie twisted her lips together, displaying reluctance to do as Bea had asked. Where did she buy her clothes and what colour had her hair been originally? She wouldn’t be bad looking if she held herself better and paid a visit to a decent hairdresser. Was she anorexic, perhaps?
    â€˜Promise you’ll be gentle with him,’ said Maggie. ‘He cries if people shout at him.’
    Bea slammed her hands down on the desk. ‘Heavens above!’
    Maggie winced, but stood her ground.
    â€˜Oh, very well.’ Bea moderated her voice. ‘I promise to handle him as if he were made of glass. Just get him in here, fast.’
    Oliver sidled into the room, looking about twelve years old. He was wearing a pair of moccasins in addition to the same casual gear as before. Bea gestured him to take a chair, which he only did after sending a pleading glance to Maggie. He was a finely cut lad, fine-boned – almost sparrow-boned. Too thin. If he put on a bit of weight, he might be handsome. There was a dusky tint to his skin. A mixed race ancestry, somewhere along the line?
    â€˜You too, Maggie. Sit.’
    Maggie sprawled on the settee but Oliver sat on the edge of a chair, looking terrified. Bea repressed an impulse to blast him into outer space. He really was victim material.
    â€˜Now, I’d like an update, please. I want my husband’s