False Step by Veronica Heley Page B

‘We’d arranged that we’d meet up every couple of months, his place or mine, sink a pint, have a good gossip. I’m going to miss him something chronic.’
    â€˜He wasn’t a smoker, was he?’ Bea remembered the trail of cigarette ash under the visitor’s chair in Matt’s house.
    â€˜Never. Said it would damage his lungs. He was always on at me about it. Poor old Matt. I never thought to outlive him. I’ll come to the funeral, and there’ll be a memorial service, of course. I’ll pass the word around. A lot of his old friends will want to attend.’
    â€˜I’ll tell Damaris when I see her, but I must warn you, she’s hoping her father’s—’
    â€˜Stepfather’s.’
    â€˜â€”demise will pass unnoticed by the press. She’s embarrassed by the way he earned his living.’
    â€˜Tcha!’ He invested the sound with so much disgust that she had to laugh. Walking back to her car, he took her arm, and she noted with a thrill of sorrow that his gait was unsteady and his breathing far too loud.
    With downcast eyes, she adopted her creamiest, most innocent tone of voice. ‘I wonder how many more people ought to be told about Matt’s death. His wives? The press, maybe?’
    Sylvester began to laugh, which turned into a cough. Spluttering, he produced his handkerchief again. Leaning on the car, he whooped and coughed, eyes streaming.
    Bea was alarmed. ‘Sylvester, are you all right? Silly question. Of course you’re not. Is there anything I can do?’
    His breathing slowed to a grumble. ‘You do me good, Bea. When I saw you last – at my retirement party, wasn’t it? – I thought to myself that you were far too quiet. I wondered if you’d ever get back to your old self after, you know, Hamilton, rest his soul. Now, you just keep on poking us into action, do you hear? I’m pretty well done for as you can see, but I liked Matt and I don’t like to hear of his daughter trying to wipe out the memory of a great gentleman. Yes, I’ll contact his ex-wives, both of them. Goldie will be easy to find. The teacher …? I think she kept his name after the divorce. She shouldn’t be hard to locate. And yes, I’ll get the press involved, too.’ He began to laugh, his stomach wobbling. ‘I’m looking forward to this. One last ploy for Sylvester!’
    â€˜Now you’ve got me worried. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything.’
    â€˜Yes, you should. Let’s go out with a bang, right? All I need from you is the date of the funeral. Leave the rest to me. Now take me home. I’d better rest up a while before the grandkids come for their tea. My son and daughter-in-law think they’re doing me a favour by bringing them over on Sunday afternoons, but to be frank, although I love them dearly, after ten minutes I’m wishing them gone.’
    â€˜Just don’t die before you’ve rearranged Matt’s funeral.’
    â€˜Trust me for that. And when it comes to my turn, you can read a poem at my memorial service. You’ve got a beautiful voice. Did you never think of radio?’
    Bea was laughing as she inserted him into her car, and clipped his seat belt on. ‘Shut up, Sylvester. Let’s get you home in one piece.’
    Bea parked the car outside her house but instead of going in, she walked down to the bus stop and made her way to the National Portrait Gallery. Tomorrow morning she had an appointment to meet Damaris Frasier, and she was not easy in her mind about it. Was Matthew Kent the good friend and employer she’d heard about, or was he a cross-dressing man with grubby tendencies, as Damaris had hinted and as Bea’s own view of his body had indicated?
    Yes, his portrait was still there, as were a couple of other portraits painted by Piers over the years. Nowadays Piers charged such high prices that only the most important or