Tin Men: A Gripping Chrissy Livingstone Novel

by Linda Coles

  By the time she’d reached the boardwalk, she was glistening with sweat. She turned to look across at the ocean on her right, its silvery light flickering against the distant haze that was slowly lifting. She’d take a dip on the way back for sure. A running group went by, three abreast and ten people deep, keeping in step with each other drill style. Each wore an orange running vest; they were all part of the same club. Their speed was a few beats faster than her own, and they passed through quickly. She was tempted to join on the end, but resisted. Right now, she didn’t have the extra energy she’d have to muster to keep up.

  That’s when she’d remembered the man in the green cap from yesterday, trying to keep up with another group. Why had he popped into her mind? He’d stood out to her for some reason; maybe it had been the green cap. Or maybe it was just her overactive, jet-lagged mind. Still, Chrissy wondered if he was out this morning; most runners were regulars, and as she neared Venice Beach, she found herself watching out for him. There were plenty of faded blue and grey caps about, but no green today.

  She carried on all the way to the muscle gym then pulled over to catch her breath a little and pulled her earphones off. She was about halfway, with just the return journey to complete. She stood for a moment to watch the men working out, the gulls crying overhead. It was going to be a scorcher today and the dip in the sea at the end of her workout would be extremely welcome. She bent for a drink at the water fountain there, splashing some over her face and a handful down the back of her neck. It wasn’t ice cold but it was better than nothing. As she bent for another long drink, she was conscious of someone waiting behind her; she wiped her chin with the back of her hand and then stood up straight and turned to leave.

  A male voice said, ‘Thank you.’ Without turning to look, she instinctively knew who it was. Voice recognition had been part of her training, and her sense of hearing was well tuned in even now. Should she stop and say hello? Or carry on back to that swim she was looking forward to?

  Serendipity.

  She turned slowly to say hello to Philip Banks, who stood waiting in his green cap. She watched his face change, looking like he wished he’d kept his mouth shut. They stood looking at each other for a couple of seconds, then Chrissy spoke.

  “Good morning.” She smiled brightly, removing her shades so he could see her eyes. It always made communication easier. Eyes gave a lot away about a person, about a situation. About what was to happen next. Boxers, lovers and animals thought so, anyway.

  “Ah. Good morning to you, too. I see you didn’t take my advice and go back home?”

  “No, and no need to look caught out—I’m not going to harass you. I’m only out for my run.”

  Philip relaxed his shoulders a little; the woman in front of him was indeed astute.

  “That’s better,” she commented knowingly, and Philip risked a tight smile. “You’re obviously heading out. Maybe I can run back with you? If I can keep up, that is?” More smiles; she was teasing him. The man was too uptight.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Not really,” she said, still all smiles, and they set off towards the pier at a slow jog. Another running group in drill-step style paced by, much longer than the first one. They wore fluorescent pink tops. There must have been forty people. When they’d passed by, Philip asked the first question.

  “If I tell you, will you stop pestering and digging up the past?”

  “Well, that kind of depends on what it is, don’t you think?”

  They ran alongside each other in silence as Philip decided what he was or wasn’t going to share. Chrissy waited patiently, keeping pace easily. They’d run nearly a mile before he spoke again.

  “Let’s pull over.”

  Chrissy followed his lead and they made their way across the grassy dunes to a tree. The shade was welcome and she wiped her face on the front of her shirt. That swim would have to wait a while.

  “I’ll tell you about some of it, okay? That’s the best I’ll do.”

  “Okay.”

  They sat on the grass. Philip stared out to the distance, somewhere across the ocean in front of them, then began. He told her of blackmailing a schoolteacher and how it had all come out after the woman was found dead. She’d committed suicide. The headmaster had sworn them all to secrecy, concerned for the school’s reputation. It had been a terrible time for all the boys. They’d carried the guilt for many years.

  “I don’t get what that had to do with my father, though.”

  “The woman we were blackmailing was called Miss Marsh.” He watched her for signs of recognition, but Chrissy looked at him blankly. “She was having an affair with your father.” He let that sink in before adding, “We didn’t know who he was at the time.”

  Dad was having an affair?

  It was Chrissy’s turn to look caught out. After a moment, she collected herself and said, “And knowing my father, he’d want to know who was responsible. Hence the photos of the culprits,” she said, nodding her head almost to herself.

  Philip cringed at the word ‘culprits.’ “So, you can see why it wouldn’t achieve anything to drag it all up again. Your mother doesn’t need to know, I’m sure.”

  Chrissy watched a gull trying to eat part of a sandwich without attracting its buddies. It failed. Seconds later, it was surrounded by around twenty more of them.

  “And your visit to his funeral?” she said at length.

  “Purely for a client, on behalf of someone else.” Philip turned his gaze from the sea back to Chrissy and smiled at her. “It’s the truth.”

  Chrissy stayed thoughtful for a moment. “Okay. Thanks for telling me. Mystery solved.” She stood up to leave. “I’ll see you around,” she called as she set off back to the dip she’d promised herself.

  Philip remained under the tree, watching her head off. Thinking.

  He hoped what he’d told her would be enough.

  He wasn’t going to tell her the rest.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  As she headed back down the boardwalk, her mind was spinning. She wasn’t stupid. She knew there was still a lot more to the story and Philip wasn’t for spilling the rest of it. He’d started by telling her he wouldn’t go into all the story, only some of it.

  “I’ll tell you about some of it, okay? That’s the best I’ll do.”

  But who could she ask? If this Sylvia Marsh had committed suicide, that was a dead end.

  Oh, unfortunate choice of words, Chrissy!

  Her mind went darting back to the three missing diaries. It seemed like those might be the key to all of this. Could her father have them hidden somewhere else for even safer keeping? At his office, maybe? Where would she hide something so damning?

  “A safe, I’d bet!” she said out loud and pumped a fist in the air.

  She was almost at the end of her run. When she was about level with the steps that led back up to the streets, she slowed and caught her breath, then headed to the water’s edge. Sweat poured out of her as she quickly removed her shoes, tucking her phone into one of them. The beach itself was quiet here; everyone was still pounding the concrete boardwalk. The tepid water felt soothing on her feet as she sloshed forward up to her knees. Bracing herself for the coolness to come, she dove forward and swam out further into the sea. The current wasn’t strong, and she swam easily out to a place where she could no longer feel the sand beneath her feet if she stood, but not far enough to be completely out of her depth. She submerged herself completely, then burst back through the surface and shook her head like a wet dog, hair flicking droplets back into the sea. It was a few degrees cooler where she trod water. She lay back and let the salty water move through her hair, separating the blond strands like pale seaweed in an ocean rockpool. It felt therapeutic. It reminded her of her other home, of Adam and the bath she’d taken just after her father’s death. Had that only been a week or two ago?

  “So, what to do next? What’s the next move?” she asked herself. Floating languidly, with the sun
drying her salty face, she turned her attention to Alistair. Perhaps it was worth a conversation with him, too, maybe another accidental meeting? There were still plenty of questions she’d like answers to, not least why some of the seven had since ended up dead, at their own hands. Surely a woman’s suicide thirty years ago hadn’t solely been the reason? No, something had changed; something had reared its head and set a boulder rolling down a hillside somewhere. And she wondered if her father had somehow pushed that boulder.

  Three of the seven were deceased: Cody Taylor, Stuart Townsend and Sam Moore had all died a year or so ago. That only left the two here in town—Philip and Alistair—two plus more she knew little about. One, Robert Newsome, was a doctor; the other, Steve Marks, she’d no clue.

  The diaries.

  Of course!

  But not the missing three: the ones from a couple of years ago.

  She swam back towards the shore, her realisation propelling her forward like a steam boat. She sloshed back up onto the pebbles, retrieved her phone, rammed her wet feet into her shoes and set off back towards her home.

  By the time she’d arrived, she’d formed the resemblance of a plan. But could she pull it off? First, she needed to find out if the gardener had already put a match to the bag of diaries. Second, if he hadn’t, she had to somehow get her hands on the two or three she wanted—while she was halfway around the world. She knew she couldn’t ask her mother; she was already too suspicious as it was, and Chrissy wasn’t about to explain what her father had been up to—either back then or possibly more recently.

  What about Julie? She quickly discarded the idea. Julie wasn’t reliable, and hurting her family was not Chrissy’s intention. Adam? But how could he possibly get into the garden shed undetected? And both Julie and Adam would ask awkward questions. The obvious answer was that neither of them could help. There was only one other person she could think of who wouldn’t raise any suspicions and could gain access to the shed: the gardener himself.

  But how could she get hold of him? She didn’t even have his name. She discarded that idea too.

  What to do… What to do?

  I’ll think of something.

  Do that.

  And on the one-person, two-sided conversation went as Chrissy headed inside the shower cubicle and washed sweat, seawater and sand down the drain. By the time she was clean and fragrant again, she was ravenous. In the kitchen she made a plate of scrambled eggs and a fresh pot of coffee and made herself comfortable out on the patio in the shade. Her phone chirped: a text from Julie.

  “Nothing urgent. Mum’s not too good. Doctor has been, says she needs rest. Looks like a virus of some sort. Love you. Jx”

  She’d thought her mother had looked tired when she’d seen her last, but she’d put it down to the stress of her husband’s death and the funeral. It was never going to be a cheery time for anyone. She compiled a text back:

  “Sending my love. Drop her a kiss from me. Keep me posted. Cx”

  That done, she returned to her eggs. And the problem of getting into that damn garden shed. Her mother was on bed rest. Could that be an opportunity to exploit?

  You’ll come up with something.

  Will I?

  You always do.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  With the matter of the diaries still to take care of somehow, she moved on to what she could do while she was still in the vicinity of Philip Banks and Alistair Crowley. Surely the last couple of years’ worth of reading would show what this whole saga was about, how her father was connected, because it couldn’t only be about the death of his lover. Not with three of the boys, now men, dead in recent months. There was a catalyst for sure; it was a matter of finding what it was.

  She turned her attention to Alistair again. She hadn’t noticed a ring on either his wedding finger or Philip’s, though that didn’t mean that either of them wasn’t in a settled relationship. For some reason, though, she particularly doubted Alistair was. So, if he was single, he’d have a social life. But where exactly did he live? A quick look in the telephone directory revealed nothing, so he obviously had an unlisted number.

  So, paying him a surprise visit at home, wherever that might be, was out of the question. No, she’d have to waylay him at his office again.

  Right, then. So that’s settled.

  Just beware of the redhead.

  Clearing her throat, Chrissy dialled Banks & Crowley once more. When Carmen answered, Chrissy enquired, in her best Irish accent, whether Mr. Crowley was available. She was told he’d be back around 4.30 PM. Would she like to leave a message? Chrissy declined and hung up. Now she had a time to aim for, at least. Time to get ready for another episode of Loitering in LA, she thought wryly; she should have been an actress. She’d have fitted right in. Maybe in another life.

  At 4 PM, she headed upstairs to change and make herself look a little more presentable. If she was going to turn his head and persuade him to have a cold beer with her, she had to look a bit snappier than she did right now in her shorts and T-shirt.

  Twenty minutes later, dressed in a linen shift dress and heeled sandals Julie would have been proud of, she was opening the rear door of yet another Uber, destination Abbot Kinney, her target Alistair Crowley. She hoped he was feeling charitable.

  From her vantage point a couple of doorways from the office, Chrissy spotted her quarry. She ran her fingers through her smart blond hair and stepped out of her hiding place into a well-timed collision.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, avoiding Alistair Crowley’s eyes and reaching down to pick up her shades. She steadied herself upright and made a show of being flustered, apologies gushing from her mouth like a hosepipe. When she’d finally righted herself and ‘realised’ who was stood in front of her, she took in the look on his face. He didn’t look impressed, nor convinced of their encounter.

  “Hello again,” she said smiling sweetly. “Sorry about that. I’m such a klutz at times.”

  “It’s fine,” he said coolly. “As long as you’re okay. No harm done here.” He brushed the front of his shirt as if something had been spilled on it. Reflex action, maybe.

  “Listen, I feel awful. You must think I was lying in wait for you or something,” she said, giggling. The look on his face said, ‘You were.’ Damn—she was losing him. He turned to walk away. “Can I get you a cold beer?” she piped up, trying not to sound desperate. “You look like you could do with one and it’s not far off five PM.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve got work to do.” He turned away again, but she called him back.

  “Come on, Alistair. It’s as hot as hell. Let me buy you a beer—a quick one, eh? Fifteen minutes, tops. What harm can it do?” She noticed his shoulders relax a little. Either a cold beer sounded good, or he was losing the will to be bolshy. He turned back to her slowly and caught her eyes, searching for something.

  First to speak loses.

  “A quick one. That’s it,” he conceded.

  She’d won.

  “Great! You choose—you’re the local.” She slipped her arm through his uninvited. A seemingly sweet gesture, but it also meant he couldn’t escape easily. He glanced down at her arm, but, gentleman that he was, he refrained from saying anything.

  The bar he chose was only a short distance further on and they slipped inside into the coolness, away from the hot sun. Chrissy noticed a young waitress wink at him as she made her way over.

  “What can I get you, hun? Nice to see you again.” She looked Chrissy quickly up and down.

  A regular, eh? She ordered them both beers and the waitress sauntered off. Chrissy noticed Alistair watching the woman’s rear end, which was clad in tight black shorts. Legs went on up to her ears, almost.

  No wedding ring, and no relationship.

  “She’s cute. You should ask her out—she clearly likes you,” she said teasingly, trying to get the man to lighten up. If she was ever going to get to her point, he needed to relax a little. A glimmer of a smile crease
d his lips. “That’s better!” she encouraged him, and they both laughed lightly together. Ice broken.

  “Look, I’m sorry I turfed you out the office,” he said, almost sheepishly. “It was rude of me. But you threw me off balance.”

  “Apology accepted,” she said graciously, bowing her head and smiling.

  “Now, why don’t you ask me what you want to know? I’m not foolish enough to think this encounter was anything but accidental.”

  Chrissy opened her mouth to protest, but he raised his eyebrows and she converted it to a smile instead. He wasn’t stupid.

  “In that case, here goes,” she said conceding. “I’m sure you know by now who I am, right?”

  “I do.”

  “So, how are you connected to my father?”

  Alistair took a deep breath while he considered his reply. “Let’s say this. A couple of us invested in one of his schemes. We didn’t know it was your father’s company then, and the scheme fell over. A lot of money was lost. And that’s it.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yep.”

  The waitress returned with two bottles of beer and Alistair took a long drink from his; froth lay horizontally inside the bottle like a moving landscape of creamy white as he gulped.

  “Who else invested with you? Did Philip?”

  “Yes. And a couple of others.”

  Chrissy was quickly catching on. “And they all lost money too. I can see why you perhaps didn’t want me in your office.”

  “Correct. Bad taste and all that, though we realise you’re not your father. Did you work for him?”