Grace Smith Investigates

by Liz Evans

  ‘Six months.’

  ‘Why did you marry her?’

  ‘Because she was pregnant. Do you always conduct conversations like they were police interrogations?’

  ‘Sorry.’ I felt myself blushing, something I hadn’t done in years. Thank heavens for lighting designed to create an intimate ambience and hide the menu prices. ‘I told you I wasn’t very good at this.’

  Thankfully the spaghetti arrived at that point. I concentrated on ploughing through it, suddenly bolshily determined that he could take up the chit-chat from here.

  He did. He asked me why I hadn’t phoned him. ‘Last time, at the club, we seemed to get on pretty well ... and I thought ... you know ...’

  I emerged from the plate, conscious of the ends of spaghetti hanging from my mouth. Taking a deep breath, I sucked and swallowed.

  ‘Last time is the problem. Look ...’ I collected my thoughts, trying to explain to him something that I still hadn’t fully explained to myself. ‘After what happened at TED’s, I wouldn’t blame you for thinking I make a habit of ripping my clothes off and going for it ten minutes after the first hello. But ... you see ...’ I refilled my glass and took a large gulp. ‘You see ... I don’t. In fact, I haven’t, not since I bust up with my live-in after I left the police. Or got invited to leave, if you want to be pedantic.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Why did I leave the police?’ I’d already told him about that misunderstanding which had resulted in a vicious villain walking away from a serious assault charge and yours truly inexplicably several thousand pounds richer.

  ‘Why did you leave the boyfriend? Or did he leave you?’

  ‘I took it all out on him. Maybe I was hoping he’d leave. I don’t know now. Anyway, he did. And he rented out his flat, changed the locks, left my belongings in the garage and flew off to Singapore - just in case I didn’t get the message. Why did you and Minnie split up?’

  ‘Because we had almost nothing in common apart from the kids. And after eight-odd years we finally decided to stop pretending we had.’

  The starter plates were whisked away and the chequered tablecloth swept clean preparatory to the arrival of the main course.

  Kevin had ordered sole. ‘Aren’t you worried about mad cow disease?’ he asked as I heaped veggies around my fillet steak.

  ‘There’s whole herds of Friesians out there reckon they caught it from me,’ I grinned.

  He smiled back. But the tension was still there.

  ‘So is that it? You didn’t call because you thought I’d be expecting a ten-minute quickie?’

  ‘Sort of.’ I was still struggling to put it into words. ‘I do like you, Kevin. And I fancy you too. But I can’t just ... I want friendship first ... and a relationship ... a developing relationship ... Oh hell, am I making any sort of sense over that side of the table?’

  ‘Just about. You’re an old-fashioned girl at heart who wants to be courted rather than jumped.’

  ‘I don’t know about courted. I mean, I’m not expecting you to do anything corny - like turn up with a bunch of red roses and two tickets to Venice. No, scrub that ... I quite fancy Venice ... but I want... I’d like us to go back to Day One ... if you’re planning to see me again. If you just want quick sex ... well, I’m not your girl.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  Fair enough what? I wondered. Well, the next move was down to him. At least I’d got a great dinner out of it.

  ‘Dessert, signora. Or perhaps just some coffee?’

  The waiter’s tone indicated only a real pig could manage anything more than a small black coffee. Well, oink oink to him.

  I had tiramisu with a side order of fresh strawberries. Followed by three cappuccinos and a plate of chocolate mints.

  ‘Brandy?’

  ‘If you’re having one.’

  ‘Let’s have them in the bar. I’ve a present for you.’

  For a ghastly moment I thought he was going to pull a jeweller’s box from his jacket pocket. I had fleeting visions of one of those a-girl-like-you-should-wear-gold/diamonds conversations.

  The roll of fax paper came as a bit of a surprise. ‘Company report on Wexton’s Engineering. Dad said you were asking. What’s the interest?’

  I gave him a brief rundown on Kristen Keats. ‘To be honest, I think she’s just got fed up or had a better offer. But I’ve got to give the client something for his ... or her ... money,’ I corrected myself, recalling Henry’s insistence on confidentiality.

  I scanned through chunks of incomprehensible figures listed under headings like Assets, Liabilities, Capital Reserves, Provisions, etc. ‘What on earth does this lot mean?’

  Kevin took it from me and ran a professional eye down it. ‘Basically it means Wexton’s are solvent. But not as profitable as they ought to be. They’ve got a lot of assets but their turnover hasn’t increased much in the past ten years. And they’ve got a fairly hefty loan or loans they’re paying off, by the looks of it. They probably increased their capital assets in anticipation of orders to come - and then the orders didn’t oblige. Mind you, this stuff is generally about two years out of date; they could have put on a bit of pace by now.’

  About the only bit of the faxed report I could understand was the summary of company directors.

  The business had started trading in seventy years ago and the directors then were shown as Jack Arnold Wexton and Alfred Carnegie.

  That situation continued for the next twelve years, when the directors changed to Alfred Carnegie, Joan Barbara Reiss and Blanche Ann Wexton.

  ‘Is that when Wexton died?

  ‘I would assume so.’ Kevin slid slightly closer on the bench seat we were sharing so that he could read over my shoulder. It also had the effect of pressing his thigh tighter to mine. ‘Joan Reiss is the old man’s daughter. She’s in her seventies now. Minnie was on a charity fund-raising committee with her.’

  ‘What about this Blanche Wexton?’

  ‘Another relative, I suppose. Can’t say I’ve ever come across her. Anyway, she’s off the scene a couple of years later.

  He pointed to the relevant line of fuzzy print. For the next thirty-seven years the three directors of Wexton’s Engineering were shown as Derek Patrick Reiss, Joan Barbara Reiss and the ubiquitous Alfred Carnegie.

  Then, ten years ago, Derek dropped out of the picture and was replaced by Stephen Bridgeman.

  ‘Stephen’s married to Joan Reiss’s daughter, Amelia,’ Kevin explained.

  ‘December said. Derek, I assume, was Joan’s husband? Is he dead or retired?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘And he left his share of Wexton’s to his son-in-law rather than his daughter? Bit chauvinistic, isn’t it?’

  ‘It may have been practical. Stephen was heading up their technical side anyway. Giving him a share in the company would have sharpened up his commercial instincts. Made him go out there and hassle for the contracts. Engineers can get a bit wrapped up in the technical answers and forget there’s a financial pay-off at the end - either for or against. And Stephen couldn’t have kept Amelia in the style to which she’s determined to stay accustomed if the company folded.’

  I swirled the brandy, watching the thin layer of pale gold adhering to the balloon’s side. ‘Is it my imagination, Kevin, or do you know Stephen Bridgeman rather better than a few lines on a faxed report?’

  ‘Same golf club.’

  ‘Aah.’

  ‘Minnie made me join.’

  ‘Poor baby.’

  ‘Is this evening about to end in a childish squabble?’

  ‘No. Sorry. Your dad’s always telling me off about my mouth. Does Stephen play away? And I’m not talking about the fairways here, Kevin.’

  ‘I gathered.’ He finished his own brandy and thought a moment. ‘Nothing serious that I’ve heard of. Well, he’d be a fool to try it, wouldn’t he ... with his mother-in-law owning part of his company. I’m not sure what the actual share-out is ... but I suspect if Joan and this Alfre
d Carnegie voted against him, his hands would be pretty well tied.’

  ‘Who is Carnegie? He must be about a hundred and one by now if he was a mate of Jack Wexton’s.’

  ‘Old, certainly. But he may have been younger than Wexton. Whoever he is, he’s another one I’ve never met. Are you working on the theory that Wexton’s - or Stephen - is somehow connected to this Kristen person’s disappearance?’

  ‘I haven’t got a theory. I’m just casting around in the dark, hoping something will pop up. Preferably Kristen.’

  Kevin made a scribbling motion on his palm at a passing waiter. I took the hint and finished my drink.

  There was nothing so gaudy as multicoloured necklaces strung along the buildings here. Nor the intrusive electronic pow-whee of the games arcades and the rumbling music clash of the amusement arcades. Just the huge bulk of the ancient cathedral looming over lowly buildings and bathed in the slightly harsh light of the son et lumiere.

  We walked back to the car via the pedestrianised shopping streets. Rather than going directly to the BMW, Kevin wandered through the old city gate and along the river path. ‘What now?’ he asked.

  For a moment I thought he was talking about us, then I realised he was probably harking back to our last conversation about the case.

  Even if Bridgeman was just a putting partner, I didn’t think it was too smart to tell Kevin I was planning to snoop round his factory tomorrow night. You never really know where people’s loyalties lie, do you?

  I made vague noises about something turning up.

  I shivered slightly, The temperature had dropped quite a bit since this afternoon. Kevin put an arm round my shoulders, drawing me in to him.

  A couple of ghost swans glided silently past us on flat black waters.

  I leant against Kevin. The suspense was getting to me. ‘So am I going to see you again?’

  ‘Sure. Mind, it might be a bit difficult in the near future ...’

  ‘I prefer people to call a spade a bloody shovel, thanks, Kevin. If you mean get lost, don’t say it’s a bit difficult.’

  I knew it was my own fault. I’d laid out the rules and he didn’t want to play. Fair enough. But I still couldn’t help feeling rejected.

  ‘Hey ... woah back ... I mean a bit difficult. It’s half-term. Minnie and I will be playing happy families. We agreed when we split that it wouldn’t affect the kids. But we won’t be playing mummies and daddies. OK?’

  I shrugged. ‘Sure.’

  I could hear myself sounding like a teenage kid in a sulk. I felt awful, but I couldn’t stop myself. Luckily I was saved from further self-embarrassment by the appearance of four genuine teenagers flying out of the darkness from the direction of the city gate.

  Half running, half stumbling, they rushed along the river path. One, a blonde whose hair looked white in this light, appeared to be having trouble, and another girl was supporting her as they wobbled along in high heels and tight skirts.

  ‘Hurry up, Claudia. We’ll get expelled.’

  ‘I can’t help it. Livia’s pissed. Anyway, who cares? I’m always getting expelled. School’s a drag.’

  They were nearly opposite us. I called across to the first girl, ‘Evening, Bone.’

  There was a collective gasp of fright. Even the laid-back Claudia looked worried for a moment.

  Bone waved them on. ‘It’s OK. She’s nothing to do with St Aggie’s. She’s a private investigator. She’s on a case for me.’

  They hurried past in the direction of St Aggie’s back wall. I caught a brief glimpse of Bone’s face. She’d really enjoyed saying that!

  ‘Who the hell were they?’ Kevin asked, once they’d disappeared round the bend in the river path.

  ‘Just examples of the finest that private education can buy.’

  CHAPTER 17

  Nola was already waiting for me when I arrived at the Downs Estate on Thursday evening.

  Leaning against the scooter, she was chatting to the barmaid whilst the woman scrubbed graffiti from the front door of the social club. There was a low buzz of voices and the higher rumble of the TV sports presenter’s commentary from inside.

  ‘Thought you’d changed yer mind. Got Bonnie’s tenner?’ I handed it over. She tucked it inside her bum bag and passed me an identity badge. It had Bonnie’s picture on it. A pre-striped Bonnie when her hair had been a mousy brown. By no stretch of the imagination did it look anything like me (I hoped!).

  Nola wasn’t bothered. ‘Don’t matter. Stick yer thumb over it. Let’s go then.’

  She handed me a crash helmet. I hesitated. Nola was wide; I was tall; the scooter was very small. I wasn’t sure this was a viable combination.

  ‘We can use my car.’

  ‘Best not. Guard’s used to me scooter. He won’t think nothing of it if you come with me. Don’t want him suddenly taking notice, do we?’

  I suppose it made sense. Nola knocked up the kick rests and started the scooter. Her bottom, in off-white jogging pants, overhung the seat like proving dough.

  The ocean, once again, was out. The only glimpse of it we had was the oblong of salt water trapped by the low walls of the paddling pool as the tide retreated.

  The beach was practically deserted despite the long, light evenings now. A few dog-walkers were striding along far out on the water’s edge. I wasn’t certain, but something about the upright posture of one made me think it might be Henry Summerstone. Behind him the clumping, graphite-grey clouds of the approaching squall were already boiling up on the horizon.

  Nola swung the bike left, cutting off my view of the coast. Inland the sky was still blue and cloudless, the dying sunshine casting heavy shadows across the boarding-house gardens and newly planted council beds of fledgling geraniums, begonias and petunias.

  Somebody had been brightening up the front of Wexton’s too. There were a couple of narrow beds under the front windows and a deeper one away to one side, bordering the far edge of the car park. It looked like the gardener had miscalculated the number of plants needed, since a stretch of white busy Lizzies ran out just before the end of the car-park bed.

  The guard let us in without comment when Nola waved her identity badge at him. He didn’t even bother to look at mine.

  ‘Anyone working?’ Nola said casually.

  ‘No, love, you’ve got the place to yourselves tonight.’

  This was good news. If I’d found the upstairs offices occupied, I’d have had to come back another day. And three days of housework was bordering on the obsessional as far as I was concerned.

  Nola banged between sets of internal doors. Through other doors to the left I could see open rooms with metal benches set crossways, a bit like old-fashioned school desks. Their back sections were lined with child-size plastic baskets in primary colours; some holding tiny components and others with what looked like those mini green boards that you find inside transistor radios if you’re careless enough to drop them on hard surfaces. Most of the bench tops were clear, although a few had half-assembled component boards on them and a selection of miscellaneous technical gadgets that I couldn’t identify.

  ‘Is this where Kristen worked?’

  ‘Further down ... in ’ere.’

  Nola opened another set of doors and flipped on the strip lighting to show a room lined with floor-to-ceiling metal racking. Most of them seemed to contain computer VDUs attached to a Spaghetti Junction of cables.

  ‘Don’t touch nothing,’ Nola warned.

  ‘Why? Is it dangerous?’

  ‘Don’t think so. But it has to stay on. I pulled a plug out once and they went ballistic. Reckoned I’d cost them hundreds of pounds. So now we don’t move nothing, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  She emerged from the dark, claustrophobic canyons of equipment racks to an open area at the back of the room. There were a couple of metal desks back here, but with file storage rather than plastic baskets.

  The left-hand one held two half-dismantled computers. Nola indicated the right-hand o
ne. ‘That’s Rob’s desk.’

  ‘Rob’s?’ It took a second to register. She was still thinking of it as belonging to Kristen’s predecessor, Rob Wingett.

  It was no more than a bench really, with two narrow drawers underneath. Neither was locked. I rummaged around amongst sheets of paper filled with incomprehensible diagrams, mathematical symbols and extracts from technical reports. None were sequential and most seemed to be photocopies. Scrap paper, I guessed.

  There wasn’t much else: pens, pencils, erasers, rubber bands and paper clips tangled in cluttered confusion. A tin for barley-sugar lumps which turned out to be empty.

  ‘That was Rob’s,’ Nola said. She’d been standing watching me, arms folded to support her drooping bosom. She sighed. ‘He was great, Rob.’

  ‘You said. Did he stay late a lot?’

  ‘Fair time, yeah. He just sorta got lost in the job, if yer know what I mean. We used to joke about his wife thinking him and me was carrying on. Not that we were. I don’t mess around with other women’s blokes.’

  I didn’t suppose they messed around with Nola much; she wasn’t exactly snog-of-the-month material.

  ‘Was he working on something special?’

  ‘He worked on everything. He was dead proud of that. Everything came through his department at the end.’

  ‘And Kristen? Was she down here a lot, out of hours?’

  I had no idea where this line of questioning was leading, but with no definite path to go down, I just had to take a few steps down each turning and hope I’d pick up Kristen’s trail.

  ‘Sometimes. But not so much. They ain’t had the work recently.’

  I continued to delve in the desk. If Kristen had left anything behind it certainly wasn’t here. Every non-work item I came up with, from the out-of-date calendars to the fluffy stick-on trolls with advertising slogans, packet of bendy straws and tarnished cutlery, Nola promptly said: ‘That’s Rob’s.’

  I stared round in frustration. ‘Did Kristen work anywhere else?’

  ‘Through there.’

  The next room held three metal chambers, with assorted dials, switches and gauges below a glass box that looked like a microwave oven. Each one had a large notice screwed on to it stating: ‘To be operated by authorised personnel only. Annual re-calibration essential.’