by Liz Evans
He led the way to a couple of large lumps of chalk that nestled in one of those small bays where the sand was powdery rather than packed hard by its twice-daily immersion under tons of sea water. It was shown on tourist maps as ‘Smugglers’ Bay’, mostly because high on the cliff face there was a gap where an underground tunnel emerged from the Smugglers’ Caves.
‘I could never figure how the smugglers got anything up or down there. You think they had a winch?’
‘I doubt they were ever here. You wouldn’t want to be here in plain sight of passing ships, hauling things up a cliff. The idea when you’re landing contraband cargo is to get it unloaded and be away in the fastest time possible.’
I had an uncomfortable feeling he was speaking from personal experience. ‘You realise these rocks broke off the cliffs?’ I pointed out as we sat down. ‘We could get brained by a falling boulder at any second.’ I leant back and stared up. The edge of the cliffs seemed to lean over, giving the illusion the whole wall was about to crush us.
‘I like to live dangerously,’ O’Hara said.
‘Is that why you’re making a career out of sorting out Declan’s screw-ups?’
‘No.’ He stretched out his legs, digging his heels into the sand. ‘As you rightly deduce, I spoke to Graham Walkinshaw. Our conversation was … unexpected.’
‘Big bloke is he?’
‘Why d’you ask?’
Because I’d seen O’Hara in a tight corner and sensed the menace below the placid surface. ‘The nose. And the black eyes. Did the guy have SAS training?’
‘It was a surprise. I just didn’t avoid the swing. I figured he was owed one.’
‘What was so flaming surprising?’ I looked sideways at him. He was gazing at the sea. ‘You just told the man he’d taken the rap for something your brother had done. Thanks to brother Dec he’s got a criminal record and spent five years inside. I’d have kicked the shit out of you.’
He swung so he was facing me and leant forward, his forearms resting lightly on his knees and his fingers laced together. ‘But the problem is, he didn’t do this to me when I told him Dec had killed Higgins. He did it when I said I could prove he was innocent. He informed me that he’d kill me if I proved he hadn’t killed Higgins.’
I offered the only explanation I could come up with. ‘Do you think he’s flipped?’
‘No. He seemed quite rational. Apart from wanting to kill me.’
‘Some people might consider that proof of normality. You often have that effect on me. You said business,’ I reminded him. ‘How is this my business?’
‘I want to hire you.’
‘As what?’
‘An investigator. Unless you’re making a permanent move into large fluffy animal impersonations?’ His face was lost under the heavy shadow of the cliff, but you couldn’t miss the flash of white teeth when he grinned.
‘Who told you?’
‘I saw you. I would have said hello, but you were busy knocking some bloke out with your basket.’
Great, my finest moment. ‘Why do you want hire me?’
‘I need you to go and speak to Walkinshaw.’
‘So he can deck me too?’
‘Trust me, you can take him. But I don’t think he’ll go for you.’
‘So what do you want me for?’
‘Walkinshaw confessed to smashing Higgins to pulp. Dec never could figure that. And I can’t get inside his head. I don’t understand what’s going on in there. Maybe you can.’
‘Do you need to? You offered the confession, he spat in your face. With a bunch of knuckles. That’s a fairly solid hint to get lost.’
‘I promised Dec I’d try to find Heidi. To do that, I need information from the Walkinshaws. I’d prefer to get it first hand, but if necessary I’ll work through you. Will you do it?’
‘Standard hourly rates and no quibbles about my expenses?’
‘Deal.’
We shook on it. Instead of letting my hand go, he cupped his other one over it, gently massaging between each of my fingers with a thumb. I started to get those funny tingles in strange places. ‘You asked me out for a drink. Remember?’
He let go of my hand, reached inside the leather jacket, produced two bottles of beer and handed one to me.
We both tried to lever the crimped tops off by knocking them on the stone seats. And we both succeeded in raising a sharp edge without dislodging the cap. ‘Real men bite the tops off with their bare teeth,’ I said.
‘We must remember to bring one along on our next date,’ O’Hara muttered through his split lip.
‘Is this a date? I thought it was a business meeting?’
‘We did business. Now we’re doing date. We have the moonlight. The ocean. The balmy breezes.’ He gave a grunt of satisfaction as he managed to whack the beer top off. Handing the open bottle to me, he took mine and used a piece of chalk to lever up the crimping. ‘Cheers.’
We clinked bottles and sat side by side, sipping and watching the graphite ocean and the darkening sky.
‘I used to dream of a date like this, sipping drinks at the water’s edge and watching the sunset,’ I admitted after ten minutes of silent drinking, during which time O’Hara had shifted to my rock and put an arm round my shoulder. ‘Only I was kind of figuring on turquoise water, palm trees, bougainvillea blooms, the sounds of exotic birds, temperatures in the eighties and cocktails with little paper umbrellas.’
‘This isn’t ringing your bell then, duchy?’
‘The breeze is freezing. I can’t feel my lips any more.’ I turned inside his arm so that our faces were close together. His breathing tickled my nose. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Anything you like.’
‘Do you have any gardening tools?’
Chapter Ten
O’Hara had found Graham Walkinshaw at home by himself in the late afternoon. We’d agreed, therefore, I’d try him at the same time on Wednesday. Which had left me the morning to throw myself back into horticulture, blackmail, and randy rabbits.
I was wondering what kind of reception I was going to get from Bianca. She hadn’t said a word about catching me snooping outside Clemency and Jonathon’s bedroom. We’d stared at each other — eyes to eye — until I’d retreated back down the stairs.
Despite her bulk, she must have managed to get upstairs quietly while I was spinning taps and flushing cisterns in the bathroom. I made a note not to take it for granted that I’d hear her coming when I was snooping in the future. Always assuming she hadn’t reported me to Clemency or Jonathon and ensured I’d be told to take my chainsaw and never darken their bramble patch again.
Apparently she had, judging by Clemency’s reaction when she opened the door. ‘No way, damn it. Not in here.’
‘Look, Miss Courtney, I can explain …’
‘Get inside quick.’ She grabbed my arm and tried to haul me over the doorstep.
‘Yo, Sis.’
I turned back in time to see him leap over the low wall and run the few steps up the path. He leant on the door, preventing Clemency from closing it.
‘Been ringing you, Sis. Didn’t get no call back.’
‘That should have told you something then, shouldn’t it, Vince.’
‘Don’t be like that, Sis.’ He decided to recognise the fact that I was sandwiched between him and the door. ‘Who’s this then?’
‘She’s the gardener. Push off Vin, I’m busy.’
Behind me the squeak of the unoiled gate and high heels tapping up the mosaic tiles announced a second visitor. She was an older version of Clemency, but with a brassy tint to her hair, and wearing a tweedy suit that my grandmother would have described as ‘for best’.
‘Hello, Clemmy.’
‘I’m due on set, Mum.’
‘You can spare us a couple of secs. We hardly see you nowadays.’
‘Try switching on the telly, seven-thirty Tuesdays and Thursdays.’
‘It’s not the same.’ She kept coming, driving Clemency
back inside. ‘I’m always saying to Vinny, that’s not our Clemmy. That Savanna Scroggins would walk over anyone in her size fives to get what she wants. Not like our Clemmy.’
While she was talking, Mrs Courtney had been click-clacking her way towards the kitchen with the rest of us following in her wake. Vincent slumped into a chair and started spinning one of the gold hoops in his ear-lobe. He must have taken after his father; he had none of Clemency or her mother’s blue-eyed blondeness. Instead his lank hair and jaw-skimming beard were mousy brown like his eyes. His T-shirt announced that Bikers Do It With More Thrust.
Their mother continued to stand, revolving slowly on the same spot, her eyes taking in every inch of the room. ‘You’ve not done much in here since I come last.’
‘Come less often, you’ll see more progress.’ Clemency said. ‘What do you want, Mum?’
‘Take a look at the house. See what the gonk’s been doing with it. She in?’
‘No. And now you’ve seen the house, you’ll have to go.’
‘We haven’t seen upstairs yet, Clem. Just have a peek, eh?’
‘No. And my name is Clemency.’
‘I know what your name is, I gave it you.’ Mum pulled out a chair and plonked herself on it. She was trying to sound confident, but the fingers were leaving dents in the handbag she clasped on her knees.
‘I thought me dad chose it.’
‘But I agreed with him. It’s a pretty name. Unusual. It means showing mercy.’
‘Not something my dad was big on.’
‘Don’t be like that, Clem … ency. He loved you really. He loved you all.’
‘Tell that to our Prudence. Hear much from her do you?’
‘Got a card at Christmas.’ Her grip on the bag became even tighter. ‘It wasn’t my fault, Clem. There wasn’t anything I could do … it was a long time ago … and now you’re buying a house down here, well, we can put it all behind us. Be a proper family again, can’t we?’
I wondered how long I could hang around before someone realised I was ear-wigging. To give myself a legitimate reason to be there, I pulled some kitchen roll and started cleaning down the blades of the chainsaw. Vincent woke from an apparent catatonic trance. ‘Had a mate had one of those. Da Vinci we called him ’cos he was an artist with the blades. Reckoned it was all in the wrist action. Could carve out a pattern in a couple of secs, could Da.’
‘In hedges?’
He swept a fingernail over his chest in a criss-cross pattern, and grinned.
‘Shut up, Vince,’ his sister ordered. Her soft accentless tones had been deserting her as soon as she started speaking with her relatives. Seatoun council estate barged through as she suddenly screamed. ‘Now for God’s sake, will you frigging GET OUT OF MY FRIGGING HOUSE!’
Vince just managed to duck the china storage container that was flung at his head. It shattered against the skirting board. Neither Vince nor his mother showed any surprise.
*
They left eventually, with Clemency following them out to climb into the taxi waiting at the kerbside. There had been no sounds from upstairs while the Courtney clan were slugging it out in the kitchen. I was hoping that meant Jonathon was out — either literally or in a chemically induced stupor kind of way. However, any hopes I had of being able to search the house were scotched by the sight of Bianca approaching the front gate with the rabbit loping along on its lead.
She came to a full stop in front of me. ‘I have to say something to you.’ Perhaps her multi-tasking included firing the help? ‘Clemency and Jonathon are not splitting up.’
‘Oh. Good.’
‘They’ll never get divorced. Ever. But they are both very creative people. Sometimes that leads to tensions. Conflicts of need.’
‘Right.’
‘And that can sometimes lead to physical consequences.’ She was parroting the words like someone who had been taught the lines, but without an actor’s talent to deliver them with any conviction. When she came off-script, her delivery took on more conviction. ‘I know it’s exciting, being this close to a real star, but you shouldn’t listen at bedroom doors, it’s not very nice.’
A light dawned. She thought I was an uber-fan desperate to get the inside track on Clemency and Jonathon’s home-life. As a cover it would do as well as any. Trying to project apologies and awe into my tone, I gushed. ‘I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snoop. It’s just I’ve never met a famous person before. It’s just … awesome.’
Bianca nodded. This was the reaction she expected. ‘I understand. I’ve got something for you. Come into the kitchen.’
She let Cappuccino off his lead. He hopped into his basket without so much as a glance in my direction. Plainly he wasn’t a rabbit that was into commitment. Bianca took out a fanzine. ‘Clemency has signed it for you.’
I had to put all my own acting talents into my response: ‘Wow. That is so amazing.’
It was what Bianca wanted to hear. The bashful smile reappeared. ‘I knew you’d be pleased. It’s to say thanks for helping me.’
‘That’s wonderful.’ Taking advantage of this bonding moment, I said, ‘Clemency’s mum and brother were here. She didn’t seem very pleased to see them.’
‘Clemency and her mum don’t really get on.’
‘Really? Because it says in the magazines that she loves coming home to see her family.’
Bianca looked vaguely embarrassed as if she was personally responsible for the drivel churned out in the fan mags. ‘Sometimes they print things that aren’t exactly true.’
She was interrupted by the front door bell. I debated whether it was worth hanging out my time by another session with the chainsaw or finding an excuse to leave. I couldn’t search the house while Bianca was there, and there weren’t many suspects around for the anonymous letter writer unless the rabbit was smarter than he looked.
I glanced at the lop-eared one’s basket; and my stomach turned over. He was sitting on his haunches eighteen inches from my chair. I jumped up at the same time as he gave a squeak of excitement and launched.
My knee ended up in his stomach, with his front paws clasped around my thighs and his back legs scrabbling against my lower leg. Feeling himself sliding backwards, he anchored himself by digging his front teeth in my trousers and his back feet in my calves. Fortunately I’d stuck a double layer of tracksuit bottoms on as a precaution against the brambles. Using the chair as a makeshift walking frame, I hauled us both over to the sink and chucked a glass of water over him. It had no effect. There was a large glass fruit dish on the side. Filling it to the brim, I tipped the lot over the furry ears.
Bianca returned a moment later. The rabbit was sitting in his basket, his back to me, placidly grooming. I was standing with a double layer of soaked trousers, a wet dish in my hands and a large pool of water spreading around my feet. Sometimes there just isn’t an explanation.
She didn’t even ask how, just mopped it up. ‘The new banister has arrived. Would you help me put it up? I can’t manage with …’ She held up her bandaged wrist. ‘I’ll explain to Clemency so she pays you the same rate as you get gardening.’
It was probably going to be ‘dead’ time, but I sensed Bianca hadn’t entirely forgiven me for snooping. Keeping her on-side might be the sensible plan if I was going to have a relatively free run of this place. For two hours I stood around in damp trousers, holding balustrades and heaving handrails and newel posts around while Bianca glued, banged and nailed. She was painstakingly thorough and slow.
‘How long have you been doing this place up?’
She was crouched on her knees, checking the alignment of a spoke. Without looking up, she said, ‘A year. Not all the time, because I’ve been at the London flat.’
‘You have a flat in London?’ Bianca hadn’t struck me as a big city girl.
‘Only rented. Clemency didn’t want to buy in London.’
‘So it’s Clemency’s flat, not yours?’
She sat back on her heels, her face f
lushed from the bending. ‘It’s for all of us. Clemency and I go everywhere together.’
The phone rang downstairs. Leaving me hanging on to a handrail without so much as a ‘do you mind’, Bianca charged off. I couldn’t hear the words, but I could tell from her tone that she was speaking to Clemency.
‘I have to take Cappy out to the set,’ she announced from the foot of the stairs. ‘I suppose I’d better phone for a taxi, unless …’ Big hopeful eyes stared at me.
‘I’ll give you a lift. Does the rabbit act as well?’
‘No, silly.’ She gave one of those little-girl giggles that were beginning to seriously rasp on my nerves. ‘They’re doing an interview for the local news programme. They want to film her with Cappy. It’s out towards West Bay, I’ll show you where.’
*
She sat in the back of the Micra clutching the rabbit while I drove. When we got close to the West Bay area, Bianca suddenly said, ‘There. On that lamppost, see?’
All I could see was a lamppost, with an arrow cut from some kind of day-glo pink cardboard tied half way up it.
‘SL. 2U,’ Bianca read out. ‘That’s Shoreline, Second Unit. They do it like that so everyone doesn’t see them and follow them out to the location.’
I’d been seeing similar signs around the place, but I’d always assumed it was some kind of weird fly-posting. We turned down a concreted lane that led to one of the smaller coves just past West Bay. A dozen lorries, trailers and caravans were crowded at the end of the lane and overflowing up the lower slopes of the scrubby wasteland that bounded this semi-circle of sand. A rope, stretched across the lane and circled out to fence off the beach, was held in place by metal stakes and guarded by blokes in uniforms of black trousers and polo-necks. They all had wires trailing from an ear and talked into their wrist-watches. Despite the fact it wasn’t that sunny, their eyes were hidden behind max-density wraparound sunglasses. I wasn’t sure whether they were actors playing security guards or security guards hoping they’d get an audition to play FBI officers.
