Grace Smith Investigates

by Liz Evans

  ‘You saw her the day before she went missing?’

  ‘She came round that afternoon. We hung out along the front for a few hours. Heid kept going on and on about her mum. I’d put those blonde streaks in her hair and her mum thought they looked common. That morning, she’d told Heid she’d made an appointment at the hairdressers for them to be dyed over. Heid was furious. Kept saying her body was her own, and she’d show her mum. She spent the whole evening working out some way to really wind her mum up.’ She turned a bleak face towards me. ‘I thought she’d left the bike to scare them. I really believed she was going to phone.’

  The rain was hitting the sands, pitting large holes and giving it the appearance of lumpy ochre-coloured porridge. ‘Daisy, Nathan, come on, you’ll get soaked.’

  The children’s shouts of protest turned to giggles when O’Hara hoisted one on each shoulder and ran them back to the promenade. We sheltered under the jutting canopy of the small refreshment kiosk, watching the squall sweep over the beach. Daisy insisted on ice-creams all round. As soon as the rain had passed and the seagulls were investigating the large puddles left in the crumbling concrete, she headed forward again.

  ‘Daisy, wait!’ Clutching her son’s hand, Maria turned and looked at us. ‘Will you tell me … if you find her?’

  I nodded. Maria gave me the small tight smile of someone who knew what that finding might mean, and allowed herself to be towed beachwards by little Nathan.

  We walked the promenade route back to Seatoun until we could cut up and along to the office. On the way I filled O’Hara in on my conversation with Maria.

  ‘Heidi just doesn’t fit the profile,’ I said, sorting out my thoughts. ‘Higgins’s other victims were loners. They were unsure of themselves. Heidi sounds like a fighter. And she wasn’t being manipulated by the man she was meeting. As she saw it, she was the manipulator and he danced to her tune.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ O’Hara said quietly, ‘that’s why Heidi was the one who didn’t come back.’

  We were approaching the office. Something I should have registered before, hit me a metaphorical sock in the stomach. ‘Oh shit!’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Clemency was standing at the foot of the steps to Vetch’s (International) Investigations Inc. While I could understand how she might have figured out I wasn’t a gardener, pegging me as a private investigator and finding out where I worked was less likely. Unless someone had told her. Like Della. Or …

  ‘Did you tell her who I really was,’ I hissed from the side of my mouth.

  ‘Me? No. I’ve got no idea who you really are most of the time, duchy.’ There was no way we could pretend we hadn’t seen her. Anyway, she was dressed to be seen: black trousers, single-breasted white coat, designer handbag, large sunglasses. Very sophisticated. Very impractical for this weather. I waited for the inevitable what-the-hell-do-you-think-you’re-doing-snooping-in-my-house accusation.

  ‘Hi!’ Clemency said. ‘Whatever happened to your face? You look awful.’

  Thanks for pointing that out. ‘I tripped. Stairs.’

  ‘Ouch. Horrid for you.’ I felt the eyes turn in O’Hara’s direction, although they were totally obscured behind the pitch black lenses. The purr in her tone confirmed the change of focus. ‘Hello, O’Hara.’

  ‘Good morning, Clemency. Nice to see you again.’

  ‘Is it? I wasn’t sure you’d want to. After our last parting.’

  Yeah, a left hook can discourage some guys. I bit back a suggestion she go take a swing at some other bloke. Preferably one with psycho tendencies and a black belt in martial arts.

  She was resting her hand casually on the post at the bottom of the short flight of steps up to Vetch’s door. Was it possible her location was coincidence and she didn’t know I worked there? The small brass nameplate beside the door was unreadable from here.

  ‘I’ve been trying to ring you, Grace. The phone number Della gave me is unavailable.’

  ‘Slight accident with the mobile. Was it something important?’

  ‘Bianca said you wanted the chainsaw, but you forgot to take it with you.’

  My excuse for visiting on Saturday. ‘I forgot. Jonathon was being …’ I sought for a tactful way of putting it.

  ‘Crazy,’ Clemency supplied. ‘He has these spells. They pass. Will the accident prevent you working? Should I find someone else to finish the garden?’

  ‘No. I’m fine.’

  ‘Oh good. Bianca seems to enjoy your company. Well, I’ll look forward to seeing you — both — soon.’

  She squeezed O’Hara’s forearm lightly to emphasise her point. He smiled down into the black orbs of her glasses. ‘Take care out there, Princess.’

  ‘I always do.’ She smiled too. As if they were enjoying a private joke.

  Since I’d told Clemency I was fit to return to massacring her garden, I figured I’d better make a token effort in that direction. However, since the reason I’d taken up horticultural annihilation was to obtain evidence on the anonymous letter writer, I was reluctant to pick up my chainsaw unless I could think of a way to push that investigation forward. I got two.

  Vetch the Letch summoned me to his office. We did the what-happened-to-your-face routine. ‘You’d better make a list of possible suspects, sweet thing, and leave them with me. It will narrow down who to sue for the funeral costs.’

  ‘It’s a pretty short list: Vince Courtney, brother of the better known Clemency. And a biker calling himself Mr White who has a helmet with red and gold wings painted on it.’

  ‘Unusual.’

  ‘Is it?’ This was good news. Maybe I could track down Mr White via his customised helmet.

  ‘It certainly is. A mere two. Usually you manage to raise homicidal tendencies in far more suspects during the course of an investigation. Old age must be slowing you down, sweet thing.’ The little gnome produced a sheet of paper. ‘From my techno-nerd. He’s managed to narrow down the computer and printer model for your anonymous letter.’

  ‘Cheers, Vetch.’

  I felt good all the way out to the reception hall, and then Jan returned.

  ‘You been in a punch-up?’

  ‘No. I dived down my staircase.’

  ‘My mum was always doing that, until she switched to tequila. You get legless quicker so you can’t get as far as the stairs.’

  ‘Where did you go? I thought Annie told you not to leave the desk.’

  ‘I needed stamps.’ She extracted a couple of books from her pocket.

  ‘Oh well, I guess if it’s for work, she can’t complain.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. It’s for me entry forms. I’m only doing this dead boring job until I’m famous you know.’ She pulled a copy of Wannabee (the magazine for those who want to be famous) from a drawer. There was a neon-green post-it note stuck to the front. ‘Oh yeah, that’s for you.’

  It read Oldman Print Collectibles. The telephone number suggested somewhere in outer London. ‘Give me a clue?’

  Jan broke off from the circled adverts in the magazine with an audible sigh. ‘It’s the old local newspaper. The Seatoun Express. You asked me to find out where you can buy copies. That’s the only place I could find.’ I rang Oldman’s from my office. We established that they did have a copy of The Seatoun Express dated 2 April 1990 in stock.

  ‘You want to buy it? We take credit cards.’

  ‘Well, the thing is, it’s a birthday present, only I’m afraid someone else might have already thought of it. Can you tell me if you’ve sold another copy recently?’

  ‘Sold one about three months ago.’

  ‘Can you tell me the name of the buyer?’

  He couldn’t. Customers’ details were confidential. ‘Okay, how about this — I’ll describe someone and you tell me if you’ve seen them recently — within the last few months say?’

  ‘I guess I could do that.’

  ‘Average height. Biker’s leathers. Helmet with a wing design in red and gold.’

&nbs
p; ‘Funnily enough we had a customer just like that about three months ago. Guess it’s back to the gift list, love.’

  Curiouser and curiouser. If Jonathon was responsible for terrorising himself, then he’d planned the newspaper stunt months ago.

  *

  Clemency had been right about Bianca. She did seem pleased to see me and my battered face.

  ‘It’s nice to have someone else around. Before Clemency and Jonathon came down to film, I didn’t used to see anyone most days. I didn’t mind,’ she assured me. ‘Because I was getting the house ready for the baby.’

  ‘No mates left over from when you lived here?’

  ‘No. I didn’t really have proper friends. I mean, lots of people came to the house, but they were Jonathon and Clemency’s friends really. It used to worry me a bit sometimes. Thinking I’d have no one when Gran died. Which is why it’s so wonderful that I’m part of Clemency and Jonathon’s family now. And when we have babies, we’ll be able to have proper family Christmases and birthdays and holidays.’

  ‘Clemency’s planning a big family is she?’

  ‘Oh yes. We thought four; two boys and two girls. It’s all going to be so …’ Her powers of description ran out. She fell back on her favourite adjective. ‘Wonderful.’

  Her big round shiny face shone with the wonderfulness of it all. There was a smear of dried cement on her cheek and fragments clung to her wiry hair. Today’s outfit (jeans, man’s plaid shirt and lace-up boots) was covered in grey dust and sand. She wasn’t most people’s idea of the model housekeeper or nanny, but she plainly had qualities that suited Clemency and Jonathon.

  She insisted we had coffee. So we could plan lunch. It was just the two of us again. ‘Clemency’s on the set today.’

  Not unless they were filming outside Vetch’s she wasn’t. I kept that one to myself and asked if Jonathon was upstairs. ‘Writing? Freaking out?’

  ‘Freaking … oh no, he’s not like that normally. It’s because he’s so creative.’

  I took a risk and said, ‘I thought it was because he was getting odd letters. Do you know who’s sending them, Bianca?’

  ‘Me? No. How would I know?’ Unless she was a better actress than I’d given her credit for, she was telling the truth. ‘Anyway, he’s not here. He’s gone to London. To see Opal. She’s the executive producer on Shoreline.’

  ‘You said. Is she going to let him write scripts?’ Something positive to do might tip Jonathon’s sanity back into the box marked ‘normality’.

  ‘I do hope so. Wouldn’t that be —’

  I got there first. ‘Wonderful?’

  Over the tuna sandwiches and mixed salad, I asked, ‘How are you getting on with the holiday booking?’

  ‘Quite well.’ Wiping her hands down her shirt, Bianca pulled one of the glossy brochures over and pointed out several photos with crosses against them. ‘Minorca.’

  I admired the pictures of white-painted villas, surrounded by brilliant flowers and impossibly blue swimming pools. ‘I was thinking of booking a holiday myself. I’ve just inherited some money.’

  ‘That’s wonderful. Oh …’ Her broad forehead creased. ‘Somebody didn’t die, did they?’

  ‘No one important. A distant aunt. I hardly knew her. The thing is I’m not sure about the holiday. It might be better to buy something I can keep, don’t you think?’ The always biddable Bianca nodded. ‘I was thinking, maybe a computer, only there are so many, it’s very confusing. Is your one easy to use?’

  ‘You mean Jonathon’s? Oh yes. At least, I only do the letters on it. But that’s no trouble.’

  ‘You haven’t got a brochure for it, have you? So I could get the same make? And maybe one for the printer too. I’ll need one of those.’

  ‘I’ll go and get them for you.’

  She disappeared upstairs. I nibbled on a tomato and contemplated life, the universe … and rabbits.

  There had been no sign of the lop-eared pest all morning. Now, suddenly, he was sitting on his haunches three feet away. I hadn’t heard him come into the room. I’d swear the thing had had commando training. I eye-balled him coolly. Was I going to be intimidated by an ingredient for a meat pie?

  Cappuccino squeaked and bared his front incisors. I climbed on the table.

  Lowering back on to all four paws, he scudded forward until the table was blocking my view of him. I tensed. I already knew he was a natural for the long jump gold medal if they ever held a rabbit Olympics. Could he also get that much velocity behind the high jump?

  Two furry ear tips appeared above the rim at one corner. I waited. The ears kept coming. Then they tipped backwards. The incisors came level with the table surface and released something. Cappuccino dropped back on to all fours.

  I picked the ‘something’ up. It was a pellet of rabbit food.

  Kneeling down I gave Cappuccino the bad news. ‘Bribes don’t impress me any more than brute force did. Now do yourself a favour and find yourself a cute little bunny girl.’

  ‘Who are you talking to?’ Bianca had also managed to arrive silently. ‘And why are you on the table?’

  ‘Er … the ceiling. Thought I saw a crack. Could be water damage.’

  While Bianca was crashing around on the table peering at Aertex paint, I checked out the two brochures she’d thrust at me. Jonathon’s computer was a Sony V30 and his printer a Hewlett Packard Deskjet.

  I unfolded the note from Vetch’s techno-nerd:

  There are no certainties, but taking all factors into account the most likely machines to have produced the text you submitted are: Computer: Sony V30 — 67% probability. Printer: Hewlett Packard Deskjet — 85% probability.

  Bianca crashed to the floor. I quickly thrust the note into my pocket.

  ‘I can’t see any abnormal cracks.’

  ‘Must be my imagination. I haven’t your professional experience in decorating.’

  She blushed with pleasure. ‘I’m not that good.’ She started rinsing our used plates and mugs in the sink.

  I picked up a Seatoun souvenir tea-towel to help dry. An elusive memory of hearing something important relating to Heidi waved frantically on the fringes of my consciousness. I nabbed it before it could dive back below the barricades. I suddenly knew where Heidi was.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ‘Unforgettable, isn’t it?’ O’Hara said. ‘How I’ve missed the traditional British holiday.’

  We struggled up the street to the central shopping area, with the rain lashing in our faces and plastering our clothes to our skin. To our left the harbour was momentarily framed between the end buildings of a side street. Mist and spray practically obscured the small arm of the breakwater; there was just sufficient visibility to see the curtain of spume hurl over the far side as another wave crashed into the stonework.

  I led the way further inland and introduced O’Hara to another of our many exciting tourist attractions, the Smugglers’ Caves.

  Elsewhere we’d have entered via a themed approach; probably polystyrene rocks, fake brandy barrels and plastic fishing nets, with a model pirate beckoning us in with his prosthetic hook. Seatoun had dumped a prefabricated cabin over the top, painted it green and left it at that. Inside, the solitary attendant dispensed tickets and took your cash should you be overcome by an insane impulse to buy a souvenir tea-towel, box of fudge or ballpoint pen; all decorated with pictures of the caves. Bianca had been using one of the tea-towels to dry up after our lunch, which is what had kick-started my train of thought.

  ‘We’re closing in half an hour,’ the attendant warned.

  I knew that. In fact it was one of the reasons I’d brought O’Hara up here now. I let him buy the tickets, on the grounds it would save me having to put them on his bill later. The caves were reached via a steep set of stone steps. At the bottom you entered a series of connecting rooms hollowed out of the chalk. The floor was uneven and worn smooth by all the foot traffic over the years. In places there were dips and hollows which suggested that part of this
network might have occurred naturally, and it had been extended. The walls were decorated with crudely drawn pictures of pre-historic animals, modern animals, soldiers in eighteenth-century uniforms and a giant in an off-the-shoulder animal fur outfit.

  ‘Natty,’ O’Hara said.

  ‘I know someone who could run you up something similar if you like it. Let’s explore.’

  He took my hand as we moved on. The downpour had driven other couples underground too. We all wandered in the artificial lighting, reading the information boards and pretending we could see the ‘marks of ancient stone axes’ in the chalk walls. Everyone we passed did a look-once, look-away, look-back, kind of thing. It took me a while to realise they were reacting to our faces. I was getting so used to the swollen noses, splits lips and black eyes, I’d rather forgotten normal people didn’t look like this.

  ‘If you’re thinking Higgins put Heidi’s body down here,’ O’Hara murmured when we were out of earshot, ‘you can forget it. Any disturbance to the floor or walls is going to stand out.’

  ‘Come a little further in.’ O’Hara promptly stepped closer and slid his arm round my waist. ‘That wasn’t what I meant, and you know it.’

  I led him into the last chamber. It was smaller than the rest, and at the far side there was a vertical cleft that was fenced off by a waist-high metal barrier. It protected a round shaft, about six feet wide, that descended some twenty feet below us. On the opposite side to the barrier a tunnel snaked away into the rock. Its entrance was a small archway, barely two feet high. There were thick metal bars set into the chalk to prevent anyone getting inside.

  ‘They say that tunnel widens out further along. You can walk upright inside it.’

  ‘That’s your theory? Higgins dumped the body in there?’

  He sounded dismissive. My hackles stood to attention. ‘Listen sunshine, after fourteen years and God knows how many hours of police manpower, they haven’t managed to turn up so much as a fingernail of Heidi Walkinshaw. If you have a better theory, let’s hear it.’

  ‘Okay, okay, don’t bite me. Well no, scrub that, you can bite me if you like. But why would Higgins have come here?’