Grace Smith Investigates

by Liz Evans

  My intention to fling myself on Luke’s mercy was thwarted by the sight of the bus turning in from the main road. Flinging was time-consuming; dumping was better.

  Pedalling like crazy, I discovered Brick Cottage was several hundred yards down the otherwise untenanted rutted track. Heaving the bike over the stone wall, I dropped it behind the bushes at the far end of the garden, where it would be out of sight of casual passers-by, and hoped Luke would recognise it if he decided to do a little pruning.

  Sprinting back, I found the small green-and-cream single decker had already turned round and was heading back up towards me. I stood in the centre of the street and windmilled my arms, until he drew in and released the doors. I swung into the front seat across from the driver’s cab-hole. ‘How far do you go?’

  ‘That’ud be telling, wouldn’t it? Tell you what, though, my sex life is so good, even the neighbours have a cigarette afterwards.’

  ‘Tell you what, why don’t I just stay on board until I get bored with your witty conversation - or kill you, whichever comes sooner - and I’ll pay you then. OK?’

  ‘Can’t say fairer than that. Want to hear a joke?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘What did the hangman say to the condemned prisoner?’

  ‘Surprise me.’

  ‘First time, son? Don’t worry, you’ll soon get the hang of it! Hang of it ... gettit? Want to hear another?’

  Like I wanted to hear the Dutch telephone directory recited backwards. But since I needed his help, I gave him an encouraging ‘Go on, then.’

  Twenty minutes later, I realised that Spencer needed encouragement like a cannibal needed a knife and fork. This bloke had written down every Christmas cracker joke since he’d first hung a stocking on his cot for Santa.

  A couple of other passengers travelled a few stops with us, but apparently school kids made up the bulk of his fares on this run. And since it was the summer vacation, I had the benefit of Spencer’s performance all to myself for most of the journey.

  We were actually swinging into the one-way system that would feed us into the bus station before I managed to interrupt a joke about a dry cleaner who fell into his own vat (he came out insolvent, in case you’re wondering) and thrust a picture of Rainwing under his nose. ‘Do you remember her?’

  ‘Certainly do. How d’you get four elephants in a Mini?’

  ‘No idea. About her—’

  ‘Liquidise them. Gettit. Gettit?’

  ‘You’re a riot, Spencer. You ever thought of doing this professionally?’

  ‘Matter of fact, I have. I’ve been trying out at those comedy clubs. Never get a spot, though. It’s because I’d show these youngsters up, I reckon. I mean, they don’t tell jokes, now do they? Just keep going on about their boring lives. Where’s the humour in that, eh? Alternative, they call it. Alternative to sleeping pills, if you ask me. Me now, I tell jokes. I’m thinking of bypassing the live performances. Take me act straight to screen - get a wider audience—’

  Inspiration struck. ‘I’ve a friend who owns a nightclub.’ (This was true.) ‘He’d love to hear your act.’ (That wasn’t).

  It had the desired effect. Spencer couldn’t wait to tell me everything he knew about Rainwing. Which boiled down to the fact that she was a really smashing-looking squaw but not one to powwow much. And she’d got off at the bus station. ‘But I reckon I can put you on to where she went,’ he said, anxious not to lose his ticket to the big time. ‘I’ve seen her before, see? Not on the bus; that was the first time I ever picked her up.’

  That made sense if the Purbricks’ study centre had only moved to its present location within the last few months. ‘Where, then?’

  ‘I’ve got this friend, see? Regular date. I’ve seen the Indian going into a house in her street.’

  ‘Which one?’

  A sly look flowed down the planes of his face. There were no hills. Carter had been right about his looks: Spencer seemed to have crashed into a brick wall at thirty miles an hour - without his bus. ‘What about my audition?’

  ‘I’ll fix it. Trust me, Spencer. I’m a fan. You deserve a break.’ The sap fell for it. He gave me the address and added the news that Rainwing had a boyfriend.

  ‘Is he into buckskins and war paint as well?’

  ‘No. He’s normal. City type. Plenty of cash too, I reckon. He’s got a flash car. Silver Audi. Top of the range. Probably thinks a motor like that pulls the birds.’

  ‘It does, Spencer.’

  He stared through the windscreen, threading the steering wheel through his broad fingers with professional ease as we glided to a stop in the bus station. ‘Yeah, I know. But when I’m famous, eh?’

  ‘You’ll make Rod Stewart look like a monk. What’s this boyfriend look like?’

  ‘Like? I dunno. City boy. Thirtyish. Dark hair.’

  I was standing on the platform, ready to leap down as soon as he opened the doors. But not even the promise of fame and unlimited bimbos was going to make Spencer forget his obligations to the bus company. I had to pay up before he let me off.

  The street he’d described was just outside the old city walls. It was called Loveluck Lane. A throwback to the time when the world’s oldest profession had a monopoly on business down here. The woman who opened the door had a rosy-cheeked, beaming smile that soon disappeared when I produced Rainwing’s picture and started into my ‘I heard she stays here sometimes’ speech.

  ‘No. You’re mistaken. I’ve never seen her.’

  ‘Hang on.’ I had to wedge a foot to prevent the door swinging shut. ‘I’m not mistaken. I’ve got witnesses, Mrs ... er?’

  ‘Miss. Miss Violetta Schlesinger.’ She peered up at me through the gap left by her efforts to close the door and mine to keep it open. ‘Please. It’s only a few days. Just a few pounds, really.’

  I got the message. She’d been renting out rooms without declaring the income. It was a popular pastime in this tourist trap. Providing they weren’t too greedy and didn’t have vindictive neighbours, most of them never got caught.

  ‘I don’t want to cause trouble for you,’ I said with my best heavy-sneer. ‘So you help me, and I’ll help you. That’s fair, isn’t it?’ I backed her into the house as I spoke.

  ‘I don’t know, I’m not sure . ..’ Miss Schlesinger fluttered. It was hard to tell whether she’d picked the habit up from the dozen caged birds scattered around the sitting room - or she’d chosen them as pets because she felt at home in a flock.

  ‘Now what could possibly be wrong about telling me her real name?’

  ‘That is her name. Rainwing. So pretty, don’t you think?’

  ‘What about the boyfriend?’

  ‘Does she have one?’

  ‘Come on, Miss Schlesinger. He’s been seen. City type? Flashy silver car?’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Her feathers shivered again. The menagerie went into a collective spasm of mirror-bashing and bell-ringing in sympathy.

  ‘Has he got a name?’

  ‘Daniel,’ she whispered.

  ‘Surname? Address? Phone number?’

  ‘I don’t know. I truly don’t.’

  ‘You must have some idea. What about when they reserve the room?’

  She was near to tears as she assured me they telephoned whenever they wanted to stay and paid in cash on arrival. Much like Rainwing’s arrangement with the Purbricks. They were a strangely elusive couple. I asked what Daniel did while Rainwing was off carving totem poles.

  Miss Schlesinger didn’t know that either. ‘I don’t pry. I respect my guests’ privacy.’

  She stuck her chin up, lips firming. Now she’d got over the initial shock of my arrival, her backbone was returning. I pressed on quickly by suggesting I didn’t believe she knew nothing about her guests.

  ‘I think I’d like you to leave now.’

  ‘Fair enough. Let’s see ... the tax office for this area is where, exactly?’

  ‘Oh no.’ The feather-ruffling went into overdrive. ‘P
lease. I’ve only my pension.’

  ‘I should care.’ I thought mega-bitch and sneered at her again. I’m really no good at this intimidation lark, but I seemed to make an impression on Miss Schlesinger. She begged me to wait. ‘There is something. Wait here a moment.’

  I heard her pit-pattering up the stairs, and drawers opening

  And closing above my head. The birds had stopped twittering and fallen silent, and the only sound in this room was the faintly sinister dick of their little claws as they shifted on their perches. I was beginning to feel like I was trapped inside a scene from a Hitchcock film when Violetta finally crept in again and handed me a paperback.

  ‘He left it behind. Well, lost it, really. It had slipped behind the dresser. I meant to return it the next time he came.’

  It was a book of poems by Walt Whitman. I fanned the pages and found a faint pencilled note on the front flyleaf. Daniel Sholto, Flat 32, St Stephen’s House, City Road. £2.00 to pay.

  I’ll spare you the details of the train trip. Imagine being trapped in a tin can with no air-conditioning and no buffet car for a couple of hours and you’ll get the general idea. It was, however, an improvement on London. The heat wave that made life a joy at the coast turned the days into hell in London. The heavy air seemed to push the heat down, trapping it at street level, where it broiled up the traffic fumes and added a layer of dust and exhaust emissions to everything it touched.

  The main entrance to St Stephen’s House was in a smaller street off the City Road. It was a solid four-storey red-brick structure with a marbled step entrance, an echoe-y marble decor inside and one of those old-fashioned brass cage-type lifts. It had probably been built about the same time as those Edwardian boarding houses in Seatoun. Unlike them, its location so close to the City of London no doubt meant the flats here cost the equivalent of a small country’s defence budget. Which made the choice of a room in Violetta’s aviary all the more odd. Why not a four-star hotel? Daniel could plainly afford it.

  Flat 32 was on the third floor. There was no answer to the doorbell. Scouting around, I couldn’t find any silver Audis parked in the residents’ parking spaces.

  I picked a seat in the pub opposite, where I could keep an eye on the entrance, and waited. And waited. And waited. No one even vaguely resembling Spencer’s dark-haired, thirtyish City boy went in. In case there was a back entrance, I slipped across every so often and tried the flat bell.

  By six o’clock I was sick of nursing halves of lager, and the barman was beginning to hint that if I was on the game he knew where I could do better business. In the end I caught the tube to Oxford Street and spent a few hours mooching in and out of the department stores with the American and Japanese tourists.

  By the time I returned, the streets were filling up with those out to make the most of the warm evening, but there was still no Audi parked in the neighbourhood. He might have a garage somewhere, of course. Although it was unlikely in this area, where I’d heard it was dearer to park your wheels than to park your butt. The flat was still in darkness and there was no response to the bell.

  He could work late. On the other hand, he might have gone off on a month’s business trip. I didn’t fancy constant visits to the metropolis on the off chance of one day catching Daniel at home. I could leave a note asking him to contact me. On the other hand ...

  Slipping the lock pick in, I eased the tension wrench in below it and started probing. It wasn’t a good lock. From the tenant’s point of view, I mean. For anyone breaking and entering, it was a dream. It needed a double turn to lock it securely, and whoever had used it last hadn’t bothered.

  It also had a couple of internal bolts that hadn’t been engaged. I discovered this fact when the door was suddenly ripped open.

  Crouched down, I found myself looking at a pair of long, prehensile feet. My eyes slid up the smooth legs, the striped towel worn like a sarong, the hairless chest with another towel draped over the shoulders, and the narrow, dark-eyed face capped by tousled dripping hair. He smelt of fresh soap, damp hair and shampoo.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, may I ask?’

  ‘The light wasn’t on.’

  ‘I find the dark relaxing.’

  ‘You didn’t answer the bell.’

  ‘I can’t hear it when I’m in the shower. Forgive me. If I’d have known there was a burglar waiting, I’d have changed my whole ablutions routine.’

  He flicked dripping fronds out of his eyes and dragged the neck towel up to sop up the excess water.

  His knees weren’t bad, but I was getting a bit tired of staring at them. So I stood before asking why he thought I was a burglar.

  ‘My mistake. This is just a hobby, is it?’ His thumb and forefinger shot out and twisted the pick from my grasp.

  I bit back the witty reply I would no doubt have thought of in the next nanosecond. The towel he was using was dark brown. When he’d flicked it over his head the ends had draped down each side like long strands of hair. I looked into the angular face, now softened by the frame of material, and saw what hadn’t been obvious before.

  ‘You’re Rainwing!’

  13

  Rainwing/Daniel stood aside. ‘You’d better come in.’

  There was a fish tank set into one wall, full of tiny darting chips of jewel colours swimming between the sunken remains of drowned ruins. It gave enough light to see polished floorboards, walls in pale non-colours, scattered sofas, low tables, abstract art, horizontal blinds and all the doors replaced by walk-through arches. It felt wrong somehow. I’d have expected Rainwing to live in a world of colourful clutter. Her alter ego seemed to be her complete opposite in more than the biological sphere.

  He touched the base of a lamp and a yellow glow spread from beneath the Japanese-style paper globe. ‘Hang here a minute, whoever you are.’

  ‘My name is Smith.’

  ‘God, how boringly unoriginal. Can’t you make up something better than that?’

  ‘I could. But my parents couldn’t. It really is my name.’

  ‘Please yourself.’ He strode away through the left-hand archway, leaving a trail of damp footprints that evaporated from the polished wood as I watched. Another lamp came on, giving me a glimpse of a floor-level bed and the shadow silhouette of Daniel discarding the towels for more conventional clothing.

  I took a quick glance around while he was busy (just on the off chance of coming across his appointment card for the probation office, or his year photo from Wandsworth Prison, you understand).

  It was an empty place. Not just the furnishings, but the whole atmosphere. The CDs were music club collections. Apart from half a dozen airport blockbuster paperbacks of the lone-hero- saves-world-from-psychotic-dictators/aliens/rampaging-viruses variety, the rest of the books were dictionaries, road maps, restaurant guides and assorted worldwide train and air timetables. Even the fish proved to be plastic fakes. There was a two-drawer filing cabinet, but it was locked, and getting caught twice picking locks seemed like exceptionally crass manners (even for me).

  The kitchen area had more stainless-steel implements than a TV hospital drama, but most looked like they’d never encountered a hot plate or chipped a spud. The noticeboard was decorated with business cards for taxi firms, laundry services, a housekeeping agency, courier firms, and takeaway menus that catered for every ethnic foodie craving, from sushi to kangaroo steaks.

  The only area I really liked was the balcony. I discovered it by chance when I opened the blind slats on what I’d taken to be a window and discovered instead a set of narrow french doors. It overlooked a small walled garden at the back of the building.

  It was unexpectedly peaceful out there after the continuous jostle of traffic and humanity all day. I stood for a moment, enjoying the summer air now it had lost some of its heat.

  The mood was spoilt by the roar of a jet beginning its descent towards the City airport. I thought briefly of Annie and wondered how her Heathrow meeting had gone. Well, probably. Ann
ie generally impressed clients. She’d plainly impressed that City securities company. Who knows, in a few months perhaps she’d be staking a mortgage on an overpriced London flat like this. In which case, she could at least have remembered my last birthday as her closest friend - geographically speaking.

  ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it? A little treasure amongst all the chaos.’

  The hairs had prickled on the back of my neck. He’d come up behind me without my hearing a thing.

  Rainwing/Daniel squeezed on to the balcony beside me and leant his arms on the parapet. He’d changed into dark cargo trousers and a light silky shirt.

  ‘I often come out here at the end of the day and just stand and enjoy the night.’ He tilted his head and breathed deeply and evenly. ‘Can you smell the night-scented stock?’

  I gulped in a mouthful of air. ‘That flowery thing?’

  ‘That flowery thing.’ He’d turned towards me; his features were still in shadow. ‘Doesn’t it make you think of Romeo and Juliet?

  ‘What’s in a name? that which we call a rose,

  By any other word would smell as sweet;

  So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,

  Retain that dear perfection which he owes,

  Without that title. Romeo doff thy name;

  And for thy name, which is no part of thee,

  Take all myself!’

  It was eerie. I mean, I knew he was a bloke now, but the voice, the gestures, even the way he was standing - I could have sworn it was a fourteen-year-old girl whispering urgently beside me. It was easy to see how he’d deceived the Purbricks into believing he was a woman.

  Light spilt over the patio terrace below, infusing colour into the flower petals. A high-pitched laugh shrilled out, shattering the moment.

  ‘Whoops,’ Daniel tutted, reverting to type. ‘The ground floor’s coming out to play. We’d best make a tactful retreat. They like to do it al fresco. One doesn’t like to be a peeping Tom.’