Grace Smith Investigates

by Liz Evans

  As a final confirmation, the cameraman pulled back slightly to reveal the distinctive abstract pattern of ‘that’ T-shirt.

  Surely Barbra must have known who she was snapping? Or possibly not. I wouldn’t know our MP if I fell over them. By her own admission, Barbra found politics (and therefore politicians) boring. And seen out of their normal context, it’s not always possible to place well-known faces. In fact, Barbra had thought she’d known Mrs X. She’d taken her for an assistant who’d served her in a shop.

  I felt a small flicker of joy. At last something was going right. I’d have to check her out, but if Mrs X really was Faye Sinclair, and I was ninety per cent certain she was, then the rest would be a cinch. All I had to do was look her over in the flesh and get her to confirm it was her in the picture. Perhaps I could pretend to be a political groupie and ask for her autograph?

  My forward planning ran full steam into a brick wall. I couldn’t get anywhere. I’d forgotten the damn bike yet again.

  A root through the local telephone directory revealed that the Rouses were ex-directory. I’d just have to issue more apologies tomorrow for not collecting today as arranged. In the meantime, I dialled the local library and found I’d hit lucky - it was late- night opening.

  Reading wasn’t a popular pastime on warm summer evenings. The woman on the information desk was so pleased to have something to do, she not only located the relevant biographical details on Faye Sinclair but volunteered to look through back copies of the library’s magazines since she was sure she remembered an article on the Sinclair family a few weeks ago.

  I scanned the Who’s Who typed entries eagerly. Mrs Sinclair, I discovered, had been born Faye Chang forty-four years ago. Daughter of David and Susan Faye Chang (nee Becker). The girl had done good. Educated St Paul’s Girls’ School and Kent University. Called to the Bar when she was twenty-five. Married Hamish Alistair Sinclair. Three daughters, one son. Became an MP at thirty-two; various assorted political committees, undersecretary of this and that; and a clutch of ministerial jobs that I hadn’t known existed. Disappointingly, her address was given as the House of Commons. I wondered if that would do for Barbra. Probably not, since she was planning to live through at least another ten general elections.

  ‘Here you are, then ...’ The assistant bustled back. A glossy mag was pushed under my nose, the pages open at the relevant section. ‘She’s lovely, isn’t she? And such a nice person. I wish she was our MP.’

  ‘Isn’t she?’

  ‘Oh no. If you live in Seatoun, that is. Our Member of Parliament is Jack Fisher. Horrid little man, and no help at all when they were going to close the Breast Cancer Unit. Whereas Mrs Sinclair was so supportive.’

  ‘You wouldn’t know where she lives? Apart from the House of Commons?’

  ‘It’s all in the article.’ She flipped pages eagerly and I’m sure would have read the thing out loud to me if she hadn’t been summoned back to the information desk.

  I scan-read, eyes alert for addresses and telephone numbers. Basically it was just an extension of the condensed facts in the Who’s Who. Hubby Hamish, I found out, was an ‘international jet-setting lawyer’ (who made big bucks, judging by the ‘luxurious London town house’). They also owned another house in Ashlyn Steeple, which was a village about twenty miles southwest of here, and were currently renovating a holiday home in France.

  I read back up the columns again, filling in the gaps I’d skipped over on the first pass. Faye looked to have gone down the usual student route - which is to say she’d rejected her parents’ ‘wealthy lifestyle’ to spend a few years slumming it in some hippy commune - before cutting her hair and her losses and embracing mortgages and power showers once more. Both Sinclairs were active in charity work: he favoured cancer research; she had helped to set up and run a day centre for disabled teenagers.

  I read on. The Sinclairs adored each other, adored their daughters (Amy and Victoria, aged twelve, and Phoebe, ten), and regretted the family couldn’t spend more time together. As a final teaser, there were a few coy references to an autumn reshuffle and a move to a HIGH-PROFILE APPOINTMENT (Faye herself couldn’t possibly comment).

  I’d half convinced myself it wouldn’t be necessary to do a physical check on Faye, I was becoming so certain she was Mrs X. Doubts set in again as I looked over the illustrations.

  Hamish was one of those chiselled-jawed, broad-shouldered hunks. The thick - just going grey - hair and light tan must have gone down a bomb with the female jurors. This guy could have got Attila the Hun off with a caution for public nuisance.

  The twins had inherited their dad’s colouring of blonde hair and brown eyes. Little Phoebe was a real throwback to her oriental ancestors with her thick blue-black hair and big black eyes. Despite the supposedly informal nature of the interview, all the girls were dressed in Laura Ashley-type frocks, their neatly crossed feet twinkling in patent shoes and white socks.

  It was the same with the parents: near-identical double- breasted blazers topping grey slacks for him, a pleated check skirt for her. It was all so stiff and unlike the relaxed, happy woman in Barbra’s snaps. What if I’d got it wrong and she was just some look-alike? There was only one person who could say for sure: I was going to have to show Faye the photos.

  In response to my query as to whether she thought Mrs Sinclair would be sitting in the House of Commons tomorrow, the librarian informed me Parliament was currently in recess. ‘That’s on holiday,’ she explained with a patronising smile. I sensed she was going to be asking me if I wanted some books with plenty of pictures in them very shortly. ‘If you wish to contact her, I suggest you try her local address. The number’s in the phone book.’

  She was right. It was. But disappointingly what I got was an answerphone inviting me to leave a message and a member of Mrs Sinclair’s office would contact me. As a bonus, however, it gave the times and dates of her clinics. The next one was tomorrow afternoon in Ashlyn Steeple’s church hall. Pay-dirt!

  I gave a small skip as I left the phone box and set off back to the office. Things were going right for once, two down and one to go! The light was just beginning to fade; the tide halfway out and the beach almost empty. On an impulse, I took off my shoes and walked over the wet sands, squidging soft worm casts between my toes, until I reached the first waves. Down here, with the sea breeze pulling at my clothes and just the bobbing gulls and an oil tanker gliding over the horizon for company, I felt almost light-headed with happiness. Perhaps solitude really suited me.

  I’d intended to drop into Pepi’s and scrounge supper. It wasn’t until I reached the locked door that I recalled Shane closed every Monday except for Bank Holidays. In the end I settled for double cheeseburger and fries in the amusement arcade and strolled back via the office in case Ifor-squared had returned.

  His business was called Romani’s Dragon Kwik Print Service according to the green and gold sign that was now affixed by the front door. It was a large, glossy sort of come-on - full of swirly characters and gilt overlay. It completely dwarfed our own modest brass name-plate, so it should fulfil Vetch’s plan to provide camouflage for those too shy/guilty to be seen going into a private investigator’s office.

  There were no lights on but I tried the door on the off-chance. Recalling Jan’s remark that it regularly jammed, I applied a hard shove as I turned the handle. It worked, and the door swung inwards on Ifor’s freshly painted kingdom (the colour scheme wasn’t quite as bad as I’d anticipated, although it did seem heavily dependent on Celtic symbols).

  ‘Anyone home?’

  It seemed rather strange that he’d have left all this expensive equipment in an unlocked office. Unless, of course, he hadn’t, and our friendly neighbourhood vandals were back.

  I trod quietly up the internal stairs to our offices. The heavy wooden door I’d seen Jan bolt shut earlier swung open on the dark and deserted reception hall. I eased inside, intending to take them by surprise - and something hooked one ankle, threw me off balanc
e, and slammed me face first into the wall with my right arm twisted up into the small of my back.

  I rolled one eye as far backwards as I could. ‘You missed me, then? Could we can the hug?’

  With a soft exhalation, Annie let me go. ‘Sorry. You shouldn’t creep.’

  ‘Creeping is the way I sustain my lifestyle.’

  ‘How did you get in? I secured the basement entrance. You haven’t picked Ifor’s lock?’

  ‘No need. It’s still not locking.’

  ‘Damn. I need to go out that way.’

  ‘Why? What’s wrong with our own front door?’

  ‘I don’t want to be seen coming out of here. The print shop is safer.’

  ‘Safer for what?’

  ‘Not here. You’ll have to block Ifor’s door after me and go out the front. I’ll meet you by the ladies’ loo next to the lifeboat statue in fifteen minutes. If I ignore you, then we don’t know each other. Just keep walking - OK?’

  ‘Whatever you say, Mata Hari.’

  I heaved the copier and a couple of cabinets across the back of Ifor’s door once she’d slipped away up the basement steps and took my time resetting our own alarm and letting myself out.

  Annie was between the squat white loo block and the promenade rails. Without speaking, she took my arm and herded me back across the main road.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Your flat. We can talk there.’

  ‘It’s in a bit of a mess.’

  ‘It always is.’

  ‘More so than that.’ I brought Annie up to date on my break- in. And Luke’s death.

  She refused to say anything else until we reached my flat. Settling her on the slashed mattress, I made coffee and looked her over. Her hair needed a wash, there were dark circles under her eyes and her clothes looked like they’d been slept in. In fact, her outfit was odd altogether. Battered jackets and jeans were more my style than hers.

  ‘You look like shit.’

  She didn’t argue. Instead she took a few sips of scalding coffee and made a face. Her mouth twisted. For a second I thought she’d burnt her tongue. Then she burst into tears.

  Annie wasn’t a blubberer. In all the time I’d known her, I’d never seen her even close to tears. Now she was sitting on my bed bawling her eyes out - and I was just no good at all this empathising stuff. I felt bad - for me.

  Awkwardly I squeezed in beside her and put an arm round her shoulder. ‘Hey, come on. It can’t be that bad.’

  Apparently it could. Zeb had diphtheria.

  ‘He’s been undercover,’ she gulped when she finally got her voice under control.

  ‘I know. Craig Stillwell,’ I added, recalling the identity tag that I’d glimpsed on his belt.

  ‘Meet Ann Stillwell. Sister of the aforementioned waste of space.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you. Craig’s not much of an asset to the community, then?’

  She gave me a watery smile and told me the rest. Zeb had been undercover on a joint operation between the police, Customs and Excise and the Immigration Service. He’d been working for a container company in Gravesend with a cover that included a habit that required more money than he could earn. Just the sort of low-life, in fact, who’d be susceptible to a bit of strictly illegal moonlighting.

  ‘They know this company is the British end of a racket that’s bringing in illegal immigrants. Not the usual vanload dumped at a motorway station and left to fend for themselves job. This lot offer the full monty - passports, birth certificates, social security numbers, job history and references. You too can be an occupant of this wonderful country - without ever having to go through all that boring business of proving you deserve asylum or citizenship. Providing you have serious cash.’

  ‘Then all those morons baying for blood on the news were right? The diphtheria was brought in by immigrants?’

  ‘Looks like it. But they can’t trace the carrier. Or carriers. And they’re not exactly going to come forward, are they? The chances are, they don’t even know they’ve got it. You can carry without showing symptoms, apparently.’

  ‘But Zeb’s been immunised against it, hasn’t he? Everyone gets the shots when they’re a kid. He’ll be fine.’ I hoped I sounded more confident than I felt.

  ‘There’s no record in his medical notes. It’s horrible, Grace. He was bleeding from the throat... he couldn’t breathe ... they had to give him a tracheotomy. And I couldn’t even hold his hand, they’d got him in an isolation room. I had to look at him through a window. And I just kept thinking, what am I going to say to Mum and Dad if he dies ... I mean, how’d you tell something like that . .. and I knew they’d blame me for not saying so they could be there ..She gave another enormous gulp and visibly swallowed the threatened tears. ‘Then this afternoon, he started breathing easily again, and they said he was going to be OK. I dashed back to grab a few things.’

  I gave her another hug. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Paddington. They wanted him well away from this area to minimise the chance of anyone recognising him accidentally. At first they didn’t want anyone going to the hospital at all. Just Craig the lonely loser with no next-of-kin. But I managed to persuade them that Craig’s equally socially inept sis had to put in an appearance.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I threatened to blow their whole operation by making a fuss outside the hospital,’ Annie admitted. ‘I think I might have aimed a Glasgow kiss at the Customs Controller’s nose at one point. Jerry Jackson had to get between us. He’s lucky he’s got fast reactions.’

  ‘Jackson’s involved as well?’

  ‘He’s local police liaison. Some of the raids will be in this area. I know I’m being paranoid, but I keep getting these visions of someone following me and finding out who Zeb really is. I circled ten times before I came into the office tonight. I mean, I don’t care about the Customs operation ... well, I do ... but it’s if they got to Zeb in the hospital ... Hell, I’m babbling, aren’t I? I shouldn’t have told you any of this, I don’t know what’s the matter with me.’

  I did. I asked her when she’d last eaten.

  She admitted she didn’t know. ‘There were snack machines at the hospital but I wasn’t hungry.’

  So there was a good chance she’d had nothing since I last saw her on the beach Saturday evening. No wonder she was floating in never-never land here. I prescribed a bath and a Grace Smith Double-Decker Sarnie Special.

  ‘Ok.’ There was a pause whilst she drank the rest of her coffee and drew her legs up to sit cross-legged on the bed. I sensed there was something else she wanted to say. And for some reason she didn’t want to look me in the eye when she said it.

  ‘Grace, you didn’t know any of that before tonight, did you?’

  ‘About Zeb?’

  ‘The immigration scam.’

  ‘No. How would I?’

  ‘No reason.’

  I was sitting on a kitchen chair opposite her. Raising a trainer, I nudged the edge of the mattress. ‘Give, Anchoret.’

  ‘It’s ... they asked me about you.’

  ‘They being?’

  ‘The Customs and Excise team. And I know they asked Jackson too.’

  ‘What did they want to know?’

  ‘Everything. You’ve not got yourself mixed up in anything fishy, have you? You could tell me, you know.’

  ‘Annie, I haven’t a clue why Customs and Excise should find me that interesting. Cross my heart and hope to go to a hell without chocolate if I’m lying.’

  She held my eyes for several long moments. Then her shoulders relaxed. ‘OK. Can I stay here tonight? I don’t fancy an empty flat.’

  ‘You’ll have to sleep on my other slashed mattress or the floor.’ ‘Let’s take a look at the mattress.’

  I showed her into the guest cupboard.

  ‘What the hell’s that?’

  I’d forgotten all about my birthday horror. If ever a bunch of plants were capable of radiating resentment, this lot were doing a great job.<
br />
  ‘It’s my sister’s birthday present. I don’t think they’re really at their best.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. Have you ever heard of plants that are indigenous to coal mines?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Because it must be pitch in here when the door is shut. Didn’t anyone tell you plants need light? Put the poor things in a room with a window.’

  ‘But I live in those. And I’m not rooming with a refugee from The Little Shop of Horrors. I’ll stick it outside.’

  ‘Someone might steal it.’

  ‘My luck isn’t running that well at the moment.’

  We heaved the tub into the basement area out front and then I made us sandwiches whilst Annie had a bath.

  ‘What is it?’ she said suspiciously, twisting the plate at eye level.

  ‘A fried bacon and sliced Snickers bar double-decker toastie. I dreamt it up myself.’

  ‘During a particularly lurid nightmare, I assume?’

  But she ate the lot, and after testing the mattress, elected for folded blankets on the floor.

  I curled into my sleeping bag and listened to her breathing in the dark for a while, before saying, ‘Annie?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you OK? With the diphtheria thing?’

  ‘They screened me. I’m clear.’

  ‘Good.’ I brooded for a few more minutes before asking, ‘When did the Customs lot ask Jackson about me?’

  ‘A few days ago, I think. I only picked it up on the rumour mill. Why?’

  ‘He never mentioned it when I saw him at St Biddy’s yesterday. He’s in charge of the Luke thing.’

  I heard a huge yawn crack in the darkness as Annie remarked that it was unlikely Jerry Jackson would want to have a chat, then, when he was up to his neck in a murder inquiry.

  ‘We did chat, but not about that.’

  ‘What, then?’

  I reran my interview with Jerry in the Bell vis-a-vis the antisocial qualities needed by a hot-shot police officer. ‘We sort of came to the conclusion I was ideally qualified to make Chief Constable.’ That reminded me of another unlikely scenario. ‘Annie?’