Grace Smith Investigates

by Liz Evans

  After I’d helped myself to the shower and the towels, I checked on Faye. She must have come round after I’d originally left her since she was now cuddling one of the photos from the bedside cabinet. It looked like Daddy Chang - hugging the blonde twins with a baby moppet on his lap that must be the youngest kid.

  I stuck her back in the recovery position and sauntered downstairs. Opening the french windows wide, I put my feet up and settled down to a few hours of hard relaxation.

  The sofa was delightfully squishy and the room was very warm. I suddenly became aware how tired I felt. Vandals and cycling can be a powerful combination when it comes to draining a girl’s energy banks. Maybe a little snooze was called for.

  I felt myself going down into a floating half-awake state. Part of my mind was mulling over Barbra’s commission. I’d found two of her lucky legatees - and faster than I’d have expected. Now there was just the elusive Rainwing to pin down and I’d have the complete set. And that lovely fat finder’s fee.

  All I needed was to figure out how I was going to track down my transvestite Hiawatha. Images of that narrow face loomed over me. I could feel the silky skin of his hairless chest under my hands and taste that mouth probing mine.

  Fired up with remembered pleasures, my body flexed in anticipation while my mind told me it was a dream and to get real. I opened my eyes and proved to my mind it was a damn liar.

  Rainwing was standing two feet away, staring down at me.

  24

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  We spoke simultaneously, but I like to think my self-righteous snarl had the edge. Neither of us apparently felt like answering. The silence was becoming awkward when Faye decided to join us.

  I guessed she was still barefooted because I hadn’t heard her coming downstairs. Instead her arrival was announced by the crash of a door sliding from the grasp of someone whose booze- blitzed co-ordination couldn’t handle relative distances yet. From my present position (flat out on the sofa) I couldn’t see her at all; but I sympathised with that groan of pain as the bright light from the french windows hit her eyes.

  Rainwing said: ‘Hello, Mother.’

  Mother?

  ‘Peter, darling. How lovely. You should have let me know you were coming down. Oh, God, I feel so ill... Draw those curtains, please.’ Her progress had brought her far enough across the carpet for her to see over the back of the sofa. ‘Oh? I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had company.’

  Her fingers were tidying her hair whilst her shoulders were pulling back, her backbone was straightening and that professional politician’s sincerely-bothered-about-you smile was materialising like the Cheshire cat’s. Our previous encounter seemed to have been erased from her memory by the hangover. I sat up and gave her my own best cheesy grin. ‘Hi! I’m Grace.’

  ‘A friend of mine,’ Rainwing/Daniel/Peter/whoever-the-hell he-was-today said. His hand on my shoulder squeezed a plea for silence.

  ‘We met earlier.’ I smiled, shaking Faye’s hand and contriving to dislodge her conniving son’s paw at the same time. ‘You may not remember. You were a bit ... under the weather.’

  ‘You’ve not caught anything, have you, Mother? From the immigrant hostels?’

  ‘No, of course I haven’t, darling. I’m just a bit stressed.’ Stressed as a newt, I was tempted to say, but didn’t.

  Faye said ruefully, ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t usually behave so badly.’

  ‘Forget it,’ I said. Before remembering that she already had. She was still trying to switch into perfect hostess mode, but a problem with gravity was sabotaging her efforts. As she swayed forward, I stood up and steered her on to the flattened cushions. ‘Take a seat. I’ll fix something. Tea, coffee, bicarb?’

  ‘Tea would be lovely,’ Faye said, curling into the hollow I’d just vacated. ‘And an aspirin, if you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘I’ll help,’ whatever-his-name said.

  ‘Thanks.’

  We both waited until we were out of earshot in the kitchen before resuming hostilities.

  ‘How bloody dare you come here?’ he snapped.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I? Your mum’s an MP. We hoi-polloi are allowed to crave a boon once a year. It’s in the deal.’

  ‘She doesn’t represent Seatoun.’

  ‘How’d you know I come from Seatoun? No! Don’t tell me - you found something when you searched my bag to nick those photos. No, that can’t be it. I don’t keep anything with my home address in there. Did the great spirit in the sky send a messenger to you, Rainwing? Or is it Daniel today?’

  ‘It’s Peter Chang, as you very well know.’ He reached round me for a tin of teabags and flicked them two-fingered into the pot - dealing them out like a card sharp. ‘And Luke told me you lived in Seatoun.’

  ‘You know Luke?’ Daft question. Of course he did. His mum had just told me her lover was a mate of his.

  ‘He’s a friend. Practically my only male friend, if I’m being truthful.’

  ‘They say you should try everything once except incest and clog-dancing.’

  ‘Do the words pot, black and kettle ring any bells?’

  ‘Here!’ I thrust the filled kettle at him and contrived to slosh a lot of the contents down his sweater. It was a pale grey silky V- neck today, with matching trousers in a soft jersey fabric. Very understated and not at all Rainwing’s style.

  ‘There’s no need to behave like a bitch.’

  ‘You should know - Rainwing, dear.’ I hadn’t intended for my tone to be quite so arch.

  His expression changed. He looked ... hurt? ‘I really thought you understood about that. But you’re just as bad as the rest of them - pretending to empathise, and making jokes about men like me behind our backs. I think I’d rather you just made the snide remarks to my face. At least that’s honest.’

  ‘Don’t you get all holier-than-thou on me, you bastard,’ I hissed. ‘What about that pack of lies you fed me - or are you Daniel as well in your spare time?’

  ‘No. I’m not. That was a one-off performance. I’m sorry, but you have to understand - when Luke saw those pictures you’d taken of me—’

  I didn’t correct him; Barbra’s existence was none of his business anyway.

  ‘We thought you were a journalist. Out to do a spoiler story on my mother. They’ve tried before, you see. She’s a good target - glamorous, well-off, a touch of the exotic. Be much more fun to bring someone like that down rather than one of those boring grey suits. And ever since the rumours started about her getting a cabinet post in the autumn ... well, let’s just say Rainwing would have been an absolute gift for the muck-rakers.’

  The kettle was boiling. I passed it across. ‘You could,’ I pointed out, ‘have given up the frocks.’

  ‘I can’t. I have tried, believe me. But I just have to. It’s like a junkie needing a fix, I suppose. Luke understood that. But when he saw those photos of me ...’

  I recalled the couple of snaps Carter had passed to Luke after my dive off the churchyard wall. There hadn’t been a flicker of recognition when he’d looked at them.

  ‘He tried to chat you up himself. But he said you blew him out. So he warned me. I had to get close to you somehow. Find out what your agenda was.’

  ‘How did you manage to set me up with Daniel?’

  Peter was setting out a tray with cups and milk jug. He flicked a glance in my direction. And my heart did a little hop-skip-jump as other parts of my anatomy recalled that considering look.

  ‘You were talking to that weird kid that hangs around Luke. Luke had a word with him and found out you’d been asking about the local bus. It didn’t exactly take Einstein to realise you’d figured out I’d used it. Luke went down to the bus station and bribed the driver to point you in the direction of Auntie Vi’s house. He promised to get him a part in the films. It’s amazing how many people fall for that I-can-get-you-in-the-movies routine.’

  ‘Violetta the bird lady is your aunt?’

  ‘H
onorary aunt. She used to be my child-minder when I was a kid - well, one of many at the commune. I always stay with her when I’m being Rainwing. She’d do anything for me, Vi.’

  ‘Including slipping me a book of poetry with Daniel’s address in it.’

  ‘That was her idea. She likes a bit of intrigue, does Auntie Vi. Thought you were more likely to believe it if you had to work for it.’

  And I thought I’d been so bloody clever tracking down that flat! I just hoped all her budgies got the mange.

  ‘You really were incredibly easy, you know,’ Peter said silkily. I got the impression he wasn’t only referring to the misdirection.

  ‘So who’s Daniel Sholto? Another mate who was in on the joke?’

  ‘No. He’s exactly as I played him apart from the cross dressing, of course a stressed-out banker who can’t climb off the treadmill. I occasionally work for a housekeeping service when I’m resting.’

  ‘Really? I’ve never found housework particularly restful.’

  ‘Technical term, love. Sounds better than out of work. I’m an actor.’

  That would certainly explain the Shakespeare. Who else but an actor could quote great chunks of the stuff off the top of their head? It probably accounted for the way he found it so easy to slip into a convincing Rainwing as well.

  Peter sniffed the milk delicately before adding it to the jug. ‘We on the housekeeping circuit are a matey lot. One of my clients has a fantastic wardrobe of designer gear - just the sort of thing an out-of-work actress needs to gate-crash the hottest parties so when she’s out of town my friend borrows them. And in return, when the investment banker she scrubs for - if you’ll pardon the expression — is off on his travels—’

  ‘She lets you borrow his keys?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘And his credit cards?’ I asked, recalling the champagne supper.

  ‘I doubt he’ll even notice. Those sort of people don’t check card statements. And if he does complain, the restaurant will write it off as a mistake.’

  ‘You hope.’

  ‘Well, no. You’d better do that. It was you who opened the door to the delivery man. Still, never mind - I daresay all you blonde westerners look the same to the Chinese.’

  ‘Bastard.’

  ‘Oh, don’t get all bitchy on me, Grace. You must see I had to find out if you were planning to screw my mother.’

  I was tempted to tell him his best mate, Luke, had already done that. But the memory of Luke’s body, twisted and skewered on that spear, intervened. We were both speaking about him as if he were still alive. I wondered if Peter had heard about the murder. Not everyone browses the Telegraph (I certainly didn’t).

  I rested my forehead against the window, needing to feel the coolness of the glass on my skin. The kitchen was in the front of the house, overlooking the road. When I’d arrived, the shadows from the trees lining the pavement had formed truncated pools of blue over the flagstones. Now they stretched like streams of spilt ink over the road, their tips nearly touching the opposite kerbstones.

  ‘What’s the time?’

  He cradled the tray on one arm in order to consult a large plastic watch on his left wrist. ‘Nearly seven. Why?’

  I couldn’t believe it. Normally I find it difficult to sleep during the day. I’d assumed I’d dozed for no more than a couple of hours. Instead of which, I must have been out for nearly six.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Where’s the aspirin?’

  ‘Paracetamol. That drawer, I think.’

  There were only two left. When I turned back, Peter was blocking my way. ‘Grace ... look ... I know you’re mad at me, but please don’t tell my mother about Rainwing.’

  ‘She doesn’t know?’

  ‘Obviously not, or I wouldn’t need to ask. If she knew, I think she’d try to persuade me to get treatment or something. I have a right to my own life ... don’t you think?’

  Yep. If there was one thing I could empathise with, it was the curse of the parents who KNOW WHAT’S BEST FOR YOU, DEAR.

  ‘Stay out of my reservation in future,’ I said. ‘And I’ll stay out of yours. Kapeesh?’

  ‘Kapeesh.’

  During our absence, Faye had pulled herself together sufficiently to plump the cushions, hide the vodka bottle and apply a slick of lipstick. Ankles crossed, back straight and eyes bright, she exuded poise as she poured with a steady hand. Only the grateful way in which she gulped down the paracetamol indicated that all was not well chez Faye.

  ‘So how did you two meet?’ she asked me, playing the Mummy-entertains-the-girlfriend role to perfection.

  ‘At a mutual friend’s. Daniel Sholto. Maybe you know him?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He’s not that actor you were in the fringe thing with last year, is he, Peter?’

  ‘No. You’ve never met him.’ Peter threw me a dirty look and I gave him one of my best adorable eyelash flutters.

  ‘Are you in the entertainment business, Grace?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. I’m writing a novel.’ I smiled innocently at my new beloved. ‘Peter keeps going on at me to show him the first chapters. But I’m just not ready for that yet.’ ‘That sounds very challenging. Does it have a theme?’

  ‘Betrayal.’

  ‘Grace still has a lot of research to do, don’t you, my love?’

  ‘Mmmm. And Peter has been so helpful.’

  We exchanged loving looks that could have stripped the varnish off any furniture that had been unfortunate enough to stray into range. But since we were sitting in the half-dark in deference to Faye’s current allergy to bright lights, she wouldn’t have seen.

  ‘Oh? Well, good. You couldn’t be helpful to me too, could you, darling? It’s just that there’s scarcely a teaspoon of petrol left in the car and I daren’t risk driving it in this condition . ..’

  ‘No problem. I’ll fill her up first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Can’t you do it now? I may have an early start.’

  ‘Er .. . well, OK. Shall I put the bike in the garage?’

  ‘What bicycle?’

  I’d left it propped outside when I climbed over into the back garden and promptly forgotten all about it again.

  ‘It’s mine. I’d best be going anyway.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. There’s no need to rush away. Peter won’t be ten minutes. And we can compare notes on him while he’s gone. The keys are in the kitchen, darling. I’ll get you some cash.’

  I assumed that she wanted reassurance I wasn’t going to give my loving other half a blow-by-blow account of his mum’s extramarital confessions and had my comforting speech plus sympathetic smile in place when she returned from shooing Peter out of the front door.

  I didn’t get a chance to use either. The heart-broken lover and/ or perfect political hostess had gone. Swallowed up by a hot-eyed spitting she-cat.

  ‘I think,’ she hissed, her body vibrating with so much rage I could practically feel the heat oozing from the pores, ‘that creatures like you should be buried alive.’

  25

  ‘I’ll tell Peter an engagement’s out of the question, then?’

  ‘Is that supposed to be a joke?’

  ‘A small attempt. But then I’m not really on top form,’ I said truthfully. ‘What exactly am I supposed to have done?’

  She removed a clutch of crumpled snaps from her trouser pocket. They were Barbra’s shots of her emerging from St Biddy’s store. My hand went instinctively to my own back pocket. Which was as good as admitting they’d fallen out of there in the first place.

  ‘I found these in the sofa. I shan’t even bother to ask if they belong to you,’ Faye said coldly. ‘I assume you struck up a friendship with my son for much the same reasons as you took these.’

  ‘Actually - he latched on to me.’

  ‘After you’d put yourself somewhere he couldn’t fail to fall over you, I’m sure.’

  (Well, that was true enough, I guess, since I was picking the lock to Daniel S
holto’s flat at the time.)

  Faye ripped the snaps in half. ‘I’m certain you have other copies, but never mind - this makes me feel fractionally better.’

  Balling them up, she slung the missile into the empty grate. ‘And you may as well know right now that I don’t intend to pay you one single penny. So if you were hoping for an easy bonus, you can put the idea out of your mind.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘Then to quote Lord Nelson, “Publish and be damned” and you can pass that on to whoever you work for.’

  ‘Wellington.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It wasn’t Nelson. It was the Duke of Wellington. Right war - wrong service. And I’m not a journalist.’

  ‘Then what are you?’

  I was beginning to lose track myself, I’d told so many cover stories in the past week. In such circumstances there is only one thing to do. Resort to the truth. ‘I’m a private investigator.’

  At least that wiped the self-righteous expression off her face. It took whatever colour she had with it. She sat down quickly. Her voice had lost the crisp don’t-mess-with-me edge when she asked who’d sent me. ‘Was it my husband?’

  ‘I’ve never met your husband. Nobody sent me. At least, nobody sent me after you; you just got caught up in another case ...’ It was the best explanation I could come up with that didn’t violate the promise I’d given Barbra on complete confidentiality.

  Needless to say, it didn’t satisfy Faye, who wanted to know who, why and when.

  ‘We don’t give out that information.’

  She picked me up immediately: ‘We?’

  ‘My company.’

  ‘So other people have seen those photographs?’

  ‘One or two. But it’s OK, honestly. Nobody’s going to start ringing the hotlines to the tabloids. What would they say? I’ve got a picture of Faye Sinclair coming out of a grocery shop? I mean, big deal...’

  ‘Of course it’s a big deal, you stupid ... Oh God, I’m sorry.’ Silent tears welled and that lost expression flooded her face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered again. ‘But you just don’t see—’ She caught her breath sharply at the sound of a car engine and the automated rumble of the garage door lifting. ‘Peter doesn’t know about me and Luke. Don’t tell him, please.’