by Liz Evans
And she was scared. I knew how that felt. I’d had a few reminders in the past few days. Besides, it would be a good opportunity to search the place and retrieve those negatives.
‘You can leave me here if you like,’ I offered Annie.
‘No. It’s OK. I’ll fetch my spare toothbrush.’
She wasn’t kidding. This was truly a woman who was organised enough to carry a spare toiletries kit in her glove compartment.
It wasn’t a bad way to spend a Bank Holiday Sunday afternoon. The garden was heavy with overblown scented flowering shrubs (no, I haven’t a clue what they were - read a gardening manual if you want a list of herbaceous bushes). Insects droned with the sort of fat, self-satisfied sound that said they hadn’t a clue that come the frost it was off to insect heaven. When the light faded, we moved indoors, ate supper, drank the wine and watched the late news.
There was a brief item on Harry’s death but no mention of the farm being linked to the immigrant smuggling, so I guess that bit hadn’t yet leaked from whatever sources the press had at the police and Customs offices. However, there was a roundup of that story to date; plus an interview with Faye Sinclair in which she supported law and order whilst hoping that legitimate asylum-seekers would be left in peace.
‘I’m glad they caught them,’ Barbra remarked from her cross- legged position on the hearth rug. ‘I’d chuck them all out. They come over and it’s straight round the DSS for a council house and a hand-out. Bloody cheek. How much have they paid in?’
‘Isn’t Delaney an Irish name?’ Annie asked.
‘That doesn’t count. The Irish aren’t proper foreigners. And before you say it,’ she said with a belligerent glare in Annie’s direction, ‘Barney never claimed a penny off the state. He worked for everything he had.’
‘Or married it,’ I couldn’t resist adding.
‘What of it? It’s better than standing in the post office with half a dozen kids and a wad of tenners you never paid a bleeding cent towards. They ought to spend it on the homeless and old in this country before they start dishing it out to a load of sponging foreigners. And there’s no arguing with that!’
Neither of us had any intention of arguing with her. There very plainly wouldn’t have been much point.
‘See, I don’t mind foreigners like her.’ Barbra nodded towards Faye’s image on the screen. There was no recognition at all. Faye was in her chic professional feathers tonight; a very different bird from Luke Steadman’s relaxed lover in the St Biddy’s snaps. ‘She’s all right. Knows how to do a decent day’s work. Anyway, she’s only half foreign. Her mum was Chinese.’
‘Her dad,’ I corrected.
‘Well, it makes no odds, does it. She’s half and half. I’m off to the loo.’ She picked her way past us with bare feet.
‘I’m impressed,’ Annie said. ‘I didn’t think you’d recognise an MP if you fell over one in the House of Commons.’
‘Normally I wouldn’t. But I read one of those at-home-with- the-rich-and-think-they’re-famous features the other day. She’s married to some superstar lawyer; looked quite dishy in the pictures.’
‘He does in the flesh, too. Bit of a cold fish, though. Well, no, not cold exactly ... but precise. Everything to a timetable.’
It was pretty much what Faye had said about her husband; but I was intrigued as to how Annie had acquired her inside knowledge.
She checked Barbra was still out of earshot before wriggling closer and dropping her voice slightly. ‘You remember my Parsdirp the other week? The one I had to meet at Heathrow between flights ...’ She flicked her forehead at the TV screen, although Faye had by this time been replaced by the local weather forecast. ‘It was Hamish-the-not-so-humble. He felt things weren’t quite right in the marriage.’
‘Hamish Sinclair employed you to watch his wife?’ I asked in a small voice.
‘No. Changed his mind.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘All been a mistake. No case to answer, to use his own terminology.’
‘The romantic fool.’
‘Quite. I think he just preferred not to know. No doubt he was hoping any affair would soon fade out.’
Or perhaps he knew it would. The room got colder as pictures of Luke’s blood-splattered body jumbled around my brain. I had a sensation of swimming in a very dark, deep pool, with no idea at all what was lurking under the surface.
‘You chilly?’ Barbra asked, returning to the room. ‘There’s a double duvet on yer bed, but I can get blankets if you want.’
I assured her the duvet was fine. I didn’t want to get too cosy anyway, since I had to get up once the house was silent in order to search for those negatives.
Shuffling around in bare feet and Barbra’s Italian silk pyjamas some hours later, I wondered whether I was simply wasting my time. Had Faye and Luke been as careful as they’d imagined? And how do you tactfully enquire about hubby’s location at the time the lover was being turned into a giant kebab?
There was no sign of the negatives I wanted, although irritatingly, Barbra and Barney had been enthusiastic snappers during their travelling days, which meant I had to check all the strips in those albums just in case she’d hidden them with another set of prints. She hadn’t. Apart from Barbra and Barney’s Happy Hols, most of the other pictures were of the kid Carly growing taller and thinner with each year of her illness, but enduring it all with a solemn gappy-toothed smile. It made me feel dirty snooping amongst them, but I pushed on.
I’d been looking for over an hour when I fetched up in the kitchen and flicked the light on. And stared directly at a gross, fleshy, disembodied face, floating outside the window.
There was only one thing to do in those circumstances. And I went for it. I screamed the damn house down.
‘Well, it’s no ghost.’ Annie played the torch beam over the lawn. The crushed grass showed mustard yellow in the artificial light. ‘Might be an opportunist burglar. Or a plain old prowler hoping for a glimpse of something salacious.’
‘That’s supposed to make me feel OK, is it?’ Barbra snapped. She was huddled in the kitchen doorway, watching as Annie and I quartered the area for clues. (The dropped book of matches from a nightclub; the shoe imprint with the distinctive V-shaped abnormality; the cigarette butt smeared with that exclusive shade of lipstick - you know, all those things that keep turning up in fiction and never happen in real life.)
‘No,’ Annie said calmly. ‘I was confirming that it isn’t your imagination. You have had a visitor. Tonight, at least.’
‘I had one them other times as well. I’m dead certain now.’
‘Then how did he get in? Is it possible you hadn’t locked up before you were taken ill?’
‘No. I always check me locks. I’ve seen what walk-in thieves can do. And I take the keys up with me.’
We’d already discovered that when we tried to go after our midnight ghoul. By the time we’d managed to get outside, our visitor had long gone.
‘You sure you didn’t recognise him, Sherlock?’ Annie asked.
‘I only caught a glimpse. He had his face squashed flat against the pane - trying to see inside, I guess. It’s hard to recognise your nearest and dearest from that angle. Soon as I screamed, he was off.’
‘Any impressions?’
‘I do a belting Martha Reeves - without the Vandellas.’
Lights were going on in the neighbouring houses. Barbra instructed us to come inside. ‘I’m not providing a show for that lot.’ We obediently regrouped in the living room for an argument of the ‘what next?’ variety.
Annie was for calling the police to report the incident. Barbra couldn’t see any point since there was nothing to tell.
‘I hate coppers,’ she admitted. ‘Every time Lee pulled something where I worked you could tell they thought I was in on it. No police unless we got something definite to tell them. Now, how about tomorrow - you two OK to hang on?’
Annie wasn’t. She had things to do in Seatoun. And I di
dn’t fancy a whole day in a twosome with Barbra. The more I saw of her, the less I liked her, somehow. On the other hand, it was another opportunity to search for the negatives - and more time at a very generous hourly rate.
(With a chutzpah that left me breathless, Annie had made Barbra pay for one night’s services there and then. ‘Best to pay as you go along. Saves a nasty shock at the end,’ she’d said as we folded our respective cheques into our respective pockets.)
In the end we agreed to do another night’s stint. Barbra would spend the day in Seatoun whilst Annie and I hit those hot pavements in pursuit of truth and justice, and we’d all rendezvous back here in the evening.
‘I thought I’d pop in and see Vetchy,’ Barbra said at breakfast. ‘I feel bad about poisoning the little love. Anyhow, I’ve had a brilliant idea. What you think about me buying into your company? Sort of a sleeping partner?’
Judging by Annie’s face, she thought exactly the same way I did about it. No way, Jose!
‘It’s none of my business, of course. I probably shan’t be there,’ Annie said as we followed Barbra’s convertible along the dual carriageway. ‘And heaven knows, the agency could use a decent cash injection. However, I somehow doubt if Barbra is capable of keeping confidences for more than twenty minutes at a time. And we certainly don’t need anyone to slag the clients off. You’ve already got that angle well covered.’
‘Vetch might enjoy the “sleeping” element.’
‘No doubt.’ She negotiated a roundabout that was encircled by yet more trippers off to enjoy the final day of the Bank Holiday before saying: ‘You don’t think Vetch would really consider taking her into partnership, do you?’
‘She’s a rich blonde widow who he fancies the pants off. What would be your best guess?’
‘Oh, hell,’ Annie sighed. ‘Flat or office?’
I chose office. The road outside was full of parked day-trippers’ cars - and one red sports two-seater that I recognised instantly.
There was no sign of the driver as we swept past. Annie managed to beat a camper van to a space on the promenade.
I told her I’d see her back at the office. ‘I want to stretch my legs first.’
‘I’m heading back to Barbra’s at six. If I don’t get a call on my mobile by then, you’re on your own.’
‘Fair enough.’
I dawdled along, scanning the crowds, telling myself it didn’t have to be him. But who else would have access to the car keys?
I found him halfway along the prom, leaning on the blue- painted rails and watching the trippers hammering in windbreaks and disentangling deckchairs to stake their claim on a patch of beach. I’d been looking out for the grey jumper and trousers, which was why I was nearly on top of him before I realised.
‘Hi.’
He turned to rest one arm along the top railing, whilst his weight shifted to the right leg, thrusting his hip slightly out.
‘Hello,’ Rainwing said.
It was the plain buckskin dress and short boots from the end- of-course snap Esther Purbrick had shown me. The black wig was unadorned, although there was a hint of smudgy shadow and mascara around the liquid eyes and a gleam of gloss on the lips.
Shivers went up and down my spine. I knew that this was a man, yet all my senses were telling me I was speaking to a woman. Everything about him, his voice, his posture, his gestures, even the way he was looking at me, was pure female.
‘If you want to walk away right now,’ he said, ‘I’ll understand.’
‘Why should I? I’m not the one who makes a habit of walking away. That’s your style, remember?’
‘Yes. I don’t blame you for being upset. Will you give me the chance to explain? Please, Grace.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Let’s walk along a bit, shall we?’ He linked his arm through mine. And I reacted like he’d got a thousand volts flowing through his elbow joint. He moved away, putting space between us. ‘Sorry. I half hoped you’d be all right about ...’ He gestured at his appearance, bringing his hand from his left shoulder to his right hip in an elegant sweeping gesture.
‘I am. I’m fine.’ I wasn’t, and it bothered me that I had reacted like that.
‘It’s OK, I do understand,’ Rainwing said.
I found I was actually thinking of him as Rainwing again, rather than Peter. It was confusing. (It probably is for you too, so I’m going to call him Rainwing until he reverts back again.)
‘Could we go somewhere to talk? Somewhere not too crowded?’
That ruled out Pepi’s. Its noisy, greasy, rocking-in-the-kitchen atmosphere appealed to Bank Holiday crowds out to cram as much enjoyment as possible into these last hours of freedom.
I suggested the BHS restaurant in the shopping centre. We had to walk through the lingerie department to get to it, and I got another attack of the goosebumps when Rainwing stopped to browse through a display of lacy bras and knickers.
We slid into a window table with our coffees and I asked: ‘So what did you want to talk about?’
‘A couple of things. I’ve had an idea about the woman those kids heard in Luke’s place the day he died. But before that - I wanted to explain about the way I froze you out.’
‘Forget it.’ I turned my cool, unconcerned gaze on the harbour beyond the windows. The grey stone walling encircled a few working boats and a couple of weekend sailors. Beyond it, half a dozen empty container vessels were swaying on their moorings and waiting for a summons to move down the coast and pick up a load.
The silence made me look back at Rainwing eventually. He was watching me, his face expressionless.
‘Well?’ I said ungraciously.
‘It’s this. The dressing-up. I need to do it. I want to do it. And I don’t intend to stop.’
‘Did I ask you to?’
‘No. But it’s already making you uncomfortable, isn’t it?’
‘No,’ I snapped.
‘Yes,’ I admitted.
‘Then you see why I froze up on you? I felt that we were moving towards something rather more than sex. Something a lot closer ... warmer ... than that. Didn’t you?’
‘I guess. Well, OK - yes.’
‘I couldn’t handle that, Grace. Starting to care and then watching you turn away when I look like this. Or worse still, gritting your teeth and pretending everything is OK when I can feel your skin cringing under my fingers. So I bottled out.’
It was my call. ‘Where did you get to?’
‘I drove up to my bedsit in Battersea to get Rainwing’s things. And then I dropped my mother’s car back.’
‘How is she?’
‘On her way to Yon Hielands to join the rest of the family by now. She said she’d ring you at your office later. Purely to see how your health is, you understand?’
‘You mean you still haven’t let on you know about her and Luke?’
‘And there’s no way I shall be doing so. I’m having enough trouble with my own sex life. I don’t want to hear about my mother’s. You seem to be avoiding the central issue here, Grace. Are we going anywhere? Or shall I sashay off into the sunset now, with a last smouldering look over my shoulder?’
What could I do but tell him it was fine? The situation had certain advantages - I got a date, and possibly a best mate if Annie decamped to London, all wrapped in one neat package.
‘I’m not saying we should go choose furniture in Ikea,’ I said. ‘Let’s keep it casual, see how it goes ... OK?’
‘Suits me. Where do we go from here? Vis-a-vis Luke?’
I had to admit I wasn’t entirely sure. ‘I think we can agree the poetry’s a non-starter. There are no odious odes to your mum hidden in the cottage.’
‘Apparently not. But there’s still the small matter of who killed him. And the will. I really should like to find that for his mother. It did bother him, you know - the problems with his family. Not that most of it was Luke’s fault. His stepfather was a real pain. Thick and proud of it. Luke said he never forgave him for b
eing ten times brighter than his own kids.’
‘What about your stepdad?’ I asked, recalling Hamish Sinclair’s near-attempt to employ a PI of his own. ‘What’s he like?’
‘Hamish? Organised. Good sportsman. Very ambitious. Why do you ask?’
‘Just wondered if you had the same problems as Luke.’
‘I didn’t. We’ve never had that much to do with each other, me and Hamish. I was off to boarding school when he married Mother and I left home as soon as I was eighteen. We don’t have what you’d call a family relationship. More like an amiable acquaintanceship.’
‘Didn’t you resent that?’
‘I never thought about it. You accept things as a child, don’t you? I doubt if things would have been any different with my natural father. He was something of a repressed stick too.’
‘Didn’t you say you hadn’t met him?’
‘As I remember, I said I never saw him now. I met him once, actually. My last year at school. He was looking for somewhere to send his oldest legitimate sprog after prep school. The prefects give the prospective parents a tour. I drew him. I had absolutely no idea who he was until he told me.’
I drained the last cold dregs of my coffee and asked how he’d felt.
‘I didn’t feel anything. I mean, there was no great father-son bonding session. We had a polite chat, he wished me luck, slipped me a fifty-pound note; and that was the last I ever saw of him. Except on the TV.’
‘He’s an actor?’
‘No. Wouldn’t that have been a weird coincidence? He’s a barrister. He’s done some of the big libel cases. Could you just glance to your left? There seems to be somebody trying to attract your attention.’
I’d sat with my back to the restaurant entrance. Slewing around casually, I saw a horribly familiar face staring intensely at our table. It was all the encouragement Terry Rosco needed. As soon as we linked eyes, he flexed the old pecs and strutted over in macho-man mode.
‘Hiya, Smithie. Long time no see.’
