Lock 13

by Peter Helton

  I had successfully interrupted his string of pre-emptive excuses by waving a bouquet of twenties under his nose. ‘It’s all there. And there’s nothing wrong with the DS.’

  ‘Ah, welcome, friend, welcome.’ He wiped his hands on his overall before reverently taking the notes from my hand. ‘So why are you here? You wouldn’t be paying me unless you wanted something.’ Jake has known me for a long time.

  ‘Got anything modern I can borrow?’ I asked, looking around.

  ‘I’ve something modern you can buy, Chris. You need a bland car for detective work. Driving around in a fifty-year-old Citroën is like following someone wearing a top hat and tailcoat. You get spotted a mile off.’

  ‘I can’t afford to buy anything – you’re holding my last money. But if this insurance job works out, I might be able to.’

  Jake stuffed the money into a pocket of his blue overall, carefully buttoned it up, then scratched at a welding scar on his shiny bald head. ‘There is one car I can let you have, but it’s not junk so I do want it back in one piece. Took it in part exchange. This way.’

  Jake hides anything modern and non-British round the back so as not to offend the sensibilities of the classic car nuts who are his customers. On the strip of concrete in front of a low building that had once been a milking parlour stood a blue Ford Focus RS. ‘I like it,’ I said.

  ‘Dream on,’ said Jake. ‘That’s Sally’s pride and joy. I meant that one.’ He pointed at a ten-year-old Honda Jazz.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Don’t go “oh”; it’s perfect for a PI.’

  He was right, of course. The things were ubiquitous and this one came in a shade of blue so flat and depressing that on a dull day it would be virtually invisible to the naked eye. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘I’ve been telling you that for years. You can leave your Citroën in that space. But I’m keeping it as collateral, so no stunts or car chases.’

  I promised.

  Of course, a car chase might have enlivened the next couple of days. There was not enough natural cover to keep an eye on The Chestnuts without it becoming obvious and nowhere to park within sight of the place. This meant I was forced to sit in the invisible Honda, parked up in Richmond Road round the corner – since Janette Blinkhorn invariably passed that way whenever she left the house – and wait.

  And wait. Eventually, the Mercedes came past and I trailed it all the way to town and into the Waitrose car park. From there I followed Janette past the abbey into the pedestrianized area where she did exciting things like browsing the magazine shelves at WHSmith’s, trying on several tops in several clothes shops and dodging Big Issue sellers and charity muggers. When a rain cloud came over and it started to drizzle, she bought a pink umbrella from an accessories shop and walked back towards the car park, with me, umbrellaless, trudging behind. She dropped her shopping bags off at the car, then drank something hot and frothy at the café above the supermarket while playing with her smartphone, before spending a small fortune on two whole sea bass downstairs. Then she drove her purchases home. With the patience of a saint, I parked up again. Late in the afternoon her bejewelled girlfriend drove past me in her BMW, and when I followed on foot after a decent interval, the black car was parked on the drive of the Blinkhorn house. Despite it still being light outside, the curtains were drawn downstairs. Purely out of boredom, I took a photograph and drove home through the rain.

  The last day of life drawing before the winter break dawned grey and wet – or so I gathered; I was asleep – and still not a word from Annis. I had deliberately not contacted her, feeling jealous and childish and wanting to see how long it took before she missed me. Quite a while, it appeared. Ah well, she was busy with her new commission. But wouldn’t she want to talk about it? Or at least brag about it? As my eyes unfocused over the photograph of a plum cake in From Gugelhupf to Streuselkuchen, another bit of childishness crept to the front of my mind from wherever it had been hiding: what about Tim? I had had many years to get over any sexual jealousy, but was I still the first person she shared things with? Did Annis and I have more or fewer things in common? Tim and Annis shared a childish delight in anything Disney, and I knew that when at Tim’s place Annis indulged in eating junk food in front of the telly, something she can’t at Mill House since I refuse to give room to either (and there’s no reception at the bottom of the valley). They go to the cinema together and have been talking about going to Disneyland for years …

  I found a pretext to call Tim at work. ‘How do you find someone if you don’t know their address, they don’t drive and don’t have a phone?’

  ‘You’re the detective. Relatives?’

  ‘One aunt who’s not in Bath.’

  ‘Then it’s personal interests and favourite haunts, I guess.’

  I agreed. ‘I left it too late for that. My life model didn’t show up last time and I’ve no idea if she’ll turn up tonight. Last time I had to do the modelling myself.’

  ‘Ha, I’d have paid to see that. You couldn’t persuade Annis to do it?’

  Aha. ‘She’s not here. She’s doing another mural for a music business bigwig. Didn’t she tell you?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to her for ages. Been a bit busy, you know how it is – new girlfriend and all that.’

  I nearly dropped the phone into my mug of rich-roast Costa Rican Fairtrade coffee. (I’ve no idea how we can afford the stuff either; ask Annis.) ‘Girlfriend? You have a girlfriend? Why? I mean, since when?’

  ‘Didn’t Annis tell you?’

  ‘Not a peep.’ Then it hit me. ‘Annis knows? And doesn’t she mind?’

  ‘Mind? No. “About bloody time” were her words, as I recall.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I know. As though she’d just been sleeping with me to help me out, haha. Actually, we haven’t been sleeping together for bloody ages.’

  ‘Really? But she spent loads of time at yours.’

  ‘Whenever she feels like telly and a pizza. I must come up and introduce you to Becks; she’s looking forward to meeting you.’

  ‘Becks? Is that her name? Trust you to find a girlfriend named after your favourite lager.’

  ‘It’s Rebecca.’

  ‘Yeah, I guessed.’

  I could hear voices in the background. ‘Gotta go and do some work now,’ Tim said. ‘See you soon, mate.’

  Blimey. Tim had a girlfriend. And I hadn’t known. While Annis had. And hadn’t even mentioned it. And Tim didn’t know Annis was away doing another commission. Perhaps we needed to start a newsletter.

  For the rest of the day I felt ridiculously cheery despite the worry about Verity. I made a coffee cake that was so strong on caffeine it would leave my students wide-eyed and sleepless all night. I waved them in as they arrived in the yard and scooted up the meadow to the studio. But my mood took a dive when again there was no sign of Verity.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have me as a model again,’ I told the expectant artists.

  ‘Did you find out what’s wrong with her?’ one woman asked.

  ‘I can’t get hold of her,’ I admitted.

  ‘That’s worrying,’ another said. ‘Young girl like that.’

  ‘Probably shacked up with a new boyfriend,’ the only man in the group muttered.

  ‘No, I’m serious,’ said the woman. ‘She seemed such a nice girl. Can’t have been more than twenty. I do wish you’d go and find out what’s happened to her. Didn’t someone mention you were also a detective of some sort?’

  ‘He is,’ another confirmed. ‘It was in the Chronicle a few years ago. A chameleon called Knut, wasn’t it? Such a heart-warming story.’

  ‘An iguana, actually,’ I said feebly. Knut had been following me around for years.

  ‘And what about next term?’ asked the first woman. ‘I’m not signing up for the next term if it’s you modelling. No offence, but I only wanted you for your mind, not for your body.’

  ‘I will not be modelling next term,’ I promised
and went to get my kit off. Definitely not. If Verity didn’t get in touch, I would hire another model.

  The first part of the session went off all right; I took up a few easy-to-hold poses, and the knowledge that this was the last time I would have to do it made it pass more quickly. It was when I had got dressed for the break and was on my way out of the studio to fetch the refreshments that I bodily ran into a woman who was not on my course. She had been about to knock on the door when I rushed out. We both apologized. ‘If you’re looking for a life-drawing class, I’m afraid you’ve left it a bit late – it’s the last session this year,’ I told her.

  ‘Oh, is it? Actually, I was hoping to find Verity here.’ The woman was in her early forties, had short, dark hair and was simply dressed in jeans, walking shoes and a grey top. ‘Verity is my niece. I’m a bit worried about her, which is why I came down from Cheltenham to see if I could find her. She called me a few days ago, saying she was living in Bath now, but forgot to give me her address. She did mention that she was modelling for you, Mr Honeysett, which is why I’m here. I hope you don’t mind me turning up like this, but I didn’t really know what else to do. Verity sounded like she wanted to ask me for money but then changed her mind. She knows I can’t really afford to give her money. But I thought I’d come and see if there was anything else I could do for her. She doesn’t have any other relatives, you see.’

  ‘Walk with me,’ I suggested. ‘Got to fetch teas and coffees for the troops from the house.’ We walked down the meadow together. ‘I’m afraid she hasn’t turned up for her last two modelling sessions and we’ve all become quite worried about her.’

  ‘Oh dear. Do you have an address for her?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘A phone number, then.’

  ‘She doesn’t have a mobile as far as I know.’

  ‘A kid her age without a mobile? That’s unusual.’ She gave me a sideways look as though she did not believe me.

  ‘I had the impression that she was pretty broke. I could only give her so much work here.’ I was becoming defensive, feeling that perhaps I should have done more for Verity.

  ‘How did you get in touch with her, then?’ she persisted. ‘About the modelling?’

  ‘She was introduced to me by a painter friend and turned up punctually to every session. Apart from the last two.’

  ‘I’m not sure what to do next,’ admitted the woman. We had stopped near the kitchen door that leads into the herb garden. She looked perplexed for a moment, standing motionless, looking unseeing into the weed-ridden herb beds. Then she pulled herself together. ‘Look, if she does get in touch or you find out where she is, would you please call me?’ She opened her grey handbag and rummaged for something to write on. She found a till receipt from a petrol station. With a black-and-gold ballpoint pen she wrote down a mobile number from memory and her name, Christine Rainer, on the back. I promised to get in touch, stuck the till receipt in my pocket and nodded reassuringly at her as she turned thoughtfully away. The fan belt on her ten-year-old Polo screeched as she drove it from the yard. I had been worried about Verity in a vague kind of way before, but now I knew she definitely was in trouble. Several things about this aunt did not add up. Verity had mentioned her aunt only once, to say that they didn’t get on, that she was ugly and that she lived in Belgium. There was nothing ugly about Christine Rainer. It gave me plenty of things to think about during what I hoped would be my last modelling session ever. Either Verity had invented the aunt’s ugliness, failed to mention that they were again on speaking terms and that she had moved from Belgium to Cheltenham, or this aunt had only the vaguest knowledge about Verity and her real aunt.

  The next day I again parked up in Richmond Road, hoping for Janette to come by in her Mercedes. It was warm and sunny, and I begrudged every minute that I was stuck sitting in the car, waiting for something to happen. I was resigned to a long, dull wait. I had prepared well, too, with a flask of black coffee and all the leftover cake from last night wrapped in tinfoil. I held out as long as I could before touching them, since the radio in the Jazz was broken and cake and coffee were my only defence against the crushing weight of boredom that made me sink deeper and deeper behind the steering wheel. 12.30. After two hours that felt more like five, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I unwrapped the cake, uncorked the Thermos and poured myself a cup. 12.31. As I held my brimming coffee cup in one hand and a fat slice of coffee cake in the other, Blinkhorn’s Mercedes whizzed past. In an attempt to gulp the coffee, I scalded my mouth. Struggling to pour the coffee back into the flask, I sloshed it over my knee and dropped half the cake down the side of the seat. I stuffed the other half in my mouth, chucked everything else into the passenger footwell and started the car.

  Isn’t it surprising how far a Mercedes can travel while you’re having a fight with your lunch? I only caught up with it at the bottom of Lansdown Road as it waited to turn into Bennett Street. It disappeared again from view while I had to wait for uphill traffic to pass, but I could watch her car enter the Circus, three curved segments of Georgian buildings surrounding a circular green, beloved by tourists. When I caught up, I could just make out something silver-grey disappearing up Brock Street on the other side of the circle. I put my foot down and immediately braked hard again. A woman, holding aloft a large white furled umbrella, planted herself in the middle of the road and started funnelling across a crocodile of slow-moving tourists who snapped pictures on their mobiles every five feet as they went. By the time the last one had dawdled across to the stand of the plane trees in the centre, I had virtually given up hope of catching up with Janette again. I drove on, zipped up Brock Street, took a right and drove around the area. Nothing. Then it dawned on me that coming this way via the Circus made no sense unless your destination was the Royal Crescent. I turned around.

  The centre of the Royal Crescent is taken up by the Royal Crescent Hotel which looks down on the lawns, trees and bandstand of Victoria Park and on anyone earning less than six figures. How will you find it? Look for the pot plants. On either side of the entrance stands a potted bay tree clipped into a perfect sphere. Once you have found it, check with your bank manager whether you can actually afford a room there. (Or anything at all.) When I arrived, I was just in time to see Janette’s pearl-necklaced girlfriend hand the keys of her BMW to the top-hatted doorman and disappear inside. The doorman turned and gestured, and a moment later a young man in shirt, tie and waistcoat snatched the keys from his fingers and drove the BMW away to be parked. I left the invisible Jazz double-parked in the cobbled street and, without a plan, walked up to the doorman who reacted to my approach with nothing more than raised eyebrows. ‘The lady who just turned up in the Beemer, is she staying here?’

  His eyebrows lowered and contracted in a frown as his eyes travelled down to my coffee-stained knees and up again, but he made no answer.

  I hadn’t really expected to be given details of hotel guests on the doorstep, but I had expected a ‘Whatsittoyou?’ at least. ‘She cut me up back there,’ I complained. ‘I want a word.’ If ever I open a luxury hotel, I’ll hire this chap. He was about sixty, probably got paid a pitiful wage, but he exuded dignified contempt while giving no offence. In perfect silence. Perhaps he had previously guarded Buckingham Palace. I changed tack. ‘These bay trees real?’ I asked.

  ‘They are indeed, sir.’

  ‘Ta.’ I snapped off three leaves. ‘Cooking rabbit tonight,’ I said and made my getaway. I stopped at the butchers, bought a young rabbit and then re-entered the insanity that Bath calls its traffic system. I got stuck behind a sightseeing tour bus going at walking speed down Milsom Street, giving me time for window shopping while breathing diesel particulates. One shop window was crammed with high-end plasma screens, all tuned to the same programme, the lunchtime news. On all the screens the same photograph of a face appeared. I stopped the car. The face disappeared. ‘Wait, put that back!’ I told the TV screens. ‘That’s Shaggy Beard and Hunting Jacket.’ The f
ace, I was sure, had been that of the chap who had greeted Verity at the Bell Inn. Now the screens were full of images of fire engines, being in turn replaced by the face of DSI Needham, giving a statement outside the scene of the fire. It said ‘Live’ at the bottom of the screen. My lip-reading skills leave much to be desired, the bus in front of me had moved on and I was being honked at from an impatient driver behind me. The screens moved on to another news item. I drove straight home.

  Never let a butcher do anything to your rabbit apart from wrapping it up or he will ruin it by hacking it to bits with a meat cleaver. Take the hind legs off as you would with a chicken – no need to cut through bones – then snap the spine of the beast by pressing down on it. Like asparagus, it will snap at the right place. Then run your knife through it and separate the saddle from the front. Drop the four pieces into a bowl with three bay leaves, a dozen or so juniper berries and peppercorns, splash in some red wine vinegar and glug in half a bottle of red wine. Then sit down and worry about the missing girls in your life (if any).

  The appearance of DSI Needham’s visage on TV meant that the police were treating the chap’s fiery death as murder. While stuffing my face with all the cake I had managed to scrape off the floor of the car, I opened the Bath Chronicle and looked up the victim’s name again: Joshua Grant. I made a note of the street, too, and drove sticky-fingered across town to Upper Weston.

  I found the address in a narrow street of Victorian houses. It was difficult to miss; a uniformed police officer was guarding the outside steps to the basement bedsit where Joshua Grant had died. There were blackened holes where a door and window once sat. The pavement either side of the house was cordoned off with yellow police tape. A forensics van was parked nearby, but there was no sign of DSI Needham’s big grey Ford. His Grey Eminence had probably long quit the crime scene and was by now back in his comfortable office at Manvers Street police station. I stood thinking and the police constable stood staring. I knew better than to approach him but did it anyway. ‘Needham still around?’