They shook their heads, wary and truculent. Jo had taken their unsafe electric fire, and replaced it with a Distributed Grid space heater. She’d fitted a smoke alarm, which they were convinced was a surveillance device. They had retaliated with open violence, but they probably didn’t remember that. Probably every visit was the first to Chas, and his ladyfriend was only marginally more on the ball.
‘Right, then I’ll get on with your cleaning.’
She cleaned up in the kitchen, transferred the hooch bottles to the recycling and a fresh supply of hoarded canned goods to her own rucksack; and renewed her search.
On her last visit she’d found rolls of useless old money, stashed in yellowed newspaper under the floorboards. This time she struck gold: a dirty rugby sock, heavy and lumpy as a Christmas stocking, taped to the dusty back of a mahogany wardrobe in their bedroom. The pistol was in there, greased and wrapped in cling film: plus a tattered, half empty 50 pack of imported Handgun Ammunition. Jo checked the gun, loaded it, wrapped it up again and stuffed everything into her rucksack.
She sat back on her heels, with a heartfelt sigh of relief. Job done. Thank God.
John Fowler’s Elder made his lunch while he sat on the rug, playing Mario on her tv screen, and feeling five years old again. Sharing the Care wasn’t supposed to be like this, but it was what Mrs Duncton liked, so he’d decided it was okay. The games console and other toys had belonged to the children in her photos: children and grandchildren, rare visitors now, with their far-off own lives. Sometimes, for variety, he did a jigsaw.
He’d told Mum that Mrs Duncton was a Deaf lady, to avoid the trouble he’d had over Exempt Teens. It wasn’t much of a lie. She couldn’t understand his Deaf accented English much. Being old and terminally ill, she didn’t tend to speak loud, or form her words clearly either; so they were quits. They might as well be two Deaf people, most of the time.
John’s dad, who was comfortable with the hearing world, was at the Old Cement Works all day, and long into the evenings. His mother, brilliant and intense, worked on her PhD at home. Sometimes John really needed to get out of her hair, and Mrs Duncton didn’t mind how often he turned up, which was ideal.
Soon she’d tap him on the shoulder. He’d sit up at the table to devour “kip” nuggets and oven chips, baked beans and fake sausages, juicy bright pink kip tikka masala. Forbidden, synthetic delights; while Mrs Duncton sipped her high-nutrient broth. Luckily Mum never asked what he’d had for lunch.
They did the washing up together. John settled back with Mario, while his Elder sat by him in her armchair, chuckling at his triumphs. At five in the afternoon he grew up: completed the checks, filled in the check sheet, helped her to the toilet, changed her morphine patch, and texted Melinda the Lone Ranger: who would come by in a while, and help Mrs Duncton to bed. All okay. You’re a good boy, said Mrs Duncton, patting his arm. A good boy.
On the Bedroom Floor Heidi emptied the laundry basket into a spread-out shirt, and bundled everything up, as usual trying not to look; trying not to think about the Old Wrecks’ soiled underwear. Tallis was in the Book Room. She still had no idea where Roger spent his days. She stood with her bundle, listening to the silence, furred with dust and mystery. Curiosity was stronger than her fear of breaking the rules. She stepped cautiously into the forbidden zone. If she hadn’t seen a genuine ghost in this passage one night, what had she seen?
A thick, dirty runner down the middle of the floor muffled her footsteps. She hadn’t been planning to touch anything, but the door where Tallis had stood, gaping in horror, was not quite closed. She pushed it gently, and peered in. The dusk was deep, but a raggedy floral dressing gown, the one with the peony pattern, lay sprawled on the end of a bed, confirming this was Tallis’s room. She took a step inside.
The air smelt stale. Threads of light seeped in at two heavily curtained windows. Heidi tucked the washing under her arm, and held up her wind-up. There were paintings on the walls, the first she’d seen in this house, though Roger was supposed to be an artist. Shining the lamp around she saw Mehilhoc Gardens, over and over: in vivid colour, in different seasons; recognisable but strange, and very beautiful. But all the pictures had been ruined, like those photos in the biscuit tin: scrawled over in red and black, splashed with paint; savagely crossed out.
Another mystery.
And now there was a cop in the woods. A virtual cop, like Verruca the ghost: using a mobile avatar, and that was illegal for normal police. He must be Special Ops. But what was he doing here, and why would an undercover copper pick a digital avatar that looked like Sage Pender, hero of the Crisis? Only not fantastic-looking Sage, like in the olden days, but older? It made no sense.
Heidi kept asking herself, what did I say? She’d said nothing. She’d only thought —in a temper—about grassing on George’s parents. But she’d seen how Brook and Chall reacted to that cop, and she felt she’d brought trouble on them. A small sound made her jump: someone had dropped something, up on the Studio Floor. Heidi turned off the lamp and fled. Safe in her own basement territory, watching their washing go round in the Utility room, she rubbed goose-bumps on her arms.
‘What’s going on?’ she muttered. ‘I don’t get it. I really don’t.’
16: The Purple Suitcase
Heidi’s afternoon running career was on hold. She and Clancy met every day: they were making huge progress on the Baroque Fountain. All the marble debris had been cleared, and heaped into a towering monument of webbed hooves, finny limbs, flowing manes; with the bearded head of the merman glaring from the base. The Black Geyser had been corralled and tamed. It was now forced to run along a temporary channel they’d dug in the gravel, and into a ground level drain they had cleared of muck.
It had been raining all morning, but the skies were clear now. They splashed around with stiff brooms, driving off the last of the mud. The access hatch to the plumbing must be visible soon. It had to be around here somewhere.
‘I thought the Inspector was being nice,’ said Heidi. ‘He didn’t have to talk to me. He didn’t have to help me get to see my mum. I only called him because I had his number and I was desperate. I thought it was nice of him to trace my suitcase, as well. Which still hasn’t turned up, by the way. Duh-uh, of course he knew where it was. The police have been holding it.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘To search my stuff. In case I’d packed something that was evidence. Even though I had someone watching me the whole time. Coppers are like that. But now I haven’t heard from him for ages, and there’s a cop in the woods.’
‘Yeah,’ said Clancy. ‘I heard about that from Andy.’
‘What do you think?’
Clancy shrugged. ‘What would I think? I suppose he’s sniffing around the not-totally-legal Carron-Knowells trading empire. Doesn’t worry me.’
‘Well, okay, fair enough. I don’t like the way everyone secretly hates the way George’s Mum and Dad run things, and nobody dares say a word against them. But if it was only the black market, I wouldn’t care, either. Everybody uses it sometimes. Listen, Clancy, there’s more going on. I’m starting to think that Mehilhoc’s lord of the manor had something to do with my dad’s murder.’
‘What—?’
‘Okay, listen. Just listen. I’ve been talking to the police, haven’t I? But I didn’t say a thing about the Carron-Knowells. The Inspector did. He kept asking the questions. What did I think of the rich hippie set-up? Did I know how I came to be sent here? Did I have family here? How do they run things? He’s investigating my dad’s death, and the only questions he asks me are about Mehilhoc. I’m thinking, maybe it wasn’t random that I ended up here. Look, my dad was a lovely man, but he had dodgy contacts and he was in money trouble. He could have known something about the London end, and wanted to get paid off. So the Carron-Knowells mob had him killed, and then made sure I was sent here—’
Clancy stopped sweeping, and leant on his broom.
‘I don’t get it. Why did they want you here?’
‘To keep an eye on me. To find out if I knew anything. I don’t really know. But something’s going on. Well, what do you think—?’
Clancy began sweeping again.
‘Honestly? I think you’re stressing out. Horrible things have happened to you. You couldn’t save your dad, maybe you can’t save your mum. You desperately want an explanation, but there isn’t one. There never will be. It’s getting you down, and right now you’re not making sense. I’m sorry. But I don’t know what more to say.’
‘Right. Thanks, I suppose.’
‘Have you heard from your mum’s hospital?’
‘Not a thing.’
‘You should call her doctor.’
‘I can’t. If there was good news, the doctor would have called me.’
‘You don’t know that. Text her, if you daren’t call her. It’s less scary.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
Clancy dropped his broom. ‘Got it!’
He had found the access hatch. Heidi dumped her own broom, and leapt to join him.
‘It’s a full-sized manhole cover,’ she said. ‘I thought it would be tiny.’
Heidi fetched the sack of tools they’d scavenged from the small greenhouse. They scraped out the mud and freed the rim of the cover, using a chisel and the blade of a big rusty screwdriver. It shifted, and they could lift it. The iron plate fell away with a clang: they peered into a pit. A mossy metal ladder was still attached to the side of the well.
‘Let’s get down there,’ breathed Heidi. ‘This is amazing.’
‘I’ll go first. You can Mayday for help if the ladder breaks.’
The ladder was solid. Soon they stood together in a small, dank chamber, about two metres below ground. They could almost reach the walls by stretching out their arms. Neither of them had thought to bring a lamp. They had to examine the nest of pipes that filled most of the space with Heidi’s phone torch and Clancy’s penlight: pausing often to consult the display board plans that Heidi had captured and saved.
On the north side of the chamber a single big pipe entered. In the centre it was collared, reduced in size, and split at a T junction. Right-angles from the main pipe to the east, a pipe headed off. Obviously, this one had to feed the Black Geyser. To the west the pipe was split again, into two more pipes: they disappeared into a hole in the South wall.
‘The big pipe must be coming down from the 1877 header tank,’ said Heidi. ‘Did you notice, the stream they culverted —put into a pipe, that is— is called the Ripple Brook?’
‘Cute. We’ll have to tell her.’
‘This chamber,’ she went on, ‘is where you turn the three fountains on and off. Partial power, they fill the bowls and the water gets recycled. Full power and they jet. In sequence, if you know how; and if the system is working. Wow. I’d love to get them going. There should be a —a gate, like a tap, for each of the fountain pipes. That you can set to open full, halfway; or closed. There’s more info, but I think that’s enough for now.’
‘How do you tell open from closed?’
‘We start by cleaning away the crud, I suppose. But we know the Black Geyser tap must be set to open, so that should help.’
‘Let’s try it. Go on Heidi. This was all your idea.’
Clancy climbed the ladder until his head was above the manhole. Heidi bashed at a shell of clotted dirt and tried a turn.
Nothing happened: she shifted the wrench and tried again.
‘It’s moving!’ she yelled.
‘Keep on!’ yelled Clancy. ‘Keep going. Heidi, stop! Come and look!’
They climbed out, and stared. The Black Geyser had stopped spouting.
Heidi tossed her wrench in the air and shouted. ‘We did it!’
They were dancing around, waving their brooms in triumph, when they realised they were being watched. It was George, the Golden Boy himself. He stood in the shadow of the rhododendron tangles at the foot of the Himalayan Valley.
‘Hi Clancy,’ he said. ‘Just visiting? Heidi, don’t let me interrupt, but I thought you’d like to know your trunk’s getting delivered.’
‘My trunk? You mean my suitcase?’
‘Yeah, your massive suitcase. It’s been knocking around for a while, without a proper address, apparently. One of our guys spotted your name, and told the parcel van driver where to take it. It should be at the Garden House by now.’
‘Fantastic!’
‘I’ll walk you back there, if you like. It’s on my way out.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Clancy, turning away so he didn’t have to take note of George’s malicious grin. ‘I’ll finish off here.’
George glanced at Heidi once, with a little crooked smile, and didn’t say another word as they walked together, under the sugar-rose and raspberry studded rhododendrons; under the budding trees, by paths she knew by heart. Heidi couldn’t speak, either. Her feet slopped in giant wellies, her worn out sweatshirt and battered leggings were splattered with mud, but she didn’t care. She didn’t dare to look at him, she could feel him beside her so strongly: making her dizzy; making her drunk. She was alone with George, and Challon had finished with him. She could hardly walk straight, thinking how soft his mouth had looked when he almost kissed her. Her body was full of whirling lights and shooting stars—
The stranded yellow archway suddenly appeared, out of nowhere. Heidi had a short, intense fantasy that they would walk up to the front door. Her foster mother Tallis, not crazy, would open it, saying Heidi, there you are dear. George, do come in. Get yourselves something to eat, I’m working in the book room—
‘I’m off,’ said George, grinning. ‘Don’t want to risk running into your old loons. So long, Cinderella Laureate. May the stars shine on your dishcloth.’
Heidi went round the side of the house, glad he hadn’t stayed to see her trailing off to the servants’ entrance. She shut the kitchen door behind her and took a deep breath. Be calm, she told herself. Cool down. He’s not your type. Okay, Chall’s dumped him, so what? Doesn’t matter how sexy he is, how many sparklers he sets off inside you—
The purple suitcase wasn’t in the hall, somebody had taken it upstairs. She found it in her room, and stood staring at it as if it was a mirage in the desert. There were layers of labels sealed onto the lid. Some looked official: she’d probably been right about the police. The only parts of the address you could still read said Heidi Ryan, and Me ___ hoc. No postcode. No wonder it never got here. She couldn’t face opening it straight away, so she went to check on the Bad Dream Cat. He was okay. He hated the cone, but he was eating (bread and milk, he had to be a vegetarian invalid); using his tray, and he didn’t smell of rotting meat.
‘Soon be over,’ she said. ‘You can come into my room after I unpack.’
The suitcase was still there. She drew a deep breath, got down on her knees and set to work. It was all tied up in knotted cord, because the keys were lost: they’d been lost since the last time Heidi and Mum and Dad went on holiday. She didn’t remember tying so many knots, but she managed to get them all undone. She opened the lid and saw Tales And Fables From Many Lands lying on top of her mother’s dresses—
The world went away, the memories flooded in. Dad was dead. A police officer fetched her from Temporary Care, and took her back to pack her stuff. Her house was a Crime Scene, she wasn’t allowed in Mum and Dad’s room. The police officer had to go and get the purple suitcase. Then Heidi wanted to take Mum’s dresses and that was all right but the officer, a kind woman whose face was a blank; who had no name, had to fetch them. Mum’s lovely dresses, that Mum had made, or bought from charity shops, for when she was well enough to go dancing: looking so beautiful and so young. Heidi lifted them out, tears streaming, and set them gently aside.
She wiped her eyes and started on her own clothes. She’d have decent underwear. She’d have shoes, jumpers, jeans, teeshirts, socks, toiletries. Under the clothes were her books. Her Coursework folders, her Art work; bits and pieces. She had nowhere to put all
this.
At last the purple suitcase was empty. She checked the back pocket: nothing. She groped in the front pocket: felt something, and pulled out a time-worn, crumpled, scribbled envelope.
Hey baby! This is the money! Love you, sweetheart!
Heidi shook the contents out onto her palm. No cash. Just three rings, strung on a gold chain. Two wedding bands, and a man’s ring set with six rubies, in a criss-cross pattern. She stared at them, feeling hot with some kind of shock: totally bewildered.
How could the envelope and the rings be here?
I did not pack them, she whispered, aloud. I DID NOT!
I wasn’t allowed into Mum and Dad’s room. The police officer brought the suitcase. I never went near the hidey hole. I was being watched, the whole time—
The bewilderment turned cold and sick. She’d been so triumphant when she’d found out that the rings were gone. The Inspector had been really interested. He’d paid attention, for the first time. What would he say, if she confessed they’d turned up in her suitcase? He’d say she’d confabulated the whole thing. She could hardly believe it. Everything she’d built on, her only plan for saving Mum by finding another suspect, had just fallen apart.
Okay, but it wasn’t me, thought Heidi, rallying herself to fight off the dreadful blow. So who took the rings from the hidey hole? Whoever killed my dad took them, that’s who.
Then how did they get into my suitcase?
She had not bolted herself in. She never did, in daytime. She stared at the door of her room, feeling the midnight threat of it, her head spinning.
Someone had fixed it so that Heidi had no evidence. Someone had sent the rings to Heidi: a clever trick and a cruel message, and maybe it made no sense but in her mind she was seeing George’s hard-faced mother, Portia Carron-Knowells. Who had taken one look at Heidi, and said, more or less exactly, I’m going to get rid of you—
When Heidi didn’t come back Clancy started clearing up. Then she suddenly appeared, and stood looking glumly at the scene of their triumph.
The Grasshopper's Child Page 13
