Grace Smith Investigates

by Liz Evans

  ‘As if. You’re a boarder then?’

  ‘Weekly. I come home weekends. Most weekends,’ she amended, the bored look resettling over the peachy skin

  ‘And Tom built this new wall, is that it?’

  ‘Not all by himself, natch. But he was the creamiest. You can see.’

  She indicated the strip photos that were still on my desk. ‘All the girls fancied him. But he wanted me. Couldn’t get enough of me, in fact.’ The silent, unspoken natch hung between us.

  ‘Did Ms Goldfinch know about this ... er ... did she know you and Tom were dating?’

  ‘Of course she didn’t. She’d have told my parents. And then natch they’d have got really heavy and boring about it.’ She’d come to the end of her cigarette. I could see her looking for somewhere to stub it out. A lot of visitors wouldn’t hesitate to grind it into the floor. But Bone squeezed it out between fingertips varnished electric blue and flipped it into the waste bin. Street attitude versus Ms Goldfinch’s lessons in good manners; strike one to Ms Goldie.

  ‘So how did you get together?’ I asked.‘Weekends?’

  ‘Later. First of all it was in the boiler room at school. See, it kept pissing down the next couple of weeks after the gale.’

  ‘I remember. Basement area outside my flat flooded.’

  ‘So did our patio. At home, I mean.’

  ‘So they couldn’t build the wall.’

  Bone nodded vigorously. ‘They had to dig out new foundations, but they kept filling up. And they couldn’t pour the concrete either.’

  I got the picture. At every opportunity the workmen had dived down the warm boiler room for a smoke, a read and a chance to flex their pecs at a bunch of bored teenagers.

  ‘How many workmen were there?’

  ‘Two full time. Jez and Enos. Jez wasn’t bad, I suppose. Enos was ancient.’

  ‘So Tom just helped out on a casual basis, did he?’

  I was scribbling notes officiously, but I had every intention of binning most of them, since I’d already decided the most likely scenario was good old Tom had got bored with his bit of posh and moved on to the next conquest.

  ‘Yes. He came round odd days. And then towards the end Mr Payne joined in as well.’ The attractive smile flitted across her face again. ‘Goldie really laid into him; told him if he didn’t get the job finished by the end of the week he could whistle for his money.’

  ‘Mr Payne owns the builder’s, does he?’

  Bone nodded.

  ‘Do you know his first name?’

  ‘Larry.’

  ‘Have you asked him about Tom?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? Wouldn’t that have been easiest?’

  The sulky look descended again. ‘He’s really thick with Goldie. Anyway, that’s what I’m paying you to do, isn’t it? Ask.’

  ‘When did you last see Tom?’

  ‘Nineteenth of April,’ she said promptly. ‘We went to TED’s.’

  TED’s was our local nightclub, The Electric Daffodil. It generally catered for a slightly older clientele than the teenage scene. Squinting at Tom’s passport photo, I asked Bone how old he was.

  ‘Twenty-three. I know TED’s is a bit ... you know ... for old people ... but I think he wanted to take me somewhere special. And there’s not much around here, is there? It’s such a dump.’

  ‘Where did he take you other times?’

  ‘Pubs mostly.’ She listed four.

  I did a few mental calculations. She’d gone out with him for a couple of months at most. Probably bunked off school a few times and otherwise it was weekends when she was home and Mummy and Daddy weren’t paying too much attention to who she was with.

  Boredom on Tom’s part seemed more and more likely as a possible explanation for his suddenly dropping out of Bone’s life. I tried to let her down gently. Perhaps, I suggested, Tom had got a temporary job out of the district? Building walls in Worksop or something.

  ‘Doesn’t stop him phoning me, does it?’ she snapped, her eyes flashing. ‘Now you find out why he hasn’t.’

  ‘Look, this sort of thing ... it costs quite a bit, you know. I mean, there’s my fees ... and expenses on top.’

  With a weary sigh, she dragged the bag on to her midriff

  again and extracted a wallet (designer-monogrammed). Rifling through the stacks of notes, she started to count out twenties. When there were fifteen of them piled on my desk, she stopped.

  ‘Will that do for now? You can bill me the rest when you find him.’

  I’ve always been a great believer in the redistribution of wealth; particularly in my direction. If she was that determined, I figured the kindest thing to do would be to find Tom and then persuade him to phone her and invent some face- saving excuse to let her down gently.

  Scooping the notes up, I produced a blank contract form and filled out the details of our agreement.

  ‘I’ll need your full name and address.’

  ‘What for? I don’t want you to find me, do I?’

  ‘In case I need to get in touch.’

  ‘Give me a ring on my mobile.’ Casually she reached over and scribbled the number on my pad. ‘OK?’

  ‘Well ... I suppose ...’

  She stood up, pulling down the skirt and wriggling the Lycra into a smooth plane over the bust. ‘There’s just one thing. I want him found before the twenty-first of June.’

  ‘Any special reason?’

  ‘My friend Claudia’s parents organise an annual midsummer ball for charity.’ She raised her chin. ‘I know that sounds pretty gross, but it’s not too bad. They have champagne, a band, auction - you know, all the usual boring performance. Claudia’s invited all the girls from our year. With partners, natch.’

  The languid tone wasn’t fooling me. She couldn’t suppress the glint of excitement beneath the sweep of curling lashes. ‘And you want Tom to take you.’

  ‘I’ve told everyone Tom’s taking me. They’re green.’

  ‘I see.’

  The full red lips compressed. ‘Good. Then you make sure you round him up before the party. Because it’s my fucking credibility that’s at stake here.’

  I looked into the face that was an odd mixture of sophistication and childish innocence. And I understood. It wasn’t Bone’s heart that had been touched - it was her pride.

  Here was a girl who was used to getting anything she wanted. At the moment she wanted Tom on her arm at that party. And she intended to have him - whatever it cost.

  ‘OK,’ I agreed. ‘I’ll be in touch. Soon.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said in a tone that implied she’d expected nothing less. ‘I’ll see you then.’

  Once she’d gone, I put the notes in a plastic bag, taped it to my stomach, pinned Figgy’s twenty into the pocket of my jogging pants, reset the alarm and relocked the door.

  I figured I’d let him sweat for long enough. I didn’t want him going walkabout - or skateabout - before I got the lovely K’s address out of him.

  CHAPTER 5

  Life on the beaches was hotting up. The promise of fair weather was holding and the sands were already liberally sprinkled with striped deckchairs and windbreaks.

  The town’s heyday had been in the first half of the century. From the sixties onwards holidaymakers had started deserting it for Alicante, Palma and Corfu, preferring to get drunk for two weeks on a sun-soaked beach rather than sip warm beer and play bingo whilst the rain lashed the promenade. We still got some die-hards who preferred to spend their fortnight by a bracing North Sea, but most of the visitors these days were day-trippers or weekenders at best.

  Mickey was where I’d last seen her breakfasting on baked beans.

  She’d removed her sweatshirt and jeans and was leaning against the base of the sun-warmed promenade wall in a shirt and bikini bottom. As my shadow fell across her, she linked both hands over her eyebrows and squinted upwards.

  I dropped down beside her and pulled my own top off. ‘Hi. Figgy around?’

/>   ‘He’s gone up the town.’ She wriggled her shoulders into the warmed stone. ‘Said we needed some shopping.’

  ‘What do you do for money? If you don’t mind my asking.’

  ‘We work. We’re self-employed.’

  A shrill whistle from above made us both jump.

  ‘Catch!’

  Mickey reached up and fielded the brown plastic bottle hurtling towards her head.

  Grinning, Figgy flicked something bright yellow at her. ‘Got this as well. Don’t want you getting sunstroke or something.’

  He leant his arms along the top railing and balanced a roller-blade on the lower one as he watched her examining the peaked cap and high-factor sunscreen with pleasure. It was a decent brand. Together they must have cost him most of my tenner.

  ‘So? Got my twenty?’

  ‘Got my address?’

  ‘Up here.’ He pushed himself away from the railings and skated to the top of the wooden steps.

  A couple of small kids with brightly coloured shrimping nets were admiring his wheelie techniques when I got there.

  ‘So,’ he said, speeding at me and swerving off at the last second. ‘Money?’

  I unpinned the twenty, but kept a tight grip on it. ‘Address?’

  The yellow blades scissored, keeping him balanced, as he started to describe the route from here to K’s place

  ‘Hang on ...’ I interrupted as we went down the tenth Whatchamacallit Street and round the umpteenth Whatsit Corner. ‘Doesn’t this place have an address?’

  ‘Bound to.’

  ‘Then you can take me there,’ I said firmly, pinning the note back in my pocket.

  ‘Fair enough. Hang on.’ He rolled to a position above Mickey and shouted down the plan. ‘And you make sure you stick plenty of that stuff on, I don’t want you burning.’

  He freewheeled easily back to me. ‘Got a motor?’

  ‘Yes thanks. But not with me.’ And if, as looked likely, the place was going to be crammed with day-trippers, I wanted to hang on to my parking space outside my flat.

  From the directions I’d disentangled, it sounded to me like K’s flat was over in the North Bay area. Which was a bit of a hike, but walkable. Or, in Figgy’s case, skateable.

  We took the promenade wherever we could. It was far busier now and he had to weave round trippers, leaning and dipping in complicated figures of eight, skating backwards at high speed then spinning right just as it looked as if he was going to crash into the rubbish bins that had been concreted into the pavement to prevent some of our residents playing ‘first one to hit the beach tent’ with them after the pubs closed.

  I jogged at a steady pace behind him, trying to appear at the peak of physical fitness. Evidently appearances didn’t deceive.

  ‘Wanna rest?’ Figgy grinned, swooping down on a return loop.

  ‘No thanks,’ I smiled, through gritted teeth and the beginnings of a stitch. ‘I just like to pace myself.’

  ‘Yeah?’ He slowed to come alongside. I hoped the electronic pings, whistles and bells from the amusement arcades that lined the opposite side of the road were hiding the noisy thumping of my heart.

  Plainly they weren’t.

  ‘That fat babe was in much better shape than you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Where’s she got to then?’

  ‘She’s packing. For an important business trip,’ I added, because that fat babe had got up my nose. I wanted him to understand Annie was an intelligent and interesting woman - albeit an overweight one.

  ‘Yeah?’ He came to a halt beside the kiosk selling postcards, plastic buckets and spades, shrimping nets, bunches of flags, beach skittles and several dozen other items designed to part money and Daddy.

  ‘What does she do then?’

  ‘She’s a private detective. We both are. Did you think nosiness was our hobby?’

  ‘Never thought.’ He examined a pair of cheap sunglasses with bright-yellow frames. ‘Think these would suit Mickey?’

  ‘I daresay. But they say you should buy decent lenses. Cheap ones can give you eye-ache.’

  ‘Better wait for me twenty then, hadn’t I? Onwards.’

  He skated swiftly away, leaving me to sprint to catch up. ‘You and the fat bird an item? You know He crossed his middle finger over his forefinger.

  ‘No. We’re not. And her name is Annie.’

  ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘Grace Smith.’

  He thrust his hands into his jeans pockets and was sashaying beside me with smooth easy strokes. ‘It’s not far now. We got to cut in right somewhere along the front road, near as I can remember.’

  ‘From what you said, it’s on the Downs Estate. Be easier to go through here.’

  I started to make my way along identical rows of small roads lined with two-storey semis. Every other one had a black-and-white board propped in the front window announcing ‘Vacancies’.

  Figgy seemed happy enough for me to do the leading. ‘Live around here then, do you, your Graciness?’

  ‘No. I’ve got a place near yours.’

  ‘With the fat bird?’

  ‘No. Annie has a flat by the park.’

  ‘Swishy.’ I guessed he was looking sideways at me, although it was hard to tell behind those damn sunglasses. ‘She ain’t really a detective, is she? That was just a wind-up, wasn’t it?’

  I stopped dead and faced him. ‘Listen, sunshine, she’s a bloody good detective. In fact she’s probably the best one the agency has ever had.’ I jabbed him in the chest and sent him rolling back a few inches. ‘So don’t go judging by appearances! Understand!’

  ‘Hey, do I detect unresolved hostility here?’

  ‘Oh, cut the amateur psychology crap, Figgy, and get moving.’

  ‘Chill out. We’re here.’

  He jerked a thumb at something over my shoulder.

  It was as I’d thought. K’s (supposed) place was on the Downs council estate. As it happened it was about the first building in that particular sixties ghetto and stood just beyond the last of the private boarding semis, so it had a slightly more exclusive look to it than the rows of terraced houses that stretched away beyond it.

  ‘How about me twenty note then?’

  ‘How do I know this is the place?’

  ‘You’re just gonna have to trust me.’

  ‘When did you see her coming out of there? Recently?’

  ‘Easter Sunday. Mickey felt queer. I was looking for an open chemist to get her something.’

  It made reasonable sense as to why he was wandering around up here. With reluctance I said goodbye to my nice crisp note.

  ‘Cheers!’ With another grin he spun round and flashed away.

  I had a nasty feeling I’d just been taken for a mug.

  CHAPTER 6

  It was called Beamish Court. A smallish, square, brick-built block with a communal back garden laid out with grass, flowerbeds and washing carousels.

  There were four entrance bells lined up by the security door. None of them were named. I leant on each in turn and got no response.

  Stepping back I scanned the windows and tried to look like a committed atheist in case the residents were lurking behind the nets worried I wanted to discuss the true meaning of life.

  Nothing seemed to be moving. I played another scale on the bells just in case.

  ‘I think she’s taken the baby out, darlin’.’

  Looking round, I found myself being watched by a short(ish), plump(ish) woman clutching plastic bags from the local supermarket in both hands.

  I guessed that she was probably in her mid-sixties, but it was hard to tell under the make-up, which of was of the deep pancake, pencilled eyebrows and raspberry jam lipstick variety that was in fashion forty years ago. But the piece de resistance was her hair; it was the colour of a tropical sunset and piled up on top of her head like an enormous walnut whip.

  ‘She’s out, darlin’,’ she repeated, lifting one bag awkwardly and waving it in the g
eneral direction of the bottom right- hand flat. Presumably number 2, since that was the bell I was leaning on.

  ‘Oh, right. Thanks.’ I leant off. ‘Actually I’m not sure I’ve got the right flat. I’m looking for a young woman, about mid-twenties, long dark hair, quite pretty.’

  ‘You mean Kristen?’

  Quite possibly I did.

  She beamed, raising the other bulging carrier and pointing to a dark-blue Fiesta standing by the kerb. ‘That’s her car.’

  ‘Oh? Great.’ This looked liked being an easy fee.

  I was already working out which expenses I could get away with charging to Henry’s account when my new acquaintance added: ‘She sold it to me when she left. Lovely little motor, darlin’, and only eight hundred pounds. My son, now, he paid fifteen thousand for his motor, and it don’t run nearly as sweet.’

  Whilst she was talking, she’d dumped the carriers on the step with a grunt of relief and unlocked the front door.

  ‘You don’t happen to know where Kristen went, do you, Mrs ...?’

  ‘Simonawitz Rachel Simonawitz.’

  ‘Grace Smith. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘You too. Come in, come in.’

  I picked up one of the bags and carried it to the door of the left-hand ground-floor, flat. Rachel muttered with irritation as she fought with several keys and security locks before finally pushing the door open. A blast of central heating and a large white Persian cat rushed out to greet us.

  ‘Oh, get in, Balthazar. Mama’s got you some lovely smoked salmon.’

  She nudged the cat under its belly with a gold shoe. It deigned to return to the hall whilst Rachel bolted and relocked from the inside. ‘My son puts all these on. A good boy, he worries about his mama.’

  I wondered aloud whether he’d mentioned it wasn’t such a good idea to invite complete strangers into her flat without checking their credentials first. ‘I could be a deranged axe- murderer.’