Grace Smith Investigates

by Liz Evans

  ‘What do the government do now, then? Go on a gizmo diet?’

  ‘Got a bit cannier, by all accounts. Nowadays, if they pay for the gizmo design, they make sure they’ve got the right to have anyone they choose build it. And if that happens to be the bloke who owns a shed under the bypass and can do them a good price because he hasn’t got a massive great wages bill well, that’s got to be good for the tax-payers, hasn’t it?’

  ‘And this is what happened at Wexton’s? They’ve been losing out to electronic sweatshops?’

  ‘Partly. Mind, I don’t say they’re in a bigger hole than anyone else. There’s lots of companies done a lot worse than them.’

  Heaving a four-year-old off Errol’s back and delivering the warm, sticky body back to its mum, I called across to December, ‘Did you have money in these losers?’

  He tapped the side of his nose. I knew him well enough by now to guess he’d got out in time.

  December was momentarily distracted by the rearrival of Chantal. Presenting a clutched handful of silver, she pointed at a small brown donkey whose headband carried the gold lettering ‘Bette’ (as in ‘Davis’).

  ‘I want to ride that one. Please.’

  ‘Fair enough, lass. Up you come. Where’s your brother then?’

  ‘Up the first aid. I bit him.’

  Once we were in motion again, December asked me why I was interested in Wexton’s.

  I gave him a brief run-down on the elusive Miss Kristen Keats. ‘I reckon she’s probably just moved on. But the chances are a new company would have asked for a reference ... so if I can just get Wexton’s to cough it up ... case solved.’

  ‘It sounds easy.’

  I flicked a sideways glance at him. His expression was blandly noncommittal. ‘Too easy is what you mean, isn’t it?’

  ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘No. But you have some pretty eloquent silences.’

  His lips twitched. ‘Well, let’s face it, lass, you’ve a rare talent for turning the simple into a right can of worms. What was the other company you wanted to ask about?’

  ‘Other?’

  ‘A couple of companies, that’s what you said at the start.’

  ‘Oh? Yeah.’ I’d nearly forgotten Bone’s missing boyfriend. ‘I’m trying to trace someone who works for a builder called Laurence Payne. Only there’s no builder of that name in the telephone directory. I wondered if you’d heard of him?

  December laughed, a deep bray that drew a sympathetic roar from Errol.

  ‘Oh yes, lass. I know Larry Payne all right!’

  CHAPTER 10

  Apparently Laurence Payne had been on the doorstep clutching a quote for rebuilding December’s stables almost before the firemen had finished damping down. December reckoned he had a contact in the fire service.

  ‘Got others in the gas and water companies by all accounts,’ December explained, decanting the latest lot of riders and propping up a handwritten notice which stated: ‘The Donkeys are Having a Rest for Five Minutes’. ‘He pays a fee for every address where a bit of structural work might be called for.’

  He’d taken the bucket, so I squatted down on the sands by him and drew my legs into my chest. ‘Did you give him the job?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘I don’t like what I’ve heard about his business methods.’

  A burst of squawking from a flock of gulls who were squabbling over a discarded roll distracted me for a moment. Lifting, hovering and stabbing with vicious beaks, they ripped the stale bread to bits.

  It reminded me I was hungry. I also discovered I was still lugging Annie’s rubbish around with me. Delving inside the plastic carrier, I found a half-used carton of milk, a lump of cheese and assorted shrivelled vegetables.

  Taking a swig from the carton, I nibbled the cheddar and offered a twisted carrot to Humphrey Bogart.

  ‘Don’t feed them on the beach, lass, you’ll have all the kiddies round wanting to give them rock and candyfloss and heaven knows what.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  I put the carrot into the bag and left it lying on its side with a wink in Humphrey’s direction.

  With an expression of wide-eyed innocence, he lowered his head and started wandering casually across the sand, each shuffle of his hooves bringing the swinging muzzle a fraction closer to the discarded bag.

  ‘Laurence Payne,’ I prompted. ‘You’ve heard rumours about him.’

  ‘A lot of people have heard rumours about Larry Payne. Including the police, I’d have thought. I’m surprised you didn’t when you were in the force.’

  It was nice of him to put it that way; rather than before you got kicked out.

  ‘He must have got past me. What’s his claim to fame?’

  ‘Divine intervention.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Acts of God tended to strike his rivals’ work.’

  ‘Oh.’ I began to get the picture. ‘Employ anyone other than Larry to put your windows in and you were up to your neck in broken glass next morning?’

  ‘Something like that. Mind, it’s been a while since there’s been anything like that. Gone quite respectable these days, has our Larry. Got himself on a few committees. He wants to give something back to the community.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he fancies being Sir Larry.’

  Humphrey had made it to the bag. With soft lips he mumbled the carrot out and swung his rump towards December.

  ‘Where can I find his sir-ship?’

  ‘His yard’s along the coast in Winstanton. It’s right behind the old oyster sheds. You can’t really miss it. There’s a big blue arch over the entrance. It trades as Swaylings.’

  ‘I thought that place was a boat-builder’s.’

  ‘It was years back, when folks wanted fishing boats. I think it was Larry’s dad who went in for the land rather than the sea. Another case of diversifying to suit your markets.’

  ‘I don’t suppose they work Sundays.’

  ‘I’d say Larry would have them working any time he thought he could make a profit.’

  I thought about my options. I could get up off this beach, wash off the oil, extract the car from its parking space, drive along to Winstanton, hope there was someone working at Payne’s whom I could persuade to give me Tom Skerries’ address, and then go round and try to talk him into letting Bone down gently.

  Alternatively I could lie here for the rest of the afternoon and go through the above rigmarole tomorrow.

  Peeling off the T-shirt, I handed December the sun oil. ‘Can you do my back?’

  December left at five o’clock. I helped him walk the string back up the slipway and load them into his friend’s horsebox that would take them back to their temporary home on the farm.

  We both stood for a moment looking back across the beach. The scent of warm suntan lotion rose in a thick miasma that was so dense you could almost touch it. Then I asked the question I’d been dying to ask all afternoon.

  ‘How’s Kevin?’

  ‘He’s very well. He’ll be at the club later. Might drive in myself, after I’ve got the lads settled. I like to keep an eye on the books. You could drop in for a drink if you like.’

  ‘Yeah ... well ... you know ... I’ll see ... I might be busy later.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to pay for it.’

  I guess I deserved that. If you dedicate your life to spending as little of your own money as possible, you have to develop a pretty tough skin. But for once damage to my wallet hadn’t been on my mind.

  Kevin was December’s son. He managed The Electronic Daffodil, their jointly owned nightclub. I’d become involved with him during my last case - rather more heavily involved than I’d planned.

  If I renewed our relationship now, Kevin would have reason to expect a full-frontal, no-holds-barred twosome from Day One. After all, I’d practically ripped his clothes off on our first meeting.

  And to be blunt, I just wasn’t sure I w
anted to get that involved. Since my last real relationship had broken up soon after my ignominious departure from the police force, I’d been wary of getting seriously entangled. On the other hand, I couldn’t see him wanting to go back a few weeks and revert to a casual-drink-and-a-chat-if-you’re-free-type evening.

  ‘I’m a bit tied up tonight,’ I said.

  I went back to the sands after he’d driven off, but they felt lonely now.

  Lying on my back, I watched the sun sliding down behind the huge Beach Rock Hotel that stood guard over the western edge of the main beach. When the coloured lights started to come on along the promenade, I shook the grains from my clothes, dusted down the sticky coating that was clinging to my oil-covered skin, and wandered back on to the pavement.

  The beach’s loss was the prom’s gain. The open arcades and bingo halls were packed. Over the back of the buildings a steady thump of music and rumble of heavy machinery was punctuated by loud squeals and laughter as the amusement park swung into full gear.

  Even the beachward side of the main street was crowded with groups three and four deep as they grazed their way through cardboard cartons of chips, chicken nuggets, pizzas and cheeseburgers.

  Everyone was making the day last as long as possible before they made the drive back to home and Monday- morning blues.

  I was half tempted to join them, but for once I didn’t feel very hungry. In the end I rescued the car and drove out to Wexton’s Engineering, parked on a patch of scrubland fifty yards from the gate, and walked back to take a look at the place.

  It was an L-shaped two storey-building protected by high fencing that looked fairly new and displayed snarling pictures of rabid dogs warning that the premises were guarded by security services.

  The building itself didn’t look like it dated from pre-war. So presumably the original company had moved premises - probably in the sixties or early seventies, I guessed, judging by the front entrance of the factory.

  This section formed the shorter bar of the L and looked to be built of brick. The longer bar was more modern - glass and concrete. The section joining them was constructed of a far paler pink brick with whiter mortar, and looked to be a very recent addition to the uninspiring architecture.

  The lights were on but I couldn’t see any sign of movement inside, and the entrance gates were padlocked shut.

  I returned to the car, put the car radio on and listened to the newscaster telling me Manchester had recorded their second hottest May temperature since records started. Motor-ways, needless to say, had been choked solid, queues had stretched for over twenty-five miles at one point, there had been several incidents of road-rage assaults and a bridge had collapsed due to metal expansion.

  The good news, however, was that a low pressure area was swinging in from the west and temperatures were due to plunge by the end of the week.

  On this happy note, I flicked the radio off and heard the approaching engine.

  I expected it to go past, but instead a small, light-coloured van drew into the entrance to the factory. The driver got out, opened the gates, and swung them wide. A light came on beyond him, illuminating the car park area in front of the building and showing that the visitor was wearing the distinctive mustard-coloured uniform of Mackenzie’s - a private security company.

  I watched him drive a few feet inside, and walk back to the gates. Before he could close them fully, a motor-scooter came flying along the road at speed, flashing its headlight and sounding the horn.

  My first thought - joyriders - was squashed when it turned into the entrance and stopped. The passenger pulled off her helmet and shook out a ponytail of red hair streaked with pink.

  I couldn’t hear the words but the pair seemed to be having some kind of argument with the guard. They won.

  With a shrug of his shoulders, he opened the gate wide and motioned them in. The bike glided to a parking space by the main door whilst he locked up again. He didn’t bother to move the van. Instead he flicked open the back doors and shouted a command.

  Two large German Shepherds jumped to the ground, tails wagging eagerly. In response to more arm-waving and commands they sped off round the side of the building.

  The bikers went inside with the guard. A few minutes later, the one with two-toned hair appeared in an upstairs office. I watched her emptying the waste-paper baskets into a large plastic sack.

  Below her on the ground floor, another girl, her black hair cropped in a skinhead style, was spraying and dusting along windowsills.

  I don’t find housework all that riveting; either doing or watching. Restarting my engine, I cruised away and completed my tour of outstanding cases by visiting Payne’s builders yard.

  I parked at the back of the town by the Winstanton railway station and wandered down to the front on foot through the little streets of whitewashed fishermen’s cottages.

  It was all done for effect, of course. I doubt if the original oyster-catchers cared passionately whether their paintwork was up to scratch or their flower tubs kept up the tone of the area. But so what? I’m a sucker for a bit of olde-worlde window-dressing.

  So I did the tourist bit - peering at unlikely curios in the antique shops; wandering along the harbour and silently marvelling at the guts of anyone actually buying and swallowing raw oysters from the snack bars along the harbour quay.

  I made my way along the road to the gate whose white Roman lettering on a faded blue background arch announced it was ‘Swayling’s - Building Contractors’. Below in smaller letters was printed '(L. Payne and Son)’. The ‘Son’ had a large black cross painted over it.

  The yard was dark and deserted. Standing by the locked gates, I peered through the bars and watched phosphorus playing over the ocean as it sucked and slooshed greedily over the shingle beach and teased at the old slipway.

  The building in the centre of the yard looked like it might have belonged to the original boat-maker’s. Probably a storage shed of some kind, I figured, making out the stone ground floor and the wooden upper storey with its outside staircase leading up to a single door.

  Somehow I’d been expecting something a bit grander from a bloke who had his sights set on a knighthood. But perhaps Larry Payne reckoned there was more mileage in donating profits to party funds rather than sinking them back in the business.

  Anyway there was no sense hanging around here. Tomorrow I’d make a quick call on Mr Payne, get Tom Skerries’ address and sort out Bone’s love life.

  Had I been listening a little harder at this point, I’d probably have caught the Fates’ ironic laughter beyond the crashing of the surf.

  CHAPTER 11

  ‘Off and bog - arrange into a well-known phrase.’

  It was an interesting challenge.

  I’d decided to phone Payne’s yard first before I concentrated on the more elusive Kristen Keats. Sure enough, it was listed under ‘Swayling’s’ in the local phone book.

  The woman who answered was friendly enough at first, until I mentioned Tom Skerries’ name.

  ‘Tom? No, I’m sorry. I’m afraid we don’t have anyone of that name working here, Mrs ... em ...?’

  ‘Smith.’

  ‘Smith?’

  You could almost hear the Oh yeah, pull the other one flowing down the earpiece. I don’t know why people imagine it’s invented. If I was going to use a fake name, I’d pick something a bit more unusual than the most common surname in the country. Anyway, why did she think I needed to invent a pseudonym to speak to Mr Skerries?

  ‘But you did have,’ I persisted. ‘He was working on a new wall at St Agatha’s Girls’ School a few months back.’

  I caught a murmur of a deeper voice in the background.

  The line became muffled for a moment, as if something had been placed over the receiver, and then she was back on, still insisting they didn’t know anyone called Skerries.

  ‘Dark-eyed, dark-haired, a dead ringer for Heathcliff after a night out with the lads ...’I prompted. ‘He was working on St Ag
gie’s wall with a couple of other blokes called ...’

  I hadn’t taken my notes from the cabinet before I rang, and now I found I couldn’t for the life of me remember what Bone had called the other two workmen.

  ‘And are you from St Agatha’s, dear?’

  ‘No. I’m not. I left school years ago. But thanks for asking.’ The blanking of sound on the line announced that this information was being passed on. She came back to ask if I wanted a quote for building work.

  ‘Er ... no thanks. I just need to speak to Tom Skerries. I couldn’t find him in the phone book - so if you could give me a number, or an address?’

  ‘I told you. We don’t employ Tom Skerries.’

  ‘Look, where’s the big deal? You could have got the number in the time we’ve spent arguing.’

  ‘I’m not arguing ... I ...’

  She was cut off abruptly and a man’s voice asked if it was about a job. ‘Conservatory? Patio? Something like that, is it, love?’

  ‘No. Is that Mr Payne?’ I guessed.

  ‘Yes. It is.’

  ‘Well, it’s like I was explaining to your secretary, Mr Payne, I just need to get in touch with Tom Skerries. He used to work for you ...’

  ‘No he didn’t. Now you listen to me. We don’t know Tom Skerries. We have no number, address, date of birth or star sign for Tom Skerries. If you want some building work done then we should be happy to send one of our representatives round to give you a quote. Otherwise ... off and bog - arrange into a well-known phrase.’

  His voice had been rising in volume. By the time he’d reached his final suggestion I had to hold the receiver away from my ear to avoid a punctured eardrum.

  ‘Well, thank you very much, Mr Payne, for taking part in our magazine’s telephone poll to find the most helpful builder in the county. We’ll let you know when the results are to be published.’