by Liz Evans
I hung up while he was still spluttering.
Whatever Tom Skerries had done to upset the future Sir Larry, he’d obviously made a pretty good job of it. I put Bone’s problem aside for a moment, and got down to tracking Kristen.
My first call, to Wexton’s, produced the predictable information that Miss Keats didn’t work there anymore. ‘Oh hell, you mean we’ve missed each other again.’
‘I’m afraid so. Krissy went a few weeks back.’
‘Blast. We’re always doing this. We used to share a house up in Earl Shilton, near Leicester, you know?’ Unfortunately she did know. Apparently she’d lived up that way herself and she and Krissy had actually used the same local pub!
‘Not at the same time, of course, because it’s at least fifteen years since my husband and I moved down here ... but still, it’s amazing, isn’t it, coming all this way and then finding someone who actually knows the very bar ...’
Since the only contact I’d ever had with Leicestershire was driving through it, I pushed the conversation on quickly.
‘Krissy and I ran into each other a couple of months ago. And we absolutely swore we’d get together this time ... I’ve been meaning to phone her for weeks ... but you know how it is ...’
She did. She sympathised with the way time just flew by. But she couldn’t help me. ‘I’ve just no idea where Krissy went. She was quite mysterious about it. Although she did promise to stay in touch. In fact, I was only saying to Suzie last week…’
‘That would be Suzie Ayres, would it ...?’ I hazarded, glancing over the information I’d gleaned from the estate agent’s files. A Ms S. Ayres had provided one of Kristen’s references for the flat.
‘Yes. That’s right. Mr Bridgeman’s personal assistant.’
‘Perhaps she’s got a forwarding address for Krissy?’
‘Oh, I don’t think so. In fact I’m sure she hasn’t... because I was saying to her in the staff kitchen ...’
I finally managed to stem the tide of words long enough to extract the information that I couldn’t speak to Ms Ayres just at present because she’d gone to the dentist and wasn’t due in until later.
Which suited me quite nicely. I established that the office staff generally finished at 5.30 p.m., although Suzie usually left about 5.45 unless she was doing overtime.
Promising to try again later, I hung up on her and dialled the local tax office. The girl there was sympathetic to my problem and agreed it was very difficult when your job meant you had to move around every few months.
‘Would you be knowing where your file is now, Miss Keen?’
‘Well, I’m not entirely sure. It’s several moves behind me, you see. If you could just keep an eye out for it and check everything’s up to date?’
‘Sure, that’ll be no problem at all. If you want to give me your reference number?’
Unfortunately I was the sort of muddled tax-payer who just couldn’t lay their hands on that sort of detail. I did provide her with a (fictitious) date of birth, address and telephone number, however. ‘Are you the one who’ll be handling my file?’
‘That’s right. Surnames G to M, that’s me.’
‘Great. If I could take your name then?’
‘Shona Donovan.’
The tax office also shut at 5.30 p.m.
After I’d thanked her, I spent another hour dialling the local banks. It wasn’t a route I had much faith in, but I gave it a go anyway.
Posing as a previously stranded motorist who Krissy had loaned money to at a service station, I was devastated to have lost her address. Luckily I’d remembered the town and I was certain I’d seen her using a cheque book from their bank - so if they could just confirm it would be OK to post the money for her account?
All four branches in town regretted they had no customer of that name.
I did the same routine with the building societies, substituting pass book for cheque book. Same result.
Well, it had been a bit of a long shot. These days, with electronic banking, there was really no need to drag your account around with you. If Kristen had one, it could be anywhere in the country.
There were people who could hack into the system and provide you with that sort of information, but they charged a fortune, and anyway I had my pride. It was my job, so I’d do the work.
I’d had enough of desk work. Rummaging in a filing cabinet drawer, I extracted a heavy black wig, a pair of glasses with thick black plastic rims and a brightly coloured scarf. Unearthing a battered briefcase I’d picked up in a jumble sale, I carried the lot down to the car and drove back to the flat.
The clothes I wanted were on the floor of the old pantry cupboard which now served as my wardrobe. Below-the-knee tweed skirts and pie-frill blouses aren’t my usual choice, but this lot had come in a pot-luck bag from another jumble sale.
The difference in the sea front was almost painful. It was as if a plague had hit the town. There were still odd gulags of chairs and windbreaks scattered over the sands, but unlike yesterday, when you’d have been hard put to find a spare patch for a one-storey sandcastle, now you could have sculpted a full-sized Taj Mahal out there. The only sign of a crowd was grouped around something in the middle of the promenade.
Pulling into one of the empty parking bays, I went to see what the attraction was.
The taut boom-boom of inexpertly played drums filtered between the watching figures. Peering over two shoulders, I found myself watching another display of Figgy’s skating skills. Whilst Mickey beat out a rhythm on the tom-toms clasped between her knees, he pirouetted, jumped, swooped, spun and twisted in a dizzying performance.
The gasps and spontaneous clapping at each new movement confirmed my own impression that he was a cut above most street buskers. The music built to a climax. Suddenly - without warning - Figgy stopped dead. Gathering himself, he skated a few steps and hurled himself into the air, drawing his knees into his chest and executing a back somersault before landing perfectly and swooping low in a deep bow to the audience.
There was a collective sigh of appreciation before the applause started. With a happy smile, Mickey bounded up and started to circulate with a plastic cup extended.
It was my cue to leave.
Returning to the car, I pulled the wig and glasses on and arranged the scarf around the neck of my T-shirt.
Crossing the road, I went into a small arcade. Amongst the flashing games consoles and slot machines, they had one of those ‘Print Your Own Business Card’ machines.
I followed the instructions on screen; selecting my typefaces, layout and colours.
Whilst I obeyed the ‘Please Wait’, I whiled away the time wondering what the kid operating the two metal grabs was going to do with a neon-coloured troll even if he succeeded in picking one up.
Just as the machine spat out my card, he got a turquoise beastie that seemed to have been constructed from cheap polyester carpet, and answered my question by unlocking the back of the glass cabinet and throwing the toy back in.
‘Gotta keep your hand in,’ he grinned at me.
‘Quite ...’
He was wearing a plastic identity tag with his picture and name on it. Most of the arcade staff along the front had them now; it prevented any problems with ‘walk-ins’ offering to get change and disappearing into the night with the slot- players’ ten-pound notes. It also established who was entitled to throw you out when you started kicking the machines and shouting ‘Fix!’
This one was called Enrico. He was probably a student from the foreign-language college.
‘So tell me, Enrico, do you make those badges here on the premises?’
His English wasn’t quite as good as that Gotta keep your hand in had suggested. But I got through eventually and he agreed that, yes, they made him a picture here. ‘We have a camera. In the back. It takes a little picture and then the machine, she ...’
Seals it in a plastic coating was definitely beyond his vocabulary. But we managed with a lot of arm-waving a
nd slapping together of palms.
‘Yeah, right. Listen, Enrico ... do you think you could do me a favour?’
His mouth pulled down at the corners, and he flicked an uneasy glance back into the dark depths of the arcade as if hoping for rescue. I was a bit piqued for a moment, until I remembered the wig and glasses. OK, even I didn’t think I looked worth pulling in that get-up. But he didn’t have to make it so damn obvious!
‘See, the thing is,’ I said, grabbing his arm before he could make a bolt for it and quickly reassuring him it wasn’t his body I was after, ‘my mum’s coming down to visit me.’
‘Your mamma?’ Under my grip, I felt his forearm muscles relax beneath the olive skin.
‘That’s right, my mamma. I told her I’d got a really good job. With the government, you know? Big salary, big pension?’
Enrico nodded. Yes, he understood that bit.
‘Only the thing is - I lied. I haven’t got a job.’
‘That is sad.’
‘Isn’t it just. But I can’t tell Mum the truth now; she’d be really upset.’
‘So you lie?’
‘That’s the idea, Enrico. She’ll only be here for a few hours. She’s on her way to catch the ferry,’ I improvised freely. ‘So I’m going to keep pretending. And I thought if I had something on me that sort of proved where I worked ...’
I produced the newly printed card. ‘But it would look better with my picture on ... and in a ...’I slapped my palms together.
‘Pleestic jacket?’ Enrico said.
‘Absolutely. Can you use the camera, Enrico?’
‘Sure. But the boss ...’ He looked behind him. ‘He comes back soon ...’
‘It’ll only take a few minutes.’ I produced a folded fiver from my jeans pocket.
Enrico’s grasp of British finance was better than his grasp of the language. We finally settled on ten pounds, and fifteen minutes later I had my nice new identity tag, complete with picture, signature and pleestic jacket. He even threw in a clip to attach it to my blouse.
Not that I intended to at present. Wexton’s was later. I threw the wig and glasses back in the boot and set off to sort out the Larry Payne Academy of Charm and Brick-laying.
CHAPTER 12
I parked by the yard gates, next to the notice that read: ‘Entrance in Constant Use. Do Not Obstruct.’
The yard was carrying a lot of building materials of one sort or another. Which suggested that business was good if Payne could afford to have that much money tied up in stock. The dark-green four-door Saab, with a current number plate, parked at the foot of the office stairs was a pretty good indicator too.
I’d hoped that by leaving it this late Laurence Payne would be out supervising one of his chain gangs somewhere. But I was out of luck.
The first floor over the old storage shed had been divided into two offices. The door from the outside staircase led directly into the outer one, which I bounced into after a perfunctory knock.
Two pairs of eyes met mine. I had a brief impression the woman was glad of the interruption. The man bending over her shoulder to read something on the computer screen just managed to hide the flash of impatience as she asked: ‘Yes? May I help you?’
She probably could have done if her boss hadn’t been there.
I had no doubt this was the future Sir Larry. Everything about him, from the feet planted four-square on the polished plank flooring to the forward thrust of his broad shoulders, exuded a mixture of self-assurance and arrogance.
He wasn’t tall, five six at the most, but the stout body under the brown suit looked well-muscled and his square hands were rough and blunt-nailed. This was a man more used to working outside than messing around in an office with computers, and the expression on his broad face as he glared at the screen suggested he wished he was taking a pickaxe to hard-core right at this moment.
The light from the VDU flicked over his tanned skin, catching on the ruddier patches on his cheeks and nose where the weekend’s heatwave had caught them. His hair was a mass of tight grey curls - thinning into a pronounced widow’s peak which had already receded a third of the way along his skull. His eyes were small, light brown, sandy-lashed and assessing me with increasing impatience.
He wanted me to state my business and go. So I did.
‘Skerries! Bloody Skerries. Are you bloody females thick or what? How many more times do we have to tell you there’s no one called Skerries works here. Never has been. Do you want to check the sodding wages slips?’
I wouldn’t have minded, actually, but he was out from behind that desk before I could take up his kind invitation, and thrusting his face into mine. The advantage of being five ten was that he had to look up to make eye-contact, although I’ve got to say he didn’t look like he felt at a psychological disadvantage.
I surreptitiously moved my feet and balanced my weight in case he decided to get physical. The disadvantage of the height difference was that it wasn’t going to be as easy to aim a knee where it would do the most damage.
The secretary preserved Sir Larry’s chances of future fatherhood by calling across: ‘I’ve moved the heading over The Seascape now. What do you think?’
Payne leant his palms flat on the desk and twisted around so that he could see the screen. ‘Well how do I know? I can’t tell on that thing. Print off a copy, for heaven’s sake!’
Her hands flashed over the keyboard and a laser printer whirled into action, spewing out sheets of paper. It seemed to be one of those artist’s impressions of a housing estate.
Payne snatched it up. ‘It’s rubbish. The proportions are all wrong. If I built a house that leant like that the bloody roof would be in the garden first strong wind we got. What’s the point of spending a fortune on this fancy software when you turn out stuff looks like it was drawn by a three-year-old?’
‘You should have paid for the training course as well.’
‘What for? Learn on the job, that’s my motto. No substitute for experience. Are you still here?’
I smiled. ‘Yes thanks.’
He started his aggressive strut towards me again. I caught a pleading look from the secretary. She didn’t want blood splattering on her crisp new artwork.
Since he was so set against Tom Skerries, I decided on a half-truth. Whipping out one of my genuine business cards, I held it in front of his nose.
‘Private investigator! One of them’s set a bloody private dick on us now!’
One of who? I wondered. ‘Nobody’s set me on you, Mr Payne. I told you. I want Tom Skerries. He owes money.’
I could see that it was an idea that appealed to him. He relaxed slightly. ‘Who’s he owe?’
‘My clients prefer to keep their business dealings private. They’re the shy sort.’
‘They must be the soft-in-the-head sort if they’re lending cash to the likes of Skerries.’ A flicker of sadistic pleasure twinkled over the ruddy face. ‘Got himself in hock to the loan sharks, has he? Serves him right.’
‘An interesting comment on a bloke you claim not to know.’
‘I said he didn’t work here. And he doesn’t. Never has done. So go tell your bosses to look elsewhere for the little scroat.’
He ripped the door open. I left. And he stood at the top of the steps to make sure I did. Behind him I could hear the secretary asking something about the print-out.
Payne snapped back: ‘No. There’s no time. Get me a presentation fixed up for that committee do tonight. I’ll pass a few folders out. See who takes the bait.’
Her lighter voice, the words indistinguishable, floated across the yard and was followed by an impatient instruction to ‘Get a bloody sandwich then. I have to work through lunch, don’t I.’
I pulled the car away and tooted loudly before taking it a few streets and parking up again.
One of the fishermen’s cottages had been converted to a cafe. Tastee fresb-cut sandwiches, local crab salads, delicious cream teas, the blackboard announced.
I bo
ught two tastee sandwiches to go, and wandered back to the front. Leaning in the doorway of a craft shoppe, I watched Payne’s yard.
Ten minutes later, the Saab pulled out. I gave it another five and then strolled across the yard and back up the stairs.
She was muttering over the screen again, multicoloured icons flickering in her glasses.
‘Chicken salad or cheese salad?’ I asked, holding out the two paper bags before she could tell me to get lost.
‘Is this a bribe?’
‘If you’re susceptible. Otherwise it’s lunch. They abolished slavery in 1833, you know.’
‘Yes, I did. But I don’t think anyone’s told Larry.’ I half expected her to refuse, but she did more things with the computer, then stood up and walked over to the kettle. ‘Tea or coffee?’
‘Whatever.’
She made two mugs of tea and then indicated the door. ‘Let’s eat outside.’
I followed her downstairs. Beneath the short-sleeved white blouse and beige trousers, she looked like she’d kept herself in shape.
We perched on a large lump of pre-formed stone casing, facing the sea. A few holiday-makers were doing the same, sitting on towels spread over the shallow strip of pebbles between the yard and the shore.
‘Nice location.’
‘It’s too small really. We have to rent another yard a few miles away for storing materials and most of the vehicles.’
‘Don’t you get flooded?’ I asked. The edge of this yard was only about two feet higher than the breakwater.
‘No. Never. It’s something to do with the angle of the sea floor and the direction of the tides. Were you really sent by a loan shark?’
‘No.’
I gave her a brief run-down on Bone’s case without mentioning any names.
‘Poor kid,’ she said, holding the chicken sandwich two- handed and biting in with evident relish.
‘Mmm ...’ Sipping my tea, I glanced sideways at her. Seen from this angle, and in sunlight, I suddenly had the feeling of having met her before. Except I couldn’t quite pin down where and when.
A slight sea breeze teased at her hair. It was more or less the same style and colour as the wig I’d left in the car. Only hers was natural, I’d say, with perhaps a bit of help to hide a few grey stragglers, since I put her age at around the same as her boss’s - fiftyish.