by Liz Evans
Retrieving a slice of tomato that had just fallen on to her beige trousers, she dropped it into her mouth and asked me what I intended to do if I found Skerries.
‘Get him to ring my client and let her down gently. If he’s capable of being that subtle.’
‘Oh yes. Tom can be quite charming when he puts his mind to it.’
‘And when’s that?’
‘Mostly when he comes into contact with any female who’s attractive and willing. I don’t think he likes the thrill of the chase much.’
She caught my speculative look and laughed. ‘No, definitely not me. I didn’t qualify on either count.’
‘So who did?’
‘Well, several of our female customers, judging by the calls we’ve been getting over the past few weeks. Some of them even ring up using half a dozen different names just to see if we’ll put them through to him.’
Which explained the scepticism when I’d announced myself as ‘Smith’ earlier on.
‘Is that why the slave-driver is claiming amnesia over Skerries’ employment?’
‘No. And he wasn’t lying. You wouldn’t find Tom on our files. You see, Swayling’s has never turned down work. Which sometimes leads to us having half a dozen jobs on the go at once.’
‘Don’t tell me. Do just enough to make sure it’s not practical for the customer to go elsewhere - and then disappear for days while you set up the next job.’
She laughed again. And once more there was that niggling sensation that I knew her from somewhere.
‘Something like that. Anyway, we have some casual labourers that we can call on when things get too crazy. Tom was one of those. He’d do odd days for us. St Agatha’s wall was the longest on-going job he worked on. Larry always keeps the private schools sweet. He gets a lot of work from that quarter.’
‘So how did Skerries manage to get up Payne’s nose?’
‘He was poaching our customers. Only in a small way: garage drives, new gate posts, brick-built barbecues, that sort of thing. But Larry’s very territorial; if it’s a Payne’s job, he won’t stand for anyone else on the turf, as he used to say - before he got an attack of the pretensions.’
She flicked a crust at a few hopefully lurking pigeons. A gull descended immediately and snatched it from their beaks. Screwing up the paper bag, she finished her tea. ‘Larry thinks Tom was using our materials.’
‘Nicking them, you mean?’
‘Yes. Our stock control isn’t all it might be. Particularly when things get a bit hectic. Larry went out to check on some patio work Tom had done on the sly. There was some Italian stone in it that’s not generally available in this country. We’d just imported a consignment for a special job. It looks like Tom must have had a spare set of keys cut for the yard gates. And naturally it’s all my fault for leaving them around.’ She said it without rancour, as if she’d worked here long enough to be immune to Payne’s tantrums. ‘But the worst thing is - Tom isn’t even a particularly good builder.’
‘Is that bad? I’d have thought Payne’s would have been pleased. Teach ’em to stick with the pros and avoid the cons in future.’
‘Well, yes, but ... I think Tom gave the impression he was working for Payne’s - on a sort of unofficial, cash-in-hand basis. At least that’s what the customers are claiming now.’ ‘You mean they want you to fix the botches?’
‘Yes. Which is bad enough. But one man got quite badly hurt. A garage door fell off on him. He’s threatening to sue for injuries sustained. And then there’s the implication that we were trying to avoid VAT by taking in cash in hand. It’s not the sort of publicity Larry wants. Especially not at the moment.’
‘Now he’s hoping for an earldom or something?’
The lenses of her glasses were photochromatic; they’d darkened in the sun to two expressionless black orbs. Nonetheless I saw her laughing muscles twitch. ‘I think a few letters to put after his name will probably do for starters.’
‘So you’re denying all knowledge of Tom Skerries.’
‘Who?’
‘Right.’
There was something I simply had to ask. Nodding to the yard sign with its obliterated ‘Son’ after ‘L. Payne and’, I asked: ‘What’s the story there?’
‘Son is trained to carry on family empire. At sixteen son announces he isn’t interested and wants to take up hobby as full-time career. Father declares job is only fit for a bloody poofter. Son calls father sad, boring little money-grabber. Father tells son to grow up or push off and see how far he gets on his own. Son packs rucksack and pushes off the very next day.’
She stood up, brushing crumbs off her lap. ‘Well, I must get back to the salt mines.’
She’d had all of ten minutes for lunch. I asked if that was normal.
‘No. It’s my Monday treat. Normally I get five.’
‘His sir-ship really expects his pound of flesh, doesn’t he? How long have you worked for him?’
‘About thirty years.’
She didn’t look like a masochist. ‘Why didn’t you dump the dickhead?’
‘It’s not that easy. We never did names, did we? I’m Marina Payne.’
She slid the glasses down until they perched on the tip of her nose, and grinned at me.
‘I’m Mrs Dickhead.’
CHAPTER 13
I could only assume that Tom Skerries had slipped into the gene pool when the life guard wasn’t looking. Evidently, however, his two brain cells had finally made contact for long enough to work out that they were living in a receptacle that was due for demolition unless Tom kept his head down for a while.
I could simply fill Bone in on the situation to date and suggest Tom would be in touch once things cooled down a bit - sometime around the next Ice Age I should think, judging by Payne’s mood this morning. But somehow that felt like short-changing her. It would be better if I could locate the testosterone-loaded loser and get him to give her a ring.
I wrestled with the problem whilst I wandered along the front, and bought myself a 99 as dessert.
The tide was well out now, leaving huge stretches of sand exposed and the sunlight glinting off tidal shallows and scrunchy drifts of tiny pearl-white shells. Rolling up my jeans and dumping my shoes in the car boot, I strolled down to the edge of the ocean and watched oil tankers sliding over the horizon.
When I ran out of beach and vanilla whip, I towel-dried my feet on the wig and pointed the car towards North Bay.
After I’d finished apologising for slagging off her husband, and Marina Payne had laughed and told me if I thought that was rude I’d plainly led a very sheltered life, she’d wished me luck with locating Skerries.
‘How do you locate him?’ I’d asked. ‘If you had a job for him, I mean. As far as I could see, he’s not on the phone at home.’
She’d left a message at the local social club. ‘It always seemed to be open. There’s a lot of unemployment on the Downs Estate. I think some of them spend every waking hour in there.’
It was actually debatable whether the few men grouped around the plastic tables inside were awake. They seemed to be drinking and watching horse-racing on the large wall- mounted colour television whilst in some kind of catatonic trance. Only the one propped against the outer side of the bar counter paid any attention to me.
Flicking a disinterested glance as I walked through the front door, he called: ‘Members only, love. Application forms on your right. Committee meets end of month.’
‘I don’t want to join. I’m looking for someone. Tom Skerries.’
This at least got me a bit more attention. Two dirty laughs from the TV watchers and a speculative once-over from the barman that made me wonder if I’d remembered to put my knickers on.
He switched the leer off as a woman bustled through from the back carrying a crate of mixers. She thumped it on the bar. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Looking for Tom Skerries, she reckons.’
‘Then tell her. Let him sort his own mess out, he’s not hiding
behind my skirts.’
The man showed no inclination to take any notice of this order, so she crashed the bar flap open and waddled through. Grabbing hold of my forearm, she marched me back to the door and pointed: ‘See there?’
There were two low-rise blocks of flats at right angles to each other opposite us, with a trodden patch of grass held between them. The social club formed the third side of the square, with fencing along the main road finishing off the fourth.
Her flabby, brown-spotted arm was pointing to the right- hand block. ‘Second floor, second from the far end. That’s the Skerries’ flat.’
‘Cheers.’
I could see the flat door opening as I moved across the grass. A woman was backing out, manoeuvring a pushchair over the step and on to the walkway.
By slackening my pace, I managed to be at the top of the stair flight just as she reached it. ‘Want a hand?’
‘Yeah.’
Taking the base of the chair, I backed down whilst she kept the handlebars high off the steps. The baby regarded me wide-eyed over a dribble-splashed pink jumpsuit decorated with yellow teddy bears.
‘What’s her name?’
‘Shannon.’
‘Are you Mrs Skerries?’
‘How’d you mean?’
I wouldn’t have thought there were many ways of being Mrs Skerries, but a wary look had come into her hazel eyes. She wasn’t bad looking; at least she wouldn’t have been if she’d tidied up the straggling brown hair, taken a few pounds off the thighs and changed into something a bit more flattering than the shapeless grey tracksuit and well-worn trainers.
‘I was looking for Tom Skerries.’
‘Why?’
If I hadn’t had hold of the other end of her daughter’s pushchair, I was sure she’d have bolted at that point.
So he can ring one of his girlfriends and let her down gently wasn’t going to win me any prizes for tact. Or any cooperation either.
‘It’s sort of personal,’ I said vaguely. ‘Is your husband in?’
‘No.’
We’d reached the bottom of the stairwell. She wrenched the chair from my hands and set off at a determined pace towards a footpath that led down the side of the social club. A couple of mums had come out of the other block and were bumping prams diagonally over the green in the same direction.
I tried to fall into step beside Tom’s other half. She increased her pace.
‘Look, can I just talk to you for a sec?’
‘I ’ave to get Liam from playgroup.’
‘I’ll give you a lift.’
‘And Pierce from school.’
‘It’s a big car.’
‘I’m going round me mate’s after.’
‘I’m very sociable.’
‘I don’t wanna talk to yer.’
‘Well, that’s fine ... er, I don’t know your name.’
‘Donna.’
‘OK, Donna, if you just tell me where to find Tom ...’
‘I can’t ... and why the hell should I anyway?’
Good question really. I mean, normally people answer questions because they’ve been asked. If they start to analyse why they’re doing it, I’m in trouble.
Donna stopped dead abruptly. ‘I can’t talk to yer now. Come round the flat later.’
‘Sevenish?’
‘No. Make it nine.’
She charged away, hurrying to join up with a group of other mums and prevent any more questioning.
I glanced at my watch. It was just gone three o’clock; another two and a half hours to waste. In the end I was parked up at the edge of town, next to an unvandalised telephone box, by five o’clock. At five thirty-three I dialled the tax office, and got an automated message informing me the office was closed until eight thirty the following morning. So far, so good.
I’d changed into the tweed skirt and frilly blouse in the ladies’ loo of the local cinema before driving up here. Now I used the rear-view mirror to slap on foundation and an orange lipstick that made me look like a badly developed colour snap. The wig was still gritty after I’d used it as a foot towel, but banging it vigorously against the car side sorted out most of the problem. The winged glasses completed the get-up.
‘What is the female equivalent of “dork”?’ I murmured at my reflection in the mirror as I locked up.
Most of Wexton’s staff were already driving and cycling out when I walked in at five forty. The reception desk was deserted, but a woman came out from the back office, pulling on her coat as I approached.
‘Good afternoon. Shona Donovan, from the tax inspectorate. Could I see whoever handles your personnel matters? I believe we’ve dealt with a Ms Ayres in the past?’
‘Suzie. Yes, that’s right. But it is rather late. She may have already left, I’m afraid.’
Checking my watch, I looked surprised. ‘Good heavens, is that the time now? I’ve been on the road all day. You lose track.’
Hastily she jabbed out a number on her phone. ‘Suzie? There’s a Miss ...?’
‘Donovan.’
‘Donovan down here to see you. Something about tax ... She’ll be down in a moment,’ she informed me with obvious relief. Her duty done, she set a switch on the phones and hurried outside.
I was watching her climb into a waiting car when a voice behind me said: ‘Ms Donovan?’
I apologised for arriving so late and without an appointment. But not too profusely; after all, I was tax. It gave me a great feeling of power.
Ms Ayres walked me back up to her first-floor office explaining that she had to get away to see to the dogs.
‘And Mother,’ she added as an afterthought. She scarcely glanced at the identity badge that had cost me a tenner in Enrico’s arcade. And she showed no inclination to telephone the tax office and check my identity.
Her office exhibited all the signs of someone packing up for the day.
Everything to plan. Until the boss appeared.
The door behind Ms Ayres opened suddenly just as I was coming to the end of my opening speech on the terrible problems we were experiencing with Ms Kristen Keats’s tax returns.
The man who stepped through was absorbed in flicking over the stapled sheets he was holding, so I had the opportunity to get a quick impression before he noticed me.
Fifty-something, tall, angular, brown hair tinged with grey, thin face. Certainly no Sean Connery, although he plainly made Ms Ayres’ heart beat a little faster, judging by the sparkle that lit her grey eyes.
‘Suzie, I’ve marked up some changes for the post-mortem ... oh, sorry, I didn’t realise you had someone with you.’ Ms Ayres’ introduction and explanation managed to convey the message that whatever was wrong with Kristen’s tax returns, it certainly wasn’t down to her.
I rushed to lay all the blame on the tax office. ‘Bottlenecks, I’m afraid. It’s nobody’s fault. Just one of those things.’
‘I’ll leave you to it then, Suzie. And book a table at the White Hart for lunch, will you. Good night.’
I was included in his general smile as he retreated back behind the door marked: S. Bridgeman - Managing Director.
‘Did someone die?’
Ms Ayres looked blank. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The post-mortem?’
‘Oh, I see.’ She gave the superior laugh of one who understands the jargon. ‘A contract post-mortem. We’ve just finished a rather important contract for the MoD. Now, Kristen ...’
Efficient wrist flicks whisked out her desk drawer, extracted keys from the file indexer and opened a cabinet.
I responded with an equally efficient performance with my briefcase. We both consulted files.
I opened the batting: ‘I’ve tried to contact Miss Keats at her last known address, but she appears to have moved. And I understand that she no longer works here?’
‘Not since the end of April.’
‘This is so frustrating. If I could have the name of her new employer?’
‘We don’t have it.’
‘Did they not ask for references?’
‘No. Possibly they will do so later, but to date ...’ Ms Ayres ruffled paper.
I duly grimaced, clucked and blew out exasperated breaths. ‘We have details of her previous employers,’ Suzie offered. ‘But you’ll have those already.’
‘If I could just check ... her last employer was?’
‘That would be the voluntary agency: Third World Initiative Teams.’ Ms Ayres ruffled again. ‘I don’t seem to have their full address. But they’d hardly have been relevant to her work at Wexton’s.’
‘And before that there was ...’I ran my finger down an imaginary list on the file I kept tilted from her sight. Dragging up what I recalled from the estate agent’s file, I remembered a six-month tenancy with the Leicester letting agency and hazarded, ‘the Leicestershire company ...’
‘Okranshaw Electronics,’ she agreed readily. ‘And before that AD Aerospace in Manchester.’
‘Mmmm ...’ I snapped my fingers. An idea had just occurred. ‘What about her bank? Now wouldn’t she have notified a change of address to them? Perhaps they’d be prepared to pass a message on.’
Ms Ayres ruffled with great willingness. ‘I’m afraid we don’t appear to have that information. Kristen was paid by personal cheque.’
‘Unusual these days.’
‘Yes, isn’t it.’ She was ruffling at dizzying speed now. A French-manicured finger stabbed down triumphantly. ‘But I do have a note that she asked to be paid that way while she was moving banks. I daresay she just forgot to tell us. Why not try the local branches?’
Because I’d already gone down that route, Suzie. I smiled my thanks at her helpful suggestion and wondered whether perhaps one of Kristen’s friends might know where she’d gone?
‘Kristen didn’t have any close friends. She was scarcely here long enough to make them.’
The file was shut and replaced. My interview was at an end; Mother and the mutts called.
‘Well, thanks for your time.’
‘Not at all.’ She was by the door, plainly expecting me to join her. I let myself be ushered back downstairs again with promises that she’d ring the tax office if Kristen got in touch.