by Liz Evans
‘They leave things in there. For days sometimes.’
Unless they’d left Kristen in there, this room was of even less interest to me.
‘Hurry, will yer,’ Nola demanded. ‘I want to get finished. They’re taking names for the Sunday-night karaoke up the club tonight.’
‘I’m done down here.’ In the absence of a handy overlooked letter or whatever giving a few clues to Kristen’s destination, I was going to have to trawl through her past. Via the personnel files. There was always Bertram, of course.
‘Nope. Never ’eard of no Bertram here. Dunno all of the blokes, of course, but I ain’t never heard anyone called that,’ Nola said in answer to my question.
She unlocked a cupboard in the corridor and dragged out two vacuum cleaners, black sacks, buckets and two dinky baskets full of cleaning materials, whilst she issued a stream of instructions.
‘Make dead certain you empty all the waste-paper bins. They always notice the bins. Put them well inside the sack before you tip, that way you don’t get nothing stuck on the carpets. Make sure the bogs are clean and give the basins a good scrub. Stick a mop over the floor if you’ve time, otherwise it’s just if someone’s spilt something. Dust and hoover everywhere in that cow Ayres’ office and Mr Bridgeman’s, but don’t move no papers, we ain’t allowed. We ain’t got time to do more. They want to pay crap rates, they can have a crap job.’
I put all the lights on on the top floor and did a quick check to confirm there wasn’t anyone beavering away in a quiet corner.
Ms Ayres’ desk was simple. Two seconds with a skeleton key and I’d confirmed the bunch of keys I’d seen her drop in the file indexer the other night was there.
I decided to do a bit of cleaning before I got down to the serious business. I had no way of knowing the guard’s routine and it seemed prudent to establish myself as a bona fide cleaner.
There was no production work up here. It was all offices, computer suites and a boardroom. And those winking VDU screens watching me at every turn. If there were name-plates or diaries lying around, I checked for the elusive Bertram.
He remained stubbornly elusive. There wasn’t even a hint of him; not one Christian name began with ‘B’.
The guard passed me as I was lugging my full sack back to the head of the stairs. ‘All right, love?’
‘Terrific, thanks. You?’
‘Can’t complain. Don’t do you no good if you do, does it?’ On this cheery thought he marched on. Ten minutes later, whilst I had my rubber gloves in the urinals, he appeared again.
‘Do you want to ...’
‘No thanks, love. Just doing me rounds. Back in half an hour.’
It was nice of him to be so precise. I whizzed through the ladies’ loo in ten minutes flat. All that training yesterday had plainly paid off.
When I got back to the managing director’s area, I sprayed pine polish lavishly and flicked a duster over desks, bookcases, files and equipment. There wasn’t much variance between Ms Ayres’ office and Stephen Bridgeman’s; it was furnishing by committee - air-force-blue carpet, pale wood furniture and framed prints of impressionist seascapes.
I located Kristen’s file amongst the ‘Past Employees’ section of Ms Ayres’ filing system. There was no photograph. As I discovered this I realised that I’d been half hoping for one. It would have made Kristen more substantial.
Ms Ayres was a filing fanatic - thank heavens. She’d squirrelled everything away. The first note on Kristen’s file was dated 18 July and stated:
Miss Kristen Keats telephoned enquiring if vacancy exists for test engineer. She saw report on Robert Wingett’s accident in paper. Mr Bridgeman has authorised me to send application form.
And there was an address in Bayswater! Hallelujah!
I flipped on. Kristen’s formal application contained the same home address in Bayswater, plus a telephone number.
I scanned the rest of the document quickly. She’d gone to school in Bath and university in Leicester, which would explain the earlier rented properly in that city. After that she’d worked in Manchester for eight months as an assistant design technician at AD Aerospace. Her reason for leaving was ‘company restructuring’.
Her second job. Okranshaw Electronics in Leicester had closed down six months after Kristen joined them as ‘deputy acquisitions executive’.
After that it had been seven months with the Third World voluntary agency, ‘assisting in teaching and basic engineering projects amongst undeveloped communities’.
That seemed to have come to an end last July, a couple of weeks or so before she’d contacted Wexton’s. It all made logical sense.
‘And why shouldn’t it...?’ I asked myself as the photocopier spewed out sheets of paper. Tucking Kristen’s details down the front of my jogging pants for further study, I read on.
There was a reference from AD Aerospace which merely confirmed the basic details of Kristen’s employment with them. And one from a former director of Okranshaw who now appeared to be running a craft shop in Cornwall. It was vaguely complimentary about Kristen’s time with the company, without going overboard.
There wasn’t much else. A formal contract of employment. A brief handwritten internal note from Kristen giving a month’s notice. Another form listing her final payment and holiday entitlements and countersigned by Kristen.
I stuffed everything back inside the plastic holder and tried to replace it in its slot. It was one of those hanging filing systems and the edge kept snagging. Irritated, I pushed harder. The file shot straight through the back and fell to the floor, showering papers over the base of the filing cabinet.
‘Blast.’
Getting down on my knees, I started shuffling papers. I’d just got the lot in order when I heard voices in the corridor. Stretching up, I pushed the file in and pulled the shutter down to close off the cabinet, but didn’t have time to replace the base padlock before the office door swung open.
‘Thank you for the lift, Stephen. I’m sorry I had to drag you down to the garden centre again.’
‘No problem, Joan. Least I can do in the circumstances.’
I’d assumed it was the security guard and Nola, but instead I found myself kneeling on the floor staring up at Stephen Bridgeman. There was an older woman behind him, half hidden by his body as they both looked down at me crouched by the filing cabinet.
I caught my breath, wondering if Stephen would recognise me. Hopefully there was no reason that he should. Last time, I’d been Shona, scourge of the tax-payer, in a brunette wig left over from the last production of Cleopatra. And now I was in coffee-stained joggers peering up through lank strands of blonde hair.
Dropping my eyes, I mumbled: ‘Sorry. Guard said no one was working up here. Shall I go?’
‘No need. We shan’t be a moment. You’re new, aren’t you?’
‘Covering ...’ I muttered. ‘Regular girl’s sick.’
I sought round for a plausible reason why I’d be sitting down here. The cleaning basket was by the cabinet where I’d left it. Squeezing a blob of scouring cream on a rag, I scrubbed at a double plastic socket in the wainscoting. Originally it had been white; now it was the colour of sealskin.
From the corner of my eye, I could see their feet hadn’t moved. Cautiously I glanced sideways. Had they noticed that the padlock hadn’t been replaced?
They were both staring at me. ‘Sorry ...’ I shuffled back on my knees. ‘Did you want to get here?’
It was the woman who answered, telling me to ‘Carry on, dear. I’ve been wanting someone to clean those sockets for months. What a pleasure to meet someone who believes in doing a decent job for a change. I’m sorry, did you tell us your name ...?’
I tossed up with inventing another false one. But what was the point? I’d probably never see her again. ‘Grace.’
‘Well, keep up the good work, Grace.’
She inclined her head. I had the feeling if I’d knuckled my forehead and murmured, ‘Yes, ma’am, very good,
ma’am,’ she wouldn’t have found it inappropriate. Instead I compromised with a half-bow from the kneeling position and stuck my nose to the wainscoting.
They went into Bridgeman’s office, but unfortunately left the door partially open.
By shuffling along to the next socket on my knees, I managed to click the padlock back into place, but I still needed to get the keys back in Ms Ayres’ desk and relock it.
I had a better view of the inner office from here. Stephen was scrolling through a document on the computer screen.
‘It all looks pretty clear next week. Although frankly, Joan, I’m not sure this is such a good idea.’
‘Why ever not? Amelia will expect some kind of celebration.’
‘But perhaps not a big party? She might prefer a quiet family do.’
‘Rubbish. She’s fifty. Why wouldn’t she want a party?’
‘Because she’s fifty.’
I caught the ironical note in his voice. But either the woman didn’t or she was so used to getting her own way she ignored it as unimportant. The latter probably. She looked the type who was supremely confident it was everyone else who was out of step.
He’d called her Joan, so presumably this was his mum-in- law: mother of the soon-to-be-embarrassed Amelia and a major shareholder in Wexton’s Engineering.
From my viewpoint by the next socket, I watched her watching the screen over Stephen’s shoulder.
I guessed she must be in her early seventies at least. But the sort of seventy who still had a good number of hours left on her time-clock. There was nothing frail about Joan Reiss. Her figure was slim rather than thin, her movements still brisk and easy. The skin on the oval face looked soft and well-nourished and the light-grey hair was swept back in a short, expensive cut to show off a still firm jaw-line.
Leaning over the desk, she was now tapping on the computer keys, causing other files to flash up on the screen. Judging by Stephen’s face, he’d rather she went back to discussing the birthday party.
‘The six-monthly position hasn’t improved a great deal, Stephen.’
‘We’re having the post-mortem on Sumata next week. The MoD are very impressed, we know that.’
‘And we also know they have no obligation to place the production order with Wexton’s. It was a mistake for you to devote so much time to that contract. The price hardly justifies it.’
‘Quarter of a million isn’t to be sneezed at.’
‘No. But when you consider the hours you put in ...’
‘I enjoyed it. Getting back to design, development ...’
‘It wasn’t the best utilisation of man-power in my opinion. You should have stuck to your original plan to pass it over to the design team as soon as they were clear of the medical contract ... Your time would have been more productively spent widening our customer base.’
‘Thank you, Joan. But I think you can leave the day-to-day running of the company to me, don’t you?’
Or, to put it another way, Mind your own business, you bossy old bat, I thought, silently snuffling round the wainscot in search of my next socket.
‘Obviously. Or I shouldn’t have supported your appointment as managing director when Derek died. However, as a major shareholder in the company, I think I must be allowed my contribution. And I feel we must look for new customers.
‘And I am, Joan. I am. Now, since it’s late ... and since we both want to get home ...’
‘I’ll stop interfering. However, I shall bring this up at the next board meeting. Perhaps Bertram knew best after all.’ At the mention of Bertram, I gave up any pretence of cleaning and strained to hear Joan’s next words. Which, regrettably, were: ‘Are you ready to leave?’
‘No. Can you give me ten minutes, Joan? There’s something I’ve remembered. Do you mind?’
‘Not at all. I’ll get those last dozen busy Lizzies in. May I have the car keys?’
Stephen dropped a bunch into her hand. ‘You don’t have to do this, you know. We could get in a contractor.’
‘Rubbish. I enjoy my little bit of gardening. It’s the only patch I’ve got since I moved into the flat.’
She swept out, bestowing another approving smile in my direction. I simpered.
As soon as she’d gone, I switched on the vacuum cleaner and howled around by Stephen’s door. He glanced up from his computer screen. I gestured closing the door and received a nodding agreement and a smile of gratitude.
I did a noisy circuit of the office. From the side window I could see the security guard heaving a bag of compost from the boot of a silver Mercedes. Joan Reiss was kneeling by the flowerbed, using a trowel handle to knock the busy Lizzies from their foam boxes. The two German Shepherds were sitting close, watching her with tongues hanging out. Perhaps it was the patch where they buried trespassers.
Pushing the hoover with one foot to keep the engine noise at ‘moving’ rather than ‘stationary’, I slipped the keys back into the indexer in Ms Ayres’ desk and relocked it. On an impulse I flipped open the heavy leather desk diary, and checked the entries for the week Kristen had disappeared. It all looked pretty routine.
There had been a progress meeting on Monday afternoon and two staff reviews on Tuesday. Wednesday was empty from Stephen’s point of view; I assumed the cryptic notes in pencil were Ms Ayres’ reminders to herself. ‘Ensure all papers ready for K.K.’ obviously referred to Kristen’s leaving documents. ‘Check A.B.’s hotel res. tomorrow’ was anyone’s guess. On Thursday they’d had ‘K.K.’s leaving presentation at three o’clock’ just before ‘Medsec tech mtg’ at 4 p.m. On Friday there was a note of a meeting with the MoD at 10.30 a.m., with a further ringed note: ‘See over 7 May’.
I took another circle of the desk with the hoover, whilst I flipped the pages to the following week and read upside down:
10.30: Sumata Progress Mtg:
Wg Cmdr. G. Daley Mjr A. Rolands Mr D. Simmonds Mr R. Reeves (Qual.)
Mr W. Oliver Mr A.B. Grant (Lunch bkd 1 p.m. White Hart)
The list had been crossed through and annotated: ‘Moved’.
Reading backwards I found the rest of Stephen’s week had been as boring as the previous one. Another staff review, more meetings, a telephone conference on Wednesday, an accounts review on Thursday. There were no social engagements; presumably he kept those on the computer diary he’d been reading through with his mum-in-law. Nor were there any handy little entries on the lines of ‘brick up test engineer in cellar - 4 p.m.' Whichever way you read it, the two weeks surrounding Kristen’s last days at Wexton’s had been routine.
Switching off, I rewound the hoover flex and headed back to base. As far as I was concerned, Wexton’s was clean enough.
‘Hey, you! Hang on!’
I looked back. Stephen Bridgeman was striding towards me holding a sheet of paper. The photocopied papers from Kristen Keats’ file crackled against my stomach. Had I left one in the copier? Or perhaps one had dropped out of my trouser leg during my crawl round the skirting board?
I took a deep breath and prepared to lie like hell.
‘Are you looking for more hours?’
‘What?’
‘My wife’s looking for a cleaner. If you’re interested.’
‘Well ... I, er ...’
‘She pays a good rate. Better than you get from the cleaning company, I would imagine. Shall I get her to give you a ring ... discuss it ... you can always say No if it doesn’t suit you.’
‘I ... I don’t have a phone.’
‘OK.’ He folded the paper he was holding, and scribbled a number on it. ‘Here. That’s my home number. Amelia’s there most days. I’ll tell her to expect you ... Grace, you said? Is there a surname to go with it?’
‘Smith. Thanks.’
I pushed the number in my pocket and heard the photocopies stuffed down my knickers crackle. Bridgeman didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just assumed I was into bizarre underwear.
It didn’t matter anyway. I didn’t expect to see him again. With a
ll the information I had on Kristen now, tracking her down should be a breeze.
CHAPTER 18
By Friday night icy fingertips were beginning to do some really serious tap-dancing down my spine. Henry was right. There was something odd about Kristen’s disappearance. Things weren’t adding up.
I’d got Nola to drop me off near the office after our cleaning stint on Thursday evening. I wanted to phone the Bayswater number on Kristen’s file.
The lilt of the Indian subcontinent sang down the wire, accompanied by the heavy beat of a bass amplifier in the distance.
‘Night porter’s lodge. Ravi speaking.’
The address on Kristen’s application form had just given a street name and number. I’d been assuming it was a private house.
‘Is that fourteen Endlecombe Street, Bayswater?’
‘So they say, ma’am. Although I am inclined to believe this might more accurately be described as Notting Hill.’
‘What are you? A hotel?’
‘That is indeed what it says on the sign. The Endlecombe Hotel.’
When I haven’t had time to prepare a cover story, I tend to fall back on the truth.
‘I’m a private detective. My name’s Grace Smith.’
‘Indeed? How extremely exciting. I myself am studying for a degree in psychology.’
‘So this is just a night job to help with the fees?’
‘Yes, indeed. Regrettably my parents are unable to provide the assistance they would wish to.’
We had a brief chat about the shortfalls in the government’s funding for higher education, plus Ravi’s ambitions to go into marketing eventually. All the time the persistent thump of the bass amplifier got louder, until it was joined by several voices running through a collection of Anglo-Saxon swear-words and what sounded like someone being thrown down the stairs. And then total silence.
‘Is that something you should go sort out?’
‘Not at all. My duties are to open the front door for residents and to report any deficiencies in the plumbing so that the management may ignore them.’