Grace Smith Investigates

by Liz Evans

  ‘Right. And how long have you been doing this, Ravi?’

  ‘Since my course commenced at the beginning of last September.’

  So he could have been there during the end of Kristen’s tenancy. I explained to Ravi that I’d traced her to this address prior to her more to Seatoun.

  ‘I really need to get in touch with her. Don’t you have some sort of booking-in system?’

  ‘People come to the desk and ask for a room. We give them a key if they have the price.’

  ‘That’s it? You don’t get them to fill out a form?’

  ‘We have a register.’

  ‘Great, well, Kristen would probably have checked in early last summer, I think ... I wonder if you could just ...?’

  He could. He did. She wasn’t there.

  ‘But she must be. If everyone signs the book.’

  ‘Oh yes indeed. In fact, flipping through these pages I find that even Miss Sharon Stone, Mrs Margaret Thatcher and Mr Wyatt Earp were required to leave their signatures.’

  ‘So Kristen might have been incognito?’

  ‘I’m sure Miss Cognito would have been quite acceptable.’ Kristen, however, had received at least one letter from Wexton’s whilst she was staying there.

  Ravi explained that mail was left on a board in the front lobby until it was collected or withered with age and dropped to the floor.

  ‘What about credit-card receipts. Perhaps she paid by one.’

  ‘I consider that unlikely. Most of our guests pay by cash. A credit transaction would require a degree of trust that is sadly lacking in this establishment.’

  I got the message. The hotel management were as dodgy as the guests. I thanked Ravi for his help and wished him good luck with the degree.

  ‘And to you too, Ma’am. I trust your search meets with success.’

  I told him I was sure it would. Thereby inviting the fates to kick me in the teeth. Which they promptly proceeded to do for most of Friday.

  I worked backwards; most recent contacts first.

  The Central Register of Charities had no address for Third World Initiative Teams. The woman explained that it was possible the agency wasn’t registered in Britain, but she’d see what she could find.

  I left a number and moved back a step in Kristen’s life to the now defunct Okranshaw Electronics, whose ex-managing director was currently running a craft shop in St Ives.

  ‘Hardly remember the girl, to tell you the truth. Quiet little thing. Took her on as a favour to Tony, far as I can remember. Went to college together, I think.’

  ‘Tony?’

  ‘Tony Brown. My chief acquisitions executive. Buyer to you and me. Gave them all fancy titles instead of raises.’

  ‘Do you know where he is now?’

  ‘Africa, or South America. Somewhere like that. Went off to get in touch with himself. I don’t know why he bothered. I had to get in touch with him most days, and believe me, it generally wasn’t worth the effort.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you have a home address for him?’

  ‘Haven’t got a home address for any of them. Burnt all the files when the business went belly-up.’

  ‘Is that legal?’

  ‘Who cares? If someone wants to sue me they’re welcome to try.’

  ‘But you must remember something about Kristen. You wrote her a reference.’

  ‘Write the same reference for anyone who asks. Now if that’s all, I’ve got a delivery of pixie pottery due to arrive any second.’

  AD Aerospace at least had Kristen’s details on computer. Posing as an old university friend, I asked if perhaps someone up there was still in touch with her.

  The girl in human resources thought it was unlikely. ‘That whole division was downsized.’

  ‘You mean they were made redundant?’

  ‘The jobs were redundant, not the people,’ she reproved gently.

  ‘But it was the people who got kicked out?’

  ‘Well ... yes.’

  The administration offices at Leicester University were even less forthcoming. They didn’t give out any information on students over the telephone. If I wanted to put a request in writing, they’d consider it.

  Her high school in Bath had amalgamated with another the year that Kristen had left and both sets of records had been placed on microfiche and sent to the county archives. The school secretary was equally happy to pass the buck and suggest I put my request in writing.

  As a last resort, I stuck a handkerchief over my nose and mouth and through a barrage of simulated sneezing and sniffing asked the receptionist at Wexton’s if she could put me through to Bertram.

  ‘I’m so sorry. You’ll have to speak up.’

  ‘Bertram ... I want to speak to Bertram ...’

  ‘Bertram who, would that be?’

  ‘He said ... achooo ... said he worked at Wexton’s ... atishoo ... Bertie ...’

  In italic letters she denied they had anyone working at Wexton’s with that name. And she really thought I must have the wrong company.

  I was inclined to think she was right. Hanging up, I looked at my watch with disbelief. It was lunchtime. A whole morning and nothing to show for it but a sore ear. Was I losing my touch?

  ‘Never had one, did you?’

  I hadn’t realised I’d spoken aloud. Taking my trainers off the desk and uprighting the chair, I twisted round to find Janice, the receptionist from hell, standing in the doorway in her usual vampire array of black and silver. Today it was long cheesecloth dress, lace-up boots and ansate-shaped ear-rings that brushed her shoulders.

  ‘I been trying to buzz you for ages.’

  ‘I had a lot of calls to make. Business.’

  ‘Yeah, well I didn’t think you had that many friends.’

  ‘Did you just pop up to flex your bitching muscle, Jan? Or is there a reason for this visit?’

  She extended a slip of paper. ‘You got a message. On the phone.’

  I got a lot of messages on the phone. But if Janice intercepted them, I generally didn’t find out until days later. I read:

  Jason thinks he’s on to a place locally that will suit Andrew and Fergie. Be in touch soonest.

  For a moment I suspected it was a wind-up from Janice. Looking up, ready to trade a few more well-chosen insults, I surprised an odd expression on her face. It took a second to recognise it: friendliness. It was bizarre.

  I glanced back at the incomprehensible message. And the light went on. Jason, the twelve-year-old estate agent, was still searching for a flat to house my Vietnamese pot-bellied pigs!

  I looked back at Janice. She ground a Doc Marten into my floorboards. ‘It’s not really, is it ... you know ... the real ones?’

  ‘Is it likely I’d be looking for a flat for royalty, Jan?’

  ‘No. Well ... I didn’t really think it was. Just ... you know ... they have hideaways, don’t they?’

  ‘On Highland estates and Caribbean islands, Jan. Clapped- out seaside towns is taking the drive to give the plebs value for their taxes just too far. Why the interest? You a royalty groupie?’

  ‘No, I’m not. It’s just that ... I want to be famous.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘How’d you mean?’

  ‘What are you planning to do? Sing? Dance? Act? Nude sword-juggling?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that. I just want to be famous.’

  ‘So appearing at a few royal premieres as “mysterious brunette companion” would be a good leg-up. Well, I’m afraid Andy and Fergie are pigs; the trotter and bacon chop variety ...’

  ‘Oh. Yeah ... well... didn’t think it was really them, did I?’ Her usual expression reasserted itself. A subtle blend of boredom and contempt. Swinging away, she shouted back from the landing: ‘That blind bloke rang too. Summer ... something ... wanted to know how you were doing.’

  Henry accepted my lack of progress philosophically.

  ‘Can’t be helped, m’dear. Forward planning only as good as intelligence received, eh
?’

  ‘I’m really sorry. Normally, given the amount of background I’ve got on the subject, I’d have expected to be able to bring you something ... but Kristen seems to have a lot of past but no visible future.’

  I winced as I realised what I’d just said. Beano, who’d padded over to rest his jaw on my legs, jumped in sympathy.

  Henry, who seemed to have superhuman powers of hearing, suggested we not start that again.

  ‘I’m blind. Not visually challenged or whatever other mealy-mouthed rubbish they’ve cooked up these days. A spade’s a spade, so let’s not pussy-foot round the damn subject.’

  He sounded bitterer than I remembered from our previous encounters. Perhaps it went like that: some days acceptance; others an unreasoning anger at what the Fates had dished out.

  Abruptly I said: ‘Are you totally blind, or is there some vision? Light and dark, for instance?’

  In response he put down the coffee pot, and whipped off his glasses. I stifled a gasp. His left socket was empty; the lid shrivelled above the useless hole. The right eye was still there, but an old scar ran diagonally across it, the keloid skin raised and puckered where it had healed.

  He held his face full on mine for a moment and then replaced the glasses without comment.

  ‘Sorry’ seemed inadequate. So I simply asked him what he wanted me to do about Kristen, since it seemed fairly clear she’d left the area of her own accord.

  ‘Find her, of course.’

  ‘Are you sure? I mean, I’ve spent a lot of time on this already ...’

  ‘You say she was having an affair with this Bridgeman fellow ...?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it that strongly ... I mean, it’s just cleaners’ gossip. There doesn’t seem to have been anything definite, except the fact they both worked late together.’

  ‘Nonetheless, it would seem worth a recce.’ He’d risen whilst he was talking and made his way across to the sideboard. Opening a drawer, he took out a leather wallet and extracted a fold of notes. ‘There’s another five hundred there, count it if you like. If it proves insufficient, please tell me. But I want you to find Kristen. Do we have a deal?’

  ‘Deal, Henry.’

  Next stop was the public library. I photocopied the numbers of all the Keats in the Bath area telephone directory. Since there were only three, I got all the Keates with an ‘e’ thrown in for my ten pence. In total there were fifteen numbers.

  Seven answered. And none of them had a relative called Kristen; or even the more mundane Christine, Christina or any similar-sounding name.

  I figured the rest were probably at work and decided to get back to them that evening. Which left me with several hours to kill.

  I hit the town. Well, somebody should.

  An early hint that the gloomy weather forecast might be wrong had melted away like butter on hot toast. The flat, sealskin-grey clouds that had been massing out on the horizon the previous evening had multiplied and boiled inland, carrying with them the promise of showers and a chilling north wind that had driven everyone off the beaches and into the amusement arcades, cafes and gift shops.

  I headed for the side street that contained Pepi’s, my all- time favourite cafe.

  The red Formica tables were packed, but I managed to bag one of the high stools in front of the serving counter, where I could inhale the delicious aromas of frying grease and onions.

  Shane - the owner - acknowledged my appearance with a quick burst of ‘Hard Headed Woman’ before bawling into the hatch: ‘Egg and chips twice and one scrounger’s special.’

  I didn’t mind. Freeloaders can’t afford to be oversensitive.

  Years ago Shane had been a rock singer. There were black- and-white publicity stills pinned over the cafe walls to prove it. A mean and moody Shane glowered from under an Elvis Presley greased hairstyle, whilst he posed aggressively in jeans and white T-shirt. The hair had long gone, but he still had the wardrobe. It was just six sizes larger now.

  A loaded plate with fried food overhanging the edges was banged down in front of me and napkin-folded cutlery slid within reach.

  ‘Shane. I love you, let’s elope.’

  I added salt, vinegar and a generous dollop of glutinous red sauce from the huge red plastic tomato, and dived into cholesterol heaven.

  Behind me the level of noise was rising to ear-aching level. A lot of the customers were kids who were half-term happy and yelling across to their mates at other tables.

  A slightly more upmarket screech caught my attention. Its owner was reading out the plot on the back of a dvd. Twisting round, I located the four girls at one of the window tables. The voice I’d recognised belonged to the girl who’d been helping her drunken friend back to school the other night.

  The mate was there too; her wavy hair now blonde rather than white in the cafe lighting. And squeezed in beside her, sipping at a can of Coke, was Bone. She saw me at the same time as I recognised her.

  ‘Hey, Smithie ... over here!’ She didn’t exactly click her fingers, but the implication was there.

  I deliberately sauntered over very slowly; acting like a bolshie kid could be infectious.

  Bone used her hip to shift up the blonde and make room for me on the seat.

  ‘You were supposed to phone me on the mobile.’ She tapped the phone, which was resting on the table.

  ‘It’s a tricky report. I thought it best to talk face to face.’

  ‘Oh? OK, I understand.’

  The blonde leant forward beyond Bone. ‘Are you really a private detective?’

  Bone jumped in before I could answer. ‘I told you she was, didn’t I, Livia? And you needn’t start fishing, you nosy cow; this is well private, got it?’

  ‘You broken up for half-term now?’ I asked quickly, since I didn’t fancy refereeing a teenage cat fight.

  ‘This morning. Are we going to watch this dvd or not, Claudia?’ Bone demanded.

  The redhead who’d been précising the plot, shrugged. ‘Molly doesn’t fancy going back to your uncle’s place. She says he feels her up.’

  The fourth girl flushed and ducked her head.

  ‘Well, she’s got to go back, we’ve dumped all our stuff there. Unless you’re planning to go to France without your luggage, Moll?’

  Molly shook her head. Claudia kindly informed me that her parents had a converted gite in Brittany. ‘We have to drag over every holiday and make like we really adore playing tennis and swimming in the pool and all those draggy things. It’s such a bore.'

  ‘Must be,’ I sympathised. ‘Er ... Bone, could I have a quick word? In private?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Locking us both in the one-cubicle ladies’ loo, I filled Bone in on the situation with Tom Skerries and told her it was unlikely he’d be around for Claudia’s party.

  ‘What’s his address?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve paid you, haven’t I? I’m entitled to any information you’ve found out.’

  ‘No you’re not. You’re entitled to what you paid for: Tom Skerries’ location. And at present that’s in hiding somewhere until people stop wanting to kick his head in.’

  In the wash-basin mirror, I saw the muscles of Bone’s jaw tighten. ‘I still want to know where he lives.’

  I tried reason. ‘Look, Bone, his wife’s got enough problems. She’s on her own with three kids and a bloke who takes off whenever he gets a bit bored with rusks and disposable nappies. Give her a break, eh?’

  ‘I paid you. I want him. He promised he’d come to the party.’

  To hell with reason; I got tough.

  ‘Listen, he’s not there but his sister-in-law is. And she’s got a nasty temper and a fast right hook. You aren’t going to look too great at the party with busted teeth and a broken nose.’

  At least that made her think. I could see the indecision flitting through her eyes whilst she gnawed her bottom lip. But she was a stubborn girl.

  ‘He has to come. I’ve told everyone he’s taking me.’
/>
  Everyone being Claudia and Livia, I guessed.

  ‘I’ve hired a dinner jacket for him and everything.’ She gave me a pleading look and repeated: ‘I’ve told everyone. I’m going to look well cretinous if he doesn’t come now. Here.’ She pushed more banknotes at me.

  Refusing money goes against my principles. ‘If I don’t flush him out before the party, I’ll refund this, OK?’

  Back at the office, five more Keates with an ‘e’ answered my calls and disclaimed Kristen. I stuck the other three numbers on my jumper to remind me to try again and then decided I might as well check Janice’s answerphone before I went home.

  It’s located under her desk downstairs. She normally switches it on if there’s no-one in the building when she leaves, and writes up the messages the next day. The winking green light showed three calls had been picked up. Sorting out a pencil and pad I listened to a solicitor needing a court order served (I bagged that one); an anxious breeder who’d lost a pedigree bitch (a natural for Vetch, I decided, slipping the details under his door); and the woman from the Charity Commissioners apologising for the fact she could find no trace of the Third World Initiative Teams.

  So another day down the line and still Kristen refused to give up any part of herself. It was definitely odd. If I hadn’t had an eye-witness description of her from her neighbour, I’d almost have been inclined to believe she didn’t exist.

  I re-set the machine and was just punching the security code into the building alarm when the phone buzzed. After the recorded message had ground through its usual invitation, Annie’s voice filled the hall.

  ‘Just letting you all know I’m still alive since I’ve got time to kill before my dinner date turns up ...’

  Grabbing the receiver, I told her to spit out all the details.

  ‘Hi, Grace. Don’t get excited; I was just trying to dispel the office rumour that I have a sad social life. The date’s with my sister. She’s flying up to Leeds for the night. Perks of working for an airline. And speaking of siblings, have you seen Zeb recently? I keep trying to ring him, but I’m beginning to get the feeling he’s avoiding me. Any idea why?’

  Probably because he knew damn well he’d blurt out he’d let two squatters into her flat. He’s a rotten liar; I can’t think how he got past the police entrance exam.