Grace Smith Investigates

by Liz Evans

  The compere leapt on stage again. ‘Right, ladies and gentlemen ... now the moment you’ve all been waiting for ... In the red corner ... our very own ... Miss Nola Baldwin ...’ Nola sprang to her feet and raised her fists, twisting from the waist to all four corners of the room.

  ‘And in the blue corner ... from the Springhill Working Men’s Club ...’

  I missed the name of the skinny blonde with pecs who rose from her seat to a storm of cheers and boos. With an arrogant sweep of a two-foot mane of peroxided glory, she eyeballed Nola, then sauntered to the stage.

  Squaring her shoulders, Nola slouched forward.

  ‘It’s a grudge match,’ Bonnie explained.

  ‘I thought it was karaoke.’

  ‘It is ...’

  It was ‘Do You Wanna Dance’ with attitude. A two-minute bout each and enough aggressive body language to intimidate a horde of Mongols.

  Donna wriggled her way past our knees. ‘I’m going to pee.’ She looked directly at me. ‘It’s out back if you want it.’

  I could take a hint. I hooked my bag and followed her between the ecstatic crowds who were urging Nola on.

  The loos were cleaner than the rest of the club would have led me to expect, but tiled in an incongruous shade of turquoise and decorated with dolphins.

  ‘Nice, ain’t it?’ Donna said, touching a fin. ‘Tom done it. He’s ever so good with his hands.’

  ‘Looks like a swimming pool.’

  The words left my mouth before it occurred to me that that was probably exactly what the tiles had been intended for ... before Tom Skerries diverted them.

  The heat in the bar had raised a pink flush on Donna’s cheeks. Now it deepened to a hot chilli. ‘He does it for me ... and the kids ... to get us out of this place. He ain’t bad ... honest. He’s going to get us a bar ... abroad ... somewhere warm. We’re gonna run it together ...’ She broke off as the outer door was pushed open.

  Bonnie shot past us and rushed into a cubicle. ‘I’m bursting.’

  Donna fixed pleading eyes on me. ‘He loves me and the kids really. He likes to think he can pull any girl he wants. But it’s just talk. Nola thinks I’m daft to put up with it, but she don’t understand ... she’s never had a proper boyfriend ... not one who loved her ... and Tom does love me ...’

  She’d seized the swinging bunches and was now twisting them round and round her hands in a nervous frenzy, until she’d formed two coils on the top of her head. ‘This girl, the one wants you to find Tom ...’

  She fixed pleading eyes on me. I told her what she wanted to hear. Just a kid with a crush. And was rewarded by a brilliant smile.

  ‘That’s what I thought. He’s always got kids hanging round him when he works on the estate.’

  ‘This one’s got more money than sense. Don’t get phased by it, Donna. I don’t think she even fancies your Tom, to tell you the truth ... it’s just a case of showing off to her mates. Girls like to do the pulling these days, you know.’

  Donna’s smile became even wider. ‘Always did, didn’t they?’ Pulling her bag across her stomach, she delved inside. ‘I was wondering ...’ She took out a purse. ‘How much do you charge? To find people, I mean?’

  ‘People being Tom?’

  The bunch twisting restarted. ‘Yes. I mean, I know he’s gonna come back soon ... but he don’t usually stop away this long. Not without ringing me up to let me know he’s OK.’

  ‘How long’s he been missing?’

  ‘Nearly a month.’

  ‘He didn’t say anything? Tell you he was blowing?’

  ‘No. He just never come home. First off I thought maybe he’d got a job away. He does that sometimes, see? Works late and then sleeps over in the van. But he’s never done it for more than a week before.’

  ‘Had you had a row?’

  ‘No. We’ve been getting on dead good lately, honest. He was really working hard to get some money together so we could have our own business.’

  ‘Did he take anything from the flat?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Clothes, money, passport, CD collection?’

  ‘He keeps that sort of stuff in the van. Case he works away. Not the CDs, course ... he don’t have ...’

  I interrupted quickly. ‘OK, I get the picture ... he just drove off into the sunset one day and never came back ... drove where, do you know?’

  ‘No. I took Liam and Pierce up the school and then I went up the shops with Shannon. He’d gone when I come back. I’d got him shepherd’s pie for his tea, too. What do you think I should do?’

  ‘Stick it in the freezer.’

  ‘No ... I never meant ...’ Enlightenment that it was a joke chased across her face. She smiled uncertainly and extended the purse in an unspoken question.

  ‘Forget it, Donna. I’m already being paid to find your husband. If I get any joy, I’ll let you know same time as my client. OK?’

  ‘OK. Thanks.’

  ‘You really can’t think of anyone he might have gone to see?’

  She couldn’t. She’d rung family, friends and acquaintances and there was no sign of her wandering boy.

  The crash of the cistern reminded us both that Bonnie was still in the end cubicle. She emerged and trotted to the basins, rubbing her stomach. ‘Curry.’

  Donna backed towards the door. ‘I’d best get back. I gotta support Nola.’

  I’d have followed her out if I hadn’t felt the gentlest pull on the back of my jeans; as if a finger had been hooked in the waistband. I turned a tap and put my hands under the stream, massaging liquid soap in until I heard the outer door close. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Balls,’ Bonnie said, ripping down a slightly less grubby section of the roller towel.

  ‘Could you elaborate a bit here, Bonnie?’

  ‘Tom. That van. Shag city.’

  ‘Did you and he ...?’

  ‘No way. Tried, though.’

  ‘And you think that’s where he’s at now?’

  Bonnie nodded. Peering into the mirror, she spat on her finger and smoothed it over her eyebrows. ‘Never said. Donna’s a mate. But I saw her ...’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘God, this is like pulling hen’s teeth, Bonnie. Could you take a deep breath and go for a sentence of more than four words? Who did you see and where?’

  She faced me, hands planted firmly on hips plastered in blue leather skirt. ‘I dunno. I took my Hannah up the square to get some balloons for ’er birthday party. We was watching the street entertainers ... some of them are dead brilliant... and I saw Tom up there.’

  ‘In the post office getting his tax disc, yes?’

  ‘Yeah. But first off I saw his van. And she was in it. Squashed down the passenger seat, she were, like she didn’t wanna be seen.’

  ‘Could have been someone he was giving a lift.’

  ‘Nah. I don’t reckon. I saw him, didn’t I? He was dead pleased with himself ... reckoned he was on to a good thing, it was all over his face. Never said to Donna, she’s a good mate ... but he’s off with her.’

  ‘Did you tell Nola?’

  ‘Nah. Tell Donna, wouldn’t she? Always rubbing her face in it what a loser Tom is. It’s ’cos he never fancied her.’

  ‘I’d worked that out, thanks, Bonnie. What date’s your Hannah’s birthday?’

  ‘First of May.’

  The day after Kristen disappeared. It was a stupid idea, but I asked Bonnie what this woman had looked like. ‘Dark-haired? Pretty?’

  ‘Dunno. She had a cap on, Tom’s I think, so I never saw her hair. And she had her hand up to her cheek. Sort of leaning on it, hiding her face. Why? You know her?’

  ‘How can I tell? We’d best be getting back, hadn’t we? The match must be on round ten by now. We wouldn’t want to miss the knockout.’

  I thought I was joking. Until we opened the doors back into the bar. A riot-control squad would have felt at home.

  They’d squared off. On the far side of the room we
re the home supporters, judging by the chant of ‘Nolaaa ... Nolaaaa ... Nolaaaaa ...’

  Those nearest were punching the air to an unintelligible chorus.

  Somewhere in the middle I could see the barman mouthing something which was probably along the lines of ‘The police are on their way.’

  But I never got to find out. As our side of the room surged forward, we got carried with them. I saw someone throw a punch at Rachel and stagger back as she seized a drinks tray and dented it on his head. The wig slipped over her eyes. Worried that she was going to get seriously hurt, I used my weight to force a path through the scrum in front of me.

  Monday morning I woke up in Rachel’s spare bedroom with Balthazar asleep on my stomach and a soaking wet tea towel lying over my nose.

  Sitting up, I found that the bed was one of a pair of bunks, by the simple expedient of banging my head on the top one. Rachel appeared in the door as I cursed, rubbed my head and struggled to take off a pale-blue nylon nightdress that was clutching at me from all directions.

  ‘Darlin’, how do you feel?’

  ‘Bloody lousy,’ I admitted. My voice sounded a bit strange, but I put it down to the nightie which was coming over my head at the time. ‘What habbened?’

  ‘You got hit. But you wouldn’t let me take you to the hospital, so those nice girls from the club helped me bring you home.’

  ‘Sorry. I suppose I should have guessed ib might get violent. Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine, darlin’. I haven’t had so much fun in years. You want a nice cooked breakfast?’

  ‘Ib you’re offering.’ My voice still sounded nasal. And my nose seemed blocked. I went to pinch it and sniff in order to clear it. A violent shaft of pain shot up my sinuses.

  ‘Don’t do that. You’ll make it bleed again.’

  The warning was too late. Large spots of blood were materialising on the nightdress. ‘Have you got a mirror?’

  ‘In the hall.’

  Not really wanting to know, I padded barefoot down the corridor in my knickers and stared into the wall mirror.

  A gargoyle stared back at me. The swelling blob in the centre of my face that had once been my nose was flanked by red bruising which was turning to purple under my eyes. From the holes a steady drip of blood fell and splashed on to my breasts.

  Rachel peered over my shoulder. ‘I put ice cubes in the tea towel to stop the swelling, but it don’t look like they worked too good. Maybe you should have a little lie-down. I’ll bring you breakfast in bed.’

  ‘Thanks, Rachel. Bud I can’t. I god a job interview.’

  CHAPTER 20

  ‘Dorry I’m a bid late.’

  ‘Are you? Gosh, I hadn’t really noticed. This place is such a madhouse when the sproglets are on holiday.’

  The section of house I could see behind Amelia Bridgeman appeared relatively sane to me. It was a low, long building that looked like it had originally been built as a farmhouse. A left-hand wing had been added more recently, but the spreading Virginia creeper had already obliterated most of the joins. The double garage to the right wasn’t quite as easy to disguise, but the builders had done their best, even to the extent of roofing it with the same weathered and mossy roof tiles as the original house.

  Once it must have been a comfortable ten-minute horse-trot into the village for the farmer, and half an hour in the opposite direction if he wanted to sample that new-fangled sea-bathing from the town beach.

  But over the past fifty years the town had crept outwards over the farm fields until the village was no more than a back suburb of Seatoun. The Bridgeman’s house was the oldest in an exclusive stretch of detached properties linking the town housing estates with the cluster of old village cottages.

  I was late getting there because there had been a two-hour wait in the A & E department. After prodding and squinting at my nose, the doctor had delivered his opinion that it was badly bruised but probably not broken. I finally left with gauze padding taped across the swelling lump and the darkest pair of sunglasses I could find perched on top of the dressing.

  Driving up to the Bridgemans’ house, I’d been rehearsing plausible explanations for my appearance. I needn’t have worried. The woman who swung the heavy metal-studded door open was sporting the fading evidence of bruising below her eyes.

  ‘Mrs Bridgeman? I’mb Grace Smith ... I phoned ... about the job ...’

  Her lips, frosted in pink, dropped open, revealing a set of the finest teeth private dental insurance can buy.

  ‘Hi! Did you have an auto accident as well? Isn’t that an amazing coincidence?’

  Once again my famous powers of deduction were dropped on from a great height. Had I been asked to guess at a description for Amelia, I’d have gone for a younger version of her mother: Jaeger suit; Gucci-style loafers; gold and pearl jewellery sufficiently discreet to announce it was the real stuff; hair and make-up by Blend Into the Well-Heeled Crowd Inc.

  In real life Amelia’s size-ten rear was poured into blue jeans. Her size 34A breasts were bouncing under a silky white top that showed off her light-golden tan. Several slim silver chains round her neck were outshone by a heavily chased silver bangle studded with turquoise clasped around her left arm. Her blonde shoulder-length hair was expensively tousled and her make-up was of the frosted-bimbette variety.

  Aware that I’d been staring, but forgetting I’d got the sunglasses on so she couldn’t see anyway, I said quickly: ‘Great nail varnish.’

  Another giggle was accompanied by a tossing of the locks. ‘Isn’t it fabulous? Everyone’s wearing it on the coast.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Not this coast.’ Amelia spread her hand and wriggled the fingers. ‘The West Coast. I’ve been out in LA for weeks. Have you ever been there? It’s just fabulous. The lifestyle’s so different.’

  ‘It’s one I missed.’

  ‘You must go. I got the jewellery there too. It’s handcrafted Indian work. What do you think?’

  She waved the bracelet.

  ‘Fabulous,’ I murmured.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ she gurgled, oblivious to the send-up.

  I discovered that if I took a deep breath and spoke slowly, I didn’t sound like I was talking into a bucket. ‘How long were you there?’

  ‘Oh, weeks. I was visiting my daughter. You know how kids are. Just step on a plane and land up in some other continent. I only got back a couple of days ago.’ She squinted at a tanned arm and asked me if I thought it was fading already. Before I could answer, she tossed the mane again. ‘Well, I guess you’ll want to see round. Grace, wasn’t it? Call me Amelia. So, where shall we start ...?’

  She opened the door to the left of the front entrance. ‘Sort of television room.’

  The door was closed before I had more than a quick glimpse of a casually furnished, low-ceilinged lounge with an open fireplace and a cabineted TV and dvd player in one corner.

  The next room was designated ‘the library’. Unsurprisingly it had bookshelves around three walls and a desk thrust up under the window. The door opposite led to a rambling kitchen floored with expensive Italian terracotta tiles and furnished with an Aga, several Welsh dressers holding assorted china services and gleaming copper pans, a small pine table and a butcher’s block on wheels. The storage racks were full of those odd-shaped bottles of vinegars and oils with suspended herbs and veg floating in them like laboratory specimens. The sort of last-minute present you buy for the amateur cook who’s got everything, when someone else beat you to the latest Delia Smith. I gave one to my sister only last Christmas.

  Amelia trotted round with me on her heels. She waved a hand into an archway, so that I could see that what had probably been the original larders now housed a washing machine, drier and freezer with enough controls to run the Starship Enterprise.

  ‘This is the kitchen,’ Amelia announced.

  I couldn’t resist it. ‘Gosh, really?’

  She took it well. ‘Yeah, OK. That was pretty silly. Look, I’ve got a gr
eat idea: how about I just lead the way, and you ask questions if you want to?’

  She didn’t wait for an answer, but swung away with a wiggle of that flat little bottom. Annie would have killed for it.

  The back of the house had been knocked through into one long, narrow room. The far section held a couple of sofas and easy chairs. This nearer end had the dining table, presumably because it had the best view through the French windows to the patio and back garden.

  ‘This is great,’ I said. And I meant it.

  ‘It is, isn’t it? We usually spend our time in here. When my husband isn’t lost in his study, that is.’

  Bridgeman’s study turned out to be in the far end of the newer wing. The room before it was another sitting room, but larger and more expensively furnished than the one behind the front door.

  ‘Stephen’s study is a real no-no,’ Amelia said in that breathless, dippy-little-me tone. ‘But I guess it’s the same at the factory. Is that Ayres woman still guarding him like a piranha?’

  I mumbled something about only being temporary at the factory. Amelia was already running up a staircase at the far end of the wing. The main bedroom was in this building, together with the en suite bathroom and a separate loo. No expense had been spared to make them look like a set for Hollywood Wives, right down to the sunken bath with the gold taps shaped like seahorses.

  The top of the original house held three more bedrooms and a couple more bathrooms. I got the tour at dizzying speed, while Amelia giggled and wiggled her way back to the top of the main staircase and down to the front hall.

  I had to admit she looked pretty good for fifty. If I hadn’t known it was her half-century this week, I’d have put her age at fifteen years younger.

  The doorbell rang as we reached the hall.

  ‘Oh gee, he’s here already. Is that the time’

  Amelia’s blue eyes narrowed assessingly as she squinted into a compact she’d taken from a small shoulder bag hanging over the staircase newel. ‘What do you think? More foundation?’