by Liz Evans
As we made our way outside, I asked her where the odd nickname had come from.
‘My brother Theo. He used to call me Eleanora-bone when I was little. Ellie-gnaw-a-bone, see?’
I saw.
We were threading our way back along the winding paths between the shrubbery. It was a couple of hundred yards to the house, but even from this distance the sound of two voices, one shrill, the other calm, drifted from the open upstairs windows. Most of the words were indistinguishable, until Amelia’s angry instruction to ‘Leave me alone and stop interfering!’ rang clearly over the rhododendrons. ‘I don’t want a damn party. How dare you make plans without telling me!’
‘Don’t be silly. Of course you want some kind of celebration. I’ve already sent out the invitations.’
‘Then you can just damn well unsend them. You’re always doing this. When are you going to stop running my life for me, for God’s sake!’
They passed beyond the open window, their voices blending again into an amalgam of calm reason and shrill accusations.
‘Wonder what that’s about,’ Bone remarked.
I told about the birthday party her gran had just arranged for Amelia’s fiftieth.
Bone gave a shriek of laughter. ‘God, that’s brill! She’ll hate it!’
Amelia had struck me as a party animal. I said as much to her daughter, who nodded. ‘Oh, sure. Normally. But not with that face. Serves her right!’
‘Why? Was she responsible for the crash?’
Bone swung round, walking backwards in front of me. ‘Don’t tell me you fell for that stupid car-crash story?’ She took her hands from her pockets and seized the skin on either side of her forehead, drawing it back to give her eyes an Oriental slant. ‘She’s had a face-lift, hasn’t she.’
‘Has she?’
‘Of course she has. She had to. She’s menopausal.’
‘I don’t think it’s obligatory.’
‘It is for her. She’s always pretending to be younger than she really is. Did she tell you she’d gone out to California to see my sister Charlotte?’
‘She mentioned it.’
‘Bet she gave you the impression Char was just a kid.’
I had rather got the idea Char was a student or something. Apparently not.
‘She’s twenty-eight,’ Bone informed me scornfully. ’She’s just had her third kid. That’s supposedly why Mummy went out there. But since Char wasn’t due until last week there was no need for Mummy to fly out on the first, was there?’
‘Some babies come early.’
‘Char’s don’t. And anyway Mummy came home two days after the latest sprog arrived. Hardly the doting grandmother. She had a face-lift because of Daddy. She’s dead predictable. I mean, Char’s twenty-eight, Theo’s twenty-one and I’m fourteen.’
She paused. Plainly I was supposed to deduce something from this. I failed her. With an exasperated sigh, she pointed out that there was seven years between each of them. ‘She landed him by getting pregnant with Char, and then popped out another one of us whenever she thought he might be getting the seven-year itch. She thinks he’s like Harrison Ford or someone and all these other women have the hots for him.’
‘And do they?’ I asked. If Amelia’s suspicions were correct, it would seem to reinforce the cleaners’ theories vis-a-vis Kristen Keats and Stephen Bridgeman.
‘No. I mean, I expect he may have fancied a few other women. Married blokes do fancy playing away sometimes, don’t they?’ she said with a knowing sigh. Then rather spoilt the woman-of-the-world act by adding that her dad wouldn’t actually, you know, do anything. ‘It’s all in Mummy’s mind.’ I pointed out that there was a flaw in her seven-year theory, since Patrick didn’t look seven to me.
‘He’s nine. But that was the year Grandad Reiss died and left his share in the company to Daddy. I daresay Mummy thought he would take off now he was the one with the money. So she popped out Patrick to keep him in line.’ ‘Sounds like dodgy planning to me. A screaming baby is more or less guaranteed to drive some blokes out.’ They certainly seemed to have that effect on her erstwhile boyfriend Tom. But not Stephen Bridgeman, apparently.
‘Daddy likes us,’ Bone said with supreme confidence. ‘We’re the most important people in his life. And now she can’t get herself pregnant again, she’s starting having lumps of flesh chopped off instead. I think it’s pathetic. I’d never do anything as gross as that.’
We were nearly at my car. I’d been tossing up whether to risk asking about Kristen Keats or not. I decided to chance it.
‘Listen, Bone, I’m on another case at the moment, chasing up a missing person. You might know her.’
I gave her a rapid description of Kristen, not really expecting any recognition. But surprisingly enough, Bone nodded. ‘I saw her at the factory. She had this really neat pink suede mini-skirt. I wanted one, but she’d got it from one of those retroshops in London, sold genuine sixties stuff.’
‘When was this? That you saw her, I mean?’
‘Last Christmas holidays. Gran took us into Dover because Patrick wanted to watch the boats. God, he’s such a pain. I mean, like, we had hours and hours watching these grossly boring ferries and freezing our butts off.’
‘Why go then?’
She shrugged. ‘Nothing else to do. And anyway Daddy gave me some money so I got some new boots in the sales. On the way back Gran wanted to go into the factory to get something and she was there, with Daddy.’
‘Doing what?’
‘I don’t know. Working on one of those boring computer programs. Who’s looking for her?’
‘Just a friend. She seems to have gone missing.’
‘Honestly?’
‘Well, probably not. It’s more likely she’s just got bored and moved on.’
That was something Bone could relate to. I could sense she was already losing interest in a big way in Kristen. In fact, anything that didn’t directly relate to her own entertainment was pretty boring as far as Bone was concerned. Before we lost the thread altogether, I asked if she’d ever seen Kristen here.
‘Here? No, why should she come here? It’s not like she was a friend or anything. She just worked for us.’
‘Right.’ We’d reached my car by now. I’d parked it slightly to one side of the house because I didn’t want the double garages giving it an inferiority complex. I’d got the key in the driver’s door before Bone asked the question I’d rather been hoping she wouldn’t. Why was I working here as a cleaner?
‘Undercover. Can’t discuss it now,’ I snapped briskly. ‘OK?’ I gave her a straight we’re-all-women-together look.
Luckily she was still young enough to be intimidated. ‘Er ... yeah ... you’ll be in touch then?’
‘Sure. We’ve a contract, right?’
‘Right. Well, er ...’ Hands thrust once more into jeans pockets, Bone said she’d see me and slouched back to the house.
Relieved to have got out of that one so easily, I returned to coaxing the car door open.
‘She tells lies.’
The voice was so close to my ear that I felt my stomach bounce off the back of my throat while my heart boogied against my ribs. ‘Bloody hell,’ I gasped at Patrick. ‘How much do you charge to haunt a house?’
‘What?’
He was two inches from me, arms hugging a suspiciously lumpy chest, and a sulky pout letting me know he wasn’t happy with the world. I asked him who told lies.
‘Her. Bone. Gran didn’t say I had to come in at all.'
‘Yeah, well, that’s sisters for you, Patrick. We can be real bitches sometimes.’
‘And she lied about that Kristen lady. She did come here. She was a friend of Daddy’s. I heard them talking.’
CHAPTER 22
I took his hand in a gesture of encouragement. And to make sure the pesky little eavesdropper didn’t run off before he spilt the beans on his dad.
‘Are you making this up, Patrick?’
‘No!’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes. I heard then.’
‘Heard them where?’
The lashes fluttered downward. He ground his toes into the drive, hugged the lump beneath the jumper tighter, and muttered he didn’t know.
‘I knew you were making it up.’
‘Am not.' The eyes flashed up again. ‘She was talking to Daddy in his study, I heard them.’
‘When was this?’
‘Long time ago. Before Christmas.’ The drive got the toe- grinding routine again.
I took a guess. ‘Bunked off school, had you?’
He nodded, eyes still on the ground. ‘It was double rugby. We always have games Friday morning. I hate games. I’m no good at it. They all laugh at me.’
I felt a twinge of sympathy for the kid. He was a very young nine, not like the streetwise kids on the Downs Estate. And those almost girlish features didn’t help.
‘So you came home. How’d you get here?’
‘Bus.’
‘And your dad was here? With Kristen?’
‘Yes. He wasn’t supposed to be. I didn’t think anyone would be here. Mummy used to go to her health-club place on Fridays.’
‘Did they see you? Daddy and Kristen, I mean.’
‘No. I just heard them. Daddy was cross. He said he was working at home that morning because he wanted a bit of peace and quiet and she shouldn’t have come bothering him. And then she said she had to because he wouldn’t listen at work. And Daddy said she’d still have to go but he’d speak to her tomorrow morning. And then when it was tomorrow, he went to play golf. And he only goes to play golf with his friends, so that Kristen lady must be his friend, mustn’t she?’
‘You could be right, Patrick, but I think it might be best if you kept that a secret.’
‘Why?’
‘Because sometimes people like to have secret friends.’
‘Oh?’ He considered this, swaying as he cradled the woolly lump to his heart. The pressure squeezed it out of the V top of his sweater. It was a mobile phone.
‘Is that yours?’
‘No. It’s Bone’s. I took it. I’m going to hide it where she’ll never find it.’
‘I couldn’t borrow it first, could I?’
He demonstrated how to feed in Bone’s security number. I phoned the office on the off-chance something had happened during my housework shift. For once it had: Jason thought he’d found me a flat that would suit Andy and Fergie.
‘He wants you to ring him so he can fix up a trot-around. His cruddy joke, not mine,’ Janice informed me. ‘And Annie rang. She wants you to call her back.’
‘Did she say why?’
‘Said she’d got that address you wanted.’
‘What address?’
‘I dunno, do I? Some girl’s. Can’t remember the name.’
My brain finally clicked into gear. ‘Kristen! Did she say Kristen?’
‘Dunno. Might have been.’
‘Tell me, Janice, does being totally apathetic come naturally to you? Or do you have to work at it?’
‘I couldn’t be bothered.’
Patrick watched with interest as I punched in the number for directory enquiries and then realised I didn’t know which hotel Annie was staying at in Leicester. Janice didn’t know either when I called her back again. Or if she did, she wasn’t telling me.
In desperation I dialled the local police station and asked for Detective Constable Zebedee Smith. A voice so thickly steeped in Glaswegian dialect even Billy Connolly would have needed sub-titles to crack it, asked how it could be of assistance?
‘Zeb?’
‘Oh it's you.’ The home counties accent replaced the Celtic brogue. ‘I thought it might be Annie.’
‘Well if it was, she’s not going to be fooled by the lousy disguise Zeb. I take it the squatters are still in residence?’
‘Yes. The girl reckons she’s pregnant. You think she’s feeding me a line?’
‘I doubt it. She told me too. And she’s not squatting in my sister’s flat.’
‘Oh god. You have to be so careful these days. You know how funny the public can net about police brutality ... maybe I should just leave it to Annie.’
‘Good thinking Zeb. After she’s finished chucking them out, she can come round and knock your teeth out for letting them in the first place. And speaking of Annie, have you got the number of her hotel in Leicester?’
‘Why? You’re not going to phone her!’
‘Don’t panic Zeb. It’s strictly work. Now cough it up.’
I wrote the number in the dirt on the car bodywork. Twisting his head sideways, Patrick chanted it aloud as I dialled the Holiday Inn.
Miss A Smith wasn’t in her room, nor answering the hotel tannoy system. Leaving an urgent message for her to contact me, I clicked the phone shut and threw it on the passenger seat.
‘Are you going to steal Bone’s phone?’
‘What? Oh no, sorry.’
‘I don’t mind. I was going to bury it.’
‘You little rat, I knew it was you. Give it back.’
Bone burst out of the back door. Grabbing the phone from my hands, Patrick sprinted away with his sister in pursuit and screaming insults.
I dropped back to the flat first and got rid of the stink of disinfectant by changing into my second-best outfit of seventies flared jeans with natty material inlets and a fluffy orange and pink jumper. The hotel confirmed that Annie hadn’t returned, so I figured I’d earned a meal break.
The fridge, I discovered with regret, still hadn’t learnt to breed food (bugs in an odd shade of green - yes; food - no.) It was a toss-up between hitting the supermarket again or dropping into Pepi’s. Pepi’s won by about ten lengths.
The depressing weather was lifting slightly in response to the last few hours of the Bank Holiday. One of the deckchair stacks had been de-sheathed from its tarpaulins and the kids’ roundabout was circling to sounds of tinkling organ music. Out on the wet strand, December’s donkeys were picking their sure-footed way amongst heaps of olive-coloured seaweed.
I walked the length of the promenade, mooched down the main shopping street, mingling with those weekenders who’d stuck it out to the bitter end, and approached Pepi’s via the back streets.
It wasn’t that I liked the scenery, but I wanted to confirm what I’d suspected ever since I left the flat. I was being followed.
I was nearly at the cafe’s front door before I remembered that it was shut on Mondays. Only it wasn’t. The tell-tale steam over the windows was definite evidence of habitation. I pushed my way through the lovely greasy fug to the counter where Shane was wondering at the top of his lungs why he had to be a teenager in love whilst he dusted powdered chocolate over mugs of cappuccino.
‘Afternoon, Shane. How come you’re open?’
‘The customers are a right picky bunch. Don’t like eating on the pavement.’
‘Lucky you became a singer. You’d never have made it as a comedian.’
‘Those who are hoping to scrounge freebies should not mock.’
‘Thanks for offering. Can I have one of those cappuccinos?’
‘Best ask the bloke who paid for them. Back in a tick.’
The jukebox switched tunes. ‘Ain’t true love a wonderful thing ...’ Shane sang, sashaying between the crowded tables with his tray of coffees.
I watched his jeans-clad rear bouncing around like a couple of sacks of gravel. The coffee customers were at a table by the window. As Shane reached them I took my eyes off his bum for a second and flicked a quick glance through the condensation covered glass. My tail was just sauntering past.
‘So why are you open?’ I asked when Shane jigged his way back.
‘Always open Bank Holidays. And the missus’s teeth always play her up. Family ritual, you might say. She went home half-hour since. So if you want feeding, Smithie, get yourself the other side of this counter.’
‘I’m not a waitress.’
‘I know. But I can’t afford
to be fussy. Here y’are. And d’ya mind sticking the shades back on, there’s people trying to eat in here.’
I’d forgotten the damage to my nose. Tentatively I touched the bruising. It seemed slightly less tender than a few hours ago. But I was going to have to take care. My nose had only just recovered from a previous assault on my last case, and if it kept getting mushed like this, my little lecture to Bone on the subject of permanent disfigurement could come horribly true.
Shane lifted the counter flap. I stepped through. Why not? I had time to waste until I could get hold of Annie, and the deal included free food and phone.
Disappearing into the back kitchen, Shane left me to call the orders through the hatch, dish out the drinks and fry up on the front burners when we got busy. I phoned Annie every twenty minutes, leaving the cafe’s number, until the hotel switchboard operator and I were on first-name terms.
The temperature started to creep up. A heavy woolly wasn’t the best clobber for a fast-food chef. I could feel the sweat trickling down my back and was just wondering whether I was desperate enough to whip the thing off and borrow Shane’s vest when I spotted a familiar green coat approaching the door.
My first thought was that Annie had finished in Leicester and driven down this afternoon. This was swiftly followed by - not unless she’s discovered a diet that shifts about four stone of blubber in two weeks.
I stuck my head in the glass display case, rearranging the few cakes we had left, until she’d hitched herself on to a counter stool.
‘Hello, Mickey. I thought I recognised the coat.’
‘Oh! I ... er ...’ She flushed bright pink and clutched Annie’s coat around her thin frame.
‘I’d take it off if I were you. It’s boiling in here.’
‘What? Oh yes, all right.’
She carefully folded the coat inside out and laid it with exaggerated care over the next stool. ‘I took ever such good care of it, honest. And I’m gonna wash the other things.’ Her fingers fiddled nervously with the collar of a blouse Annie had bought in a sale last summer.
‘Figgy not with you?’