by Liz Evans
Sitting forward, I rested my forearms along my knees and said: ‘Isobel, if I describe someone to you, could you tell me if it rings any bells?’
‘Very well.’
I mentally gathered together what I knew of the fake Kristen. ‘Mid to late twenties. About five feet eight inches tall. Dark hair to the shoulders. Pretty. In great physical shape. Likes Charles Dickens. Can be good company when she chooses, but equally capable of playing things close to her chest. Sufficient engineering knowledge to pass as a test engineer in an electronics company. And ...’I added, recalling the receptionist at Wexton’s Engineering who’d discussed Leicester public houses with ‘Kristen’, ‘she’s probably spent some time living in the Leicester area.’
‘That’s Julie Francis,’ Isobel said promptly. ‘She always insisted on the full double-barrelled pronunciation of her Christian names.’
So not Julie Francis, but Julie-Frances.
‘What’s her surname?’
‘Keble. Julie-Frances Keble. That’s how she and Kristen met. They shared a room in the halls of residence their first year at Leicester. The rooms were allocated on an alphabetical basis; Keats - Keble.’
‘And after the first year?’
‘One of those shared student houses in a place called Earl Shilton.’
‘So they got on OK?’
‘Oh yes. They got on.’
There was something about her tone that invited me to probe further. So I probed. Isobel agreed she hadn’t much cared for her daughter’s friend.
‘It’s hard to say why. Kristen brought her here to stay one holiday. As you say, she could be good company. But there was something ... perhaps it’s just the benefit of hindsight, after what happened ... but she went out with one of our neighbours one evening. Philippe Martin. He’s in his sixties.’
‘Some girls go for the mature type.’
‘Yes. I wasn’t being judgemental. Philippe is a widower and his private life is his own business. It’s just that ... she made him pay. One hundred pounds.’
‘He told you?’
‘No. She did. She was quite open about it. Said she needed some books for her course. She said it was all very well for nice middle-class girls like Kristen who had parents to bail them out when the grant ran out, but she had to hustle cash where she could.’
‘Didn’t she have any family?’
‘Her parents died when she was very young. She was raised by an elderly aunt who died the summer before Julie-Frances started university.’
‘What about other friends?’
‘I don’t believe so. I daresay there were other students she mixed with ... but I gained the impression that Kristen was her only close friend.’
‘Did either of them, Kristen or Julie-Frances, ever mention a Bertram?’
‘I don’t think so. Who is he?’
‘I wish I knew. Was Julie-Frances reading engineering as well?’
‘Yes. She was, I believe, considered exceptionally talented by her tutors. She would undoubtedly have obtained a first- class degree. Unfortunately she never graduated.’
‘How come?’
‘She was arrested.’
CHAPTER 24
Apparently, at the beginning of her final year, Julie-Frances had taken a weekend trip to the continent. It was supposed to last three days. In Julie-F’s case it turned into free board and lodging at Her Majesty’s expense for a couple of years.
‘There was cocaine in the car. The man she was with claimed to know nothing about it. He said Julie-Frances had smuggled it in without his knowledge. She said it belonged to him. The jury didn’t believe her.’
‘Did you?’
‘Kristen did.’
‘And you?’
‘I’m not certain. The man was older ... a businessman from the Midlands. He’d never been in trouble with the police before. Whereas Julie-Frances ... she was short of money ... and if someone had paid her ...?’
‘He could have taken her along as cover. Somewhere to dump the blame if he got stopped at Customs.’
‘Yes. That was her defence.’
‘What happened to the bloke?’
‘He was cleared of the charge. But as things turned out, it did him little good. He died of a massive heart attack two days after Julie-Frances was sentenced.’
‘Did Kristen keep in touch with her? After the sentencing?’
‘They wrote.’
‘Would she have known about Kristen’s ...’I hesitated.
‘Death, Grace. I have no patience with euphemisms. Kristen has not passed over or gone to eternal rest. She has died. To answer your question - yes, there was a letter waiting when we came back from ... from seeing to Kristen. Julie-Frances had just been given the date for her release. She came to see us. I was quite touched. She was the only one of Kristen’s friends who’d bothered.’
‘When was this?’
‘Last August. The week after the flower festival.’
Her eyes turned to where her husband was nodding amongst the early flowers. He looked so still he could be dead. One day I guess he would be.
‘Can I see Kristen’s papers?’
‘Come with me. I’ll show you.’
They’d been pushed into an old concertina-type cardboard file on Kristen’s wardrobe shelf. A few clothes still swung on dusty hangers; they were all conventional outfits, nothing too revealing, too bright or too outrageous. This wasn’t a girl who’d ever worn a pink suede mini-skirt.
‘She slept in here,’ Isobel said softly. ‘In Kristen’s room. I stood in the door and watched her. For a moment, with her hair spreading out over the pillow ... it was as if Kristen had never left.’
‘They were alike then - physically?’
In answer, Isobel reached across and dipped into an end pocket of the file. She emerged with a clutch of photographs and selected one.
They were sitting on a low stone wall in front of a three- storey building. The fuzzy groups of youngsters in the background suggested it had probably been taken somewhere on the university campus.
I didn’t need to ask which was which. The girl to the front sat with her fingers linked over a long flowered dress that touched her lace-up boots. Crinkly brown hair framed a smiling face that had Charles Keats’ eyes. The girl behind was leaning back on one hand, her long legs stretched out to show the expanse of tanned skin between the shorts and the trainers. Only the hair was wrong. The ragged cut hung to her earlobes.
‘Did she grow her hair?’
‘Yes. It was far longer last summer.’
The resemblance between the two women was superficial, but close enough. It was odd to be looking at a picture of ‘my’ Kristen. I’d been chasing a ghost for weeks and now suddenly she’d become flesh. I strained at the glossy print, trying to make some contact with the two-dimensional image.
Isobel had been continuing to investigate the file. ‘I can’t find Kristen’s passport. Or her driving licence. And her degree certificate has gone too.’
‘Birth certificate?’
‘It wasn’t in here. It’s in my papers.’ Isobel made to stand up.
I pulled her down. ‘I shouldn’t bother. It’s easy enough to get a copy. What about a cheque book? Or pass book?’
‘I have those too. There was a problem. The bank and building society were converting or merging or something. And with Kristen dying abroad, there was quite a bit of confusion.’
Which may have been why Julie-F hadn’t risked opening an account in Kristen’s name yet. Best to let the dust settle first in case anyone recognised the name.
‘Why has she taken them, Grace?’ She fanned other prints over the bed, touching her daughter’s face in each. ‘Is she about to commit another crime?’
I pointed out that Julie-Frances’ reasons might be completely the opposite. ‘Not everyone’s anxious to employ an ex-con. Especially once the word “drugs” is mentioned. A lot land up back inside because in the end the only people who’ll give them a break are the low
-lifes who put them inside in the first place. Maybe Julie-Frances needed a clean background so that she could go straight.’
‘Then why are you investigating her?’
‘Not investigating. Tracing. She’s missing.’
‘Isobel? Isobel, where are you? I can’t find the shed. Who’s taken the shed, Isobel?’ The querulous voice drifted through the partially open sash window.
‘I’m sorry. He thinks he’s back in Bath. I’m coming, Charles.’
I followed her downstairs slowly. By the time I reached the garden she’d resettled him into the high-backed deckchair ‘Can I help?’
‘No thank you. I can manage. I was just about to fix some lunch, if you’d care to ...?’
‘Who’s she?’
‘This is Miss Smith, Charles. Remember, you met her earlier?’
‘What does she want? Is it an emergency? I don’t do extractions on Saturday.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s a bad day. It’s because we were talking about Kristen earlier.’
‘I’ll go. Thanks for the help.’
‘Will you let me know if you find Julie-Frances?’
‘Sure.’
She saw me out of the back gate. It was let into a low stone wall that bordered a narrow, pavement-less road. The weather was kinder than on the mainland. The sun was beating down in a steady flow that sparkled off the windows and made the stones warm to the touch. A couple of tourists wandered past, licking ice-creams and studying a book entitled Walking the Channel Islands. They were forced to swerve apart to avoid another wanderer in blue chinos who had his head buried in a large open map.
Isobel shook hands formally and thanked me for coming. ‘Are you sure you won’t stay? Your return flight isn’t for some hours.’
‘No. Thanks. I’ll do a bit of sightseeing. I could use the exercise. There is just one thing ... you don’t remember the name of the man who was caught with Julie-Frances, do you?’
‘William Carr. I believe his businesses had got into financial trouble. Julie-Frances’ counsel tried to convince the jury that the drugs were supposed to clear his debts. Unsuccessfully, as it turned out. I don’t think the people he owed money to were ... very pleasant.’
‘You haven’t got any names, I suppose?’
‘No ... at least ... would you excuse me a moment?’
She disappeared into the cottage. I watched the blue chinos turn down a short street that led to the tiny quay. A breeze had caught the map and it was wrapping itself round his head and shoulders. He was still twisting and pirouetting as he disappeared from my sight and Isobel re-emerged.
‘Here you are ... it’s the only one ... I found it tucked in a book.’
Isobel held out a thin envelope addressed to Miss K. Keats. The postmark was four years ago. ‘I meant to throw it away. I keep meaning to get rid of so many things, but somehow ... what’s the point ... they’ll clear it all out someday soon.’
I thrust it in my jeans pocket, promising to send it back. Isobel told me not to bother. ‘Goodbye, Miss Smith. And good luck.’
‘Bye. And thanks again.’ She was standing at the gate when I reached the end of the road. Raising my hand, I shouted back: ‘I’ll ring you as soon as I find her, Mrs Keats.’
There was a signpost saying ‘Cliff Walk’ and pointing up the road. It was only a light gradient, but I felt the pull on the backs of my calves. I was definitely going to have to do something about getting back in shape.
From up here you could see down on to the tiny harbour with its toy-town boats bobbing and jostling on their mooring line, and the beach with a few sunbathers already spread out like raspberry-pink starfish.
I climbed a little further and looked down on to the zig-zag road below. The two walkers had finished their ice-creams and were now following my footsteps with the grim determination of dedicated masochists. Beyond them, the blue chinos was ambling along at a leisurely pace, adjusting the angles on a natty white cotton hat that still had its price tag dangling from the brim.
The path scouted the edge of a tiny field raised into earthen ridges that sprouted rows of greenery. My veg comes from frozen food cabinets however, I dredged up a vague memory of visiting allotments with my dad and decided these could be potatoes.
Pleased to have cracked the back-to-Mother-Nature bit, I approached the sea path with swinging shoulders and head held high. The beaten track plunged along between overgrown hedgerows. Behind me the walkers’ voices were carrying clearly on the still air, chattering loudly as they plodded towards me.
There wasn’t going to be room to pass on the narrow path, so I moved ahead at a faster pace. The dark-green bramble-bounded path was liberally sprinkled with the ever-present wild flowers. I hadn’t a clue what they were, but judging by the snatches of voices drifting along the path, my fellow walkers were amateur botanists. Every clump was greeted with loud exclamations and a Latin name that was three times longer than the plant.
I glanced back. Their matching bright-red jerseys and green breeches were bobbing and bowing to each bank as they discovered new delights. In front of me the hedgerows gave way to an open path that curved along the edge of the cliff.
Towards the seaward side the land fell away in clumps of golden gorse to a sheer drop; on the left-hand side it climbed to the cliff top in a bank of newly green ferns, their frothy leaves waving and dipping gently in the whispers of fresh sea breezes.
I took my sunglasses off for a moment to squint into the light glittering from the waves. The bridge knocked a healing bruise, reminding me it was still there. It occurred to me that the Keats had been the first people I’d met since the fight at the club who hadn’t commented on my injuries. Perhaps it was just good manners, or maybe, as Isobel had said, they were untouched by much of life now.
Finding myself a large rock amongst the ferns, I sat down and pulled out Julie-Frances’ letter. It seemed to have been written whilst she was being held on remand.
Dear Krissy,
How’s life in the free world? This place stinks. I can’t believe they wouldn’t give me bail. I just keep finding more disadvantages to being an orphan. I bet if I’d been able to produce a nice respectable mummy and daddy (retired professional, no less!) they’d have let me go.
Not that I can imagine Aunt Florrie welcoming a jailbird into her sanctuary. The old bat would probably have been saying Hail Marys on the court steps and sprinkling me with holy water as they locked me in the prison van.
My solicitor says it will be at least six months before the case comes to trial, if I’m lucky (lucky! Six months is fast-track service, would you believe). Ask one of the law lot if I can sue for being stuck in here for half a year, would you?
I’ve got a new room-mate. Supposedly sliced up a bloke with a razor. But she loves him really. I write her love letters for her. Very descriptive, it’s certainly given me a few ideas for when I get out!
It’s a pity Bill can’t read them. It would probably turn the boring old fart on. Nothing much else did. You should have seen him acting the hard man in Paris: ‘Heh, garcon - champagne and don’t bring me any domestic rubbish.’
Where does he think champagne comes from, for heaven’s sake - Peru?
You remember all those hints he’d been dropping about owing money to ‘heavy people’. Well, we met one. He was on the ferry dock at Dover checking out the cars. Honestly, Krissy, he was about as intimidating as a munchkin. All muscles and dialogue courtesy of Bob Hoskins playing a small-time gangster.
‘Don’ think you can bottle out on me, Carr ... I got friends who got friends. Don’ matter where you run, we’ll find you.’ (The whole speech to be delivered with clenched fists, clenched teeth and clenched bum.)
If Bill had had any sense he’d have got out and given the silly little twerp an ache to go with his name. Instead of which he’s matching him clench for clench and telling him not to worry, he’d got it ‘sorted’. It was all I could do to keep a straight face. I nearly told him to forget it there and then. I
would have done if I wasn’t two months behind with my bloody rent.
My solicitor says Carr is going to instruct some top-drawer barrister. He’s broke but he can afford to pay fancy fees, unlike Cinderella here who’s stuck with legal aid.
If you really mean it about visiting me, can you bring me some shampoo and conditioner? And some cigarettes (decent brand) - they’re useful in this place.
Anyway it looks like I’ll miss Christmas in Jersey. What do they do for New Year?
Best of luck with the job-hunting.
Julie-Frances.
I made a note of the only really useful point in the letter and then lay back in the ferns watching the clouds scud across the eggshell-blue sky. A hawk or some-such was hovering above the headland. It hung nearly motionless, with just the slightest adjustment in its wing angle to maintain its position.
The botanists tramped by, still loudly pointing out assorted flora to each other. The bird seemed undisturbed by their passage.
I lay still, listening to another set of footsteps approaching. The bird suddenly closed its wings and dropped.
The feet were opposite me on the path. Raising my head fractionally, I glimpsed blue chinos through the angle of my feet.
The hawk rose into the sky again. Something squealed and struggled in its claws.
I sat up quickly. ‘Hello, Mr Bridgeman.’
Under the stupid white cotton hat, Stephen Bridgeman turned a startled face in my direction.
CHAPTER 25
‘Oh, there you are, Miss Smith - or are you someone else today?’
‘Should I be?’
‘I’ve no idea. But you do seem to be a versatile girl: tax official, cleaner, waitress. Is there any limit to your talents?’
‘If there is, I’ve never found it. Mind you, there are those who reckon there’s no beginning to them.’
I grinned and stood up. Dusting down the seat of my jeans, I suggested we continue the conversation in a more conducive atmosphere.
‘Conducive to what?’
‘Conducive to lunch. I hope you brought plenty of cash; you’re paying.’