Grace Smith Investigates

by Liz Evans

  ‘Why should I wish to do that?’

  ‘Because you’ve been following me around since I left your house after my cleaning stint yesterday, so I figure you’re keener on my company than I am on yours.’ I indicated the cliff path. ‘Back to Rozel or forward to wherever?’

  Wherever turned out to be Bouley Bay. We sat at the beachside cafe munching through a large plate of mixed sandwiches, double apple pie and cream and two strawberry milkshakes (Stephen had mineral water and a cheese toastie).

  Once my stomach had stopped rumbling, I asked: ‘Did you really spot me as a phoney when I was playing Shona, terror of the tax office?’

  ‘Not then, no,’ Stephen admitted. He stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. ‘It was when you reappeared as an office cleaner and Joan and I found you near the cabinet with the personnel files. Even then I wasn’t certain, but I thought I’d better find some way to keep you in view, so to speak, until I could check you out.’

  ‘So you offer me a home-based stint with the lav cleaner. Very neat, but why not just follow me that night?’

  ‘It would have been difficult to explain to Joan why I suddenly had to take her car again.’

  ‘The silver Merc is your mother-in-law’s? I thought it was yours.’

  ‘No. Mine was off the road that day.’

  ‘What do you drive?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘Same colour?’

  ‘No. It’s dark blue. Could we get back to you, Miss Smith? And why you’re interested in Kristen Keats.’

  ‘Why are you?’

  ‘I asked first.’

  ‘True, but I’m the one with the answers and you’re the one who wants them, remember?’

  We eyeballed each other over the white metal table. I wasn’t being entirely honest. I was deeply interested in why the managing director of Wexton’s Engineering should be interested enough in a former employee to follow me all the way to Jersey. But I figured I’d done my bit when it came to sharing information; I’d practically wrenched out my vocal cords bawling out those flight details over Shane’s Elvis impression so that Stephen could take them down under the cafe table.

  There had always been the slight possibility his interest was personal; maybe he had a fetish for skinny blondes in rubber gloves. But it looked like my first guess was correct - it was my attempts to trace Kristen that were of interest to Bridgeman. If so, why?

  He evaded the question again. ‘Were those her parents? She never said she came from Jersey.’

  Probably because ‘his’ Kristen hadn’t. ‘What did she talk about then?’

  ‘Work mostly.’

  ‘Even when you were cosying up together?’

  ‘Look, Miss Smith - not that I believe that is your real name ...’

  ‘Well, you’ve got me there, Stephen. I don’t know how you spotted it, but you’re dead right.’ I leant forward and lowered my voice confidentially. ‘My parents did not christen me “Miss”. Heaven knows why, but there you are. It’s Grace. The Smith bit is kosher. Brownie’s honour, Stevie.’

  ‘It’s Stephen, if you don’t mind. And you still haven’t told me why you are looking for Kristen.’

  ‘Snap.’ I took a noisy suck of the last millimetre of my strawberry shake and reminded him we’d got as far as him meeting Kristen out of hours.

  ‘I don’t know where you got that impression ...’

  ‘You were seen,’ I said, embroidering Patrick’s eavesdropping slightly. ‘Saturday morning. Playing around with Krissy instead of a number nine iron.’

  ‘I wasn’t. Look, I don’t know what you’ve been told, but it wasn’t like that. I simply met her for a drink. To sort things out.’

  ‘What things? And why couldn’t you sort them out at work?’

  ‘I was concerned she might make a scene. You know how people get the wrong idea - no smoke without fire.’

  ‘And Kristen wanted to be the flame to your firelighter, did she?’

  ‘She’d been coming on to me ever since she started work at Wexton’s. It was quite subtle at first. She’d brush something off my jacket or adjust my tie when we were alone in the test area. Or lean against me when we were reading a print-out. It was nothing I could specifically object to. Not without seeming ... well ... rather prissy. Do you understand what I mean?’

  ‘Absolutely. Welcome to the wonderful world of sexual harassment, Stephen.’

  ‘Look, I’m not denying I was flattered.

  What man wouldn’t be? Kristen is a very attractive young woman, and discovering that you’ve, well….’

  ‘Still got what it takes to pull?’

  ‘In so many words ... yes. But I’m not stupid. If I started anything with someone who worked at Wexton’s, how long do you think it would be before Joan found out?’

  ‘What do you think she would have done if she had caught you out?’

  ‘There was nothing to catch out.’

  ‘Hypothetically. Would she have told your wife?’

  ‘I don’t know. Possibly. No. Joan has great faith in her own abilities. It’s more likely she’d have bawled me out and got rid of Kristen.’

  ‘This is Kristen who resigned suddenly and for no apparent reason, is it?’

  He caught the drift of my scepticism. ‘No. Absolutely not. I’ve told you. There was nothing going on and hence nothing for Joan to discover. I met Kristen that one time outside work and told her straight out that I wasn’t interested. She either behaved appropriately in the office, or she started looking for another job.’

  ‘How did she take it?’

  ‘Philosophically. Told me there were plenty more fish, et cetera et cetera.’

  ‘And after that, no more touchy-feely in the office?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Were you surprised when she quit?’

  He shrugged. ‘People do.’

  His glance swept around the bay and over waves with the blue-green sheen of peacock feathers. A group of divers had waded out from the beach and were bobbing in the swell; in their wetsuits they looked like a collection of seals in fluorescent face masks. ‘I should prefer to live here rather than Seatoun,’ he said abruptly.

  ‘Wouldn’t we all. Don’t you have to be stinking rich before they let you in?’

  ‘Are Kristen’s parents wealthy? I assume that was her family you called on earlier?’

  ‘So you should, Stephen. I yelled the name loud enough to be heard on the French coast.’

  ‘Have they seen her?’

  ‘No,’ I said truthfully. ‘Kristen’s parents haven’t seen her for some time. And I don’t think you ever answered my original question. If you’re not stuck on Kristen, how come you’re prepared to follow me across the Channel just to see if I’ll turn her up?’

  ‘Because Kristen ... em ...’ The words seemed to get stuck in his throat. He used the passage of a motor cruiser across the mouth of the bay to gain himself a few seconds. With its engine thrumming, it drove silver-white wings in front of its bow until eventually it disappeared behind the headland to the next bay.

  ‘Because Kristen ... em ...’ I prompted.

  He dragged his eyes back from the ocean. ‘Because,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘the little bitch has ripped me off.’

  My initial assumption, that Julie-Frances (a.k.a. Kristen) had had it away with the payroll or something was quickly squashed by Stephen.

  ‘How the devil could she have done that? It’s a cashless world, haven’t you heard? Who the hell uses money these days?’

  Well, Julie-Frances did for a start. But I saw Stephen’s point; Wexton’s, like most companies these days, used the Bank Automated Clearing System to pay salaries and invoices.

  ‘The only money lying around is fifty pounds or so in the petty cash,’ Stephen snapped. ‘Do you seriously think I’d be wasting my time running after fifty damn quid?’

  ‘So what are you chasing? What has Kristen got her sticky fingers on?’

  Stephen flashed an anxious
look around the cove. Apart from the students from the dive school, there were just a few walkers wandering aimlessly along the road that curved round the beach, and a noisy party saying loud goodbyes at the door of the Water’s Edge Hotel after what sounded to have been a boozy lunch.

  ‘I don’t think we’re being bugged, Stephen.’

  ‘No. Right. Look, I really need to know who you’re working for.’

  ‘What makes you think I’m working for anyone? Maybe I’m looking for Kristen on my own account.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘No.’ I weighed up the odds of Stephen telling me anything else unless I answered his question - and decided they weren’t good. ‘I’m a private detective. I was hired by an acquaintance of Kristen’s who was worried she hadn’t been in touch for a few weeks.’

  ‘What acquaintance? Where?’

  ‘That’s confidential information.’

  ‘I’ll buy it. How much?’

  ‘I don’t work like that. You hire me, you get what you pay for. And in this case, the client wants complete confidentiality.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They’re the shy type.’

  ‘Listen.’ He leant his forearms on the table and fixed me with the sort of heh-let’s-put-our-cards-on-the-table-and-work-this-thing-out look that must have gone down a storm in the boardroom. ‘We might have mutual interests. I mean, if we’re looking for Kristen for similar reasons, it would make sense to pool our knowledge and work together.’

  I pointed out I still had no idea of his reason for wanting to find her.

  ‘I told you, she’s stolen something from me. From Wexton’s, to be exact.’

  ‘Be even more exact. If it’s not cash she’s taken off with, what is it?’

  ‘Information.’

  ‘Valuable?’

  ‘Reasonably so. But that’s not really the problem. The thing is ... it relates to a government contract. If it were to turn up in the wrong place ... well, it could be very embarrassing.’

  ‘Do you think that’s the idea ... a dash of revenge for you telling her to keep her knickers up?’

  ‘How the hell should I know? I just want the damn stuff back, before it gets into the wrong hands.’

  ‘Foreign governments, that sort of thing?’

  ‘What? No. It’s not particularly sensitive. I mean, Sumata is not military-orientated ... it’s ... well ... how much do you know about computers?’

  ‘I flunked Sonic the Hedgehog.’

  ‘Right. Well, in very simple language, it’s an intelligent node that controls the electronic functions within a building. It’s not a particularly advanced idea. There are already commercial stations available that will do the same job, and frankly the government would probably have saved a fortune if they’d simply gone out and bought one off the shelf. But they don’t work that way. They prefer to spend large sums of our taxes having machines designed to specifications that have been created by committees that would be hard pushed to put a plug on a toaster.’

  I sensed we were mounting a hobby horse of Stephen’s here, and unless I got off fast we’d be off over some Grand National grievance course.

  ‘Did you go round to Kristen’s flat?’

  ‘What? No. Well, yes. Once. After I found the files were missing. But I couldn’t get any answer. The bitch had already left.’

  ‘What about before? Didn’t you pick her up from the flat the day she left Wexton’s?’

  ‘Pick her up. No. Why the devil would I do that?’

  A large, dark-coloured four-door car, Rachel had said. But she’d also said it was raining and the driver hadn’t got out to help Kristen with her luggage.

  ‘No reason. Just testing. So what do you reckon Kristen’s plan is? I mean, if the files aren’t that valuable ... what’s her motive? Leave you looking like a berk when you can’t deliver to the government?’

  ‘I have delivered. Several weeks ago.’ He shrugged. ‘There were other file copies.’

  ‘So where’s the panic?’

  ‘I’ve told you. It could be an embarrassment for Wexton’s. If she were to pass the files to a journalist ... You know how they can blow the most stupid stories up, create something from nothing ... the files have government stamps on them ...’ Taking off his hat, he thrust a hand through his hair, leaving furrows in the dark strands. ‘It’s tough enough in this business nowadays without ending up on some unofficial black list because our security’s a joke.’

  ‘You’re quite certain it was Kristen who took this stuff? I mean, someone else at Wexton’s couldn’t just have used her resignation as a blind to nick the files around the same time?’

  ‘No. It was her.’

  ‘Why so certain?’

  ‘The files were stored in my personal cabinet in my office. She left her company security badge in one of the drawers, OK?’ Stephen snapped.

  ‘Deliberately?’

  ‘Probably. I’m sure she wouldn’t have wanted me to miss the point. Listen ...’ He took my hand. ‘Your client ... if Kristen has stolen something from him ... or is it her ...?’

  I removed the hand. ‘I didn’t look.’

  I smiled. He glared. We were at stalemate again. And it was his move.

  ‘I’ll retain your services. To find Kristen. And my files. I assume you have no objection to working for two clients at the same time?’

  ‘None at all. Double fees are always acceptable. But you might find calling the police cheaper.’

  ‘No! I don’t want the police involved. At all. Is that quite clear?’

  ‘Crystal. Does anyone else at Wexton’s know these files are missing?’

  ‘No. I told you. They were in my cabinet. And I want to keep it that way. You’re not to approach anyone else at Wexton’s with this information.’

  ‘What do the files look like exactly?’

  ‘They’re on a CD disk.’

  ‘Like music discs?’

  ‘Yes. Just like that.’

  ‘Well, that should narrow it down. There’s probably only a few million floating around out there.’

  ‘Find Kristen and you’ll find the damn files, I’m certain of that.’

  I guess it was the moment I should have told him that Kristen had metamorphosed into Julie-Frances last summer. Particularly since he handed over a thousand-pound cheque as an advance without a murmur. But loyalty to Henry made me hold that little gem back. As my first customer, I figured Henry had the right to hear the bad news first. So instead I asked Stephen what he’d already done to locate Kristen.

  Not much, was the answer. Apart from that abortive visit to her flat, he’d rung the Bayswater flop-house that was listed as her last address and got nowhere. And he’d rung Heathrow airport.

  ‘Why there?’

  ‘She said something about flying from there. A holiday.’

  It was the first fresh piece of information I’d had for some time. I pressed him for more details.

  ‘I don’t know, do I? Just abroad. The Far East somewhere, I think. The airlines wouldn’t tell me anything. They don’t give out passenger information.’

  His hair got the furrowing treatment from all ten fingers this time. I watched the way the ridges retained their shape. He must gel it. I wondered whether he dyed it as well.

  ‘I just didn’t know where to start.’

  ‘Horses for courses, Stephen. I promise not to design computers and you leave the missing persons trace to me. How about her salary cheques? She had no bank account. She must have got someone to cash them. Maybe a guy called Bertram.’

  ‘We arranged for her to encash them at the branch that handles Wexton’s account. She originally asked to be paid in cash, but of course that was quite impossible. Bertram’s is the company that originally had the Sumata contract. Before the government took it off them.’

  ‘Took?’

  ‘Bertram’s ran it way over budget. Mainly because their chief designer was in the middle of some kind of breakdown and no one liked to mention it.
The bloke was a genius but totally off his trolley at the end, frankly. Anyway, the government finally terminated their contract and passed it to Wexton’s.’

  ‘Would they have any reason to contact Kristen?’

  ‘We had to check things occasionally. Old test programs mostly. It’s normal practice.’

  ‘Oh.’ I’d been hoping to impress Bridgeman with my nifty footwork and incisive insights into the case. Instead of which I’d charged down a couple of blind alleys and kicked the wall.

  Stephen glanced at his Rolex. ‘The return flight’s in an hour. I suggest we make a move.’

  I was all for that. It meant he paid for my return taxi to the airport.

  We parted company at Heathrow.

  ‘How do I get in touch with you?’ Stephen asked, feeding in coins to validate his car-park ticket. ‘Should I come to your flat?’

  ‘Definitely not. The company is in the book. Vetch’s. Contact the office if you want me. Better still, wait for me to get in touch.’

  ‘As you wish. I might see you on the motorway.’

  He had to be kidding. There was no way my lovingly nurtured heap was going to keep up with a Mercedes. As it was, I got caught up in the rush-hour traffic on the M25; bottle-necked into a single lane through the roadworks on the southern section; fumed for an hour whilst the police cleared an accident; and drove the last section with one eye on the falling petrol level and the other on the rising temperature gauge.

  By the time I reached the outskirts of Seatoun, I had a stiffening neck, an aching back and an approaching headache. Parking up by my flat, I approached the metal staircase down to the basement.

  Zeb was perched on the third step, forearms resting on legs that were slightly too long for the tread. He leant back at the sound of my approach, tilted a pale face upwards and added a few well-chosen words guaranteed to get my headache off its toes and into a clog-dance.

  ‘Grace,’ he gabbled, ‘something bloody awful’s happened.’

  CHAPTER 26

  ‘You really are a total waste of a perfectly good skin, Zeb.’

  After we’d done the what-happened-to-your-nose? routine and I’d established Zeb’s visit was social rather than official, I invited him to shift his bottom from my staircase to my living room.