Grace Smith Investigates

by Liz Evans

  Folding his arms, he lounged against the wall. Something that might have been a sneer twisted his lips. ‘Yeah? Well, maybe some of us would rather stick to what we know we can do well. ’Stead of kidding ourselves we’re some kind of hotshot detective when we’re really just a sad little wannabe who couldn’t find a lost kitty-cat.’

  I took a deep breath, ready to return the serve with a real smash of an insult. It gave Figgy the chance he needed; darting forward, he thrust both palms against my chest and pushed. I was still trying to regain my balance on the hall landing when the door slammed in my face.

  The brass letter-box flap flicked outwards. Two black lenses glittered behind it.

  ‘Tell you something, Miss Wannabe-a-Detective? I know more about your cases than you do!’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Meaning I know something about that missing babe that you don’t, your Graciness.’

  CHAPTER 27

  He blanked me after that. All the internal doors in the flat were slammed shut and the kitchen radio turned on full. There was no way I was yelling through that damn letter-box for the rest of the afternoon, so I went back to the office. It seemed an age since I’d seen the place and I wouldn’t put it past Vetch the Letch to sell the building out from under us all if he got a better offer.

  Plainly no lunatics with a real-estate fetish had passed by recently, since Janice was still thumping away on the processor as I sauntered into reception.

  ‘Hi. Long time no see. Bet you wondered if I was still working here.’

  ‘No. I do that when you’re in.’

  She hit a key with a flourish and the screen flashed and blinked; icons expanded and receded in multicoloured patterns. ‘You’ve had messages.’

  ‘I suppose it’s too much to hope that you’ve got any of them?’

  Janice blew out an exasperated breath, picked up the waste-paper bin and scrabbled amongst heaps of rubbish.

  ‘Here.’ She slapped a yellow stick-it note, wet with coffee stains, into my palm.

  ‘Fond groot flot,’ I read. ‘Murt see. Fogs will live giddon. Rung sunnest. I didn’t know you were fluent in Esperanto, Jan.’

  She snatched the paper from my hands. ‘Found great flat. Must see. Pigs will love garden. Ring soonest. It’s from that estate agent bloke. He’s called loads of times. Keeps asking me to go for a drink. Reckons he’s got a sports motor. What’s he like?’

  ‘He’s short. On everything, I’d say.’

  ‘Oh. Best save him for a rainy day, then.’

  ‘Good plan. If he shrinks any further you’ll be able to wear him on your charm bracelet.’

  Janice had dressed for convenience today - judging by what appeared to be lavatory chains around her neck and wrists and a couple of ballcocks dangling from her earlobes. Jangling loudly, she dived into the bin again. ‘This lot’s yours too.’

  ‘Why did you sling them away?’

  ‘It’s my system. People take stuff off the desk but no one messes with the bin. Things stay where you put them.’ There were half a dozen other slips of paper. All saying the same thing: ‘Zeb Smith rang. Have you done it yet?’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Ruby - the reading wrinkly - came by. She left an envelope. It’s on your desk. And Vetch wants to see you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Didn’t say. Vetch! She’s in.’

  The right-hand door swung open. In the days when the building had been a boarding house it had led to the communal lounge. Now it was the entrance to the office of our esteemed leader, landlord and sole (official) employee of Vetch International Inc.

  I’d often suspected that Vetch moonlighted as a model for garden gnomes. He had the height (diminutive); the figure (rotund); and, most importantly, the ears (pointed).

  ‘Sweet thing. Take a seat.’

  With a beam of welcome, Vetch heaved himself back into the leather I’m-an-important-executive-style chair behind a desk the size of a snooker table. I had my usual flash image of him with a red pointy hat and a fishing rod and had to bite the side of my cheek.

  ‘Gorgeous. Can it be that you are happy to see me?’

  ‘Can you doubt it?’

  ‘Frequently, sweet thing. Frequently. Particularly around the beginning of the month. Which, with an almost monotonous frequency, occurs after the end of the previous month - if you follow my reasoning.’

  ‘You want the rent?’

  ‘And the fee for the shared office facilities.’

  ‘A receptionist who files messages in the waste paper and one lousy fax machine that doesn’t work. Leastways, I never get any messages from it.’

  ‘Possibly because no one ever writes to you. And let us not forget the warm glow that a brass plate and respectable premises raises in the bosom of our clients.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it. None of my clients have shown any sign of glowing.’

  ‘As I recall, the last didn’t so much glow as burst into flames.’

  It was a low blow. It wasn’t my fault that my previous client had nearly got himself burnt to death. (Well, not entirely my fault).

  ‘I’ll give you half now, half later, OK?’

  Vetch sighed. He took a deep breath, inflating his puffball of a face, and then gently blew it out. ‘Delightful creature, do we have to play out this little charade every month? You have money. As I remember, you collected a considerable reward from a grateful parent for returning their precious offspring to the family bosom last month.’

  ‘I got my car fixed.’

  ‘Even allowing for the extortionate fees some mechanics see fit to charge, it is hard to believe that you paid three thousand pounds to have the faults relocated in that heap.’

  ‘It’s a classic.’

  ‘It is indeed. A classic example of wishful thinking over mechanical knowledge. Now I hate to press you, but I do have another engagement ... so unless you wish to find your filing cabinets on the pavement tomorrow ...’

  I gave him a cheque.

  ‘Thank you. Now, that wasn’t too painful, was it?’

  ‘Not for you.’

  ‘Try not to be bitter. Remember you are not just buying a room; you have purchased the benefit of my vast and varied experience. You have but to ask and my wisdom is at your disposal. Day or night. For instance, I can tell you that that motorbike death you are interested in was deemed to be an accident.’

  ‘What...?’ I recalled that Janice had recently taken delivery of an envelope from Ruby. And I’d asked her to see if she could find any newspaper reports on Rob Wingett, Kristen/ Julie-Frances’ predecessor at Wexton’s.

  ‘You’ve been reading my flaming mail!’

  ‘Not at all. I happened to run into dear Ruby in the foyer. Wingett was a diabetic, you know. With a somewhat unfortunate habit of neither eating correctly nor injecting himself on time. He appears to have been a traffic accident waiting to happen. The coroner delivered quite a lecture on the dangers of driving without the proper medication. He’s a pompous little prick and there’s nothing he likes better than the sound of his own tedious voice.’

  ‘You’re a fan, then.’

  ‘I’m a brother-in-law.’

  This was news. I filed it mentally, since contacts were all- important in this business. Maybe that was the point that Vetch was trying to make. For my rent money I was not only getting a room, but a hot-line to official channels.

  ‘And what is your connection to the messily departed? Does the widow suspect foul play? Are the insurance company hanging on to their cash with a tenacity that would put you to shame?’

  ‘Nothing like that. I was just curious as to how widely the death had been reported.’

  I gave him a quick run-down on my connection with Wexton’s - including the meeting with Bridgeman.

  ‘Do you know, sweet thing,’ Vetch murmured after I’d come to the end of my recital, ‘I can’t help thinking that naughty Mr Bridgeman is telling you a few porkies.’

  ‘Oh?’


  ‘Mmm ...’ Vetch wriggled forward on the shiny leather and linked his fingers on the desk. ‘If this information is as low- key as your client claims it is, then it is hard to imagine he is going to spend his undoubtedly valuable time chasing around after you.’

  ‘It’s a government con ...’

  Vetch held up a palm. ‘You explained. However, do you not read the papers? Surplus filing cabinets are sold off with the plans for high-security installations still in them. Secret papers are left in cars to be stolen by anyone with the inclination to put a brick through the window. The rubbish dumps of Britain are strewn with the personnel files of those charged with keeping our fine country ticking over. If the government chopped everyone off their bid lists who was a trifle careless with the filing, one can’t help feeling their choices would be so severely limited it would almost amount to a case for the Monopolies Commission.’

  ‘So why should Bridgeman claim to be trying to sort this out discreetly because he’s worried about losing future contracts?’

  ‘Possibly, gorgeous creature, because he did not wish to tell you the truth.’ Sliding my cheque into his inside pocket, he wished me happy hunting.

  Taking the hint, I stood up. ‘Cheers, Vetch.’

  ‘My pleasure, sweet thing.’

  CHAPTER 28

  Janice waved another yellow stick-it at me as I left Vetch’s office.

  ‘That copper’s rung again. Annie’s brother. Are you and him getting it together now?’

  ‘Is that any of your business?’

  ‘Annie won’t like it.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t she?’

  ‘So you are, then! Oh shit ...’

  This last insult was flung at the phone, which had started to ring.

  ‘Vetch’sjanicespeakinghowmaywehelpyou? Oh, it’s you. We were just talking about you.’ There was a fractional pause when the caller obviously asked who ‘we’ were. ‘Smithie. Vetch has just been screwing the rent out of her again.’

  ‘I don’t pay in kind, Jan,’ I said, grabbing the receiver.

  ‘Don’t suppose you get the chance. Even letches have standards.’

  I’d assumed the call was from Zeb again, but it was Annie’s mocking tones on the line.

  ‘Hi. How’s Leicester?’

  ‘Where I left it on the M1, I should imagine. I’m in Exeter.’

  ‘Zeb said you were heading home.’

  ‘I was. But I saw this sign to the M5 and thought to hell with it - let’s get the job wrapped up.’

  ‘You sound cheesed off.’

  ‘Luxury hotels aren’t what they were. The bars are full of cute barmen who want to cry on my shoulder because their boyfriends don’t want a deep and meaningful relationship. And the restaurants are full of dreary sales reps with witty chat-up lines such as How do you like your eggs in the morning, beautiful?

  ‘What d’you tell them?’

  ‘Unfertilised. God, I can’t wait to get home and crash out on my own couch. It’ll be great.’

  It would actually be rather overcrowded, but it didn’t seem the moment to tell Annie that.

  I passed the details of her new hotel to Janice - who took them down with a lip-pencil on her bare thigh.

  ‘Any luck with Jersey?’ Annie asked.

  ‘Flew over for the day.’

  ‘Swank.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Did you manage to pin down this Kristen woman?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘So what’s cooking?’

  ‘She was. Two thousand degrees centigrade on a low gas when last seen.’

  ‘Hard luck, Sherlock. Did the client specify he wanted a live one?’

  ‘It’s a bit more complicated than that.’

  ‘Got to go,’ Annie said. ‘I’ve a meeting fixed up. Tell me when you see me. I’ll catch you next week if you’re lucky.’

  ‘You’re not mentioning you and Zeb then?’ Janice asked as I passed her the receiver.

  ‘There’s nothing to mention. Me and Zeb is business. And if he rings back again, can you tell him ... tell him I’m still working on it.’

  ‘If I remember.’

  With a clash of chains that could have given Marley’s ghost an inferiority complex, she whizzed back to her processor.

  I picked up the phone again and dialled Wexton’s number. Now seemed as good a time as any to ask my client why he was messing me around.

  Mr Bridgeman, I was informed, was working from home today.

  Scrabbling around in my pockets and bag, I tried to find the sheet of paper with the house number. No luck. And for the life of me I couldn’t dredge back the digits I’d dialled to reach Amelia. I tried the local directory and found the Bridgemans were ex-directory. I headed in that direction, confident in my natural ability to lie like hell when it came to inventing a suitable excuse to pass off the visit to any other members of the family who happened to be hanging around.

  Pulling into the drive, I parked up between two small vans and a large covered truck and followed a roll of material that was being manoeuvred through the front door on two shoulders.

  ‘Not here ... take it around the side of the house! For mercy’s sake ... surely the excessive fees your company charges should encompass the provision of staff with the ability to understand simple one-syllable instructions.’

  I caught a glimpse of Joan Reiss trapped on the stairway by the perambulating bolt of textile.

  The front shoulder spoke: ‘To the back we should it take, yes?’

  ‘Yes. Isn’t that what I’ve been saying?’

  ‘Hokay.’ He marched forward down the corridor.

  ‘No ... no ... not that ... oh, all right, go on. You’ll probably break more if you try to turn now. Ah, Grace, you’re early. Thank heavens. There’s rather more to do than I’d anticipated. Perhaps you could make a start on the upstairs bathrooms. And the small back bedroom. We’ll have to use that as a guests’ powder room.’

  I’d forgotten all about the social event of the week: Amelia’s fiftieth birthday party!

  ‘Actually, I ...’

  ‘You’d best rescue the cleaning materials whilst you can still get into the kitchen.’

  A crash that sounded like an entire dinner service shattering roared down the passage from the back dining area.

  ‘For heaven’s sake ...’ Joan shot off like an Exocet.

  It seemed easiest to go with the flow. I wandered into the kitchen. A tart-faced female hanging prawns around the edge of a large glass tureen flicked me a casual glance.

  ‘Bog patrol.’ I waved a couple of cleaning sprays at her and cruised the house in search of Stephen Bridgeman.

  There was no sign of him downstairs. Upstairs was unproductive too, until I knocked briefly on the final bedroom door and marched in.

  Patrick thrust something under the bed and looked up with guilt written all over his face. It changed to a frown as he said: ‘Oh. It’s you. I thought Mummy had come back.’ Flinging himself flat, he retrieved a glass-fronted picture. ‘I’m wrapping her present.’

  I took a quick look round. It was strangely impersonal for a kid’s room. There were no posters on the walls, toys scattered around the floor or comics lurking in dusty corners. The only hint that Patrick might do more than sleep in here was the cluster of flashy-looking computer equipment crouched on the desk.

  ‘Nice set-up. Can you use all this stuff?’

  ‘No.’

  With a corner of tongue poking through clenched lips, Patrick straightened the picture frame, lining up his present on the wrapping paper, then carefully sliced off the right amount.

  ‘What’s it for, then?’

  ‘Daddy bought it for me. Boys are supposed to like that sort of thing, aren’t they? But I don’t.’

  I crouched down beside him. ‘What do you like?’

  ‘Dogs.’ He squirmed up on his knees and shuffled over to fetch a roll of tape. ‘I wanted a dog. But Mummy said I wouldn’t be here to look after him. If
I lived with Gran, I bet she’d let me have a dog. I hate Mummy.’

  ‘You’ve got her a present though.’

  ‘Gran said I had to. I made it myself ... see.’ He turned it so that I could see properly.

  It was a montage of photographs, with Amelia at the top of the frame. I picked out Bone and Patrick easily enough. There were several shots of a vaguely familiar young man. In the earlier ones he was short-haired, but later he’d sprouted hair, earrings and designer stubble. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘My brother Theo. He’s not coming to the party.’

  ‘He looks like your dad.’

  ‘Does he?’ Patrick bowed closer, touching his nose to the glass and misting a patch over Theo’s face.

  I looked at the fourth figure in the collection. Presumably Charlotte, the daughter Amelia had been visiting in California.

  She was pictured smiling prettily with two little fair-haired girls in one shot, and again with the same kids, plus an older man with the sculptured hairstyle favoured by American politicians, in another.

  But the centrepiece was a large studio shot of Charlotte’s foursome, flanked by three crop-haired late-teens whose combined shoulder width must have justified the use of a wide-angled lens. The middle one in particular seemed to have forgotten to remove the padding from an American football jersey before climbing into a chequered suit and baring the finest set of teeth that an orthodontist could supply. Perhaps the poor girl was still growing into her looks.

  ‘Who’s this lot?’

  ‘They’re Charlotte’s other family ...’ Patrick stabbed the sculptured hairstyle. ‘From when he used to be married to another lady. Before Charlotte seduced him, Gran said.’

  ‘Not to you she didn’t, I’ll bet.’

  ‘No. She was talking to Daddy,’ he agreed, unabashed. Sliding his fingertip over the glass, leaving a smeared trail, he came to rest on a Polaroid snap of a red-faced infant. ‘And that’s Charlotte’s new baby. I’m his uncle. He’s called Eugene Bridgeman McClusky the Fourth.’

  ‘Let’s hope he’s not dyslexic.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Never mind. Want a hand?’ He was getting well and truly tangled up with tape, paper and carpet fluff by now. With me hanging on to the escaping corners, he finally managed to bundle up a messy heap swathed in sticky bands, with stick- on rosettes and a message label.