Grace Smith Investigates

by Liz Evans

‘And did she? Collect it, I mean.’

  ‘She said she thought she was on to something. Some anomaly at the company. Naturally she had to move slowly, in order not to alert them to her suspicions. That’s why I’m concerned about her disappearance. I never went to her home, nor she mine. It would have ruined everything if someone from Wexton’s had spotted us. I am ...’ he touched his glasses, ‘a somewhat distinctive figure. Hence the early- morning meetings on the promenade. Just a chance encounter, no more than a few words exchanged if anyone should happen to be watching. When she failed to show up I knew something was badly wrong. In the end I risked contacting Wexton’s ... anonymously, of course. They said she’d left. Well, I didn’t believe that for a start. And then when the estate agent said the flat had been re-let ...’

  Terrific ... I’d spent most of this investigation duplicating Henry’s moves. Oh, the joys of having a paranoid pensioner for a client.

  ‘I’m an old man, m’dear. And blind. It would be easy to devise a plausible accident if anyone should wish to dispose of me. I arranged for you to receive sufficient clues to identify Kristen quickly, but I couldn’t risk you letting on to Joan or Bridgeman that I was connected to her. You see, I believe Kristen found out something significant. She had no plans to leave Seatoun. They made her disappear. It would be simple enough to fake her notice; that secretary of Bridgeman’s has been lusting after him for years, according to Bone. She wouldn’t have objected to fiddling the paperwork on Kristen’s personnel file. And they could have sent back her flat keys themselves.’

  It wasn’t a bad theory if, like old Henry, you didn’t know about her joining up with Stephen Bridgeman’s bit of private enterprise.

  I do admire a girl who can seize her opportunities. She’d strung Henry and his ‘substantial bonus’ along as a fall-back if nothing came of Stephen’s scheme, and in the meantime, she’d put the squeeze on Bridgeman.

  It must be catching. Henry tried to put the squeeze on my leg as he asked me if I intended to go on searching for Kristen/ Julie now I knew the truth?

  ‘Of course I do, Henry. After all, that’s what I’ve been paid for. Besides, I hate to abandon a case midway.’

  ‘I’m very grateful, m’dear. And don’t worry, I shall see you don’t lose by this.’

  He squeezed again. I intertwined my fingers with his. Very firmly I applied sufficient pressure to make him gasp with pain and try to release my grip. I kept it tight as I said firmly: ‘If you ever try to touch me up again, Henry, I’ll knock whatever teeth you still have left so far down your throat they’ll collide with your bunions.’ I let go and stood up. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  I took a detour up to the Downs Estate to bring Tom Skerries’ nearest, if not exactly dearest, up to date on his progress.

  They’d set up a barbecue on the patch of concrete outside the social club under a hand-printed notice announcing ‘Beer ’n’ Barbie Tonite’. Someone had run an extension lead out of the front door and the hard core of regulars were grouped round a portable TV watching cricket whilst they drank.

  Nola was balancing the scooter against one hip and licking the mustard from a hot dog. She took the news about Tom’s van with total indifference. ‘Told yer, didn’t I? Useless bugger’s pushed off.’

  ‘But why Germany?’

  Nola didn’t know. And she plainly didn’t care either. ‘He was always on about going abroad ... well, Germany’s abroad, innit?’

  ‘Last time I looked it certainly was. Nola ...’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Kristen.’

  ‘What about her? You found her yet?’

  ‘Not exactly. Is there any chance Tom could have known her?’

  ‘Tom? No. Don’t think so. Mind, he’d like to have done. All that flashing leg in a mini-skirt. Just his style. Why’d you want to know?’

  ‘They both seem to have left the area at the same time. And Larry Payne’s company did some work up at Wexton’s. I thought they might have got together.’

  And of course there was the woman hiding her face in Tom’s van the morning they’d both disappeared. But there was no reason to tell Nola that. As it was, she was openly derisive of the idea that Kristen might have had anything to do with her brother-in-law.

  ‘She’s got a degree, ain’t she? Oi, Donna ...’ Two fingers inserted in her mouth and a lungful of air produced a shrill whistle and a spray of partly chewed sausage. ‘Sod it.’

  She was still mopping down her T-shirt when her sister appeared from the club, carrying the baby and flanked by her two little boys.

  Pierce and Liam beamed on spotting me.

  ‘Forget it, kids, I’m broke.’

  ‘She reckons Tom’s gone to Germany,’ Nola announced. ‘Not got any mates there, ’as he?’

  ‘Dunno.’ Donna jiggled the baby on her hip and reinserted a dummy. ‘Might have. They got sea in Germany?’

  ‘Gallons of the stuff; is that relevant?’

  ‘Maybe he’s gone to sort out his bar. Never thought he said Germany, though. Thought he fancied Majorca or Greece.’

  Nola slapped on her scooter helmet and advised her sister to get real. ‘Where’s he going to get enough cash together to buy a business? Just as well, too. I know how it would have been. He’d have been flexing his pecs at every sex-starved bimbo in the place while you did all the work. You’re better off without him, Donna ... you can do better. I gotta get up Wexton’s.’ She twisted the ignition on, kicked up the rests and roared off.

  Donna smiled doubtfully at me and diffidently asked if I wanted to come in.

  ‘No ... thanks. I’d best be getting back.’

  To what exactly? I asked myself. Nothing, to be truthful. But I didn’t fancy an evening with Donna Skerries. In company she was OK, but on her own that veneer of baby sick and dull acceptance that anything the world slung at her was fine by her could really get on my nerves.

  It just goes to show how important it is to pick the right bloke, I told myself, motoring back to the flat. Better none at all than the wrong one. Well, that was my excuse anyway for spending an evening curled up with a warm tandoori and a fuzzy television.

  I’d just levered the cardboard covers off the tinfoil containers and readjusted the horizontal control with a couple of hefty slaps when the telephone rang.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I thought I was never going to raise you. Is it too late to save my brother’s life?’

  My initial thought was that one of the local loony-tunes had dialled at random. Followed by the even more worrying thought - one of them hadn’t dialled at random. Then the light dawned.

  ‘Miss Tally Smith, I presume?’

  ‘You presume right. I hear I have to give you this flight information or you’re going to throw Zeb to the she-wolf. I’ve been trying to reach you at your office all day.’

  ‘Sorry. I’ve been out. I didn’t think you’d get back so soon. Are passenger details that easy to get hold of?’

  ‘If you’ve got a computer analyst with the hots for you on tap.’

  ‘Terrific. Hang on ...’ I dragged a pencil out of the muddle on the table and spread the takeaway bag flat. ‘Shoot ...’

  ‘No chance. I want the story on Zeb first.’

  ‘Are we talking all major airports here?’

  ‘And most regional ones; there’s just a couple of private ones he couldn’t access in the time.’

  I made her promise not to tell Annie and gave her the rundown on the squatters.

  She exploded with laughter at the other end. ‘What a prat! OK, your two female passengers ... there’s no record of either a Kristen Keats or a Julie-Frances Keble travelling over the designated period ... viz. Friday May the first to Monday May the fourth. There was a reservation in the name of Kristen Keats on the Friday flight to Manila, but she was a no-show. Dag ... my bloke ... came up with three other Keats, but two are male and the other was airline staff. So I guess she’s not the one you’re interested in. There were no Kebles at all.’ />
  ‘Fine, thanks.’ I scribbled ‘zilch’ on my bag. It wasn’t definitive, of course. She could just as easily have got on a ferry or hopped on the Eurostar - assuming she’d left the country at all.

  ‘Now as far as Bridgeman goes - that’s more common than you’d think ... twelve travelled over that period. An initial would have helped.’

  ‘S for Stephen. Didn’t Zeb tell you?’

  ‘No. I just got the surname. He was babbling a bit at the time; it’s your own fault for intimidating him so effectively.’ ‘OK ... give me the list.’

  ‘Can’t. I got fed up waiting to catch you, so I put the printout in the post a couple of hours ago. I remembered the details about the women, but as for the rest... you’ll have to wait until the postman shows. And please ... you absolutely didn’t get any of this from me ...

  ‘I can’t even recall your name. Incidentally, is Tally short for something?’

  ‘Tallahassee.’

  ‘Hard luck.’

  ‘It’s better than my twin. At least I don’t have to put up with endless innuendoes about hot cats and tin roofs.’

  ‘Tennessee, right?’

  ‘Yaw’ll betta believe it, honeychild.’

  CHAPTER 37

  Figgy was giving a show that Nureyev would have been hard pushed to top. Spinning, wheeling, leaping and pirouetting, he flew over the pavements outside the amusement park. The neon lights reflected like a multicoloured petrol sheen in his shades.

  The crowd were laughing and applauding; all except me. I could see the car. Huge and dark, with headlights like malevolent eyes, it was bearing down on Figgy. I wanted to scream at him to get out of the way, but all I could do was applaud and shout: ‘Fabulous, darling.’

  I heard his bones shattering and splintering as he hit the pavement. Blood gushed from his mouth and ears. His glasses fell off and he looked directly at me - once. Then the lights went out.

  The same scenario played itself out, again and again. It was like being trapped in a snuff video that had got stuck in a permanent loop. I woke up drenched in sweat, my mouth too dry to swallow and the taste of salty tears I hadn’t known I’d cried drying on my cheeks.

  I made black tea, then sat cross-legged on my bed sipping and deciding on my next move.

  Not that I really needed to think about it; deep down I knew I was going to investigate Stephen Bridgeman’s movements after he left the party on the night of Figgy’s accident.

  If Figgy had been nearly killed because I’d told Bridgeman he knew something about Kristen’s disappearance, then I had two options. One: I go to the police and tell them everything that had happened to date. Or two: I dig around myself - and either clear Bridgeman or land him right in it.

  If I chose option one, there was a ninety-nine per cent certainty Bridgeman would demand his money back. Option two reduced the odds to fifty per cent (if I found out he was guilty).

  I tidied the flat first; and then brought the Kristen Keats file up to date; bashing out notes on my ancient portable and typing up an account for Stephen.

  A quick bath, hairwash and a liberal dose of slap over the bruises and I was ready to face the world. I grabbed the file, intending to take it to the office. It promptly collapsed, showering papers over the floor.

  ‘Sod it.’ I junked the lot together, looked round for a carrier to put them in, couldn’t find one and ended up just thrusting the account in my pocket. The rest could wait.

  I dropped into the office to change into my best suit; it’s a grey-striped four-piece: jacket and waistcoat plus trousers for cold days, short skirt for hot. With my plain black court shoes and dark glasses in position, I looked pretty stylish in my opinion.

  More to the point, I looked nothing like Shona, scourge of the tax office. Even if I was working for their boss now, I still preferred to avoid difficult questions from Bridgeman’s staff if possible. There was always the chance one of them might have a civic conscience and report my little performance to the tax inspectors.

  ‘You going to a funeral or a job interview?’ Janice asked when I sauntered downstairs and helped myself to some of the ‘shared office facilities’ (viz. an envelope for Bridgeman’s account).

  ‘Neither. This is what the sophisticated young businesswoman is wearing this year. As opposed to a recycled three- piece from World of Leather.’

  Janice flexed and stretched in the black leather catsuit. ‘I’m breaking it in for the weekend.’

  ‘I hope you’re not going out with Jason in that get-up. He’s not old enough for anything kinky.’

  ‘No chance. I blew him out after they arrested him. They sent this dishy officer back to drive his car and he’s taking me to a club in London tomorrow. His mate works security there, reckons he can get us in the VIP lounge. All the big stars use it. I’ll be able to network. What you got fixed up for the weekend?’

  There was no way I was admitting I was the sort of sad person who hit the supermarket on Saturday evenings to buy a single-portion microwave meal and a can of lager and spent Sundays wishing that Monday would arrive sooner rather than later. ‘Party, party ... you know how it goes. They’re a wild lot. Could wake up in Samarkand come Monday.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Er ... China, I think. Somewhere out East anyway.’

  ‘Like your pigs come from?’

  ‘Sort of. But they’ve gone to that big sty in the sky now.’

  ‘You said. Last night. Accident, was it? Our dogs are always getting run over.’

  Had she twigged that those damn porkers were a joke and decided to play along, or was she really as dumb as she appeared?

  ‘Times are hard, Jan. Did you know a peasant family could live on a whole pig all winter?’

  ‘You didn’t!’

  ‘Chops, bacon, sausages ... Don’t worry, they’ve gone to a good home.’ I slapped my stomach and grinned.

  ‘You rotten murderess. Here. There’s a letter come for you.’ She spun the envelope out, letting it whirl across the hall like a maple seed.

  I picked it up from the mat as I went out. It was the computer printout from Tally, listing the Keats/Keble flight position she’d outlined on the phone last night and the dozen or so Bridgemans she couldn’t remember.

  I took a quick scan as I wriggled into the car. They were listed alphabetically rather than in date order. A. Bridgeman (Mrs) was right up there at the top with her Los Angeles flight on Friday, but after that came a C.B. Bridgeman who’d caught the Glasgow/Heathrow shuttle on Sunday, followed by C.M. who’d boarded a flight at Gatwick bound for Amsterdam on Saturday.

  S. Bridgeman leapt straight off the green-striped page and hit me in the eyes; leaving me excitedly skimming over the information that it was the flight Julie-Frances had been booked to take: Heathrow/Manila, 1 May. Then my mind caught up and brought the ‘N/S’ at the end of the line to the bouncing eyeballs’ attention. No show. He simply hadn’t got round to cancelling his seat.

  The receptionist at Wexton’s was terribly sorry but I couldn’t see Mr Bridgeman because he wasn’t in. ‘He’s not expected at all, I’m afraid. Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘No. I just popped in on the off-chance to leave this.’

  I waved the account envelope. She extended a hand.

  ‘Sorry. I need to deliver it personally. Is he at home?’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t supply his personal address, I’m afraid.’

  ‘No need. I was there the other night, Amelia’s birthday bash.’ I event-dropped shamelessly just to let her know she wasn’t dealing with just anybody. ‘I’ll catch him later. Thanks.’

  It was the first time I’d seen the factory in full working mode. Wandering back to my motor, I caught glimpses of production workers in the sort of capped and gowned outfits I usually associated with the deli counter at the supermarket. They were hunched forward over those benches I’d seen the other day, little frowns of concentration on their faces

  I was suddenly very glad I was self-employed
; even if it meant I was often self-unemployed. Small grey clouds were billowing in across the North Sea as I turned the car and headed for the Bridgeman house. Way out on the horizon a herd of white horses were being chased by the strengthening wind. Occasionally one crashed into a floating buoy, sending a burst of spray up and over the bobbing bell cage. It wasn’t exotic; it wasn’t even pretty; but it beat being locked in some factory for nine or ten hours a day, five days a week.

  I parked beyond the gates to Bridgeman’s house rather than driving up to the door. I had some idea that I might be able to slip in unnoticed and take a look at the blue Merc before I tackled Stephen.

  The garage doors were going to be the biggest problem. Not only were they electronically controlled but they were visible from most rooms in the front of the house. My best hope was that the cars had been left outside on the drive.

  They hadn’t, but as a consolation prize the garage was wide open and both Mercedes were inside.

  There were no convenient smashed headlights or dented paintwork on the blue one. Not that I’d really expected there to be. If there had, no doubt the car would have been safely deposited in a body workshop somewhere out of the district by now.

  There was a shelf above my head with the usual assortment of junk that always seems to end up in garages - including a flashlight.

  I played the beam over the tyres. Something glinted within the treads. Gently probing and teasing, I extracted a sliver of yellow plastic. It had been held by a speck of mud within the incised pattern, and the fact that the tyres were nearly brand new and unworn was probably what had prevented it from being crushed further.

  There weren’t any other fragments of roller-blade that could be seen with the naked eye, but no doubt forensic could find a few - if they tried. It wasn’t definitive - he could always claim he’d picked it up in the road - but every little helped.

  The house was still quiet. I hadn’t decided on my approach to Stephen, but given that I now had some hard evidence that he’d tried to kill Figgy and could have been behind Julie- Frances-Kristen’s disappearance, back-up seemed a good idea. Normally I’d have filled Annie in on the situation, but in her absence it would have to be Vetch the Letch. I’d have to find a phone and let him know where I was before I tackled Bridgeman.