by Liz Evans
‘I think so. I doubt if Stephen’s one to let a little thing like murder come between husband and wife.’
I said as much to him when he had the cheek to turn up at the next visiting session.
‘I’m flattered you think so highly of my loyalty, Miss Smith.’
‘I don’t. I have a very low opinion of your morals. And you know what they say - about like attracting like.’
His expression acquired a veneer of frost as he asked what I meant by that.
‘Oh, you know all right, Stephen. In your own ways, you and Amelia are as greedy and dishonest as each other. The only consolation is, you won’t be getting rich in a hurry. Any news on - what’s it called - Sumata? Is the Far East still on board?’
‘No.’ He stood. ‘I believe they’ve found another designer. In the Philippines. As I told you ... things move rapidly in this business. I’m pleased to see you’re not badly hurt. I’ll wish you goodbye.’
‘So long, Stephen. By the way, don’t even think of asking for a refund. I’ll be hanging on to the advance.’
Rachel turned up next. I was buried under enough food to keep the entire hospital going if it came under siege any time in the next few weeks.
‘Just a few snacks, darlin’,’ she cried, bobbing over to seize my face, plonk a kiss on each cheek and whack me in the eye with a slipping wig. ‘I must go. Ada ... poor soul ... last hours ... I’ll bake more soon.’
Henry didn’t visit. I managed to get to the phone and bring him up to date on the situation.
‘So these designs of Stephen’s have gone,’ he said shortly.
‘Yes.’
‘And even if they turn up now, they’re virtually worthless, since someone else has got their nose ahead in the race?’ ‘That’s about the size of it, Henry. Oh, and in case you missed my saying it the first time round, your good friend Kristen was murdered.’
‘Then you’ve brought me precisely nothing for my money? Frankly, Grace, I’m very disappointed in you.’
‘Frankly, m’dear, I don’t give a damn.’
I’d limped back to my hospital bed to find Terry Rosco stuffing himself with the Belgian chocs whilst his two offspring were opening every tin and box left by Rachel and sampling the contents.
‘Nice of you to drop by Ter. And bring the family as well.’
‘Been to see their mum up in maternity.’ He ruffled another layer of chocolates. ‘There’s no hard centres in here.’
‘Tough! Another Rosco about to be inflicted on the world, is it?’
‘Had them.’ He smirked and thrust out his chest. ‘Twins. Dead spit of me, they reckon.’
‘Never mind, Terry. They might grow out of it. Are you leaving soon, I hope?’
‘What? Oh yeah. Just popped in to tell you we’ve got your motor up the station.’
‘Thanks ... it was nice of you to take the trouble.’
For a brief moment I thought I might have been misjudging the self-satisfied creep.
‘Yeah ... they’re thinking of doing you for driving an unroadworthy vehicle. They were wondering where you bought the MOT certificate. See ya.’
He flipped the chocolate box back on the bed. The genetic mutations he claimed as his sons and heirs did the same with Rachel’s offerings. They strutted out of the ward like three pit bulls on steroids.
All that aggression had made me weary. After I’d bounced the thick layer of crumbs off my bed, I lay down and closed my eyes. When I opened them again, it was dusk outside and Annie was sitting by the bed.
‘Hi, Sherlock,’ she murmured. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Bloody awful. What are you doing here?’
‘Auditioning for a job as neuro-brain surgeon. What do you think I’m doing here?’
‘No. I meant what are you doing here. Why aren’t you in cream tea and pasty land?’
‘Finished early. I drove back this afternoon.’
‘Who told you I was here? Zeb?’
‘Jackson. Zeb’s off on a course. I dumped my stuff at the flat and came straight over.’
‘I’m flattered.’
‘Don’t be. I couldn’t believe anyone could actually be daft enough to get herself beaten up on two consecutive jobs. What happened this time?’
I brought her up to date whilst she searched amongst Rachel’s cakes to find one that didn’t have teethmarks from the junior Roscos.
‘I’m useless,’ I informed her miserably.
‘I know,’ she said, biting into an apple and cinnamon crunchie.
‘I only caught Amelia through a pure fluke.’
‘I thought she caught you.’
‘Don’t split hairs. The point is ... I got it all wrong ... I went up to the house because I thought Stephen had done Kristen in ... and hired me as a particularly clever double bluff.’
‘Listen, kid, no one wanting to be particularly clever would hire you.’
‘Cheers, Annie.’ I flopped back against the pillows and watched her sort out another munchie. ‘You’re looking fatter.’
‘Don’t get bitchy just because you screwed up.’
‘Change of subject. How much?’
‘Eight pounds.’ She stretched legs encased in black jeans. ‘Four on each thigh.’
In a last fit of loyalty to Zeb, I advised her to stay off the fried food for a while.
‘I intend to. I’ll have to get back on an exercise programme. Fancy some more early-morning jogging, get you back in shape?’
‘No point. I’m giving up the job.’
‘Oh yeah?’
I opened one eye. ‘Absolutely. I’m useless at it. I didn’t get one thing right on this lot. I shall find sensible employment. Shop assistant. Bank clerk. Window-dresser.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Ask yourself a simple question: did you make any money out of this farce?’
‘Thanks for the choice of description. But yes, since you ask, I suppose I did OK. There’s Henry’s money. Plus Stephen’s. retainer. And Bone’s cash too. I was going to refund some of that, but I figure she owes me ... so I guess for a couple of weeks’ work ...’
I rallied. Life wasn’t just about money, I informed Annie.
‘For God’s sake, tell the doctors to tone down whatever you’re on. It’s causing a total personality change. And don’t even think about changing your job. It’s a stupid idea.’
‘You really think so?’ I smiled at my absolute best mate.
‘Definitely,’ my absolute best mate said firmly. ‘You’d be crap at anything else. So you may as well stick to being crap at what you know best. By the way, is it still all off with you and Kevin Drysdale?’
‘Even more so. He’s gone back to his wife.’
‘That lot can’t be for you then.’
She nodded to the ward door. Kevin was heading in our direction with an armful of blooms swathed in cellophane and pink ribbons.
‘Hi, sexy. These are from me ... and Dad.’
‘Low trick, Kevin.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I like your dad. You know I wouldn’t chuck his flowers into the sluice.’
‘I’ll leave you two to it.’ Annie helped herself to a fudge brownie and stood up. ‘Give me a ring if you need a lift home. Bye, Kevin.’
Kevin hooked the chair closer and sat down near enough to brush his fingers over my forearm. The fine hairs prickled and stood up.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘How do I look?’
‘Bruised. Belligerent. Confused.’
‘Yep. That’s me all right.’
‘Have I done something to offend you, Grace?’
‘Apart from lying through your teeth, you mean?’
‘When did I do that?’
‘You told me you and Minnie had split up by mutual consent.’
‘Did I? When?’
That threw me. Now he asked, I couldn’t actually recall the exact moment. Had that one just been wishful thinking on my part?
‘Listen, Minnie decided she want
ed to call time on the marriage. She said she felt we were in a rut, drifting along in a relationship because we were too lazy to do anything about it. She didn’t want to wake up in thirty years’ time and wonder what might have been.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘Something flip. Like she’d been reading too many women’s magazines or something. But she left anyway. And I was as mad as hell for a few weeks. I mean, nobody likes being dumped, do they? And then I began to get used to being “I” rather than “we”; I started to enjoy myself. Which was ironic really.’
‘Because Minnie wasn’t?’
‘Yes. Life on her own wasn’t what she’d expected.’
‘So she’s back.’
‘She’s back.’
‘And that makes you happy?’
‘It makes the boys happy.’
‘Don’t hide behind your kids, Kevin. That’s really naff.’ He smiled and thrust his hand through his hair in a gesture I now recognised was mainly embarrassment.
‘Sorry. You’re right, of course. I like being a family again. I didn’t know how much I’d missed them. But I like you too, Grace ...’He took an envelope from his pocket. It had the logo of a local travel agent on the corner. ‘Two tickets to Venice. I bought them the day after our date at the Italian restaurant.’
‘Take Minnie.’
‘She doesn’t like Venice.’
‘Take your dad.’
‘He wouldn’t leave the donkeys.’
‘Get a refund.’
We both stared at each other over the extended envelope. It was a free weekend with a bloke to die for. Only a couple of days ago I’d been stuck in that cellar regretting a lost opportunity. And what the hell - Minnie had set him loose.
What right did she have to expect to rein him in when it suited her?
I took the other edge of the envelope. And folded it back into his hand.
‘Sorry, Kevin. I just can’t see me as the other woman. Give me a bell if you and Minnie ever decide to call it a day for good. And thank your dad for the flowers.’
My last visitor turned up as I was packing to leave. He waved an identity card under my nose. It didn’t leave me any the wiser. What on earth did the RSPCA want with me? I didn’t even own so much as a goldfish.
The inspector enlightened me. They’d received a complaint which they felt obliged to follow up.
‘What complaint?’
He consulted his notebook and gave a small, tight smile. ‘It concerns the illegal slaughter of two Vietnamese pot-bellied pigs, Miss Smith.’
CAUGHT IN THE ACT
Table of Contents
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
To the memory of Elizabeth Burkinshaw and Rose Higgs
Author’s Note
Grace is undertaking these investigations during the late nineteen-nineties and early twenties in a time when smartphones and tablets were just coming into general use (and weren’t coming into use at all as far as Grace was concerned!). Facebook was still just a gleam in Mark Zuckerberg’s eye and Twitter had yet to be invented.
What’s your worst nightmare? The one that comes in that half-life moment between waking and sleeping and jolts you into consciousness with a dry mouth and pounding heart? Mine’s being buried alive. I have to tell you, the reality is a thousand times worse than the dream. But let’s rewind a few weeks …
Chapter One
Life is tough for rabbits. Apart from the problems of constantly having to keep a lookout for natural enemies, there’s heatstroke, thirst, and the hassle of getting a pair of twelve-inch ears through the doorframe to the ladies’ loo.
After six days I’d got it cracked: bend at the waist, back in with the powder-puff pointed at the cistern. Bolt door, unfasten suit at waist, and sit on the loo with a pair of brown furry paws sticking out under the bottom gap. Two seconds in and the inevitable happened. It kept happening.
‘Look Mum!’ An inverted forehead and eyes peered under the gap. ‘Are you a monster?’
‘Yep.’
‘What are you doing in there?’
‘Remy, come away and leave the bleedin’ rabbit in peace.’
Yeah, get lost Remy, can’t a bunny tinkle in peace around here. Remy had spread the word. Three more sets of eyes took a peek before I could finally stand up and re-attach the bottom half of this damn costume. I hooked my basket over my forearm and shuffled out to wash my hands and replace the costume paws which were attached to the sleeves by pieces of elastic like kids’ mittens. Now I just had to get back outside again.
The loos in the BHS building were on the second floor. They’d stopped me using the escalator on the grounds that I was a safety hazard. The rabbit feet were literally two feet long and totally rigid. It was like walking on a pair of skis; you slid one forward a few inches, then slid the other up parallel to it. I had to shuffle over to the staircase and hobble down sideways one step at a time, clinging on with both paws to the banister. Halfway down I saw her behind the racks of men’s jumpers. By the time I reached the bottom, she’d disappeared.
Easter was approaching and the weather in Seatoun was surprisingly mild. The hotels were filling with mini-breakers and the promenade was busy with day-trippers. The warmth had also thawed out the defaulting creditors, scarpering witnesses, light-fingered employees and love-rats who fancied a change of nest. Vetch’s (International) Investigations Inc. was buzzing with clients. Even Jan (the receptionist from Hell) had had three ‘Neighbourhood Survey’ jobs in a row from would-be buyers who wanted their proposed house purchases checked for noisy neighbours, concealed rubbish dumps, drug hangouts and other natural hazards.
‘She did the sister’s survey, sweet thing,’ Vetch had murmured when I complained to the little gnome. ‘They’ve specifically asked for Jan.’
‘Are they mad?’
‘Possibly. But providing they’re mad and solvent I don’t really care. I take it the work is a little on the light side?’
‘It’s more on the wrong side of invisible,’ I admitted. ‘Haven’t you got anything you want a hand with?’
Technically, all the investigators at Vetch’s were self-employed; we paid a fee for a share of office space, technology and Jan’s sarcasm. But we often took work in under a sort of corporate umbrella and farmed out any overload to our less busy colleagues. Only it seemed my colleagues were just busy enough at present. Which is why I decided to go proactive. I got some leaflets printed up detailing all the services on offer from Grace Smith, Private Investigator. And that’s when I saw the advert in the local paper: SEATOUN TOURIST OFFICE REQUIRES A BRIGHT, FUN-LOVING PERSON TO DISTRIBUTE PROMOTIONAL MATERIAL IN TOWN; ONE WEEK’S WORK GOOD HOURLY RATE.
It had seemed like fate. I could get paid for standing around handing out bits of paper and slip
my own stuff to any likely looking clients.
Okay, perhaps I should have been suspicious when Ms Tricia Terris, the nauseatingly bright tourism popette who hired me, asked about my height (five foot, ten inches) and measurements (on the skinny side) rather than my previous experience in promotional material distribution. But I didn’t catch on until she handed me what appeared to be a seven-foot tall, gutted rabbit.
‘Isn’t it fun!’ she squealed. ‘And there’s a sash too, see.’ It was wide and pink and declared Seatoun to be a child-friendly playground. ‘You’re going to be the Easter Bunny! And you get a big basket of Easter eggs to give out.’
‘Magic.’
‘I’ll paint your face every morning. I did face painting for my niece’s birthday party and the children just loved it. I’ve got a design for a rabbit here, don’t you just adore that cute little black nose.’
No, I didn’t. I hated the flaming nose. And the feet. And the ears. And all the stupid rabbit jokes.
‘Hey, bunny girl, why’s a rabbit like a calculator? ’Cos they can multiply real fast! Geddit?’
Ignoring the pointed pelvic thrusting of the group of teenagers who’d been bugging me all week, I headed towards the doorway of a local solicitor’s office. I’d mainly been targeting my leaflets at anyone emerging from legal and insurance offices, since they were most likely to have clients in need of a private investigator. Unfortunately it was Saturday morning. Which meant not only were most of the offices shut, but the streets were busier than usual, with the local shoppers joining the visitors.
My shadow hadn’t gone far. I’d dubbed her The Lady in Red because of the colour of her padded anorak. She’d first appeared yesterday morning. Initially I’d thought it was coincidence, someone killing time window-shopping because she had nothing better to do. But this was just way too much coincidence; it was the fifth time I’d seen her today. Either she had a serious addiction to Easter eggs or I’d got myself my very own bunny stalker.
For the rest of the morning, I dished out cheap, foil-covered eggs, tried to avoid tripping anyone up with the feet, and wondered why anyone bothered to have kids.