Grace Smith Investigates

by Liz Evans

  Clemency shrugged. ‘Whatever.’ She looked behind her at the sound of footsteps and then moved against the wall so that the bloke could get down the stairs.

  He was about her own age, brown hair and designer stubble. As he came level with Clemency he put a hand on her hip. His wedding ring had a gleam of newness. He kissed her cheek. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Sure.’ Her tone was flat. Uninterested.

  He nodded to Bianca and let himself out.

  ‘Jake came round to run some lines with me. I’m going up to take a shower. Keep Cappy down here, will you.’

  As soon as she was out of sight, I mouthed ‘who was that?’ at Bianca.

  ‘Jake Spiro. He’s one of the directors on the show. I don’t know what to do next.’ She looked anxiously around the hall. ‘You think I should do the painting? Or answer the post?’

  No contest. I was unlikely to come across any threatening messages in the shade charts. ‘Post, I’d say. Until the swelling goes down a little. I’ll open the envelopes for you. It can be kind of tricky one-handed.’ But before that there was something I wanted to check out. ‘Can I use the loo?’

  ‘’Course. There’s one here.’ She pointed to the left of the front door. Not quite what I had in mind. ‘But it’s a bit nasty in there, I’m in the middle of moving a pipe. There’s another one upstairs. Second on the right.’ Much better.

  Treading up the banister-less flight to the landing, I stood listening. The sounds of running water were coming through the door on the left. Cautiously I opened it. The space was far larger than I’d expected. The original internal walls had been knocked out to create larger rooms, and it was fully decorated and furnished up here. Neutral walls and pale floors. Muslin curtains swathed across big windows overlooking the back garden. The running water was coming from behind a door on the far side. Clemency’s jeans and T-shirt were pooled on the floor as if she’d just stepped out of them. The ivory sheets on the double bed were crumpled. There was the distinct tang of sex in the air.

  Quietly closing the door, I found and flushed the loo before joining Bianca in the kitchen. She had a letter pinned to the table surface with her left elbow, whilst she ripped it open with her right.

  ‘Let me do that.’ I reached for the next envelope.

  The first few letters were ordinary fan gushings, handwritten and telling Clemency how fabulous she was. Bianca placed them in one pile. The next couple asked for signed photographs. Bianca filed them on a second pile. ‘I think we’ve run out of those. I’ll have to sign some more.’

  ‘You will?’

  Embarrassment flooded her face. ‘You won’t tell, will you? Clemency’s ever so busy. And I can do her signature easily.’

  ‘Lips are sealed.’ I casually riffled through more envelopes. There was no sign of the layout Della Black had described. The anonymous writer might have changed style, but that would be fairly unusual. I stuck at it, to get Bianca used to the idea that I had access to the post. Oddly, all the letters seemed to have already been opened and stuck down again with sealing tape.

  ‘Do fans ever turn up in person?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Usually they just hang around outside the studios, wanting autographs. But sometimes they can get nasty. They think because actors are on telly, they should talk to them on the phone or answer their letters. One of the other actresses had a stalker. He used to follow her everywhere. The studio had him arrested.’

  The next letter was an invitation card. Bianca pounced on it with a squeal. ‘Oh good, it’s the Armani show. They had ever such lovely goodie bags last year.’

  ‘You wear Armani?’

  ‘No, silly.’ Bianca giggled. ‘I’d look awful in it, wouldn’t I? But I like seeing all the models. And Clemency looks wonderful in it, of course. Oh, I do hope we can go.’ She laid the engraved card down as if it were glass.

  We continued to plough through the mound of mail. Most were simple gushes or photo requests, or invites to fashion shows, celebrity bashes or charity events. We also netted a dozen or so perverts, a box of chocolates, designer underwear and perfume. All the gifts went into the rubbish sack.

  ‘You never know what’s in them,’ Bianca explained. ‘But Clemency likes everything to be sent on, even if she’s not going to use them.’

  ‘Sent on from where?’

  ‘The production offices. They open the post first and forward it to me unless there are any threats. The company insists they go straight to the police.’

  So if any letters for Jonathon threatening death and vengeance had come via this route, they would already be in police hands. Basically I’d just been wasting my time for the past hour.

  The last letter was to the point:

  Dear Miss Courtney,

  I’m writing yet again to tell you I think your acting is a joke. Watching the paint dry on my kitchen wall is more exciting than sitting through your performance in Shoreline Secrets. Your performance is amateurish and wooden and I’m at a loss to understand why the tv company employs you. I suggest you look for a job more suited to your talents, such as serving burgers.

  A.J. Redwood.

  I was about to bin it, when Bianca said, ‘It’s her again isn’t it?’

  She snatched the sheet from me, scanned it, and then ripped it to pieces, balling the mess between her palms and throwing it with force into the sack. ‘There! That’s what I think of that!’

  ‘Who’s rattling the chains today?’ Clemency asked, drifting into the kitchen. She’d changed the cut-offs and T-shirt for tailored black jeans and a pale fawn wrap-around cardigan.

  ‘It’s that woman. The one who says you can’t act.’

  ‘Well you can’t please them all, B. Beats me why she watches Shoreline if she hates it so much.’

  ‘Yes, but she shouldn’t say things like that. It’s wicked. I could go and tell her. She only lives in Eastbourne. I could go there, Clemency, if you like?’

  ‘Forget it, B. Isn’t there anything more interesting in the post?’

  Bianca’s big features switched from frown to smile in an instant. ‘You’ve got an invite to the Armani again. Can we go? Please say we can.’

  Clemency shrugged. ‘Sure. If I’m not filming.’ She pulled a dog lead from a drawer. ‘Where’s Cappy, I think I’ll take him for a walk along the cliffs.’

  Bianca said, ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘If you like.’ They both looked at me.

  ‘I should go.’ I stood up too and collected my jacket from a chair back. ‘But we haven’t decided on what you wanted to do with the garden, Mrs Bl … er Miss Courtney?’

  ‘I don’t know. Something low-maintenance? Bianca will sort out whatever you need. Bill me for …’ She waved a vague hand. ‘Whatever.’ A small frown creased her perfect complexion. ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Of course.’ I braced myself to bluff my way through a horticultural quagmire.

  ‘Why are you walking like that?’

  *

  I took a detour via my flat to pick up a few things, and spent the rest of the day sorting out actions on the other jobs that had arrived for me at the office. By eight o’clock I’d made generous use of the hot water and bathroom at Vetch’s and was heading along the main promenade. On my left the starlight glinted off the cream crests of the incoming waves and the riding lights of an oil tanker twinkled on the horizon. On my right the neon lights flashed out Bingo, Arcade Games, Amusements, Burgers, and Now Showing. The din of slot machines and change crashing into the cups filled the night and the air tasted of ozone mixed with frying onions and chips. It was tacky Seatoun at its best.

  Byron’s Wine Bar was in the main shopping area. It was all cool light woods and staff who looked like they were resting models. A couple of years ago it wouldn’t have had a market in Seatoun. Now it was full of beautiful people sipping designer lagers. I told myself I’d only dressed in my best (and only) black suit and skimpy purple top so I’d blend in.

  O’Hara appeared to be wea
ring the same grey trousers and T-shirt he’d worn last time I’d run into him. The black leather coat was flung over the stool next to him.

  ‘Hi, duchy. Glad you could make it. What are you drinking?’

  I chose white wine. He bought a bottle, collected up two glasses, and nodded towards a table in the corner.

  ‘Found somewhere to squat?’ I enquired. On his previous visit, he’d broken into a show flat and set up home there.

  ‘B and B. Very select. I get my own shower, and a tea-tray in my room with plastic-wrapped biscuits replenished every day.’

  ‘Can’t do better than that.’ I sipped wine and looked at him over the rim of the glass. The tan he’d had a few weeks ago was already fading, but it seemed his skin naturally had a slight tinge of olive in it. It contrasted pleasantly with his navy blue eyes and thatch of hair that had turned prematurely iron grey.

  O’Hara said nothing. Just watched me watching him. I knew it was a technique of his: by staying quiet he forced the other person to initiate the conversation. I was determined not to be manipulated this time. Sixty seconds later, I said, ‘So, what’s this visit about?’

  ‘Murder, duchess. It’s about murder.’

  Chapter Five

  ‘Murder done? Or murder planned?’

  ‘Done. And though it has no tongue, it has found the means to speak.’

  ‘That’s one of those literary references isn’t it? Designed to show how well-read you are?’ I hated it when people did that.

  ‘It’s Hamlet.’ He flicked the shiny menu card. ‘Have you eaten?’

  I felt disloyal to Shane ordering crab cakes drizzled with virgin olive oil suffused with chilli. I was more of an egg-and-chips kind of girl. On the other hand, I was starving and someone else was paying.

  ‘So,’ I said, once the waitress was out of earshot. ‘Is this another one of brother Declan’s screw-ups?’

  O’Hara’s brother had been a police officer in Seatoun before he had — as a former colleague put it — ‘gone over to the dark side’. At some point he’d slid out of the force and, last year, he’d slid out of this life as well. Dane had nursed him through the last months of an unspecified, but apparently messy, death. And during that time, Declan had used a photographic memory to recreate the police files on every screw-up, fit-up and unscrupulous deal that he’d ever been involved in. Judging by the pile of files I’d once seen, that was one hell of a lot of conniving.

  For some reason Dane had appointed himself his brother’s retrospective conscience and set out to right all Declan’s wrongs. Why he felt he had to take on this task I didn’t know. Like I said, there was a lot I didn’t know about O’Hara.

  ‘Have you ever heard of Heidi Walkinshaw?’ he asked.

  The name rang instant police-connection bells. I’d seen something during my brief and inglorious police career. And something since? I dragged an image from some obscure corner of my mind: a young girl, smiling to show slightly buck teeth, fairish hair parted in the centre and held off a rather plain face by hair clips.

  O’Hara didn’t wait for me to find the elusive memory. ‘Heidi Walkinshaw set off on her paper round one spring morning and vanished off the face of the earth.’

  That was why I’d seen the name more recently. They still kept an official ‘missing persons’ picture of her on the wall at Seatoun nick. Stupid really, she’d been in her early teens when she disappeared. In the unlikely event she was still alive, she’d be …? ‘How long ago was it?’

  ‘Fourteen years,’ O’Hara replied. ‘It was about the last case Dec was in on before he bailed out of the law and order business.’

  ‘He bailed out long before that, I’d say. He just forgot to tell the people paying him.’ I saw him open his mouth, and said swiftly, ‘And don’t you dare start using words like, pot, kettle or black.’

  ‘How about waitress, food, lean back.’

  The waitress put the plates down and moved away. O’Hara’s meal came in one of those small individual casserole dishes. I hadn’t noticed what he’d ordered. ‘What is that?’

  ‘Rabbit. It’s making a comeback I hear.’

  I tried to find signs of a wind-up in his face, but it remained impassive. Moving back to safer ground, I picked up on his alleged reason for resurfacing in Seatoun. ‘Declan was certain Heidi had been murdered then?’

  ‘Well, I’d say it was a pretty sure bet, wouldn’t you, duchy? However, that’s not the murder I’m talking about.’ He refilled our glasses. ‘Heidi’s parents reported her missing that evening, but it wasn’t taken seriously at the station. They were used to teenagers bunking off school to spend the day in the arcades or on the beach. They figured she’d turn up. The upshot of this was that the hunt wasn’t launched with any real enthusiasm until she’d been gone forty-eight hours. They found the bike, but there wasn’t a sign of Heidi. Well, nothing that they cared to share with the press anyway.’

  ‘So there was something?’

  ‘There was one Leslie Raymond Higgins of this parish.’

  It was a pretty obvious jump to make: ‘Leslie liked young girls?’

  ‘Leslie liked them so much he’d already spent several terms as a house-guest at Wormwood Scrubs. They had eye-witness evidence that put him near Heidi several times in the weeks before her disappearance. And when they searched his house, they found hair ornaments similar to ones Heidi wore hidden in a tin under the mattress. Collecting souvenirs from his victims before snatching them was part of Higgins’s MO.’

  ‘Similar?’

  ‘Exactly, that was the problem. There was nothing unique about them. You could have picked them up at a hundred stores. There was no way of tying them to Heidi. They tore the place apart looking for something concrete but there was nothing to prove Heidi had ever been in the house. Same with the van. They were sure they’d got the right man, they just couldn’t prove it. DNA profiling wasn’t as sophisticated then as it is now, and in the end, they had to let him go.’

  ‘If they knew there was a sex offender in the district, wasn’t it criminally careless of them not to check out Higgins as soon as Heidi was reported missing?’

  ‘This was before the sex offenders register, remember. And Higgins had been keeping his nose — and presumably his dick — clean for some years.’

  ‘Those other girls. Did he kill them?’

  ‘No. Kept them somewhere for a few hours, then dumped them, usually at night. That was what the team at Seatoun figured he’d originally had planned for Heidi. In fact, some of them were hoping he still had. That he’d got her imprisoned somewhere and had been lifted before he could release her. The rest, who were grounded on planet reality, knew that if she hadn’t turned up by then, they were looking for a body. So after they’d released Higgins, they set up surveillance on him and started releasing hints to the media that they thought they knew where Heidi was. They were banking on Higgins becoming so spooked that he’d have to go check on her, wherever he’d put her.’

  The level of chatter from the bright young boozers was rising. I leant over the table, so that I didn’t have to discuss this case at the top of my voice. O’Hara misinterpreted the gesture. Or maybe he didn’t. Whichever way, his thumb traced the edge of my mouth. I jerked away.

  ‘We’re just friends. Remember?’

  ‘If you say so, duchy. But that chilli oil moustache isn’t a good look on you.’

  I dabbed my mouth with a napkin. ‘So who else got murdered?’

  ‘Higgins did.’ He moved his head closer to mine. ‘Declan was on surveillance, in an unmarked car outside his house with a CID sergeant, a guy by the name of Joe Spender. Spender was overweight and tried not to let a diet of junk food interfere with his intake of booze and cigarettes. In short, he was a heart attack waiting to happen. And that evening, it happened. Big, spectacular, multi-colour coronary. Dec figures Spender’s only chance is hospital, now rather than later. He drives round there like a maniac; lights flashing, horn blaring. They get Joe into resuscitation a
nd then into theatre. He died four times, according to Dec. Last time, I guess he decided he liked it so much, he wouldn’t bother to do the living bit again.’

  O’Hara cleared the final fragments of rabbit casserole with a chunk of bread. ‘Dec stayed with him the whole time, and another car was despatched to take over the surveillance on Higgins. They were relieved early the next morning and the new team waited for signs of life from Higgins. Normally he’d go for a run about half-six, pick up a paper and milk on the way back and drive off to work about half-eight.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘General decorating and handyman.’

  ‘People actually let him in their houses?’

  ‘You’ve got to remember that Higgins’ record wasn’t generally known outside police circles. And like I say, he’d been a good boy for some years. Anyhow, that morning, it gets to nine o’clock and the curtains are still drawn. They start thinking maybe he’s skipped. There’s no answer at the front, so they try the back. And find the door’s unlocked. Higgins was on the floor, colder than an Arctic hare’s tush.’

  I gave him a suspicious look. There was still not so much as a gleam in those navy blue eyes. Perhaps the reference to a small furry animal with large ears was just coincidence. ‘How long between Declan’s mercy dash and the new team arriving outside Higgins’s place?’

  ‘About forty-five minutes. You know how expensive these operations are. They don’t have teams on stand-by. And, as you rightly guess, duchy, that’s when the investigating team figure the killer got in.’

  ‘And out?’

  ‘And out,’ he confirmed.

  ‘Any suspects?’

  ‘One big one. Heidi Walkinshaw’s father.’

  ‘He knew about Higgins?’

  ‘Word had started to circulate locally. You can’t keep something like that quiet once someone’s been taken in for questioning and their house is turned inside out. First of all Walkinshaw is alibied by a neighbour; says he was round there having a drink. But they push Walkinshaw a bit harder and suddenly he starts coming out with stuff he couldn’t have known. Things about the murder scene that hadn’t been released to the papers. Finally, Graham Walkinshaw confesses to killing Higgins. Goes down for it. Declan gets a disciplinary hearing for leaving the surveillance and has his knuckles rapped. Case closed.’