Grace Smith Investigates

by Liz Evans

  I waited for more. When it didn’t come, I said, ‘I don’t get why you’re here. What’s the problem?’

  ‘The problem is that Walkinshaw didn’t kill Leslie Higgins. Declan did.’

  Chapter Six

  ‘You want to take me through that again?’

  ‘Dec and Joe Spender decided to “help” Higgins remember where he’d put Heidi’s body.’

  ‘Wasn’t that kind of risky? What if Higgins had made a formal complaint?’

  ‘They figured Higgins knew the score. If he complained and was picked up again for any reason, he’d get another pasting inside. Higgins had been done over several times in the past and had never wanted to take it further. It was never their intention to kill him. Just inflict a bit of serious pain and loosen Higgins’s tongue.’ He fixed those big blue eyes on me. ‘Do you believe that?’

  For some reason, despite knowing the extent of big brother Dec’s sins, it was important to O’Hara that I didn’t think too badly of him. ‘I believe,’ I said. ‘It would be pretty dumb to kill Higgins before he’d told them what he’d done with Heidi.’

  ‘Unfortunately that’s just what they did. They thought he was faking it at first. Then it finally dawns on them that they’re in a room with a fresh corpse. That’s when Spender starts choking and clutching his chest and Dec decides to get him to the car and make a bolt for the hospital.’

  ‘Convenient for Dec. Perfect excuse to leave the house unwatched. Might have been tricky explaining how the killer got in without being spotted by the surveillance team otherwise.’

  ‘Dec always did have the devil’s own luck.’

  ‘Spender didn’t,’ I pointed out. ‘Why the hell did Walkinshaw confess if he hadn’t done it?’

  ‘I don’t know. And Dec could hardly ask him.’

  ‘When Walkinshaw confessed, didn’t it occur to Declan to lay out the truth?’

  ‘It occurred, but he was scared. A cop in jail is like fresh meat in a piranha tank.’ He shrugged. ‘So he kept his mouth shut and watched Walkinshaw go down.’

  ‘Life?’

  O’Hara shook his head. ‘The charge was reduced to manslaughter on the grounds it was a beating gone wrong. Which it was, except that Walkinshaw didn’t administer it. And his brief pleaded diminished responsibility; claimed Walkinshaw was driven temporarily insane by the disappearance of his daughter. There was a lot of sympathy in court for Walkinshaw. Juries and judges have children too. In the end he got twelve years and served five, largely in a soft prison.’

  ‘Did that make Dec feel better?’

  We locked eyes across the table. For the first time I could remember, he was the one who looked away. ‘Whatever he did, he was my brother.’

  ‘And he ain’t heavy?’ I said flippantly.

  ‘And I’m not covering up for him,’ O’Hara said. ‘On the contrary, I’m taking his signed confession round to the Walkinshaws’. And trying to give them the one thing they want, by way of a “sorry” from Declan.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Heidi.’

  *

  I dropped into the office next morning to sort out some of my other work before heading back to the Blacks’ house. I didn’t know exactly how gardeners worked, but I figured if they were anything like builders, they got started on the job and then disappeared for days. I intended to turn up at the Blacks’ at hours that suited me, and look hurt if anyone queried my time-keeping. In the meantime, I needed a few props.

  Knocking on the door opposite mine, I wandered into Annie’s beautifully decorated room, designed to convert from office to cosy lounge by the changing of a few essential props. It was Annie’s method of making her clients feel relaxed and encouraging them to talk freely about their problems. The illusion that they were just chatting with a girlfriend rather than making a formal statement was particularly effective with betrayed wives or girlfriends. As was the freshly brewed coffee.

  ‘It’s just perking,’ she said, looking at me over large, gold-rimmed spectacles.

  There were chocolate wafers on offer too. A sure sign there was no current bloke in Annie’s life. Romance was always Annie’s cue to try to shift the extra two stone she was carrying; they were periods of lean pickings and an atmosphere that was akin to living with a rabid terrier. ‘Do you have any gardening tools?’

  ‘I live in a first-floor flat. What would I be doing with gardening tools? Rotovating the window box?’

  ‘I need to borrow some. I’m doing an undercover. As Clemency Courtney’s gardener.’

  ‘The one from Shoreline Secrets?’ She flushed at my raised eyebrows. ‘My mother’s a fan. I’ve caught a few episodes when I go to see her. What’s Clemency’s problem?’

  ‘Not hers. Her husband’s.’ I filled Annie in on Della Black and the threatening letters. ‘So far I haven’t seen any.’ I dipped a wafer and sucked coffee flavoured chocolate off it. I only became conscious I was frowning into the mug when Annie said, ‘So what else is bothering you?’

  ‘O’Hara’s back.’

  ‘Fit, late-thirty-something bloke, with skills in lock-picking and firearms, and mysterious past and present?’

  ‘The same. I had dinner with him last night.’

  ‘Just dinner.’

  ‘Yep.’ He’d walked me down to the promenade afterwards, where we watched the phosphorus defining the surface of the swell and listened to the ever-present hush of the ocean. After ten minutes of the salt breeze numbing the skin on my face, I’d wished him good night and left him standing there. He hadn’t tried to stop me. Declan’s cowardice in the Walkinshaw case had brought down a glass shutter between us.

  ‘So where’s the problem?’ Annie queried.

  He hadn’t said that the real story of the Higgins murder was confidential, but I didn’t feel right passing it on until he’d given brother Dec’s confession to the Walkinshaws. ‘I guess I just find the guy unsettling. I never know where I am with him.’

  ‘That’s called dating. You’ve probably forgotten. God knows I’m starting to.’

  I nearly offered to ask O’Hara if he had a friend. And then I found myself imagining what kind of men might be O’Hara’s friends. The temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees. ‘I think I’ll go hire a chainsaw.’

  ‘Whatever turns him on.’

  *

  My arrival Chez Black coincided with the postman’s. On the top of the pile was a brown envelope, approximately eight inches long and six wide, addressed in triple spacing. As soon as Bianca opened the door, I sagged under the weight of the chainsaw. ‘This thing weighs a ton, I think it’s slipping …’

  Bianca slid her own arms under it, cradling it so it was hugged to her bolster-sized bosom. ‘I’ve got it.’

  ‘What about your wrist? Don’t put any weight on it.’ I came with her rather than releasing my own grip.

  ‘No. It’s okay. Really, I’m fine.’

  Bianca backed up. I let go. With the full weight of the saw on her arms, she turned round to find somewhere to rest it. I darted back to the front door, crouched down and helpfully scooped up the mail. With my shoulder bag in front on my knees, I dropped the brown envelope inside.

  ‘Here you go. How’s your wrist?’

  ‘It’s getting better I think. The swelling’s going down, see?’ She held it out. ‘It’s a pity really. I could have helped you with the chainsaw. Should I make coffee or lunch?’

  It sounded like an invitation, but the anxious expression on her big round face indicated it wasn’t. She wanted me to tell her what to do next.

  ‘I’ve had coffee. Let’s go with lunch.’

  ‘Right.’ Her face cleared. And then clouded again. ‘Should I do sandwiches? Or soup?’

  ‘Both. Let’s live.’

  ‘All right. Should I do it for two or three?’

  Bloody hell, if we kept playing twenty questions like this, we’d be eating lunch at midnight. ‘Does the rabbit eat soup?’

  ‘No.’ A big smile s
plit the moon-face. ‘Silly. It’s for Jonathon. He’s upstairs.’

  ‘Why don’t I go ask him?’

  I was half-way up the stairs before she moved after me. I swear the treads shook as she pounded up them.

  ‘In here?’ I opened the door to the bedroom Clemency had been bonking in yesterday.

  ‘Next floor,’ Bianca arrived behind me. ‘He’s working in the study.’

  We climbed upwards. It didn’t seem to occur to Bianca to tell me that I didn’t need to be here. There were three doors on the second landing. Bianca opened the one directly opposite us. Just as the guy seated at the desk picked up the laptop and smashed it back down with an explosive, ‘Shit!’

  ‘Isn’t the writing going well, Jonathon?’ Bianca said.

  He spun round on the typist’s chair and stretched his arms wide.

  ‘Bianca Mendez will now give us a masterclass in stating the fucking obvious.’ He registered my presence. ‘Who’s your friend?’

  ‘She’s not really my friend.’ Bianca began. ‘But she did help when I sprained my —’

  Sensing we were about to get a re-run of yesterday, minute by minute, I squeezed past her. ‘Grace Smith. Your mum sent me over to fix up the garden.’

  ‘Oh yeah. Good old Mum.’ There was no irony in the remark that I could detect. He ran his fingers through his dark hair, making it stand up in spikes. He was a good-looking guy, if you went for the lean and hungry look. He was the sort of actor you’d cast as the consumptive penniless poet, dying romantically in an attic in a freshly pressed ruffled shirt, while some daft female wept buckets because they were marrying her off to an earl with a few thousand acres.

  ‘We came to see if you wanted lunch,’ Bianca said.

  ‘Yeah, I want lunch. Is this junk yours?’ He kicked a pile of papers on the floor. I recognised the letters we’d opened yesterday.

  ‘I was going to answer them. Sorry. I could do it now. But you’re using the computer.’ Bianca frowned over this insuperable problem.

  ‘And you couldn’t do lunch,’ Jonathon pointed out. With three choices before her you could practically see Bianca’s brain circuits heading for overload. Before sparks started shooting from her ears, Jonathon added, ‘So why don’t you go cook. You can do the letters later.’

  Relieved to have had the decision made for her, Bianca started downwards. Jonathon winked at me.

  ‘What are you writing?’ I asked.

  ‘A screenplay.’

  ‘Is it any good?’

  ‘It’s brilliant. In here.’ He pushed a finger into his hair as if he were trying to drill it into his brain. ‘But when I try to put it down here …’ Grabbing the keyboard, he started typing feverishly.

  I sensed I’d ceased to exist for him, so I followed Bianca downstairs. Before I could be asked to rule on what filling should go in the sandwiches, I picked up my chainsaw and headed for the thicket at the rear of the garden. Pushing inside the prickly overgrown mass, I found a spot where I could stand, dumped the saw, and took out the envelope I’d purloined.

  The letter was addressed to Jonathon Black — no ‘Mr’. I felt carefully along the length before I opened it. Not detecting anything but paper inside, I eased it open and found a single sheet of white A4 inside, folded into three.

  ‘YOU CANNOT ESCAPE PUNISHMENT. YOU MUST PAY.’

  I just hate a cryptic blackmailer. Della was right about the paper. You could buy it by the packet in any stationer or supermarket. Ditto the envelope. The postmark, however, was local. And the letter had been sent directly to the house, rather than via the TV company. It made it more likely that whoever — and whatever — this was about, it was somehow connected to Jonathon’s life in Seatoun, rather than his position as Mr Clemency Courtney.

  Replacing the letter in my bag, which I hung on a branch, I pulled on the goggles and heavy gloves I’d also hired, ripped the starter cord on the chainsaw, and squared off to the densest clump of brambles.

  ‘Okay punk, this garden ain’t big enough for both of us.’

  Chapter Seven

  There’s something therapeutic about a chainsaw. I roared through tangles of branches, feeling the thrill of power as all life dissolved before me. Slicing off long spiteful branches that arched over the brick shed, I discovered the door’s bolt and padlock were rusted into immobility, and so was the ring handle when I tried it. Turning a hundred and eighty degrees, I headed back. Splinters and clumps of wood flew as I carved a pathway to the outside world.

  When I reached it, I found I had an audience. Cappuccino was sitting on his rump, nose twitching, ears at attention. When I appeared he gave a strange squeak.

  I began walking past him, but he launched himself at my left leg and tried to hump it. ‘Get off.’ Taking a step with my right, I tried to drag my left after it, hoping it would dislodge him. He came with me. It was like wearing a twenty pound snow boot. ‘Let go will you. You’re not my type.’ I shook the leg around as far as I could. Cappuccino hung in there. ‘Trust me will you, this is never going to work out.’ I took a more vigorous kick and dislodged the pest. I started to back away towards the house. Cappuccino hopped forward. There was a gleam in his eyes I didn’t like. I backed up faster. He kept coming. Turning round I belted for the house.

  We reached the back door neck and nose. I flung myself inside and back-heeled the door behind me.

  There were no sounds coming from the house. If Jonathon and Bianca had gone out this might be an opportunity to snoop around upstairs and see if I could find any more of the threatening letters.

  The plan was a no-go. The reverberation of floorboards heralded Bianca’s return from upstairs. ‘Are you ready for lunch? Sorry. I’ve done the sandwiches. Shall I put the soup on now? Oh, you’ve shut the back door. Cappy can’t get in.’

  She opened it. The bunny hopped inside. I casually drew both legs up on the chair. Cappy ignored me and loped over to his basket. Bianca was trying to cut the corner off a carton of mushroom soup one-handed, when the phone rang. Reaching over to the wall extension, she lifted the receiver: ‘Black residence. How may help you? Oh hello Opal. It’s me, Bianca.’ The caller said something that caused Bianca’s mouth to droop. ‘No, she’s not here. Sorry. She said she was going out to the set. Sorry. Did you try her mobile?’ Another pause and then, ‘She must have turned it off. I’m sorry Opal, shall I ask her to call you? I could do that if you like?’

  ‘Is that Opal?’ Jonathon had wandered in from the hall. He snatched the phone from Bianca with such force that I saw the shock register in her eyes.

  ‘Opal. Hi. It’s Jon. Long time, no talk. How are you? The series is really rocking. That two-handed episode a couple of weeks ago — awesome.’ His sentences came out like machine gun bursts. ‘Did you get those script outlines I sent you? Just rough drafts. Need work I know, but gives you a feel for where I’m going with this. What I was thinking was if I could sit in on the next story-lining meeting …’ The distant Opal seemed to have finally managed to get a word in. It was as if someone had stuck a pin in him. ‘Last week. Oh, I see. Yeah, okay. Next time maybe.’

  He replaced the receiver with a crash that nearly took the base unit off the wall. Spinning on his heel, he headed out of the kitchen.

  ‘Should I bring your lunch upstairs?’ Bianca called.

  ‘Stick the sodding lunch.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Bianca looked like she wanted me to make it all better. And then anxiety replaced it again. ‘Clemency definitely said she was going to the set.’

  I figured Clemency was big enough to go walkabout on her own if she felt like it. ‘Who’s Opal?’

  ‘The executive producer on Shoreline. She definitely said the set.’ She continued to fret over Clemency’s location during lunch despite my efforts to turn the conversation to other matters — like any enemies the happy couple might have in Seatoun.

  ‘Mendez,’ I said. ‘That’s Spanish isn’t it? Do you speak Spanish?’

  ‘No. My dad left when I was a ba
by.’ She stuffed in the last fragment of sandwich and added, ‘So did my mum. There was just Gran and me. But she died.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I have Clemency and Jonathon. They’re my family.’ A frown sculpted ripples across her forehead. ‘She definitely said she was …’

  I returned to massacring bushes while I considered my next step. The letter had said Jonathon had to ‘pay’. Was that in hard cash or retribution? I needed more background on Jonathon’s earlier life in Seatoun I decided. And the best person to ask was probably my client, Della.

  While I was mulling over my options, I’d been idling through a thick bough watching the cleanness of the inner wood emerging, when I caught a flicker of movement to my right. I looked into the low-growing tangle and saw … low growing tangle. I restarted the saw. The something moved again. This time I took my protective goggles off and stared hard. At first all I could see were interwoven branches, with the occasional brown and slimy leaf that had survived winter in this protected pocket. Then I started to make out a lighter column; about a quarter of an inch thick and perhaps a foot long. Once I found it, I realised what it was; the paler rim of a rabbit’s outer ear. There were two of them, turning slowly forward like satellite dishes detecting a signal. Cappuccino rose from the bushes. His mouth parted slightly, showing two long yellow teeth like gravestones. He gave a squeak of triumph.

  I hefted the saw, snagged my bag and belted out of the thicket. Enough of the gardening for today.

  Bianca intercepted me on my way to the front door. ‘Sorry. Can you just give me a hand in here? If you don’t mind? I can’t get the tin open. Sorry.’