by Liz Evans
Others, who read day-glo arrows better than me, had collected in small huddles on the other side of the rope. Most seemed to be teenagers. Driving past, I heard the cry, ‘It’s the rabbit.’ Several of them waved. I stopped at the tape. One of the guards bent down to the window. ‘Only room for the production vehicles ma’am. Private vehicles to be parked main-roadside.’ He pronounced ‘vehicle’ as ‘veee-hick-al’.
Bianca climbed out, leading the rabbit. There were more squeals of excitement from the fans. Once I’d left the Micra on the main road, I hiked back down. The guard beckoned me under the rope barrier.
This cove was no more than a narrow half-circle of coarse sand, scattered with grey boulders and backed by scrubby marram grass and weeds. There seemed to be about fifty people standing around doing nothing much. One of them was Jonathon. He was perched on a rock at the far end of the half-moon beach, his back to us, staring out to sea. Even from this distance, I could sense the ‘get lost world’ message.
Since nobody was taking any notice of me, I wandered around trying to think how I could get Jon to open up to me about the anonymous letters. One of the largest veee-hick-als was a coach. When I glanced inside the open door, I discovered it seemed to be used as a mobile canteen.
Swinging myself up the steps, I helped myself to a coffee and a danish from the selection on the first table. The seats were arranged so that each pair faced each other across a small table. I took one opposite a skinny girl huddled in a very large padded coat. ‘D’you mind?’
She shrugged. ‘You a walk-on?’
‘Driver. You?’
‘Actor. You don’t watch this shit?’ She jerked a thumb at the scene framed by the window.
‘No. Sorry. Great tan. Real or fake?’
‘Scrubs off. Couldn’t be real could it.’ Seeing the lack of understanding on my face, she said. ‘You’re new to this, right? Most of the series filming is done in the studios in North London, but every few months they come down and shoot all the exterior scenes and then slot them into the episodes. A real tan would cause continuity problems. It’s supposed to be ninety degrees out there. A glorious summer day. And lucky little Maddy gets to jump around in her bikini waggling her tits at the camera crew until she dies of freaking hypothermia.’
Slumping back in her seat, she took several desperate gasps on her cigarette, tilting her head back so her eyebrows disappeared under her heavy fringe. We were joined by another skinny female, this one with spiky blonde hair. ‘What’s happening?’ Maddy asked.
‘Our beloved director is setting up for another take, from the rocks this time.’
‘Jeeeezuss,’ Maddy hissed. ‘How many freaking ways can you shoot the same bloody scene. What’s Richard doing, going for some kind of personal record?’
‘I thought the director’s name was Jake?’ I queried.
Spiky Blonde raised eyebrows at Maddy.
‘She’s a driver.’ She flicked a nicotine stained thumb at Spiky. ‘Selena’s a runner. Jake was yesterday. Richard Feeney’s directing this scene. Another day, another dick.’
‘He’s not that bad,’ Selena protested. Without much conviction.
‘It’s all right for you. You’re not running around in your knickers, freezing your butt off, for take, after take, after freaking take. And we know why, don’t we.’ I didn’t, but luckily Maddy wanted to get her grievances off her 36Ds. ‘He wants to keep our star’ — she made quotation marks in the air with her fingers — ‘out there until she catches freaking pneumonia. Which is fine by me. But why do I have to get my tits frozen? I didn’t dump him. That reminds me, you know what I heard? At the smug-fest, she didn’t just pick up the Best Actress Award. She picked up one of the waitresses as well.’
‘You’re kidding! Clemency does girls?’
Maddy snorted out another nostrilful of smoke. ‘Where have you been Sel? What do you think she keeps that big bestest-mate hanging around for?’
‘I heard she kept Jonathon occupied while Clemency was busy elsewhere.’
Maddy pouted. Her lips were unfeasibly plump, unless one of her parents had got jiggy with a codfish. ‘Maybe she does both of them.’
It seemed to occur to Selena that they’d said too much in front of someone who was a virtual stranger. ‘Don’t mind us. Everyone blows off steam on these exterior shoots. It’s so bloody boring hanging around for hours. Inventing rumours is one way to pass the time.’
Maddy wasn’t having it. ‘Sod inventing. It’s true. Or as good as. We all know Clemency would screw a goat if she fancied it.’ Something beeped in her pocket. Taking out a paging device, she read the text message. ‘Make-up.’
Selena hesitated before following her out. ‘Some of the stuff she says, is just puff, you know?’
I assured Selena that a driver gets to hear all sorts and knows when to keep her mouth shut. Of course the same rules didn’t apply to private investigators.
Interesting as the gossip had been, it seemed to provide endless suspects who might want to send poison-pens to Clemency, but nothing in the way of a motive for targeting Jonathon. I spotted him going into one of the caravans and decided I might as well stick to plan A and try for a little one-to-one heart-searching.
Plan A was scuppered by the presence of Clemency who wanted to know what I was doing here.
‘I drove Bianca and the rabbit over. I have to go soon, so if she wants a lift back …?’
‘I don’t know where she’s — oh there you are.’
Bianca bounced up the steps. ‘I’ve seen a courier.’
‘Fascinating,’ Jonathon drawled. ‘Are they indigenous to this coastline?’
‘Silly. He had a delivery for Clemency.’ She extended a large brown envelope.
Clemency felt it between perfectly manicured finger-tips. ‘Script?’ She picked the flap open. And pulled out a folded newspaper. Clemency clicked her tongue. ‘Another damn fan sending me junk. Souvenir, birthday edition. Like I might be interested.’ Refolding it, she lobbed it on to the fold-down table.
Spiky Selena stuck her head in the door and announced that the news crew were here. ‘They want to do the interview on the beach, Clemency.’
‘They would. My hair is going to look like shit. Where’s the rabbit, Bianca?’
The two women both started out of the trailer. Bianca went ahead to retrieve Cappy. Clemency glanced back at the door. I saw her expression change.
Jonathon was sitting bolt upright reading. His grip on the newspaper was so tight that his knuckles were gleaming through his clenched fingers.
‘Jon. Come on!’
She started back towards him, hand outstretched. Before she reached him, he ripped the paper in two. Seizing one of the halves, he started shredding it. Paper fragments were filling the air like a black and white snow-storm.
‘Jon! Leave it!’ Balling the mess of destroyed sheets into an ungainly bundle, Clemency hugged them to her chest.
For a moment I thought Jonathon was going to fight her for them. Then he sank back, his head in his hands. ‘What’s happening to us, Clem?’
‘Nothing. Pull yourself together. And come on outside.’
‘To watch some presenter telling my wife how great she is? I’ll pass, thanks.’
‘No, you won’t. You are not staying in here getting off your face. I want you where I can see you. Outside Jonathon.’ Her blue eyes had a hint of grey steel when they swung in my direction. ‘I’m locking up the trailer. You needn’t hang around. Bianca can get a cab home.’
I watched her stalk through the scrub grass, Jonathon trailing behind like a truculent puppy that couldn’t decide whether to bite or not. As soon as they were safely out of sight, I uncurled my fingers. The scrap of paper I’d fielded from the snow-storm was crushed into a ball. I smoothed it out on my palm. It had been a good catch. The top of page five. Printed along the wide top border was Seatoun Express 2 April 1990.
Back at the flat I rang Ruby, the pensioner with the voice like a rub-down with a cashm
ere glove, who was happy to undertake all our tedious library research.
Chapter Eleven
An essential requirement for any effective private investigator is the doorstop boot. Mine shot into play as soon as Graham Walkinshaw reacted to my introduction.
‘I’m not going anywhere, Mr Walkinshaw. We can either discuss this on the doorstep, in a very loud voice, so everyone can hear. Or you can let me inside.’
Alternatively, he could kick me off his doormat. But I was rather hoping that one wouldn’t occur to him.
‘Daddy, Daddy, I can do a pirouette see!’
He twisted round, allowing the door to open further. Halfway up the staircase a kid of seven or eight was standing on tiptoes. Arching her arms above her head, she spun around. It hadn’t occurred to me that the Walkinshaws might have had other children.
‘Imogen!’ A woman ran down from the upper floor. She grabbed at the girl’s shoulder. ‘Not on the stairs. Not — on — the — stairs.’ Each word was emphasised with a tiny shake. ‘You could fall and break your neck.’
‘Oh Mummeeee.’ Wrenching herself free Imogen pushed past her mother and ran back upstairs.
Mummy was now far enough down the stairs to be able to see me in the doorway. She flashed a look of enquiry at her husband. His eyes went from me, to her, and back to me again. I read the message in them. He didn’t want his wife to know who I was, or why I was there. Okay Graham, I’ll play ball if you do.
‘I was asking about decorating.’ I flashed Bianca’s business card.
Mrs Walkinshaw shook her head, coming to stand next to her husband. Another clichéd expectation bit the dust, viz: mothers of missing children were always haggard and prematurely aged by the misery etched in their facial lines. Heidi’s mother had one of those strong-boned faces that still look good in their fifties and thick honey-blonde hair that hid the odd grey strand. ‘I’m sorry. My husband does all our decorating.’
‘So he said. But you said you knew someone who might want work done?’ I directed the question at Graham.
‘There’s a pub I use sometimes. The Blue Anchor. The landlord mentioned he was thinking of getting someone in.’
He kept me waiting an hour.
‘Can’t stop long. Said I was grabbing a quick one before dinner.’ He kicked out a chair at my table and thumped down in it, resting his forearms on the table.
They were brawny arms, which went with the rest of the package. He was a broad-shouldered bloke of average height, but gave the impression of being taller by the bulges of muscles and sinews under the jumper and cord trousers. The square shape of his head was emphasised by the way his hair had been cut to within a millimetre of the scalp. His nose had been broken at some time. His knuckles didn’t exactly scrape the floor but if you had to design an identikit thick-thug, the prototype would look pretty much like Graham Walkinshaw.
‘You with that bloke come sticking his nose in the other day?’
‘That’s me. If you’ve come out for a quick one, won’t she expect you to come back smelling like you found one?’ Without waiting for his reply I waved the lager bottle I’d been nursing for the past sixty minutes at the barman and nodded at Graham.
He brought two bottles. Graham handed over a note. ‘Cheers.’ I took a sip and then apologised if I’d caused him any problems turning up at the house. ‘We thought you’d be on your own again. I guess we assumed Mrs Walkinshaw would be at work.’
‘Ellie had taken Immy to her ballet class when your mate came round.’
‘Did Heidi like to dance?’
‘No. Took after her dad, two left feet. Immy takes after her mum. You stay away from both of them.’
With images of O’Hara’s swollen nose and black eyes in my mind, I decided ‘Or what?’ wasn’t a smart question. ‘You must have been pleased, to have had another daughter?’
‘Think that’s how it works do you? Lost one girl, so we’ll just breed another one. You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.’
I invited him to tell me. Anything that kept him talking was fine by me.
‘We tried to have more kids after Heidi, but it didn’t happen see? Then couple of months after I came out, bang.’ He snapped a calloused thumb and forefinger. ‘Ellie falls pregnant. She’s our little miracle, Immy. But she’ll never, ever, replace Heidi.’
‘Then why don’t you let us try to find her? Don’t you want to bury her?’
He didn’t answer for a moment. Then he said, ‘Sure she’s dead, are you?’
That was an aspect that hadn’t occurred to me. Often, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary, relatives of the missing cling on to the hope that they are still alive. ‘Are you, Mr Walkinshaw?’
‘Ellie’s not. Least part of her isn’t. In her head …’ He tapped his own square skull. ‘She knows. But in here …’ His fingers sounded the hollow of his chest. ‘She hopes. She sees Heidi coming home. All grown up. She’d be twenty-eight now.’
‘Is that why you don’t want O’Hara to investigate? So your wife can keep the hope?’
‘Maybe.’
Or maybe not. There was definitely something more going on in his head. ‘There’s Declan’s confession,’ I began tentatively.
‘No!’ The barman and his other customers all looked in our direction. Graham leant closer, lowering his voice. ‘The confession is bollocks. I killed Leslie Higgins. Got it?’
‘If you say so.’
‘And tell your mate the same.’
‘Consider him told. But I have to tell you, confession or not, I reckon O’Hara will go ahead with trying to find Heidi.’
Walkinshaw tipped back his head, draining the bottle in one long swallow. He slammed it to the table-top with a crash that made the tin ashtray jump. ‘You think he can do it?’
‘I think if anyone can, he can.’ I said truthfully. Which was not to say that I thought anyone could. Fourteen years ago a lot of highly motivated coppers had failed. ‘How about you tell me about that day, Mr Walkinshaw?’
He kept his head down for a few moments. I read the second he came to a decision in his flexed shoulders. Looking up he said, ‘I help you, you say nothing about the confession, Bianca.’
‘Deal. However the decorator’s card is not mine. My name is Grace Smith. I’ll answer to Grace or Smithie.’
He nodded. Then spoke abruptly. ‘I used to ride round with her you know? When she got the job, back end of the summer, it were daylight, seemed safe enough. When it started getting dark mornings, I got my old bike out and followed her. She didn’t like it much, but I stuck with it. But it was coming light again, so I’d stopped.’ He picked up the bottle, remembered he’d finished it, and seemed to hesitate over ordering another. ‘That week, the week she … left, I’d an early start. Worked for the Water Board back then. We had a big job on, replacing piping.’ He stopped. I was alarmed at the suggestion of tears in his eyes. I’d have to empathise and say the right thing. I was useless at empathising. He swallowed hard. ‘Ellie was still in bed. Heidi and me walked out together. She gave me a hug. She didn’t do that much any more. Getting too big for it. I watched her ride away.’
‘And that was the last you saw of her?’
‘I see her all the time. In that pink coat, riding away down that road. I see myself calling out to her to wait, and I’ll go with her after all. I see her hitting a stone in the road and falling off and me running down to her, scared she’s seriously hurt. Only she’s not. Front wheel on the bike’s twisted though. Can’t ride it today. So I ring the shop, tell them sorry — she’s not doing the round this morning. I see her pulling out at the end of our street, looking back towards me instead of looking where she’s going. And I see the car that’s going to hit her, and it does before I can shout. And she’s lying in the road, blood all over her and the bike’s on its side, wheel still spinning. I see her lying in hospital, all linked up to tubes and machines and them saying how she’s lucky to be alive and it will be a miracle if she walks again. I�
��ve seen Heidi thousands of times since that day — and every time something has happened to stop her riding away into the … nothingness.’
There was spittle like beer froth on his lips where the words had poured out. I guessed this was probably the first time he’d ever admitted that to anyone. There was an awkward silence. The Blue Anchor was a small pub in the middle of the streets of Edwardian terraced houses out towards West Bay. It wasn’t a tourist attraction, even in the high season when we actually had tourists, but it seemed to be a popular choice for the locals. The tables and bar stools were filling up.
‘When did you realise she was missing?’
The vehemence had gone. ‘Not until that evening. Ellie had left for work by the time Heidi would have come back from the paper round. Heidi’d often go round her friends’ houses to do her homework after school. Wasn’t until she was late for her dinner that Ellie started to worry and ring round. That’s when she found out Heidi hadn’t been to school that day.’ His tone became slightly defensive. ‘We couldn’t know. If we’d known about that pervert living nearby … I went out looking for her. Checked out the arcades. The amusement park. Beach.’
All the places kids who bunk off school hang out. I guessed this was another part of that day that Graham Walkinshaw played over endlessly in his mind. And always it ended differently: he’d called the police immediately; they’d gone to Higgins’s house at once and found Heidi alive.
‘The coppers thought she was just some teenager gone off with her mates. Said to give it twenty-four hours and call again if she’d not come home. Useless bloody bastards. Why didn’t they listen?’
‘Had she done it before?’ I asked. ‘Skipped school?’
‘Once. Year before. She and a mate decided to go up to London. Some pop star she liked was supposed to have bought a house there. Had posters of him all over her walls. Greasy stick with hair in his eyes. Can’t remember his name. They were going to hang around outside and see if they could talk to him. Got themselves lost instead. I shouldn’t have told the police about that, should I? You think they’d have looked harder if I hadn’t?’