by Liz Evans
‘No. I don’t. There was nothing else you could have done, Graham. Don’t beat yourself up about it.’
‘What the hell do you know,’ he asked again. ‘I found the bike you know? Not the coppers. Me. It was just lying there, in the ditch. Why’d nobody report it, eh? Girl’s bike, lying there all night. Must have been plenty passed it. Why didn’t they say something? What if it had been their kid’s bike?’
‘Where was the bike?’
‘Schoolhouse Lane.’
Why it was called Schoolhouse Lane was a mystery. There wasn’t, nor ever had been, a schoolhouse anywhere in the vicinity. It was a narrow one-car-wide track that ran between fields, joining two roads that entered West Bay, one from the west and the other from the north. ‘Was that on her route?’
‘No. Her last deliveries were in River End. Then she’d turn round, go back down the road, same way we came up from West Bay.’
‘Have you any idea why she changed her route?’
‘Police asked that. We don’t know.’
‘Did she finish her round that morning?’
‘Yes. They checked. She was on her way home. Until she met that bastard Higgins …’ His knuckles gleamed on the lager bottle that he was still clutching.
‘What was Heidi like?’ I asked.
‘She was beautiful. Those pictures, in the papers, they’re not good. She looked at you with those big eyes of hers and you’d do anything for her.’ Well, plainly her dad would have done, but I made allowances. ‘And she was bright too.’
‘But was she streetwise? Would she have got into a stranger’s car if he’d come up with a good enough reason?’
‘No. She was too smart. He’d have had to hit her …’ His voice wobbled. I’d taken him into another imaginary scenario. One where he didn’t want to be.
Quickly I asked about Heidi’s friend. ‘The one she went to London with. What was her name?’
‘Maria Deakin. Why?’
Because I’d been a teenage girl. There are things you tell your best mate, you don’t tell your parents. I made a non-committal noise at Graham and asked if Maria was still around.
‘I don’t know. Ellie might, but you can’t talk to her about this.’
‘I think we have to, Graham. We won’t mention the confession, but we really need her input if we’re looking for Heidi. Once we start asking round word may get back to her anyway. Better if it comes from you.’
‘Don’t see it myself. Ellie doesn’t know anything about Higgins ’cept what the police told us. Oh screw it …’
I felt a presence behind me before a voice boomed: ‘What’s this then, Gray? Little bit on the side? Better not let Ellie find out eh, eh.’
‘Ellie’s met her,’ Graham said shortly. ‘She’s a decorator. Looking for work.’
‘Painting eh? Pretty as one yourself, if you don’t mind my saying.’ He pulled a stool across from a neighbouring table. He looked to be about Graham’s age, but shorter and tubbier. His hair had already turned light grey and a large amount had said goodbye forever. What was left was kept clipped in a neat tonsure which matched the stiff moustache perched under a bulbous nose. ‘Roger Nesbitt, seeing how old Gray isn’t going to do the introductions.’
‘Roger’s my next-door neighbour,’ Graham said.
‘More than that, Gray. Best friend. Oldest friend. Workmate. Gray tell you we work up the DIY superstore? Get your supplies at a discount, eh, eh? So who’s in the chair?’
‘Pint?’ Graham asked, already standing up.
‘Make it a short. Whisky. What you having, my dear?’
‘A raincheck thanks. I have to go. I’ll be in touch?’ I waited for Graham to confirm that was what he wanted.
‘I’ll talk it over with Ellie. You got a number I can call?’
I took out Bianca’s business card again, turning it so Roger could see my bona-fide decorating credentials. Scrawling the office number on the back, I told Graham he could reach me there when he’d made up his mind.
The loos were through a door just to the right of the exit. I figured I might as well make use of them since it was their gassy lager that was making itself felt.
There were two tiny cubicles and a hand basin with a slimy bar of soap. The hand dryer wasn’t working. Rubbing my palms on my jeans, I pulled the door open. It stuck slightly on the tiled floor where the hinges had dropped or the wood had warped. It seemed to be a common fault with the décor. The gents was opposite and that door hadn’t closed properly either. It allowed the voices inside to carry out.
‘You’re gonna pay. You owe me. One way or another, pretty boy, you’ll pay. Now run on home to me sister, there’s a good little pretty boy.’ The screech of the wood against the tiles gave me enough time to duck back inside the ladies before Jonathon Black stormed out of the gents. The sticking door inched closed again, giving me plenty of time to see Vincent Courtney watching his brother-in-law’s departure with a contemptuous sneer on his thin lips.
Chapter Twelve
I always knew when something bad was about to happen.
It wasn’t prophetic dreams or black cats running for cover when they spotted me. It was Jan smiling widely as I stepped into reception at Vetch’s (International) Investigation Inc.
Jan is never pleased to see me. In fact, Jan rarely seems pleased to see anyone at work (particularly customers), but she reserves her best expressions of contempt and boredom for my arrival. This morning her broad grin suggested the sight of me had made her day.
‘Morning Jan. Killer outfit.’
It was black as usual. The trousers appeared to have been sprayed on and the halter top had such a deep slash down the centre it was practically possible to see her belly-button. Tilting back in her chair so I could see the high-heeled, strappy sandals, with rhinestones, she said, ‘Seen the local paper?’
‘No. Why?’
An even broader smile stretched the lipsticked mouth. Before she could tell me, Vetch’s door opened.
‘A tiny word, sweet thing, before you hit the mean streets in search of a daily crust. Or should that be carrot?’
I followed him back inside his office. ‘Look Vetch, don’t you think the rabbit jokes are getting a bit stale?’
‘Alas, sweet thing, if only they were.’ He resettled himself behind the executive-style, leather-topped desk and linked his fingers over a folded newspaper. I resisted the temptation to look underneath and check whether his little legs were swinging clear of the floor. ‘May I take it that you have not seen the local paper?’
‘Jan just asked me that. They’re not doing rabbit jokes are they?’
He unfolded a copy and laid it out in front of me.
The headline screamed: ‘RABBIT RAGE!’
Underneath, and taking up most of the page, was a huge picture of me in the Easter Bunny costume, clouting Fur-Fetish with my basket. The photographer had caught us right at the moment of impact. My face was twisted into an expression that made me look like the Killer Bunny from Beelzebub’s Burrow. Fur-Fetish’s mouth was wide open in shock and his eyes were popping out. And dotted all over the shot, like an eruption of measles, were flying chocolate eggs and business leaflets.
Seatoun Tourist Board have apparently come up with a unique idea to draw visitors this summer: they’re going to have them knocked unconscious by large furry animals and dragged senseless to our local attractions.
‘I didn’t knock him unconscious. I barely touched him.’
‘That’s hardly the point is it, sweet thing. Tell me, I beg you, that you didn’t mention Vetch’s Investigations at any point in this debacle.’
‘I didn’t mention Vetch’s,’ I assured the little gnome. Of course I had put the office number on the leaflets.
‘If you intend to continue your career in show business, perhaps you should find other premises? We do strive to appear professional. And most of the time we succeed.’ His pointy ears were at attention. For the first time I missed the rabbit lugs. I could have out-pricked
him easily.
‘Firstly, who else would rent rooms in this place? You haven’t managed to replace your last defector yet. And secondly, I wouldn’t have had to moonlight as a rabbit if you’d shared out some of your workload. Is there any word on that computer check you were running for me? You were going to get me the make of the machine and printer the blackmail note was typed on.’
‘Nothing yet. I’ll chase it up. I’ve a hutch we’ll hear soon.’
*
‘Any messages?’ I asked our nearly-famous receptionist. I’d been hoping Ruby had dropped off a copy of the old newspaper that Jonathon had shredded. Instead Jan handed me the wastepaper bin. Fishing around in the torn sheets, I found a post-it note stuck to the bottom: Tricia Terris, Tourist Board, wants you to ring her. V. Urgent.
I’d only given her my home number. This suggested she’d made the connection between the leaflets and her ex-Easter Bunny. Shit. I’d paid the cheque in on Monday morning. Today was Thursday. Did the four-working-days-to-clear rule mean it was safely nestling in my account today — or tomorrow?
‘Friday.’ Annie replied. She glared at me over her large glasses. Today it was the red-rimmed ones. I’d taken a detour on the way to my own office to pop into hers and invite myself to a cup of the freshly ground coffee and chocolate biscuits. I hadn’t counted on the local paper centred on her beautifully tidy desk. ‘Do you have any idea what this kind of thing does for the agency’s image?’
‘I’ve already had this conversation with Vetch thanks. As I pointed out to him, if you had thrown me a few crumbs from your client list, I wouldn’t have had to take outside employment.’
‘You didn’t have to take this particular job did you?’
‘I had to make the office rent this month.’
‘You have savings. A lot of which, I suspect, are tax-free.’
‘And I intend to hang on to them. How I get my money is my business.’
We locked glares. I guess she got the message. She handed over coffee and biscuits without any prompting. ‘Are you in the office today? Or are you hoeing for the famous?’
‘Later. I’ve got Della Black coming in to see me. And I need to get this report on my meeting with Walkinshaw typed up for O’Hara.’
I’d considered giving him a verbal report, but decided to keep it businesslike. I’d just finished bashing out the details of my interview with Graham Walkinshaw and attaching a copy of my bill, when Jan barged in without knocking. A large pink blazer had been added to the slash-and-cling outfit.
‘She says I have to wear this. It doesn’t even fit. She’s fat.’ She held out a handful of jacket front.
‘She’s also got perfect hearing,’ Annie shouted across from the opposite office.
Making a face, Jan bumped my door closed with her butt. It slammed with enough force to send the gulls who’d been enjoying a snooze on the ledge outside into a frenzy of wing stretching and beak clattering. ‘I got that stuff on Jonathon Black you wanted.’ She extended a file. When I opened it there were barely a dozen photocopied sheets in it. Jan anticipated my next question. ‘Don’t ask me if I looked properly, because I did. Most of the stuff just says things like “Clemency Courtney and her husband Jonathon Black”.’
I shuffled the sheets. ‘Is there anything about life before Clemency? Or beyond Clemency?’
‘Not exactly. There’s a bit about when he was in a drama group in Seatoun, but she was too. I was in that one for a while. It was full of these really stuck-up kids all going on about how they were going to be famous.’
‘You’re always going on about how you’re going to be famous.’
‘Yeah. But that’s different. I really am.’
She left in a swirl of over-large raspberry pink jacket. I spread her findings over the desk. She was right about the lack of detail regarding Jonathon Black as a stand-alone, rather than as Mr Clemency Courtney. The earliest mention of him had been printed off from the web site of the SceneOne Performing Arts Academy, which was based here in Seatoun. I’d always been aware of the place — they put on shows in the Winter Gardens about four times a year — but I’d never taken much notice before. Reading the sheets Jan had stapled together, I discovered it held classes in Drama, Dance and Singing for five to eighty-year-olds. They provided ‘fun, development of self-confidence and a firm grounding for those who planned to make their careers in the arts’. As proof of this statement, they’d included shots of previous pupils and productions. Clemency was featured heavily — in the lead roles as Bianca had stated. Fifteen years ago the company had staged Grease at the Winter Gardens. Clemency had played Sandy and Jonathon had been Danny Zuko. There was a picture of him in the ‘Greased Lightning’ routine. I wondered how come Clemency’s career had taken off while his had stalled. Pure luck maybe.
The rest were articles on showbizzy type events, where Jonathon tended to be referred to as an appendage of Clemency (Clemency Courtney and her husband, Jonathon Black, enjoy themselves at the Breast Cancer Charity Ball). There was one interesting snippet from the Daily Mirror 3 A.M. page. Under ‘Wicked Whispers’ they’d written: Which soap blonde is rumoured to be planning a divorce so she can marry her new squeeze, a television cameraman? That’s sure to put her hubbie in a black mood.
Jan had circled the snippet and scrawled, ‘My fan mag said this is her.’ It was plainly going to be a long engagement, given that the paper was three years old.
I made a few notes and tidied the pile back just as Della Black arrived. Her eyes went immediately to the folder.
‘Have you found something?’
‘A little,’ I hedged. I let her settle in the visitors’ chair before continuing. ‘I managed to nab one of the anonymous letters. I’m having it analysed.’
‘What did it say? Was it another threat?’
‘It said Jonathon had to pay. Have you any idea what for?’
‘No. None at all.’
I wondered if she’d tell me if she had. Rather than put that one to her, I said, ‘I wanted to ask you about Jonathon’s past.’
She snapped. ‘Why should that have anything to do with it?’
I couldn’t see what I’d said to raise her hackles. But since she was paying the bill (I hoped), I tried to sound soothing as I explained my theory that the writer might be someone Jonathon had been involved with here in Seatoun before they’d left for London. ‘I’m assuming that was when they went to stage school?’
‘Drama college. But if it’s someone from then, why have they taken so long to start persecuting him?’
Good question. But since it was my only theory at present, I pressed on. ‘Someone who had it in for him when he was a kid? Teenage feud?’ And remembering Vetch’s advice that it could be motivated by jealousy, ‘Was Clemency involved with someone else around here before Jonathon?’
Della snorted. ‘Half the bloody North Bay estate I should think. She was like a cat on heat.’
‘Did you see her with anyone else?’ I persisted.
‘No,’ she admitted, with obvious reluctance. ‘But I caught the pair of them at it like a couple of rabbits in Jonathon’s bedroom several times. Lucky her dad never found out about it. He was weird by all accounts.’
‘Weird how?’
‘Treated the girls like they were nuns. There were half a dozen sisters and they all scarpered. Brother was different, he could do what he liked. Tell you the truth, I thought once she’d got to London, Miss Yo-Yo knickers would move on. Never thought they’d get married. Or stick at it.’
‘They seem to be planning to settle in Seatoun.’
‘Yeah.’ She lit a cigarette. ‘It’s not right, that.’ Her face creased against the drifting smoke. ‘They couldn’t wait to get away from Seatoun. Why would they buy a place here?’
‘Did you ask them?’
‘Said it was what they both wanted.’ She blew out another cloud. ‘How did Jon seem to you?’
I sought for a tactful way of telling her. ‘He seems very … highly strung
.’
‘She rubs him up the wrong way. Why doesn’t he just leave the little bitch?’
Why didn’t Clemency leave him might be a better question. She was the one with the career on the ascendant. Why was she hanging on to a deadbeat husband who hit her? The trouble was, you never knew what was really happening in a marriage unless you were on the inside looking out.
‘Has Jonathon ever been involved with someone else? Someone in Seatoun?’
‘Girls were always after him. Can’t expect a teenage lad not to enjoy himself.’
‘Anyone in particular?’
She started to take out another cigarette despite the fact that the first one was only half smoked. It gave her a reason not to look at me. I waited. After she’d finished with the lighting and drawing performance, I said, ‘If there is someone, you may as well be straight with me. Otherwise it’s your money I’m wasting.’
‘There was one girl. Something like Lauren … Laurel. That was it.’
‘Surname?’
‘I don’t know. It was just “Me and Laurel are going out”. He met her up the drama group I think.’
‘What happened?’
‘Fizzled out, I guess.’
‘Not good enough, Della. You’ve just told me Jon was fighting the girls off. So what made Laurel special?’
‘Look, maybe I shouldn’t have said … she got pregnant,’ she blurted out. ‘Jon came home in a state one day. Said she wanted to keep the baby and he would have to help her.’
‘How did he take that?’
‘How d’you think? Started off saying how did he know it was his? He was raving on about how she’d go with anyone. Wasn’t true. I mean I never really met the girl, except to say hello a couple of times, but I can tell when Jon is lying. It was all panic. He didn’t want to be lumbered with a kid. Well, I didn’t want that for him either.’
‘How’d it pan out?’
‘Couple of weeks later, he said she’d changed her mind. Decided to have an abortion. You think she could be sending these letters? Why the hell would she? It’s fifteen years.’