Grace Smith Investigates

by Liz Evans

  It occurred to me that if Laurel hadn’t had an abortion, then Jonathon could have one pissed off fourteen-year-old out there, nursing a big nobody-loves-little-me grievance.

  ‘I’ll check her out. In the meantime, are you sure you can’t think of anyone else who could be sending the letters?’

  She went into displacement activity with the cigarette packet and lighter before she lied.

  ‘No.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  I’d half expected Mrs Walkinshaw to opt for staying in her safe mental bunker, which allowed her to imagine Heidi safe, well, and approaching her late twenties somewhere. But the phone rang as I was finishing some routine work prior to hitting the horticulture Chez Clemency again.

  ‘Ellie says yes,’ Graham said, without any social preamble. ‘But you’re to say nothing about that confession, understand?’

  ‘Whatever floats your boat, Graham. When shall I tell O’Hara to call round?’

  ‘Aren’t you coming with him?’

  ‘That wasn’t part of the plan, no. We’re not a partnership.’

  ‘I want you to come too.’

  ‘Well, I’ll ask him, but I can’t guarantee anything.’

  ‘After five today. Both of you, or neither. Tell him.’

  *

  I told him. He took the news of our enforced partnership calmly. ‘Did Walkinshaw say why?’

  ‘Maybe he was afraid you’d hit his fist with your nose again. How is it?’

  ‘Sore.’ He touched the swelling with a finger and winced. Beneath it, the lip was still healing into a red scar, and on either side the purpling half circles under his eyes gave the impression he was suffering from chronic insomnia. ‘I wish I was James Bond, or Indiana Jones, or one of those guys. They get slugged and there’s not a trace of a bruise next day. What have they got that I haven’t?’

  ‘Good looks? Charm? Money?’

  He gave one of those lazy smiles. My stomach gave a small flip. ‘You have a strange way of keeping clients, duchy.’

  ‘Actually I don’t need to keep you. If you want access to the Walkinshaws, you need to keep me.’ I hadn’t meant to sound so bolshie. It was the effect O’Hara had on me. I over-compensated the impulse to jump him by extending defensive spikes instead.

  ‘And what’s it going to take to keep you, duchy?’

  Ignoring the ambiguous tone, I said, ‘I’m all yours for my standard daily rates.’ And then realised that that statement could have even more ambiguous overtones.

  So did he, judging by the raised eyebrow. Fortunately Annie walked in.

  ‘Jan said your Mr O’Hara was here, so I thought I’d come take a look.’

  And she did just that. Hands in the pockets of her suit, she stood in front of the chair. O’Hara seemed to take being looked over with equanimity. He’d changed the grey trousers for black, but stuck with grey for the shirt under the leather jacket. I watched them sizing up each other and had a sudden mental back-flip to the day I brought home my first boyfriend to be scrutinised by my parents.

  ‘So what’s the verdict, Anchoret?’ O’Hara asked.

  ‘Trouble,’ said Annie succinctly. ‘And I’m not impressed that you know my name.’

  She walked out again. O’Hara and I stared at each other. ‘Impressive lady. I don’t think I’d want to get on the wrong side of her.’

  ‘How do you feel about getting on the wrong side of me?’

  ‘Pretty relaxed. Which side do you prefer?’

  ‘Look, can we get back to business before we drown in double meanings. I take it you want to continue to employ me to assist on the Heidi Walkinshaw case?’

  ‘That is the general idea. Are you up for a bit of preliminary reconnaissance?’

  ‘I can’t. I have to go trim Clemency Courtney’s hedges.’

  ‘The Shoreline actress?’ And in reaction to my incredulous look, ‘I have a friend who’s hooked on it.’

  ‘They all say that.’

  I arranged to meet him just before five so we could tackle the Walkinshaws together. Which left me several hours to go snoop around Clemency’s. Quite what I was going to search for, I wasn’t sure. But since I was taking Della’s money, I figured I should put in some legitimate woman-hours to add to the invoice.

  Clemency was out at the set. Jonathon was lurking upstairs in the study ‘doing-rewrites’. Which meant I was confined to downstairs and blessed with the company of Bianca and the lop-eared one again. I was almost tempted to make an excuse and get out of there, but I didn’t want to blow my only pretext for access to the house.

  ‘How is Jonathon?’ I asked Bianca. ‘He seemed really freaked out at the location.’

  ‘He was having creativity problems. Writing is very stressful you know.’

  ‘Would I have seen any of his plays?’

  ‘Well, no. He hasn’t actually had anything produced. Not on a proper stage. But he’s had some read-throughs. In rehearsal rooms.’

  There was a pile of partially opened letters on the kitchen table, a pile of half-peeled vegetables on the counter, and as far as I could see I’d interrupted her in the painting of a radiator cover. She really was incredibly disorganised. Did her multi-tasking extend to her love life? It was hard to imagine her bonking Clemency or Jonathon — or possibly both of them. But perhaps it was a case of the availability of the service on offer, rather than the quality? It wasn’t like she was the world’s greatest secretary, cook or decorator either.

  ‘All this work can’t leave you much time for running your own business,’ I ventured.

  Bianca abandoned the half-painted radiator to resume scraping a carrot. ‘Oh, I don’t mind. I like helping Clemency and Jonathon.’

  ‘Did you go to drama college in London with them?’

  ‘Oh no.’ The teeth-itching giggle erupted from her throat. ‘I can’t act. I stayed with them at their flat. After Gran died of course. Before that I had to be home with her.’

  ‘You nursed her?’

  ‘We had the district nurses coming in, but I helped. It’s lucky I’m so big. I could carry her up and down stairs when I was only twelve years old.’

  It sounded like a bleak existence for a kid. But if she joined the drama group, then I guess she must have had some kind of social life. During our chat I’d managed to casually knock the mail on to the floor and return it to the table. There was nothing from the anonymous correspondent. ‘I thought I’d make a start on flower beds. Pruning and … er … that kind of thing.’

  ‘I’ll make lunch for about one-thirty.’

  ‘You don’t have to keep feeding me you know.’

  ‘I have to do it anyway for Jonathon. And Cappy.’

  ‘Where is he?’ There had been no sign of the floppy-eared sex maniac since I’d arrived.

  ‘In the garden. I got one of these from the baby catalogue.’ She held up a white plastic gizmo about the size of a mobile phone. ‘It’s a tracker. They’re for toddlers really, but I fixed the tag to Cappy’s collar, and if he goes more than fifty yards away, the alarm sounds. And he can come in now any time he likes. Look what I did.’ She pointed triumphantly at the cat flap. The rabbit now had access to all areas. Great. ‘Have you seen the local paper?’ Bianca took a copy from the side and flicked it flat with a one-handed gesture. ‘Isn’t that Easter Bunny funny?’

  I looked at her. Her expression was cheerfully bland. There was no hidden agenda. Thank heavens for Ms Tricia Terris’s face-paints. ‘Hilarious. Well must be getting on with the …’ I made a shearing gesture.

  I’d managed to borrow a pair of shears, some secateurs and a spade from Vetch. Having massacred most of the jungle at the rear of the garden, I was going to work my way around what I assumed were intended as flower beds. There was no sign of Cappuccino. Keeping my back to the wall, I took out the book I’d borrowed from the library: The Idiot’s Guide to Easy Gardening. It had a whole section on pruning and dividing plants.

  Opening it at the first page, I knew I had a proble
m. What the hell’s the point of only photographing things when they’re in flower? It was early April. None of this lot had flowers. Most of them didn’t even have leaves. It was like trying to pick out the suspect at a line-up of skeletons. I snipped off a six-inch piece of branch from the nearest leafless bush. Then I did the same on the opposite side. Easy-peasy. A cut here, a lop there. Nothing to it really.

  When I’d finished, the plant looked a bit like one of those African fertility symbols; stick thin on top with an enormous bottom. I decided to tackle the next one from the foot upwards. This time I ended up with a knobbly stick. Bianca saved the third one from decapitation by shouting that lunch was ready.

  Lunch was sitting on the table. The rabbit was sitting on his haunches — nibbling a carrot and staring at that damn newspaper photo. She’d cut it out and pinned it to the wall next to his basket. As I came in, Cappy’s head swivelled in my direction. His upper lip twitched, revealing yellow incisors.

  Bianca squealed. ‘Oh look, he’s smiling. Rabbits are much cleverer than people think. He got really excited when I showed him that picture.’

  Cappuccino made a sound that I was certain was the rabbit equivalent of ‘Whoa! Hot stuff!’.

  There was a laid-up tray on the table. ‘Is that for Jonathon? Do you want me to carry it up? Save your wrist?’ I picked it up before she could say ‘no’.

  The doors on the first landing were standing open this time. There was a second bedroom — identical in furnishing to the one Clemency had used to bonk Jake the director — and a bathroom between them, with a door into each bedroom. I started up the second flight, and realised Jonathon was leaning on the landing rail watching me.

  ‘Ah, the Grace that redeemeth all others. Interested in our living arrangements are you?’

  ‘I like looking round other people’s houses,’ I admitted. I also got paid to do it.

  ‘Then let me give you the tour. Here,’ he flung open the door to the master bedroom, ‘is the sumptuous bedroom of Clemency Courtney and her husband.’ Once again they’d plainly knocked two rooms into one. ‘In here we have the master bathroom …’ Walls had been moved here too; the room was huge, with a corner bath, shower cubicle, loo and bidet, interwoven with stainless steel hand basins, radiators and storage cupboards. It was ultra-chic and, like downstairs, oddly devoid of any personality. ‘And behind me we have the study. And up here …’ Jonathon stepped to the foot of the stairs leading up to the third storey. ‘Up here …’ He lowered his voice theatrically. ‘We have a big secret. Can’t show you that.’

  He took the tray from my hands and jerked his head towards the study. ‘Step inside. Keep me company while I eat.’

  I took a seat on the couch. He rested the tray on the office desk. He seemed more aware today, less detached from his surroundings. I wasn’t sure if this was down to a change of stimulant in his system, or if this was his normal manner when he wasn’t on something. ‘How’s the script going?’

  The flat of a hand slammed on the computer screen. ‘It won’t bastard-well come out right.’

  ‘I read somewhere that you should write what you know.’

  ‘Yeah, I read that. It’s usually written by people who don’t write anything except “how to write” books.’ He picked up the focaccia bap and ate several large bites hungrily swallowing them whole. ‘No breakfast. So what do you suggest I write about, redeeming Grace?’

  ‘How about a failed writer who’s off his face on drugs for most of the time?’

  It was a risk pushing like that, but I wanted to provoke some kind of reaction from him.

  He laughed. ‘Don’t pull your punches, do you? So I like to chill. May as well spend my dear wife’s money on something worthwhile.’

  ‘Is that what bugs you? That Clemency brings in the cash?’

  ‘It sure doesn’t help.’

  ‘You could do something else. Something that isn’t writing.’

  ‘Because I’m plainly crap at it? The thought had crossed my mind. But what’s the point? What’s the point in any of it?’ He crossed his ankles and tilted his chair back, staring at the ceiling. He was wearing the jeans that clung to his too-thin legs and an over-large jumper that hung over his knuckles. It made him look younger and vulnerable. The kind of little-boy-lost that brings out the mothering instinct in some women. But not this one.

  ‘How come you’re living in Seatoun? If I was a successful actress, I wouldn’t buy a place here. I’d go for somewhere a bit more … happening. Is it because of family?’

  He gave an odd laugh. ‘Family? Yes I guess you could say it is was down to family.’ Tearing off a section of focaccia, he offered it to me. ‘Shall I tell you something, Grace? A secret?’

  ‘The upstairs secret?’

  The reference to the third storey seemed to puzzle him for a moment. Then he said, ‘No. Not that secret. Another secret.’

  ‘Go ahead.’ Tell me why someone’s sending you anonymous letters, I willed him silently. Let me send a report to my client and turn in the secateurs before I massacre your garden — or your randy rabbit.

  We both jumped violently as the door crashed open. ‘I wondered what had happened to you,’ Bianca said, with a note of accusation. ‘You’ve been gone ages.’

  ‘We were discussing writing.’ Jonathon spread his arms wide as if the air was full of sentences, phrases and punctuation marks. ‘What do you think I should write, B?’

  ‘Well … your script.’

  ‘Of course! My script.’ He smacked the screen with both hands this time. ‘I’ll write my bastard, stupid script.’

  With Bianca hovering I had no choice but to leave without hearing the secret. After lunch, I hit the garden again. I needed to get back to Jonathon while he was in the mood to talk, but Bianca and the rabbit stood between me and the upper floors.

  After a while my arm and back muscles started to howl in protest and the flower beds started to resemble an illustration of the Somme, with stretches of mud flats spiked by the shattered stumps of bushes and trees. I was just wondering if I could sell it to Clemency as the latest look in minimalist gardens, when a movement towards the house caught my eye.

  The windows at the back had small iron balconies outside connected by posts at the outer corners. Jonathon was raising a sash window on the third floor and stepping over the low sill on to the balcony. When he saw me looking, he smiled and waved. I waved back.

  Grasping the low railing with one hand, he put a foot on it and started to stand upright. The ironwork was narrow — barely the width of a barrel hoop. Slowly he brought his other foot up. I held my breath. Inch by inch he straightened his knees, his eyes fixed on something beyond the back garden wall as he centred himself. Finally, when he was standing upright, his arms flung out in a parody of a crucifixion pose, he grinned downwards.

  ‘Thought of something else to do, redeeming Grace. I’m going to fly!’

  Not unless his biology had undergone a genetic mutation that would make cloning look like dark age science he wasn’t. I made a quick assessment of the ground underneath him. Directly outside the house was a concreted area that stretched out to just beyond the balcony. After that it was lawn.

  Jonathon rocked. Arms flailing backwards, he tried to correct the overbalance. Slinging down the shears, I raced forward.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Bianca had returned to the painting when I charged through the kitchen. I was running up the stairs before she managed to stand up and shout, ‘Where are you going?’

  I heard her lumbering up behind me. Taking the stairs two at a time, I started up the third flight.

  ‘Wait! You can’t go up there!’

  Want to bet, Bianca? There were three doors on this landing, just like on the lower floors. Jonathon had left the one to the back room open, which gave me a clear view through to the balcony. It still had its human bird perched on the rail. Changing the pace, I strode slowly across the room, ready to back off if my presence spooked him.

  �
��Is that the redeeming Grace?’

  ‘It is,’ I told the back of his head. ‘Stupid to ask what you’re doing, so I won’t.’

  Bianca burst into the room and said, ‘Jonathon, what are you doing?’ He laughed. ‘You should come inside, Jon. You could hurt yourself.’ That set him off even more. ‘You haven’t taken drugs again have you? Clemency will be so cross if you have. Especially if it gets in the papers.’

  At this rate Bianca would dumb-remark him to death. Putting a hand on her arm, I lowered my voice into a confidential whisper. ‘Do you think you could drag one of the mattresses downstairs? And put it under the balcony?’

  ‘Yes. All right. Will that help?’

  Not if he took a dive. But it would get Bianca out of here. ‘Push it into position. Make sure you don’t stand anywhere he could hit you.’

  Once she’d trotted off, I said, ‘Bianca’s gone. There’s only me. You want to tell me what’s bugging you?’

  It was another chance to find out about the letters. Although if she was occupied with scraping her beloved son off the paving, there was a good chance my client might not be all that interested in the contents of any report I submitted. She might not be all that interested in paying for it either.

  ‘Life,’ Jonathon announced. ‘Life bugs me, Grace. Every damn, sodding, thing about my life.’ He wobbled on the rail. ‘Do you like your life?’

  ‘Sometimes I do. And sometimes it’s the pits.’

  ‘What do you do then? When it’s the pits?’

  ‘I figure it will change.’ I’d wandered closer while we talked. He either didn’t mind, or didn’t realise, that I was now standing at the open window. But I’d still have to get on to the balcony to be in grabbing distance.

  ‘Mine won’t,’ he said. ‘It can’t.’

  ‘You don’t know that. Nobody can.’

  ‘I do. My sodding life is beyond redemption, redeeming Grace.’ He trembled violently. I found myself not breathing. Abruptly he dropped to a crouch, seizing the railing with one hand. He could still somersault over, but at least it was a safer position and showed he wanted to continue this conversation.