Grace Smith Investigates

by Liz Evans

  I’d put it on Della’s bill. ‘How much?’

  ‘Fifty pounds each. It’s a five-week course. You have to buy the whole course.’

  ‘Sounds like a bargain,’ O’Hara said. He put down five twenties.

  The receptionist handed us membership cards to fill in. Finding out where O’Hara lived would have been worth fifty pounds. I peeked as he wrote. And discovered he lived at Vetch’s.

  ‘You put my office address down,’ I hissed as we followed the directions to Studio Two.

  ‘So did you.’

  He opened the double doors and we stepped into a large room lined with mirrors which were currently reflecting the sixty backsides on the chairs around the perimeter of the room. At the far end was a pile of sound equipment and a trestle table with crates stacked underneath. A couple were fiddling with CDs and sound levels.

  I scanned sixty pairs of eyes, wondering how I could locate Laurel quickly — and came up against two pairs that registered recognition. Terry scowled. Linda Rosco waved and patted an empty seat beside her.

  It meant walking the length of the studio. Heads turned at our passing. And I sensed most of the female ones weren’t watching me.

  Linda was a dyed blonde who hadn’t shifted the extra weight she’d put on when she was carrying her two youngest mutants: a couple of plug-ugly year-old twins. Her bust overflowed from her top as she leant over and whispered, ‘Hello Grace. Fancy seeing you here. You going to introduce us then?’

  ‘Linda, O’Hara. O’Hara, Linda Rosco. You know Terry.’

  Terry responded to this introduction with another scowl. His split lip was healing up nicely and the swelling on his nose had reduced a little, but the black eyes now had an interesting multi-toned hue.

  ‘Terry and me decided to find a shared interest. Something we can do together. We’re really enjoying it, aren’t we, love?’ Her love grunted.

  Processing what she’d said, the implication occurred to me. ‘This isn’t the first lesson?’

  ‘Oh, no. It’s the fourth. But don’t worry, you’ll soon pick it up. The teachers are ever so good.’

  They’d ripped us off for the full fifty pounds course fee! Well, all right, technically they’d ripped O’Hara off. I glanced at him to see how he felt about this piece of daylight robbery. He was leaning back casually, looking at something to his left. One eye closed in a lazy wink. Following his sight-line, I found a female flicking back long dark hair and batting eyelashes. I glared. She responded by hitching a bra strap and heaving the cleavage up a fraction. I caught the twitch below O’Hara’s own split lip and realised he was winding me up again.

  Turning my back so he could get on with eyeing up any flaming set of boobs he pleased, I asked Linda if she knew Laurel. ‘She’s supposed to be in this class?’

  ‘Only Laurel I know is her.’ She nodded towards the female half of the couple who’d been setting up the sound system, and was now sauntering into the centre of the room.

  Laurel was the dance instructor. And Phyllida didn’t have an address for one of her own teachers? The money-grabbing old bat!

  I could see why Phyllida envied her those legs. They looked like they ought to go up to her armpits. Only the red-sequinned top of the dress she was wearing hugged her tanned skin tightly enough to make it clear they didn’t. As she walked, the chiffon skirt parted to reveal that it was slit to the top of her thighs.

  Laurel clapped her hands. ‘Good evening everyone. It’s lovely to see you all again. And to see some fresh faces. We’ll be following the same format as last week. Lessons for the first hour and then social dancing for the next to give you all a chance to practise.’

  My plan to grab a quick word with Laurel was frustrated by the fact that when she wasn’t demonstrating dance steps with Errol, the other instructor, she was partnering male learners who were having difficulty in understanding the moves.

  O’Hara, however, wasn’t one of them. ‘You’ve done this before,’ I accused, as we moved into a back-back-half turn.

  ‘Once or twice.’ He slid his right leg between mine and pulled me in closer. Swaying me backwards, his hand slid from the small of my back to my bottom.

  ‘Are you sure that’s a legal move?’

  ‘If we keep both feet on the floor.’

  His face was very close, I could smell his skin and the scent of whisky on his breath. Our pelvises were swaying in time to the music. One-two-three, nicely sexy shoulder roll. O’Hara pushed me out: swivel-swivel-sexy hips. Then he was clamped against me again from chest to knee. I could feel the heat from his body through my clothes. Trickles of sweat slid down my spine. I was being seduced in front of sixty people.

  ‘Don’t forget, girls,’ Laurel called. ‘You’re a sensual woman. Pour yourself over him. Imagine melting butter sliding over corn. Ooze over him.’ Raising her arms, she wriggled down her partner, slewing her butt from side to side.

  Anything to get out of this clinch. Disengaging myself from O’Hara’s clasp, I oozed to a crouching position. As soon as I was down there, I realised it wasn’t such a smart move. My nose was now opposite O’Hara’s crotch. Hastily I butt-wiggled my way upright. O’Hara’s arm went back round my waist. ‘If this wasn’t to music, it would qualify as indecent assault,’ I said through gritted teeth.

  ‘I promise not to enjoy it.’

  *

  I had to wait until the interval between the lessons and the social dancing before I could get Laurel on her own. When they finally broke out the canned lager, soft drinks and plastic mugs, there was a general drift towards the loos outside. I managed to snag Laurel as she was on her way back to the studio.

  ‘Could I have a word? About Jonathon Black?’ The bright smile that she’d switched on in anticipation of a dancing question faded. I flashed a business card. My own rather than Bianca’s. ‘I’m a private investigator. I’m working for Della Black.’

  I thought she was going to refuse. She threw a look down the corridor towards the studio, hesitated, and finally said, ‘In here.’

  ‘Here’ was a smaller studio on the opposite side of the corridor. ‘So what’s this about? I haven’t seen Jonathon for years.’

  Without going into detail about the contents, I explained that Jonathon had been receiving anonymous letters. ‘I think it could be someone who knew him years ago. When he lived in Seatoun.’

  Her eyebrows rose. ‘You think I’m sending Jonathon poison pens? You’re joking, right?’

  ‘Not you. I just wanted to talk to someone who knew him back then. Della said you were close. Only girl he was ever serious about, apart from Clemency.’

  Laurel laughed, revealing perfect teeth. ‘I don’t know about serious. We screwed the brains out of each other for a few weeks, until Clemency decided she wanted him back.’

  ‘How did you feel about that?’

  ‘Bloody furious. Nobody likes to be dumped. Although mostly I was mad because he’d dumped me before I dumped him. Truth is, I was fed up with Jonathon. He was pretty self-obsessed. Only reason I’d got together with him was because every girl in the drama group wanted to. He was just so hot.’

  ‘Did anyone in the group have it in for Jon? Old arguments? Feuds? Someone else who fancied Clemency?’

  ‘All the blokes fancied Clemmie. Didn’t do them any good far as I know. It was always her and Jon. Have you spoken to anyone else in the group?’

  ‘No. Apart from Bianca Mendez,’ I amended.

  Laurel laughed again. ‘Oh God, Bianca. She was bloody hopeless at all the dramatic stuff. Brilliant scene-builder though. She had this terrible crush on Clemency. Used to follow her everywhere: yes Clemency, no Clemency, let me lie in the road here Clemency so you can walk all over me. What’s she doing now?’

  ‘Still stretched out in that road.’

  ‘Really? She used to get on Clemency’s nerves. Well, she got on everyone’s nerves, always wanting to be your friend. But she had her uses if you wanted a bit of fun.’ She said it lightly, with its imp
lications of casual teenage bullying. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. I’ve no idea who’d be pissed off with Jonathon. Like I said, haven’t seen him for years. Haven’t thought about him for years. Past history.’

  ‘What about the abortion? Don’t you think about that?’

  The lack of registration on her face made me think I’d been right. There had been no abortion. She’d had the kid. Then she shook her head. ‘I miscarried. I said I’d had an abortion because I wanted to make Jonathon feel bad. I was still mad at him for dumping me. I wanted him to think I’d deliberately got rid of his baby. It was supposed to hurt him. Now I realise he would have been relieved. Mind you, so was I, when I found out the truth about Jon.’

  ‘What truth?’

  ‘His mother didn’t tell you? About his little problem?’

  ‘Drugs?’ I hazarded.

  ‘Pumped in by the armful I should think. But not the kind you mean. Jonathon used to disappear for weeks. His mum put it about he’d gone to stay with his grandparents in Scotland. He told us he’d hit the road, been living rough. Feeling the grit, he called it. It made him seem sexier, gave him a sort of rough and dangerous edge, you know? We used to think it was cool. Rejecting authority, not playing by their rules. Then a few years later, I found out the truth. Errol’s sister is a nurse in a psychiatric unit. It specialises in teenage patients. One night we both got seriously pissed and start discussing ex-boyfriends. I mentioned Jonathon. And she tells me about this patient, also called Jonathon Black. The guy’s been in and out of psych units during his teens. He’s got serious problems.’

  ‘Did she say what kind of problems?’

  ‘Yes. She wasn’t supposed to. Patient confidentiality. It was only the fact she was so full of booze made her tell me.’

  ‘I’m not going to ring the news desk, Laurel. What was Jonathon’s problem?’

  ‘He’s a self-harmer. Some physical abuse, cutting himself or taking overdoses, but a lot of psychological shit. He claimed people were phoning him and threatening him. They put a trace on the family phone and there were no calls. Then graffiti started appearing over their house, spray paint on the walls and doors. Really nasty stuff, saying Jon deserved to die, that he was going to die, all that kind of stuff. They caught him on camera doing it himself. The spray cans were hidden in his bedroom.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘How the hell would I know? I was just glad I hadn’t had the kid. Whatever’s screwing his brains might be hereditary.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  I urgently needed to have a full and frank dialogue with my client. But first of all I had to get out of the Salsa session. And that was proving more of a problem than I’d anticipated.

  When I followed Laurel back into the studio, I found the lights had been dimmed and most of the dancers were busy practising their moves: including O’Hara. He and Linda Rosco were step-tap-turning their socks off in the centre of the floor.

  I debated whether to leave O’Hara to it. He was plenty big enough to find his own way home.

  A hand hit me in the small of my back and propelled me forward. ‘Practice, practice, practice,’ Errol chanted. He steered me straight at a spare male chugging down lager. Since his head was tilted back to let the alcohol slide down faster, he’d got one arm round me before he lowered his eyes and found who he was stuck with.

  ‘Oh shit,’ Terry said.

  ‘Practice, practice.’ Errol removed the plastic tumbler and clamped Terry’s sweaty paw into mine. ‘Remember, sensual, tantalising, passionate.’

  He failed to mention nauseous. The only way I was oozing over Rosco was if I could somehow manage to morph into corrosive acid.

  The way Terry let go suggested I already had. ‘I ain’t dancing.’

  Errol wasn’t a quitter. He promptly grabbed both our hands and slapped them together again. ‘Let yourself go. Look how your partner’s enjoying herself.’

  We both looked. Linda had certainly thrown herself into the spirit of the Salsa; particularly the passionate aspect. Any closer she’d be sharing O’Hara’s clothes.

  ‘What the hell does she think she’s doing?’ Terry growled. Hauling me into a clinch he set off towards the couple. I was less a dancing partner, more a battering ram.

  Since I was stuck with the klutz for the moment, I decided I might as well put him to some use. ‘You ever come across Vince Courtney up on the North Bay Estate?’

  ‘That scrot. Why?’

  ‘Major drug pusher I heard. How come you haven’t nicked him?’

  ‘Him! Small time low life. Walks like a lion, thinks like a hyena.’

  ‘You heard someone else say that.’ It was way too deep for Terry’s brain cell.

  ‘DCI Jackson may have used those words, but I was thinking ’em. Vince talks it big, but he only deals a bit of weed and E’s.’ He bounced me left and right, barging two couples out of our way.

  ‘Remember your turns,’ Errol called. He and Laurel raised their arms over their heads and did some kind of complicated twist-over, twist-under routine.

  Terry pulled my arms up and tried the same thing. I ended up with a choke hold across my throat. I reacted automatically, driving my elbow back into Terry’s ribs. He gave a satisfying gasp of pain.

  ‘Twirl and pull her back to your chest,’ Errol sang out, demonstrating with a light flick of his wrist.

  Any excuse to get out of Terry’s sweaty grasp. I twirled. Terry didn’t appear to notice my departure, he was too busy watching Linda. ‘What does that daft cow think she looks like?’

  I glanced over my shoulder. Like a woman who was having one hell of a good time, I’d have said. The jerk on my wrist caught me by surprise. I had to run in to stop myself falling flat on my face.

  It was déjà vu. I saw Terry’s nose coming towards me. Then my forehead connected and flashing lights exploded.

  *

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘Not too much. How does it look?’ I lifted the fringe.

  O’Hara’s eyes narrowed critically, like he hadn’t already seen the damage when he drove me home last night. I’d thought he might use my injury as an excuse to hang around until the morning. Head injuries, it was well known, needed careful watching. But O’Hara hadn’t wanted to watch my head. Or any other parts of my anatomy apparently. He’d kissed me goodnight on the iron staircase leading down to my basement flat and told me he’d call for me at six-thirty tomorrow morning and to bring a bike.

  ‘Six-thirty! A bike?’

  ‘That’s good. No short term memory loss. I think you’re going to be okay, duchy. Night.’ He’d brushed a kiss on my lips and driven away before I could query the bike. And why the hell at the crack of dawn?

  ‘We’re going to follow Heidi’s paper round,’ he said, when I finally got to put the question at six-thirty-five the following morning. ‘I bought breakfast.’ He extended two large cups of coffee and a paper bag full of still-warm croissants. ‘Did you get a bike?’

  ‘The bloke on the first floor said I could hire his. Ten pounds for the day.’ I raised expectant eyebrows. O’Hara failed to produce a wallet. ‘In advance.’

  Ten pounds got me an ancient red and cream teeth-rattler with duct tape bound round the handlebars in place of the rubber grips. I followed O’Hara’s back wheel along the sea-front road as far as West Bay; ozone-laden wind stung my cheeks and I could taste rain beneath the pungent tang of rotting seaweed. The spell of fine weather was coming to an end.

  We arrived as the shopkeeper was dragging a wire stand filled with folded newspapers and a gum-ball machine out of the door, so the first view I had of her was a sari patterned in orange and reds and a single thick grey plait.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Gulati.’

  She straightened and turned, adjusting the lie of the material over her shoulder. Bangles glinted and jangled, sliding from her wrist to her elbow. ‘Good morning, Mr O’Hara. I have your list. Come in, come in.’

  The shop was small
. A counter ran across the back with cigarettes, tobacco and rolling papers stacked on shelves behind, and sweets in the containers at the front. The side shelves held greeting cards, stationery and magazines. Piles of the day’s newspapers were sitting in a row on the floor, with more copies layered along the counter. The biggest pile had the rabbit rage picture smack on the top. I casually rested my shoulder bag on it.

  Mrs Gulati stepped through the open flap in the counter and closed it behind her. ‘You would like some?’ She lifted a mug of tea from beside the till.

  ‘We’ve just had coffee thank you. This is Grace, a friend.’

  ‘A very pretty friend.’ Mrs Gulati flashed a bright smile. Then frowned. ‘Can you smell something?’ We all drew in a lungful of air. Mrs Gulati shook her head. ‘No, it is gone. Here is the list you wanted, Mr O’Hara. I hope it will help you to bring peace to that poor girl.’

  ‘You knew Heidi?’ I asked. ‘I mean, this was your shop fourteen years ago?’

  ‘Oh yes. We have been here nearly thirty years.’

  ‘What was Heidi like? Chatty? Friendly? Shy?’

  ‘Mmmm …’ Mrs Gulati pursed her lips while she thought. ‘Not shy. Sometimes she would chat, yes. And smile. Sometimes, she would say nothing. One day, sunshine. The next, thunderstorm.’

  ‘And the day she went missing?’

  ‘Thunder. Not even a “good morning” as she was leaving. That was the last time I saw her, the poor child.’

  ‘What about her paper sack, wouldn’t she have had to bring that back?’

  ‘Sometimes if they were late, they would take the sack home and bring it back the next morning. I remember it had started to rain. I was thinking, she will be wet. She has gone home to change her clothes.’ She tapped the note she’d handed to O’Hara. ‘Some of the magazines that people bought then are no longer available, I have put in something of a similar size. If you and your pretty friend find the child, please come to tell me.’