Grace Smith Investigates

by Liz Evans

  Bianca didn’t seem as pleased to see me as she usually was. But the damn rabbit was ecstatic. I’d barely got inside the front door, when he came bounding down the corridor, rose up on his hind legs and let rip with a series of squeaks and squeals.

  ‘Oh, isn’t that sweet,’ Bianca said. ‘He’s saying hello.’

  It sounded more like the rabbit equivalent of ‘you’ve pulled, kid,’ to me. Bianca lumbered towards the kitchen. I backed after her. Cappuccino scooted after us, a determined gleam in his eye.

  A couple of days of heavy rain had markedly increased the back garden’s resemblance to a battlefield after the cavalry had passed that way. I wondered if Bianca’s off-hand welcome had something to do with the lack of progress. ‘Sorry I haven’t been round for a while.’

  ‘That’s okay, we didn’t expect you when it was raining. It’s put them really behind with the shooting. Clemency had to go in to work at five o’clock this morning so they can do catch-up. I made her coffee just as she likes it. And French toast. She didn’t touch any of it.’

  ‘Probably couldn’t face it at that time in the morning.’

  ‘No. It’s not that. She’s upset. About Jonathon.’

  ‘He’s not tried something else daft has he?’

  ‘No. But there was another letter you see. And it’s not my fault, it really isn’t.’

  ‘She doesn’t think you’re writing them does she?’ That was an avenue I hadn’t been down.

  ‘No. Of course she doesn’t think that. She thinks … well, it doesn’t matter. I could do cauliflower cheese for lunch.’

  I knew enough by now to realise she wanted her choice validated. ‘One of my favourites.’

  Bianca rewarded me with a huge smile. She’d got it right. Before she could also get it together, the phone rang. ‘Black residence. Bianca speaking.’ The caller said something. ‘Well, you should have told me sooner.’ There was another tinny flow of sound from the receiver. ‘Oh well, I suppose you couldn’t, no. I’ll see you soon.’ Hanging up, she explained. ‘One of my tenants. Her mother’s had a stroke. She has to fly home to New Zealand. Tonight. Only well, the thing is, her suitcases are in the attic. And I’m the only one with a key.’

  I got the message. ‘You need a lift.’

  ‘Oh, thanks ever so much. I could ring a taxi, but they sometimes take ages to arrive here. It’s much easier in London when we need them.’

  ‘Don’t any of you drive?’

  ‘No. We just use taxis. Gran paid for me to have some lessons so I could drive her car, but I could never get the hang of it, so I sold it after she died.’

  ‘Where am I heading?’ I asked once we were under way.

  ‘River End.’

  ‘You used to live in River End?’

  ‘For my whole life. Until I moved to London to live with Clemency and Jonathon.’

  No matter how hard I tried to get away from thoughts of Heidi Walkinshaw, sod’s law was plainly determined to stick reminders in my face. Deciding there was just so much fate a girl can fight, I flicked the car radio to the local news station. It was the last item. And finally here’s some breaking news. The chirpy newsreader switched to serious tone to let the listeners know they were showing the proper respect for this one. Police have sealed off the Smugglers’ Caves in Seatoun. It is believed a body has been discovered within the tunnels. As yet, the police have not issued any statement, but there is speculation it could be that of Heidi Walkinshaw, the paper-girl who went missing from the Seatoun area fourteen years ago.

  I made a mental calculation. If Bianca was the same age as Clemency, that meant she would have been in her late teens when Heidi disappeared. ‘Heidi delivered newspapers in River End, did you know her?’

  ‘No. We didn’t buy newspapers. Gran said there was no point when we could listen to the news on the telly. How do you know she delivered in River End?’

  ‘I can’t remember. I probably read something about her.’

  We went via the promenade and along the main road. Puddles of water were drying out on the pavements and droplets gleamed from the grass blades. Out at sea, a flock of seagulls fought air currents and each other to remain hovering over something of interest to them in the waves. When we reached the first cottages in River End, I asked, ‘Which house?’

  Bianca pointed through the windscreen at the large, square house standing by itself. The name plate said Pinchman’s Cottage. I swung on to the drive in front of an old-fashioned concrete garage with double wooden doors. Something she’d said struck me as odd. According to her neighbour, fourteen years ago this place had been home to a noise nuisance called Emma Johnson; a single mum who’d neglected her kid in favour of the party scene. But if Bianca had lived here as a child and she still owned the property, then … ‘Who was Emma Johnson?’

  ‘That’s my Gran. Why?’

  ‘Someone mentioned she lived here. And that she was a bit of a party animal?’

  I’d been picturing Bianca’s grandmother as a frail husk, propped in bed with medicine bottles on one hand and oxygen tubes in the other. But by the sound of it the old girl had decided to go out swinging from the chandeliers and swigging champagne.

  Bianca shattered this appealing picture. ‘Noooo. Gran didn’t like parties. We only had them when she was away in hospital. Loads of people used to come. I didn’t really know a lot of them, but they were friends of people from the drama group, so I didn’t like to say they couldn’t come. Although some of them were a bit mucky.’

  For ‘mucky’, I read ‘off their faces on drink and drugs and chucking from both ends probably’. When Laurel from the dance classes had said Bianca ‘had her uses if you wanted a bit of fun’, I’d taken it to mean she was an easy target for the group to wind up or bully, but she’d been speaking literally. Bianca’s house, with its lack of any adult supervision, was the place to party and crash out.

  Bianca drew an enormous ring of keys from her pocket and headed for the front door. I followed her inside, curious to see what her own taste was like. It was surprisingly good. A sitting room opening off the front hall was decorated with pale green walls and furnished with large squashy sofas covered in patchwork throws and scatter cushions; the original brick fireplace was still in place, and the hearth was brightened with a bronze scuttle and wicker log-basket.

  ‘Do you do the decorating here too?’

  ‘Oh, yes. And the maintenance. It keeps the costs down.’ She read from a note propped on the hall table. ‘Lucy’s gone into work to sort things out with them. I’ll just get her cases down and leave them in her room.’

  I expected her to head upstairs. Instead she disappeared into the back of the house. Curious, I followed her. The layout here was much like Clemency’s house. The rear room was a kitchen, albeit on a larger scale. A door in the corner was standing open. A staircase led downwards, much like in the caves. Except this one was lit by a single bulb which was currently swinging wildly after Bianca had clipped it with the top of a stepladder.

  ‘Do you need a hand?’ I asked.

  ‘No, thank you.’ She hauled the old-fashioned wooden steps into the kitchen and propped them against the wall. She closed the cellar door, locked it, and re-attached the padlock. ‘I don’t want you to break your leg.’

  ‘Me neither. You think I might?’

  ‘Not now I’ve locked the door. I heard this report on the radio about a man who sued his landlord for thousands of pounds because he fell down the cellar steps and broke his leg. And the judge said the landlord had to pay, which I thought was really unfair, because it’s not like he asked the man to go down into the cellar. So I told all my tenants they can’t go down there or into the attic, and I put locks on them, because I don’t have thousands of pounds. I’m not sure it applies to visitors, but it would be best if you didn’t go down there.’

  ‘Okay. I won’t.’

  Reassured that I wasn’t going to be spending my time breaking limbs in her cellar, Bianca backed out with the ladder. I
followed her progress in sounds as she dragged them upstairs, set them out below the attic hatch, thumped it open and hauled herself inside. A couple of large crashes a couple of seconds later announced that Lucy’s luggage was earthbound again.

  The view beyond this kitchen window was essentially a grassy field, studded with what looked like old fruit trees. Close to the house there was a small square building with a tiled roof. Further away, through the trees, I could make out another low building with a wall around it.

  ‘You’ve got a lot of land here,’ I remarked to Bianca as she lugged the stepladder back. ‘Was it a farmhouse?’

  ‘A long time ago. Gran’s father was a farmer, but they sold all the fields. That’s the old laundry,’ she came to pant over my shoulder and pointed to the nearer building. ‘And down the end of the orchard, that’s where they kept the pigs. I need to repair them both, but I don’t suppose the hospital will want to use them.’

  ‘What’s the hospital got to do with them?’

  ‘They’re going to have the house for cheap accommodation for nurses. It’s all in Gran’s will. I can do what I like with it while I’m alive, and then when I die it goes to the hospital.’

  There was no rancour in Bianca’s voice. Curious, I asked, ‘Don’t you mind that?’

  ‘No. Gran thought I wouldn’t have any family to leave it to.’ She frowned at the crumbling laundry building. ‘I really ought to fix that roof. But there’s no time because I have to look after Clemency.’

  ‘Couldn’t Clemency look after herself for a while?’

  ‘Oh no! Clemency needs me.’

  I wondered how long Clemency could keep that fiction going before it finally dawned on Bianca that she was no more than unpaid help. But at least she wasn’t going to end up homeless or penniless while she had this house.

  I spent the rest of the day hanging out at Clemency’s and making half-hearted stabs at gardening. I hadn’t a clue how to go about ‘proving’ Jonathon had written those letters to himself, but while I was hidden away in here there was no chance of the Walkinshaws finding me. By now the media would be door-stopping them. I should have ignored Jerry’s instructions and phoned them as soon as I was bailed last night. On a brighter note, maybe O’Hara had.

  *

  He hadn’t. He materialised as I was approaching Byron’s Wine Bar that evening on my way to meet Annie. One moment I was walking alone up an empty street, the next I sensed a presence at my right shoulder and found him two inches away.

  ‘I was heading down to your flat to see if I could flush you out. I’ve tried to ring you.’

  ‘I was at Clemency’s. Doing some urgent weeding. Have you seen the Walkinshaws?’

  ‘Nope. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I think we got it wrong.’

  We’d reached the door to Byron’s. He pushed it open. The place was already full of the young, bright and upwardly mobile. And minus Annie.

  I figured O’Hara was good for at least one drink while I was waiting so I headed for the bar. And found myself face-to-face with my bunny self. The barman was wearing a black T-shirt with the Easter Bunny picture printed across the chest.

  ‘Fun aren’t they?’ the barman said. ‘Everyone’s wearing them.’

  I looked around. There were rabbit T-shirts on all sides. It was an Easter Bunny nightmare. I was going to wake up at any moment.

  ‘What can I get you folks?’

  O’Hara ordered a lager. I needed something a lot stronger. ‘What hits the spot fastest?’

  ‘That would be the Rosy Destroyer.’

  ‘I’ll take a triple.’

  He mixed something long and pink. I’ve no idea what it tasted like. It didn’t touch the sides as I slung it down.

  ‘Better?’ O’Hara enquired.

  ‘No. Who the hell printed those damn T-shirts? Don’t they need my permission?’

  ‘Apparently they don’t think so. Can we get off your modelling career and back to the Walkinshaws? There’s something I need to show you. Let’s grab that table.’

  I slid off the bar stool. The floor had bent sideways. ‘Is there an earthquake?’

  O’Hara took my arm and pulled. The floor straightened out. ‘We’ll have two steak sandwiches,’ he called to the barman. ‘Have someone bring them over.’

  A wonderful warm fuzzy glow was spreading all over me. ‘And the same again. It was wunnnerful …’ O’Hara steered me into a seat and took the one opposite. He was in his dark grey shirt and trousers again. A skinny blonde in the next booth simpered. How dare she! He was mine. I leant over the table and took the hand that wasn’t wrapped round his lager. I had to tell him something really important. ‘I love you.’

  ‘Good. I love you too, duchy.’

  I beamed. Wasn’t that great. And he was so scrumptiously fanciable; with that tall, hard body, and dark grey hair and those sexy blue eyes. ‘I think we should make love.’

  ‘I think we should have the steak sandwiches first, duchy.’

  Something bumped into my leg. I looked round and discovered Annie was sliding in beside me. ‘This is Annie. She’s my best friend.’

  ‘What did you give her?’ Annie asked. She sounded cross. I couldn’t figure out why. It was a beautiful evening. I felt great!

  ‘Don’t blame me. She ordered it herself. From him.’

  The barman was walking past with a plate of food. Annie reached out and grabbed the front of his T-shirt. ‘What exactly have you just served my friend?’

  The plate had chips on it. Lovely. I helped myself to a handful. ‘Hey, that’s not your order. It was a triple Rosy Destroyer.’

  ‘Which consists of?’ Annie asked.

  ‘A quadruple shot of vodka, double cherry brandy, pink grapefruit juice, dash of bitters. Times three, since she ordered a triple.’

  ‘So she’s just slung the equivalent of eighteen single shots of spirit down her throat? Bring me a jug of water. Now.’

  ‘We don’t sell jugs. Just bottles. Three pounds a litre.’

  ‘Tonight you do jugs. For free. Unless the manager wants some serious grief when the alcohol licence comes up for renewal.’

  ‘And hurry up with the steak sandwiches,’ O’Hara said.

  ‘We can’t make love until we’ve had the sandwiches,’ I told Annie. ‘Then I’m going to lick him all over, because he’s gorgeous. Isn’t he gorgeous?’ I spotted someone struggling through the crowds, pushing his way with a big canvas bag. ‘Hey, there’s Terry. Hi Terry.’

  Rosco didn’t seemed pleased to see me. He turned round and went the other way. That was very rude. I’d have told him so if the water hadn’t arrived at that moment. Annie made me drink a glass. ‘When did you last eat?’

  ‘Just now. I had chips.’

  ‘Before that.’

  I tried to remember. All my memories were in the top of my head. It was hard to find them because the top of my head was floating above the rest of me. ‘I had cauliflower cheese for lunch. With Bianca. And the rabbit. The rabbit kept watching me. Bianca said it was because he wanted the cabbage stalks. But I know the truth. It’s me he wants. He’s a rodent stalker. I’ve met his sort before.’

  ‘Hurry up with those sandwiches,’ O’Hara shouted.

  Boy, the guy was anxious to make love to me.

  When the plate was cleared and the water jug nearly empty, the top of my head floated down and re-attached itself. I still felt warm and happy, but there was this odd sensation that I was sitting in a glass bubble. All the outside sounds were muted and seemed to be coming from far away. But I didn’t care. I was happy. I smiled at everyone to let them see how happy-happy I was.

  ‘Are you back with us yet, duchy?’

  ‘I didn’t go anywhere.’ And to prove it, I told him. ‘You wanted to talk to me about finding Heidi’s body. What did we get wrong?’

  ‘You got the identity wrong,’ Annie said. ‘I heard from a contact at the morgue. They’ve done the prelim autopsy and the remains aren’t those of a young
girl. It’s a mature female.’

  O’Hara pulled something from his pocket. It was a piece of semi-transparent greaseproof paper. He held it up. On it he’d drawn a copy of the gold pendant: HW.

  ‘What do you see?’

  It was a test. Easy-peasy. ‘HW. Heidi Walkinshaw.’

  He reversed the page so we were looking at it from the other side: WH. ‘And now?’

  ‘WH. Oh damn it. She never went to the Lake District!’

  We’d just found the remains of Leslie Higgins’s sister, Winifred.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I woke up with my cheek pillowed on the rim of my toilet bowl. I tried to stand up and experienced total panic. My left leg was missing.

  ‘Can you shift out of there now?’ Annie said. ‘I want to use the shower.’

  What was she doing in my bathroom? ‘I don’t have a shower.’

  ‘No. But I do. And that’s my toilet you’re hugging.’

  I stared around at the white and pink tiled walls. She was right, this was her flat. ‘Call an ambulance.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘My left leg has gone.’

  ‘You’ve been sitting on it. It’s numb.’

  I looked down. I was only wearing a pair of pants. But there was definitely a leg through each leg hole. Using the toilet seat for leverage, I hauled myself up. Blood flowed back and a million pins and needles jabbed into the numb limb. I whimpered. Annie displayed the caring skills for which she was renowned; she pushed me outside the bathroom and locked the door.

  Bouncing off the walls I staggered down the short corridor to the living room. The rest of my clothes were piled on a chair and the sofa bed had been opened out. Shakily I aimed for it, and sank gratefully into the rumpled duvet. My tongue had swollen to twice its normal size and there was a tone-deaf percussion band tuning up in my head. Annie reappeared ten minutes later, wrapped in a towelling robe with her skin pinkly damp and her frizzy hair shrunk to wet curls.

  ‘I spent the night here?’