by Liz Evans
‘Ace deduction, Sherlock. The shower’s free if you want to use it.’
I knew a hint when I heard one. After quarter of an hour of standing under scalding water, I wrapped a bath towel sarong-style round myself and padded back to the kitchen. Annie removed a bowl from the microwave and filled two dishes. ‘Porridge. It keeps your glycaemic index up all day.’
‘My index wants to lie down thanks.’ I pillowed my head on the breakfast counter. ‘I can’t believe I can be this hung-over. You’ve seen me party. Somebody must have spiked my drinks.’
‘Drink, singular. It’s your age. I was fine until I got to thirty, and then something happens to your metabolism. You can’t take it anymore. Throwing eighteen shots down on an empty stomach was the alcoholic equivalent of nuking your bloodstream.’
Fragments of yesterday evening were starting to come back in a sort of nightmarish kaleidoscope. ‘It wasn’t Heidi’s body.’
‘No. It’s almost certainly Winifred Higgins. Leslie Higgins must have sent those postcards from the Lake District to their neighbour to make sure she didn’t start asking any awkward questions.’
‘How do you know about the postcards? And the neighbour?’
‘O’Hara was telling me last night. His theory is that they had one row too many about the house and Higgins lashed out at her. He thinks it’s unlikely it was deliberate. After a lifetime of rows, why resort to murder over a lease with a few years to run? I bet the police are feeling sick this morning.’
I knew just how they felt. More segments of kaleidoscope were falling into place.
Annie was still chattering on. ‘Although to be fair, the team investigating Heidi’s disappearance were looking for signs that the cave bars had been removed within the last two weeks, and those ones must have had six years of dirt over them by that time. Sloppy though. I wonder if the Walkinshaws will think it’s good news or bad. O’Hara was planning to go and see them this morning. You’ve gone the same shade as the porridge. Are you going to chuck again?’
I took a deep breath to swallow the nausea. ‘Did I actually say I wanted to lick O’Hara all over, out loud?’
She didn’t answer. I lifted my head with an effort. Annie’s round face was split in a wicked grin.
*
I had to crash out again. When I came round, it was one o’clock in the afternoon. A note from Annie told me to lock up as I left. I took another shower and helped myself to clean clothes. There was no way I was going back to my own flat; O’Hara might be lurking inside — covered in whipped cream. The thought made me go hot and cold all at once. Luckily, I’d parked the car several spaces away from the flat. I dived inside and screeched out of the road. The office was out; I couldn’t trust Jan to repeat her rottweiler act and keep O’Hara downstairs. I went round to Clemency’s. Bianca was a sort of mate now. I’d tell her to deny I was there if my ‘assistant gardener’ came calling.
There was no answer to my ring. I tried again, leaning hard on the bell for several minutes. Then I went to work with the knocker. The sounds reverberated through the hall. I tried shouting through the letter-box. Nothing. Stepping back I checked the front of the house. All the windows were closed. If the place really was empty for once, this could be my chance to search for evidence that Jonathon was responsible for writing the threatening letters.
I walked round to the back and checked the windows I could see. They were all closed. Interestingly, I discovered a small door in the back wall. There had been no sign of it from the garden. I did a mental calculation and realised it must be another entrance into the brick shed. Unlike the garden door, this one had a new padlock on the bolt. I briefly thought about picking it and going in that way, but remembering the rusted-shut door at the other end, decided I’d have to kick my way out which wasn’t quite the unobtrusive arrival I was planning. This narrow back street was little more than an access road, barely one and a half cars wide. I reparked the car a street away in case anyone came home and wondered why it was sitting outside. Scooting back, I hauled myself up to the top of the wall and dropped into the garden. My initial plan had been to pick the lock on the kitchen door. But then I’d have to relock it when I left. I contemplated the rabbit flap. It was one big flap. Kneeling down I inserted my head and an arm through. Twisting sideways, so I was diagonally in the space, I pushed.
I crept upstairs with great care, listening for the slightest sound that would indicate someone was home. From halfway up the staircase, I could see that the door to the study was open. And the room appeared to be empty. There were no filing cabinets, which just left the desk for any incriminating paperwork. I didn’t really expect to find any in there. And when I discovered the drawers weren’t even locked, I was dead certain I wouldn’t.
Switching on the computer, I found a list of files. None were handily labelled ‘anonymous letters’ but there was a folder called ‘Jon’s Documents’. I clicked on it.
There were about a dozen word files in there, all labelled Doc 1; Doc 2 etc. He hadn’t bothered to give them a description before saving them. I tried the first document. It was password-locked. Annie had once told me people usually used a simple name they could remember easily. I tried everything I could think of: Jonathon, Clemency, Black, Bianca, Cappuccino, Danny, Zuko, Grease, SceneOne, Actor, Savannah, Shoreline, Laurel … Access denied.
Eventually I admitted defeat. This wasn’t going to happen. I moved on to the master bedroom. The chances that Jonathon had left anything in there, where his wife would find it, were slim. But let’s face it, I was running out of options. I opened the wardrobe. The contents were surprisingly sparse. Just casual outfits mostly — hers to the right, his to the left, and two party frocks hanging at Clemency’s end. On reflection though, it made sense. They were still camping out in this house. Their clothes would be at their London flat. I patted down the garments, to locate anything in the pockets.
I failed to register the footsteps until it was nearly too late. There were only two places to go; into the wardrobe or under the bed. I chose the bed, rolling underneath just as the door opened.
I’d expected it to be Bianca on another of her silent approaches, but the feet were too small and the ankles too slim. Clemency. Nose to the cream carpet, I watched her kick off her shoes, pad over to the wardrobe and click hangers in there. If she went into the bathroom, I might have a chance to scoot.
The feet wheeled and headed back in my direction. They came to a halt directly opposite my nose. ‘You slut, I could rip your eyes out. You have trampled on my dreams. Torn them to shreds.’ I’d seen some reactions to break-ins in my time in the police, but this was really over the top. I waited for her to stoop. Instead she climbed. The mattress dipped and creaked. ‘And you, Gabriel, how could you do this to me? I gave you my heart, my loyalty, my body, my trust.’
She was learning lines. And Jonathon really wanted to write this rubbish? I’d have thrown myself off that balcony if I had been writing it. For the first half hour, it was quite fun. After an hour, my empty stomach was growling and rumbling so loudly I was sure Clemency couldn’t fail to hear it. How long before she needed to use the loo?
It was three hours. When her bare feet finally padded across the carpet and disappeared into the bathroom, I rolled out immediately and bolted for the stairs. The rabbit flap was a no-go; I was going out of the front door. Unfortunately, I was so keen to reach it, I failed to notice the sections of skirting board leaning against the wall, until I tripped over them.
‘Who’s there? Bianca?’ Clemency came partially down the stairs. ‘Oh? Hello.’ She leant over the banister looking towards the kitchen. ‘Is Bianca back?’
‘No idea. I’ve just got here. Your front door was open.’
‘Was it? Oh dear, I couldn’t have pushed it to properly.’ She came casually down the stairs. She was in grey cropped pants and a pale lemon sweater again. ‘Isn’t it rather late for gardening? The light’s nearly gone.’
‘Just wanted to pick up a few of my to
ols. If that’s okay?’
‘They’re your tools.’ She led the way into the kitchen and started removing things from the fridge. ‘Your partner not with you?’
Why? Did she have more lacy panties she wanted to road test? ‘He’s not my partner. In any sense of the word.’
Clemency slit a bagel and started slathering cream cheese on one half. ‘Well, I guessed he wasn’t in the loved-up sense. Time for a coffee?’
I didn’t want coffee. But I did want to know why she was so certain O’Hara and I weren’t an item. Had he said something? ‘White, thanks. Why’d you think O’Hara and I weren’t getting it together?’
‘Because he’s gay.’
I swallowed hard. Not on past experience he wasn’t. Clemency misinterpreted the look of disbelief as amazement. ‘You didn’t know? It came as something of a disappointment to me, I admit. There I was, wearing just my most expensive body oil, all revved up and ready to party, and he blows me out. Trust me, girlfriend, he has to be gay. I have a lot of experience in that department. Heteros do not say no to me.’ He hadn’t got it on with Miss Lacy Panties. I tried to restrain the inane grin that I could feel spreading over my face.
‘Doesn’t Jonathon mind, you having all these … experiences?’
‘All marriages have compromises: things you give, things you get back. Jonathon and I, we understand each other.’ Leaning her elbows on the table, she sunk her teeth into the bagel, squishing cheese from the other side. ‘Did you always want to be a gardener?’
I thought this might be a lead-up to my obvious lack of talent in that department. ‘I sort of drifted into it really. Did you always want to be an actress?’
‘Oh yes. The first time I went on stage I was only five, but when that audience applauded me, it was the greatest feeling ever. The buzz when you hear the clapping, and know it’s for you, is just the best high. Nothing else comes close. Jonathon gets that.’
I played it dumb. ‘Is he writing?’
‘No. He’s out. At the set. He’s got a job on Shoreline.’
‘That’s great, isn’t it?’
‘Is it? To be honest, after three years on pitsville, I can’t wait to take a hike. But I guess if it floats Jon’s boat …’ she shrugged.
‘It might help with his depression.’
‘You think he’s depressed?’
‘Don’t you?’ What did she think he was doing on that balcony? Bird impressions?
‘It’s hard to tell sometimes. He can do crazy things when he thinks he’s not getting enough attention.’
‘He sounded serious enough to me.’
‘And you’re a doctor are you?’
‘No. But maybe he should see one?’
She shook her head. ‘Jonathon has a thing about doctors. He saw a lot when he was … well, he had problems when he was a kid. Psychiatrists, analysts, whatever. They all freak him out. He has these down times. They always pass. Bianca and I watch out for him.’
‘Is she on the set too?’
‘She’s taken Cappuccino to town. A magazine is doing a feature about him. With professional studio shots. He’s got his own stylist.’
‘For a rabbit?’
Clemency’s eyes danced. ‘Mad, isn’t it? But if you want the fame, you’ve got to go with the flow. And I always wanted the fame.’
‘I know.’ It slipped out before I could stop it. Before she could start wondering how I knew, I qualified it with, ‘I’ve been taking Salsa lessons. Our teacher used to go to SceneOne with you. Laurel somebody.’
‘Laurel Ingelby,’ she said promptly. And then she echoed what Phyllida Tricorver had said about her former pupils. ‘She was better than me. Better voice; better dancer. Fantastic actress. But now she’s teaching Salsa, and I’m the star of Shoreline. Know why? Because she didn’t want it enough. You have to want it more than breathing, or eating, or sleeping. There are so many knock-backs in this business, so many times when you come within a millimetre of the big role, and then get kicked in the teeth. If you didn’t know you’d make it one day, you’d go mad.’
‘And you always knew?’ Her face was alight, as if someone had switched on a lamp inside her.
‘Yes. I knew. I used to sit in the dark, in the cinema, watching the actors on the screen, and I knew I was going to be up there one day; bright, and beautiful, and important. And believe me nothing is going to stop me.’ She slid elegantly off her seat as the phone rang, and picked up the receiver.
Whoever was on the other end, was plainly somebody from the television company. ‘Couldn’t you have said something before I left the set, for God’s sake? Yes, okay, don’t lose it. I’ll grab a taxi.’ She slammed the receiver back down.
‘You need a lift?’
‘Could you?’
‘No problem. I’ll just bring the car round while you’re grabbing a coat.’
I’d offered to take her on an impulse. And because — okay — I wanted to see if this set was any more glamorous than the one at the beach.
It wasn’t. They were using the caravan park beyond West Bay. The area to the right of the entrance had been roped off and seemed to contain the genuine holiday-makers (all ten or so of them). The caravans to the left were being used by the film company. Once again there seemed to be dozens of people standing around doing nothing. Some of them carried walkie-talkies and/or clip-boards and occasionally a group of these would coagulate together for a few moments and then break apart.
Clemency had disappeared into a caravan marked ‘Wardrobe’, so I drifted over to an area by the clubhouse where something seemed to be happening. Over to one side there were a couple of huge lights flooding the wall with an intense white glare, and settled next to them was Jake Spiro in one of those canvas director’s chairs. Just to remove any doubt, it had ‘Director’ on the back. A girl with one of the walkie-talkies and a clip-board was bending over him saying something. Straightening up, she shouted, ‘Quiet everyone, we’re going for a take.’
Everything went silent. I found myself holding my breath.
‘Are we turning?’ The camera operator put a thumb up. Somebody snapped a clapper board. ‘Action!’
The girl I’d spoken to in the canteen bus appeared from the corner of the building. This time, instead of a bikini, she was in a halter top, miniskirt and high heels. She walked along the side of the building, followed by her own monstrous shadow. As she reached the end, the director yelled, ‘Cut!’
That was it? All these people were hanging around to watch someone walk! Apparently not. ‘We’re going again,’ walkie-talkie girl yelled.
We went eleven more times; punctuated by intervals where someone would rush over and comb down her hair, buff powder over her shiny bits, and gloss up her lips. Eventually I guess she moved from A to B in a way that satisfied everyone. I thought that would be it. But no, Ms Walkie-Talkie spoke into her transmitter again. Whatever she heard, led to a nod to the director.
‘Ready everyone?’ he said. ‘Action!’
Ms Walkie-Talkie transmitted again. ‘Cue the Easter Bunny.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
A monstrous shadow materialised on the wall. The Easter Bunny shuffled around the corner and started along the same route the actress had taken.
I stared hard at the costume … I was almost certain … the tail flared, reflecting back light, its whiteness far cleaner than the markings on the chest. They’d replaced it after the yobs at the shopping precinct had set fire to it. It was my costume! I felt almost … proud.
‘Cut!’
The director levered himself out of the canvas seat and strode across to the Bunny. His voice carried clearly. ‘Didn’t you hear me? I want menace. I want stalking. I want every sodding movement you make to SCREAM danger to the viewers. You’re shuffling like you’ve got a carrot rammed up the wrong end. Danger, get it? DANGER.’ He walked back to his chair, shouting they’d do it again.
The rabbit plodded back the way it had come. The next attempt didn’t go any better. In f
act the next ten attempts were all the same: not enough menace. I knew why; those ski feet made any movement beyond a shuffle impossible. By take number twelve, the director was fizzing. He fizzed straight over to the rabbit, stood on his feet, and emphasised his points by jabbing a finger into his furry chest. The rabbit responded with a right upper-cut.
‘Screw your stupid part, Jake. And screw you. Oh no, come to think of it, my wife has already taken care of that, hasn’t she.’
It was a shock. This far away and with the heavy face make-up, I hadn’t recognised Jonathon. Now he started ripping at the costume, biting his bunny mitts to pull them off and dragging the hood back. He fumbled on the waist fastening. ‘Someone get me out of this sodding costume!’
There was no rush of volunteers. The director was crawling out of range on all fours with blood dripping from his nose.
It was time to discover the hero inside myself. I edged in on his left side. You can’t get a fast turn on those feet unless you’re used to them.
Jonathon was obviously a bunny virgin. If he showed signs of slinging a punch in my direction, I knew I could duck before it connected.
‘Hi.’
He stopped struggling with polyester fur fabric long enough to ask what the frig I was doing here.
‘I gave Clemency a lift in. They needed her to do some shooting or something. If you promise not to thump me, I’ll get you out of the costume.’
The fight visibly leaked out of him. ‘Okay.’
I helped him drag the top over his head. He hung on to my shoulder while he clambered clear of the bottom section. I could feel the trembling deep within, although on the surface he appeared calm again. He kicked the costume away. ‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome. Why don’t we go sit down and grab a coffee.’
‘I think these guys want me to leave.’
For the first time, I became aware that a semi-circle of those black-clad security guards had us corralled against the wall. Despite the fact it was night, they were all wearing dark shades. ‘I think we’ve watched The Matrix once too often, guys.’