by Liz Evans
‘Nothing. I didn’t do anything. It’s not my fault.’ Her fat lips pouted. She looked even more like an enormous baby. One that had had its rattle taken away. ‘I have to go home. Will you take me? Please.’
I was so used to thinking of this as Bianca’s home, that I’d half forgotten she owned one of her own. ‘To River End?’ I clarified, just in case she meant the London flat she shared with Jonathon and Clemency.
She seemed to take the question as agreement. ‘Oh, thank you.’ She collected the alarm unit and then clipped the lead on the rabbit. ‘We’d better take Cappy too. Clemency and Jonathon are being soooo mean, they might upset him.’
A ride with two stone of randy rabbit trying to climb over into my lap didn’t appeal. I made her sit in the back again. It would probably have been quicker to cut out the back of Seatoun and go cross-country to River End. I opted to follow the coast road up to West Bay and turn left up there. It would take me past the bottom end of the Walkinshaws’ street. I wanted to check that O’Hara hadn’t decided to tackle Roger Nesbitt on his own. There was no reason why he shouldn’t, it was his case; I was merely being paid to do whatever he chose to assign to me. But, my personal demon and I privately agreed, if he was going solo at this point, we were going to seriously impair O’Hara’s chances of fatherhood. (Always assuming, of course, that he wasn’t already a dad. Damn, there was something else I didn’t know about him.)
Luckily for the future of any little O’Hara sprogs, there was no sign of his Mercedes. I crawled past the major’s house. No hideous screams from inside to indicate Roger Eh-Eh was undergoing some serious interrogation. Okay, none of the foregoing was definite proof that O’Hara wasn’t in the house, but I felt better for my cruise-past. Accelerating away, I indicated to turn right at the top of the street, slowing for the white give-way lines as I caught the sound of an engine coming in fast from the left.
It shot past the nose of the car in a flash of roaring motor and black leather. I just had time to glimpse the red and gold-winged design on the helmet before it was rushing away from us. Instinctively I jabbed my foot on the accelerator.
Bianca’s scream was followed by a soft thud. I glanced in the mirror, she was flattened back against her seat, her eyes wide with shock. Still hitting sixty, I shouted to ask if she was hurt.
‘No.’ She was struggling to sit forward. The sudden jolt had locked her seat belt. ‘Cappy. I let go.’
That would have been the thud. He wasn’t up here with me so I guessed he was on the floor in the back. I began slowing down. Chasing the bike had been a gut reaction. But there was no reason why it should be the same biker who’d bought the copy of the local newspaper and had it couriered to Jonathon. I pulled into the kerb.
Bianca released herself, dragged the huge furry ball into her lap, and started prodding and pulling at areas of loose fur. ‘I think he’s all right. He landed on his tail.’
From personal experience I knew that was the cushiest place to land when you’re a rabbit. ‘Let’s go then. Hang on tighter this time.’
Cappuccino squealed and wriggled for the rest of the journey. When I finally got us to the house, he leapt out with a fierce backward kick that made even Bianca wince.
She held out the lead. ‘Can you hold him? I have to get something in the cellar. I won’t be long.’
I’d assumed she’d wanted to come up here to have a sob and sulk away from Clemency. Now it sounded like she was expecting a return lift.
Clutching Cappy’s lead, I hung around in the kitchen while she descended down the steep staircase. As soon as she was out of sight, the furry pest let rip with several excited squeaks and tried to hump my leg. ‘Gettoofff!’ I climbed on the table. Cappy jumped on a chair and bounced up beside me. I jumped down. So did he. Running for the cooker, I whipped the end of his lead round the oven handle and threw myself down the other end of the kitchen. The lead stretched to its fullest length, holding him several feet away from me. And then the oven door opened. He kept coming. He finally jerked to a halt six inches from my knees.
‘Look, what is it with you? You didn’t want to know the other day and now I’m flavour of the month again. You are one sick bunny, you know that?’
‘Who are you talking to?’ Bianca puffed back into the kitchen and looked round with a puzzled expression on her moon face.
‘Cappuccino,’ I admitted.
‘I often do that.’ Bianca said, starting the routine of relocking and re-padlocking the cellar door. She didn’t seem to have brought anything up from the cellar with her.
‘Couldn’t you find what you were looking for?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She patted a dungaree pocket. ‘Yes, thank you. Can we go back now, please?’
I headed for the hall, leaving her to untangle the rabbit. Up until now the house had been full of unoccupied sounds: a clock ticking loudly in the living room; the refrigerator thrumming in the kitchen; an occasional ‘click’ when a Venetian blind was disturbed by a breeze from our open door. Now another sound joined them. Overhead there was the distinct sound of pressure being applied to wooden floorboards. I exchanged a startled looked with Bianca.
‘Oh dear,’ she whispered. ‘That’s Piri’s room. She must be back on night shift this week. I didn’t think. Let’s be very quiet.’ She tiptoed out and shut the front door with exaggerated care even though it was plainly too late if Piri was already moving around.
The trip seemed to have cheered Bianca up; in the rear mirror I watched her watching the passing scenery. I took the route via West Bay again; the sun was out and glinting off the silvery waves that were breaking in gentle frills of spume. The beaches were starting to fill up with striped windbreakers, canvas deckchairs, flag-decked sandcastles and dozens of beach bunnies all wearing that T-shirt. It was spreading like an infectious rash.
Bianca bounded through the front door full of smiles. ‘Clemency! We’re back.’ She lumbered upstairs. I tethered the rabbit to the staircase and went to collect my chainsaw. I had a T-shirt seller to find.
It was still propped by the back door. Reaching to pick it up a movement in the back garden caught my eye. Clemency was wandering the flowerbeds (or as they might be termed — large patches of muddy earth).
Bianca lumbered back into the kitchen. ‘She’s not there.’ I nodded towards the door. More smiles creased the round face. She ran out into the garden, galloped over to Clemency and started talking animatedly. Whatever had got her fired up wasn’t giving Clemency the same buzz, but at least she seemed to be prepared to call a truce with Bianca. They walked back into the house arm in arm.
Bianca made her usual gesture of bonding. She offered to make food. ‘I could make tea. With cakes and sandwiches and things? Unless you’d rather I get on with the decorating. Would you, Clemency? I don’t mind. I could do whatever you like.’ Now she’d been forgiven, her desire to lie down so Clemency could wipe her feet all over her was almost painful to watch.
The foot-wiper shook her blonde hair. ‘The weather is lovely now. Let’s take Cappy for a long walk along the front and buy ice-creams.’
Bianca was practically incandescent at this proof that she was back in favour. ‘That would be so wonderful, Clemency. Is Jonathon coming? He wasn’t in his study.’
‘I’ll ask him.’ She returned a few moments later, wearing a short jacket over the black outfit and carrying a pile of scripts. ‘He’s pissed. He’s crashed out.’
‘You did tell him it wasn’t my fault, didn’t you?’
‘I did. Not sure he took it in. Don’t worry, B. We’ll sort it out when he’s finished feeling sorry for himself.’
Bianca hesitated. ‘Should we stay with him?’
‘What for? You know what he’s like. He’ll sleep it off, wake up feeling like death, and find some way to make it all someone else’s fault. Can we get a fire going in that barbecue before we go? I want to burn these scripts. You know how paranoid the company is about fans retrieving them from the rubbish bins.’
&n
bsp; Bianca obediently wrung newspaper into twists, piled them in the charcoal pit, and applied a match. The flames licked and curled at the black and white print. Clemency stepped over and shook half a bottle of gin into the pile. The fire whooshed into life with so much force that Bianca and I both jumped back in alarm. Clemency started adding the typed pages to the pile, ignoring the floating flakes of ash that settled on her hair and clothes. When everything had been reduced to white ash, she smiled and shook herself vigorously, leaning forward to pat fragments from her hair. ‘There, that’s done, let’s go for our walk.’ An eyebrow lifted in my direction.
I dutifully hefted my chainsaw and let myself be shown out. I caught up with them at the end of the road, tooted my good-byes, and turned right. Half a mile down, I parked up in a side road, retrieved the lock picks from the hidden compartment and walked back. One last try to find any evidence that Jonathon was threatening himself, and then I was definitely calling it quits and sending in my final invoice to Della.
Since I had no camouflage clothing with me (like my all-purpose boiler suit with ‘Acme Locksmiths’ printed over the back), I decided against picking the front lock. It was rabbit flap time again. But before that, I was going to take a look in that locked shed.
I picked the padlock. The door swung open easily on oiled hinges. I stepped inside, leaving it slightly ajar, which provided the only illumination — the light had stopped trying to get through the grime and yellowing newspapers on the windows a long time ago. The shed smelt of dampness, earth, rot, mould — and oil. The latter originated from the motorbike parked inside. I put my palm on the engine. The faintest trace of warmth still remained.
There were shelves along one wall, the wood sagging in the middle and tilting the abandoned red clay flowerpots into a huddle in the centre. The first of a row of wooden clothes pegs held the disintegrating remains of an old tweed jacket and soft hat. Black cycle leathers were hanging from the second. The gold-winged helmet was perched on the third.
I locked up behind me and hauled myself up and over the wall again. Clemency had spoken as if Jonathon had been upstairs getting smashed during the time Bianca and I were away in River End. Was it possible for him to leave the house and return without her knowing? Abandoning plan A, the rabbit flap, I went for plan B. Using one of the metal posts as a climbing pole, I shinned up to the first balcony. It was a doddle; the metal scrollwork design provided plenty of foot and hand holds to haul myself up and over. I glanced inside the bedroom I’d mentally designated as ‘Clemency’s bonking room’ and my stomach turned over. I’d expected it to be empty, but Jonathon was sprawled on the bed.
It was an encounter I’d expected to have when I reached the main bedroom upstairs. Given that he was either drunk or spaced out, I was confident of my ability to talk my way out of the breaking and entering scenario, but I was hoping I wouldn’t have to. Making like a statue, I waited for any reaction. I couldn’t see through the voile drapes whether his eyes were open or closed, but he could hardly fail to see me since I was outlined against the light. When the blood started to drum in my head, I realised I’d been holding my breath and let it out in a steady stream. There was still no movement from inside. He was out of it. I continued scaling the outside; next stop the master bedroom.
It was easy. Raise sash, step inside. This place really was a burglar’s paradise. I completed the search of the master bedroom that Clemency’s arrival had forced me to abandon the other day. And came up empty-handed. I already knew there was nothing to be found in the office unless I could get into Jonathon’s computer. I took a look anyway. The packaging from the parcel I’d seen earlier was crumpled in the wastepaper bin. I discovered the cardboard box it had contained beneath. It was about eight inches long, four inches wide, and three inches deep. I expected it to be empty; but the weight said the contents were still inside. Opening it, I discovered a blue spectacle case containing a pair of glasses with pink frames. I’d seen a pair like that recently, but I couldn’t for the life of me think where. I prepared to leave everything as I found it. I was doing no good here. I’d just have to tell Della that the whole case was a … !!!!! And suddenly I knew. If Jonathon was using a familiar word as his password, then there was one that he associated with more than any other.
Grabbing the laptop I flipped the lid up and switched it on. As soon as it booted up I went into the file marked ‘Jon’s Documents’ and selected the latest file. The password box opened. Using two fingers I typed. The word appeared on screen as a series of ******. The screen blanked and then re-formed. Page one appeared.
Except it wasn’t a you-must-die letter. It was Jonathon’s flaming script. Fed up, I scrolled down the pages, scan-reading. And then my finger slowed on the down arrow as the words started to penetrate. Oh God, we’d got it all wrong!
Chapter Thirty-Three
SCENE ONE: INT. BEDROOM. MORNING.
Zoe and Marcus are asleep in bed. Both are naked. Their clothes are scattered around the floor. Zoe is blonde and beautiful, Marcus is dark and handsome. They are both in their late teens. Zoe stirs and starts to awaken. She is groggy from too much drink and drugs the previous night. She takes a moment to register where she is and then reacts violently, scrambling out of bed and starting to dress herself.
MARCUS (Stirring awake): Christ my head feels like shit. I told you that gear was dodgy. I’ll kill Benji.
ZOE: Stuff Benji. We fell asleep. (She grabs the clock from the bedside and slams it down on Marcus’s chest. It reads 7.35 a.m.) My dad’s ferry was docking at five.
MARCUS: So? (He is relaxed, reaching out and trying to catch at Zoe.) You’re seventeen baby. Big girl now. Sexy girl. Come back to bed.
ZOE (Screaming and throwing his clothes at him): It’s my dad. Don’t you understand? Don’t you ever frigging listen?
MARCUS: I listened. So the guy’s a control freak. So what? You’re seventeen. Tell him to stuff it.
ZOE (Pausing in her dressing): Seventeen. That makes a difference does it? You know my sister, Prudence?
MARCUS: She the one who hopped it to Scotland?
ZOE: She took up with her boss. Older bloke. Married. Couple of kids. And me dad found out. Know what he did? He pushed her down over the kitchen table, and he puts one hand on her shoulder like this — (She pushes Marcus face down on the bed and puts her own hand on his shoulder) — And then he pulls her arm back up like this … (Marcus shouts with pain) and he keeps twisting it, round and round. We can hear the bones snapping. We took Prudence up the hospital and told them she’d got the arm trapped in a door. I don’t think they believed us, but they pretended to. Didn’t have much choice, with Prudence saying it was an accident too. Next day, the boss sends Prue’s money round and tells her not to bother to come back to work; she’s fired. My dad had had a word there too. Prudence was twenty years old at the time. So you really think that being frigging seventeen is going to make difference to me? Or you?
MARCUS: Me?
ZOE: Prue’s bloke had two broken legs.
MARCUS (Starting to dress): Why don’t you shop him to the cops?
ZOE: Because there would be more of the same when he got out. And if you’re thinking you’ll do it, well they let them out on bail, before the trial. You can’t testify through a broken jaw. (She runs from the bedroom.)
CUT TO:
SCENE TWO. INT. LOUNGE. MORNING
The room is untidy with furniture pushed aside and bottles, discarded cigarettes and food trodden into the carpet. Juanita is attempting to tidy up. She is a large, fat, ugly girl in her late teens. Zoe rushes into the room and grabs the telephone.
ZOE: Why the frig didn’t you wake me up, you stupid moron?
JUANITA: I’m sorry. I thought you wanted to stay. Sorry. Shall I make you breakfast? (Zoe ignores Juanita and dials. Marcus wanders in, still dressing himself.) Shall I make you breakfast, Marcus?
MARCUS: No. You shan’t. Do I look like I want to eat?
JUANITA: Sorry.
ZOE:
Shut up! (Someone has picked up the phone at the other end.) Mum? Just say yes or no; is he there yet? (She visibly relaxes at the reply.) Mum, say that I spent the night round a friend’s … no, not Juanita, say Millie’s, that quiet girl from the dance class? (Her tone becomes pleading.) Please Mum … well sod you then! (She slams the receiver down and drags over the telephone directory.)
MARCUS: What’s happening?
ZOE: Ferry was late docking at Dover. He’ll be home any time now. (She’s thumbing through the directory pages, finds the one she wants and starts dialling.)
MARCUS: Why can’t you say you stay here? With her? (He nods at Juanita.)
ZOE: He knows what goes on up here. Thanks mostly to brother Benji’s big gob. Dad said if I … (she turns to speak into the phone receiver) yeah, hello, I need a cab. Snipman’s Cottage, River End. (Pause.) No, forty minutes isn’t any good. I need it sodding now. (She hangs up and redials.) Yeah, cab for Snipman’s Cottage, River End. An hour? (The phone is slammed down. We watch her going through the same actions three more times.) There’s no cabs, what the sod are we going to do? (An idea hits her.) The car! Where’s the keys, Juanita?
JUANITA: Gran’s car?
ZOE: No, Arnold Schwarzenegger’s. Of course your bloody gran’s. (She’s turning out drawers and tipping up ornaments on to the floor.)
JUANITA: But you can’t drive. Can you?
ZOE: I’ll improvise. Now where the sod … (She upends a vase and keys fall out.) Got them. (She runs from the room, followed by Marcus, leaving Juanita staring after them with a gormless expression on her face.)
CUT TO:
SCENE THREE. EXT. IN FRONT OF JUANITA’S HOUSE. MORNING. HEAVY RAIN.
Zoe runs to an old-fashioned garage and opens the wooden doors. Marcus joins her. They drag the doors open to reveal an old Mini. Zoe climbs into the driver’s seat and Marcus into the front passenger seat. The engine starts.
CUT TO:
SCENE FOUR. INT. CAR. MORNING.