by Liz Evans
He hadn’t. However, he promptly whipped out the delivery docket and pointed out the centre’s address and phone number.
‘And we can arrange delivery over a wide area. Perhaps you might want to thank your sister with a delicious little treat for her own birthday?’
‘Do you stock triffids?’
‘Triff ... Oh, naughty.’
‘Talking of naughty, I don’t suppose you noticed anyone hanging around? Or running like hell when you arrived?’
‘Oh, no. It was all quiet. Well, no, I tell a lie. A vehicle was pulling away from the kerb as I arrived.’
‘Make? Registration number?’
‘I simply didn’t take any notice, I’m afraid. A truck, I think. Disgustingly muddy.’
‘No sweat. Probably just a day-tripper.’ I hadn’t been home for nearly three days. The break-in could have happened any time between Thursday morning and Wayne’s arrival tonight. I thanked him for being such a sport about the belting.
‘Scatter seeds not weeds as you walk through the greenhouse of life, is my motto. Be careful not to touch those gorgeous succulents, won’t you? The spines can burrow through just about anything. It feels like a thousand red-hot needles under your flesh. Well, I’ll fly then.’
I waved him and his estate wagon off from the steps and turned my attention to the break-in.
It was virtually a repeat of the scene at Vetch’s as far as upholstery, food containers and paperwork were concerned. In addition, the old pantry cupboard I used as a wardrobe had been ransacked and my clothes were heaped in a jumbled pile on the main room floor. They’d made a soft landing for the disembowelled television and radio sets. Stepping into the narrow, windowless room I used as a guest bedroom, I found the only piece of furniture it contained, a fold-up bed, had had the same treatment. Lugging the florist’s tub in there, I shut the door on it.
There wasn’t much to wreck in the bathroom, but they’d given it their best shot anyway. The medicine cupboard had been ripped from the wall, and there were lighter spots around the floor by the toilet bowel where liquid had dried. I didn’t want to think what it might have been. At least they hadn’t deposited anything worse in the basin and bath.
Returning to the main room, I ducked down into the alcove where the old range had stood, felt in the roof area, located the loose stone and drew it out carefully. There must, I think, have been some kind of stack pipe running through the bricks here at one time. When it had been removed it had left a small space up here that was just the right size to keep a bundle of building society passbooks.
(OK - I know I never spend any if I can help it, but Annie had been right: I did have a cache of savings. I just had an almost pathological terror of spending it.)
They didn’t seem to have found them. But after the fake photos fiasco I eased them out and checked anyway before carefully putting them back and turning my attention to the drifts of cornflakes, washing powder, coffee granules and rice I was wading in.
I started to clean up, intending to see what I could salvage, but in the end dragged in the rubbish bin from the back yard and threw every consumable thing inside. There was no way I ever wanted to touch any of it again.
I wanted a bath. But I couldn’t bear to use the towels and I’d got nothing to scour out the bath with anyway. About the only thing that was still intact was the phone. Annie wasn’t answering, either at home or on her mobile. In the end I dialled the office without much hope. And was surprised when Vetch answered.
‘It’s eleven thirty at night.’
‘Thank you, sweet thing, but I’ve been able to tell what the big hand and the little hand mean since I was four.’
‘My place has been trashed.’
‘I know that too. I’m here supervising the activities of an extortionately overpriced twenty-four-hour security service. Is your new hobby stating the obvious?’
‘Not there. Here.’
I filled him in on the situation at the flat and was disgusted to hear a quaver in my voice. Up until then I really thought I’d been handling it.
The little diamond came up trumps for once. After he’d persuaded the security firm to bring round a new front door and fit it (an activity that was enormously popular with the rest of the street at one o’clock in the morning), he offered me a bed at his place for the night, and when I declined (I wasn’t that traumatised), drove home and returned with soap, bleach, food, clean towels and a sleeping bag.
‘Don’t forget we have a date with your latest client tomorrow.’
‘You’ll have to make my excuses, Vetch. I’d not be very good company.’
‘You often aren’t. Nonetheless, I’d advise you to make the effort. Barbra has a tendency to take offence rather quickly. And you really can’t afford to lose this job. Consider your debts.’
‘What debts?’
‘Now you mention it, that door I’ve just paid for. I’ll take a cheque.’
I wrote him one and told him he’d have to give me a lift to Wakens Keep.
‘I’ll pick you up at twelve thirty. Good night, sweet thing. Or good morning, rather.’
There was no way I could turn up at Barbra’s in this outfit. My clothes had been on me since Thursday and were showing signs of being able to walk into the washing machine by themselves. But the only alternative was the stuff that had been pawed over by my visitors.
In the end I extracted a silky oyster-shaded dress splashed with red poppies from the heap and spent twenty minutes scrubbing it after I’d finished the same operation on myself. I even washed the strappy red sandals I was going to have to wear with it. Finally I rinsed out the panties I’d been wearing. The sun was just coming up when I hung the lot out in the back yard and crept into my sleeping bag.
I woke again four hours later. Annie still wasn’t answering. I tried her several times whilst I sorted out what I couldn’t face doing last night and splashed bleach in all directions. In passing I bailed a couple of mugs of water over the sulking succulents and wondered what on earth I was supposed to feed them on. Pit-bull burgers, by the looks of them.
By the time Vetch arrived, I’d dumped the rest of my underwear in the garbage and hauled every other blessed thing around to the service launderette (everyone works seven days a week in high season).
‘What did the police say?’ Vetch enquired, his eyes out on stalks as I scrambled into the passenger seat. I’d chosen this dress because it dried fast and crease-free, forgetting quite how short the skirt was.
‘I didn’t report it. Nothing’s missing; I’ve no insurance anyway; and I don’t feel inclined to give the local station a good laugh.’
‘Are we being paranoid, sweet thing?’
‘It’s not paranoia if they really do despise you, Vetch.’
‘If you say so.’
The sun was unbearable through the glass and I could feel the damp patches where I was touching the car upholstery. With the flat fields and almost no trees out here, there were no welcome patches of shade to break the relentlessly solid heat. I lowered my window to cool things down a bit and could almost smell the tarmac melting. Vetch opened his side, creating a through draught, and remarked it would storm soon.
I peered up at yet another cloudless sky. ‘You reckon?’
‘I have an instinct for troublesome atmospheres. Speaking of which - you haven’t offended anyone recently, have you, Grace? More than you usually do, I mean?
‘Not that they mentioned. Why?’
‘I couldn’t help wondering about our visiting vandals. As you so rightly observe - theft doesn’t appear to have been the motive. And they do seem to have been remarkably persistent in their efforts to enter the office.’
‘What makes you think it was the same lot that hit my place?’
‘Oh, come now. You don’t really think it was coincidence, do you?’
‘No. I guess not. But that’s not to say they’re after me. Maybe they’ll come calling on you - or Annie - today.’
‘Possibly. Ho
wever, you were their victim of first choice. Have you given out your address to anyone recently? Or been tailed home?’
‘Not that I noticed.’
‘Phone number?’
‘Occasionally, but . ..’ But nothing. We both knew it was possible to back-track from a phone number to a subscriber’s address - if you knew the right people.
‘Sloppy, sweet thing. Sloppy.’
‘The rest of us can’t reach your level of perfection all the time, master. And get your hand off my knee and back on the gear stick before I break a few fingers.’
I felt more cheerful. When I analysed the mood, I realised it was because I suspected Vetch might be right and I had been targeted for some reason. Somehow it made me feel better, thinking whoever had been grubbing through my things was out for revenge rather than sexual kicks. I wondered if it was too late to retrieve my knickers from the rubbish bin.
17
It was a while since I’d been out to Wakens Keep, and I’d forgotten how busy it could get in the tourist season. It was an oddly arranged village - with the front wall of the keep entrance on one side of the square and meandering lines of lopsided oak- beamed cottages on the other three. I suppose the central section must have been a village green once, but it had long ago been filled in and was now a flat expanse of reddish stones and asphalt.
It was already full, but with a bit of creative parking Vetch managed to squeeze us in by the war memorial. Without the rush of air through the car windows, the heat out here was ten times worse. Pulling sections of polyester off my damp skin, I took a quick glance around the square.
Most of the tiny strips of front gardens were planted up with rose bushes and assorted shrubs, with tubs sitting on the doorsteps (I counted three identical to my birthday succulents - my sister wasn’t the only botanical fashion victim around here). Only one owner seemed to have broken the trend. Their strip was a gnome sanctuary. Two dozen of the pointy-eared little charmers were gardening, fishing and posing around a miniature windmill and toy-town wishing well. It was plastic naff, big time.
It looked like Barbra had invited a houseful for lunch. Confidently following the stream of people who were heading for the door that was being opened every few seconds to admit those clutching bottles of sparkly plonk, I summoned up my best party smile and headed into canape canyon.
‘This way, sweet thing.’ Vetch grabbed my elbow and used it to change my course towards the gnome sanctuary, where Barbra had just opened the door.
‘Hi, sweetheart.’ The smacker she landed on Vetch was the full tonsil-tasting variety. It gave me the chance to congratulate myself on my choice of outfit. Short and tarty was in. Hers was cerise pink and floaty.
I caught a glimpse of movement on the stairs out of the corner of my eye and looked up as the scuffed trainers and jeans descended far enough for his head and shoulders to duck under a large beam across the first landing. There was enough resemblance to his dad for me to guess this was Lee the Loser, although he’d inherited Barbra’s pre-op broad nose and wider mouth. He opened it at that minute, to say he’d never met a model in the flesh before.
‘Corny,’ I said.
‘Who’s talking to you, darling? I meant the dwarf. It was you posed for statues in my mum’s garden, weren’t it? You forgot yer pointy hat, mate. Brought yer little rod though, I see.’ He slouched down a few more stairs and leant his crossed arms on the banister rail.
‘You remember Lee?’ his mum said, letting Vetch up for air.
‘Yes, indeed. Still searching for that elusive spark of originality, I see.’
‘We met then?’ Lee enquired. He seemed to be having a bit of trouble staying upright and sank to a tread so he could lean his face against the struts and peer at us through the bars. There was a sweet aroma of burning cannabis mingling with the scent of Barbra’s perfume in my nostrils.
‘Vetch was one of my best customers at Lucinda’s Lingerie. You were probably too busy nicking the stock to notice. Come through to the garden.’ Barbra pulled Vetch’s arm around her waist and headed for the back. Assuming I was invited too, I followed.
She was right about it not looking like a millionaire’s place. The main room had been knocked through from several smaller ones and came complete with brick inglenook fireplace, low beams and open-plan staircase. The back room was a fitted kitchen/dining area with a door leading on to the long, narrow back garden that most of these cottages tended to have. Given the areas it was in, it undoubtedly hadn’t come cheap. But then again, it wasn’t the indoor-pool-and-three-car-garage job I somehow associated with the mega-rich. Maybe it was time I stopped thinking in clichés.
There was a young man in dark trousers and a chefs three- quarter-length white coat at the work surface, transferring delicious-smelling nibbly bits from an oven tray to a large silver platter.
‘This is Andreas. From the caterer’s,’ Barbra announced. ‘Do you want a drink before lunch? How about champagne? I’ve got champagne.’
Actually, I didn’t. The sight of the bottle brought back Thursday night’s fiasco with sudden painful clarity. ‘Have you got a beer?’
‘Don’t be daft. We’ll have champagne, Andreas.’
Like the summons to lunch, it wasn’t an invitation. It was an order.
‘Out here,’ our hostess said, opening the back door. ‘Fetch us the hors d’oeuvres out, Andreas.’
She stalked out, and we foot-soldiers fell into line behind her. A third of the way down the garden was a pagoda-style blue-and- white-striped tent with a dining table and chairs set up inside. Net curtaining had been drawn around the open sides, but it was transparent enough to let us see there was no plastic picnic cutlery here. It was all silver, crystal and linen.
The buzz of laughter, music and shrill voices from next door indicated that their party had also spilled into the open. The two houses were divided by a tall hedge but the vegetation nearest the house had died back to reveal glimpses as the guests tripped out of the french doors.
‘Stand here,’ Barbra commanded.
We stood on a square patio stone that looked like .. . well, every other square stone on that patio, actually.
Andreas emerged from the kitchen with a tray of glasses. He’d taken off the white coat and was now sporting a black waistcoat and bow tie to match the trousers.
‘Is that champagne properly chilled?’
‘Yes. Fridge. Yes, madam.’ He folded stiffly from the waist and offered it.
‘Only you don’t want to spoil the good stuff by serving it warm,’ Barbra informed us. I wondered which of us she thought was hard of hearing. ‘You ever had the really good stuff before?’
‘Thursday. It was supposed to cost ninety pounds a bottle. I can’t tell the difference myself.’
‘Yeah, I know what you mean. Taste one, you’ve tasted them all. I can’t stand these wine snobs. Pretentious ponces most of them. How’s yours, Vetchy?’
‘Delightful, thank you, Barbra. But I think I’d better stick to the Perrier over lunch. I’m driving. Fortunately Lee is obviously determined to see that your expense does not go to waste.’
Lee sauntered out swigging champagne from the bottle. ‘Where’s the food? I’m starving.’
‘Canapés, Andreas.’
Andreas duly returned to base and returned with the silver platter, and we went through the bow-serve-bow-serve performance again. I began to suspect Andreas didn’t speak much English. He’d grown a wispy little moustache to make himself look older. He was probably another moonlighting foreign language student.
Lee took a handful of the round toasted whatevers and dropped to the patio where he could zip them up like frisbees and play catch with his mouth. For someone who was supposed to be stoned, his co-ordination was suspiciously good.
‘How’s my investigation going?’ Barbra asked me.
‘OK.’ I cast a wary eye in Lee’s direction, unsure how much he knew. He seemed absorbed in his game of field-the-food.
‘That’s it?
OK? I want a bit more than that for me money. What have you done so far?’
I considered. ‘I’ve been threatened by a lunatic with a shotgun. Held captive for hours thinking I could get my head blown off any second. Been shot with an arrow by a tribe of miniature savages. Bonked a total stranger in the interests of research ... and oh yes, my flat’s been trashed, which may or may not be relevant to your job.’
I had begun to suspect midway through this moan that Barbra wasn’t really listening to me. Her attention was somewhere beyond that hedge.
‘... So after I got snatched by the aliens from Zog and they’d finished the truly disgusting reproduction experiments, I joined the morris dancing team and knew real horror ... Hello?’
Barbra refocused. ‘What? Yeah. Fine. Just stay in touch. Let’s eat now. Lee, shift your arse.’
Her offspring responded to the kick by unpeeling himself from the patio and flopping down in the one of the dining room chairs. I ended up next to him. Sitting down hoicked that damn dress up again.
Lee gave me an appreciative leer before yelling: ‘Hey, Andreas, you wanker, what’s keeping you?’
Given Barbra’s opinions on scrounging foreigners, it seemed strange that she should take offence. But she did. ‘Don’t bloody well call him that. At least he’s not just a waste of skin. He’s got talent.’
‘For what? Shoving pate up quails’ jacksies? Or has he got other uses? You renting him by the hour for that too?’
‘Don’t be so bloody coarse.’
‘I thought that was why we were here. Add a bit of coarseness to the fun. Same as the garden ornaments.’
‘Don’t be so daft,’ Barbra said. ‘Shut up if you want to eat. Otherwise - get lost. Nobody asked you to stop here anyway.’
We had lobster, crab, salmon and prawns. Not portions, you understand; full-sized beasts that looked like they’d romped around Dounreay as baby spawn. In the end we had more sea-life out there than the local aquarium. Dessert was fresh strawberries and crepes Suzette - cooked at table by Andreas, who’d wheeled out a gas-fired trolley so he could do the performance with brandy and matches to an appreciative audience.