Grace Smith Investigates

by Liz Evans

  I didn’t intend to tell Peter the time of day if I could help it (although there was one intriguing question I’d have liked an answer to - once we were on spitting terms). All I really wanted to do now was put space between me and Barbra’s weird legatees. That wasn’t going to be as easy as it sounded.

  Peter wanted me to stay for supper. Oddly enough, for once in my life I wasn’t that hungry. Perhaps it was another consequence of turning thirty; pretty soon I wouldn’t be able to so much as look at a cheeseburger without fretting about cellulite. On the other hand, the alternative was a gruelling cycle ride home, and the oppressive humidity was showing no sign of abating now evening was setting in. On the contrary, it was showing every sign of delivering another humdinger of a thunder and lightning show.

  Faye was surprisingly receptive to the suggestion - perhaps she had hopes of planting me six feet down with a stake through my heart before sunrise. She’d already got the garlic to hand.

  ‘There isn’t much in, I’m afraid,’ she said, adding tomato paste and a packet of herbs to the garlic bulb on the work top. ‘We don’t really live here.’

  ‘It’s Mother’s constituency address,’ Peter explained, seeing my puzzled expression. ‘She’s got a four-storey in Islington she calls home. And une petite maison in Brittany for those get-away moments.’

  ‘It’s une petite cow shed at present,’ his mother said, shaking oil into a pan. ‘I was over there last week trying to get some sense out of the local builders.’ Her head was bent over the bulb she was peeling, but I saw the slide of her eyes under the fringe and the silent plea in them. Now I knew where she should have been when she was shacked up with Luke.

  I gave her a non-committal half-smile and asked if there was anything I could do.

  ‘Perhaps you could lay the table in the dining room? There’s cutlery and things in the unit.’

  I hadn’t got the first spoon in place before Peter followed me in. ‘Salt and pepper.’ he extended the two glass mills. Moving closer, he dropped his voice. ‘Listen, can we talk—’

  He broke off as his mum appeared with the place mats. ‘I forgot to give you these.’

  I doled out three place settings. An activity that took as many seconds. When I looked up, both of them were watching me. I was tempted to take a bow.

  Neither seemed inclined to move. It dawned on me that neither wanted me to be alone with the other. To test my theory, I started edging towards the kitchen. They followed like a couple of iron filings drawn by a magnet.

  We played the same daft game whilst we made pasta with tomato sauce and a rather sparse side salad. As soon as I showed any signs of breaking away from the trio, I was quickly swept back into the fold again. We ate with the windows wide open and the unspoken dialogue as tangible as the electrical storm building outside.

  Faye cracked first. ‘Did you see that piece on the news, Peter? About the death at St Bidulph’s-atte-Cade? Wasn’t that a friend of yours? Luke something?’

  ‘Steadman,’ Peter replied with equal lack of interest. ‘Luke Steadman. I introduced you at the pub in King’s Cross.’

  ‘Peter was doing an experimental piece there. They have this one-room theatre over the bar. Do you know it at all?’ Faye asked me with a tight smile, being the perfect little hostess again as she drew me into the conversation.

  ‘I don’t get to London much. And quite honestly, I’ve always found the performances I have experienced up there haven’t been worth the train fare. Not much content and a disappointing climax.’ I smiled blandly at my new beloved.

  ‘Really?’ Faye said. ‘I am surprised. I’m sure you’ve simply been unlucky.’ She chewed a forkful of salad without enthusiasm before angling the conversation back to the subject she really wanted to discuss. ‘I was so sorry to hear about your friend, Peter. Do you know how it happened?’

  ‘I know as much as you do. That piece in the paper more or less implies it was murder.’

  ‘I do hope not. Such an awful way to die.’

  ‘Is there a good way?’

  ‘No, I suppose not .. . It’s just .. . well, never mind, let’s talk about something more cheerful, shall we? Grace?’

  I couldn’t believe it. They expected me to provide a diversion? OK. ‘Is the rest of the family coming down?’

  Just what she wanted to drive the pictures of her lover out of her head: a reminder of the relationships she’d been putting at risk.

  ‘No,’ she said after a moment’s pause. ‘My husband is travelling abroad at present. And my daughters are in Scotland with his parents. Your grandparents have bought a boat, Peter. A dinghy. Did I tell you?’

  ‘They’re not my grandparents.’

  ‘They’ve always thought of you as a grandchild. As much as the girls. You know that.’

  ‘Pity everyone didn’t feel the same, isn’t it, Mother?’

  ‘There was nothing I could do about that, Peter. I tried. You know I tried.’

  ‘OK. Not your fault. Water and bridges long gone now, eh?’ He twirled a forkful of pasta against a spoon. The moment turned into one of those silences where you notice the clock ticking and the sounds of traffic way off. At least Faye seemed to realise it this time. She apologised, adding she was sure I hadn’t expected to be caught up in a family disagreement.

  ‘No, I go home if I want to do that.’

  ‘Do you come from a big family?’

  ‘Not really. Two parents, one brother, one sister, one brother- in-law, two nieces, assorted distant aunts and cousins.’

  ‘Are you close?’

  ‘Not in the slightest.’

  Having killed off that topic of conversation, I figured I’d done my bit. It was someone else’s turn to find a subject that would make us all feel uncomfortable. Since no one volunteered, we ended up leaving it to the approaching storm - which obliged with yet more stifling heat and no breeze.

  ‘This is unbearable,’ Faye said, fanning herself with a magazine. ‘You can’t intend to cycle home in this, surely? Why don’t you stay the night?’

  ‘Yes, do,’ Peter urged. ‘You’ll get soaked out there.’

  To confirm his prediction, the unhealthy yellow illumination of lightning flashed over the garden, bringing uncomfortable memories of that evening at Luke’s cottage. We’d moved back into the lounge and left the french windows open in an effort to get some air. Now a sudden gust caught one and rattled it. There was no reason to associate the storm with rotting bodies, but suddenly I didn’t want to be alone in my flat - even if I had been able to get back to it.

  They put me in the front bedroom. With its double and single bed, girlish white-and-gold furniture and more photos of Grandaddy Chang cooing over his granddaughters, I guessed this was the twins’ and little Phoebe’s bedroom on their visits to Mummy’s constituency. Which probably meant they were trotted down every four years to be paraded for the election pictures.

  I’d scarcely climbed into the knee-length nightshirt Faye had loaned me and lugged the duvet off the double bed before she tapped lightly on the door and slipped in.

  ‘We need to talk.’

  Well, she might, but I didn’t. My head was aching and I was feeling more washed-out than I could remember in a long time. However, short of lifting her bodily back on to the landing, I sensed I was going to have to provide an audience until she’d got her confession off her chest. Wedging the pillows against the headboard, I leant back and hugged my knees.

  She sat on the edge of the mattress and said: ‘I love my husband. And my children.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘But ...’

  How did I know there was going to be a ‘but’?

  ‘But ... have you ever felt driven by something totally outside your control? I can’t describe it.’

  Try lust, I thought cynically.

  ‘With Luke, I was someone else.’

  ‘Smart move. Checking in as Faye Sinclair might have been a bit of a giveaway.’

  ‘We never checked in anywhere.
It wasn’t like that. We walked, we talked. It was wonderful - like finding the other half of yourself. Can you understand that?’

  ‘You mean there was no sex involved?’

  ‘Well, yes, there was. Of course there was. Wonderful sex. It was spontaneous. Crazy. Fun. I didn’t know it could be like that. I was thirty when I married Hamish, and until then I’d only ever slept with one other man.’

  ‘Peter’s dad. At college.’

  Her colour faded slightly again, emphasising the ivory shade of her skin. It was strange how the different sides of her parentage dominated depending on her moods. ‘How did you know that?

  ‘You told me. When you were stressed as a newt this morning.’

  ‘I did? What else did I say?’

  ‘Not a lot. Just that your dad had thrown you out when you brought disgrace on the family name. I thought that sort of thing had gone out with Victorian melodramas.’

  ‘It didn’t.’ Her gaze fixed on one of the bedside photos. Her eyes became wide and thoughtful. I got the impression she was talking more to her father’s image than me. ‘I have never been so scared in my entire life. I was the original spoilt princess. I hadn’t even cooked a meal. We had servants to do that sort of thing. Before I started university, I’d never lifted a finger for myself. And then suddenly I was standing on a pavement with a couple of suitcases and a baby growing inside me. If Win hadn’t found me crying my eyes out on the station platform, I honestly don’t know what I’d have done.’

  ‘Who’s Win? Someone from the commune?’

  ‘Win taught the younger children. Amongst other things. We all did jobs around the place. I helped look after the pigs and worked in the kitchens some evenings. It fitted in with my degree.’

  ‘Sort of like a kibbutz?’

  ‘In a way.’

  ‘You said you couldn’t stand them. The humans, I mean. You didn’t volunteer any opinion on the pigs.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Self-indulgent were the words you used.’

  ‘Yes. They were in a way. Please don’t misunderstand. I’ll always be grateful to them. But they were so inward-looking - always complaining about injustices in the world, but never doing anything to help. It’s changed now, of course.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘A healthy dose of greed rather took a hold when they realised all those self-sufficiency and lifestyle skills were marketable. Nowadays the commune is more of a limited company, from what I hear. I haven’t been near the place for years.’

  ‘How long did you live there?’

  ‘Just over two years. Although Peter was there until he was nearly ten. At least at the commune I knew there were plenty of people around who cared about him. It was no different really from leaving him with my parents, say, and visiting at weekends. Lots of single mums do precisely that.’ Her voice acquired a slightly defensive edge, as if child-abandonment might have been something she’d been accused of in the past. ‘And as far as Peter was concerned, that was his home. It was truly kinder to leave him there.’

  ‘But you liberated him in the end?’

  ‘Hamish and Win talked it over and decided he really needed the discipline of proper schooling.’

  ‘Didn’t you get a say?’

  ‘Of course I did. But with the best will in the world, it’s hard to empathise with what a ten-year-old boy wants or needs, when you’ve never been a ten-year-old boy. Hamish was better qualified. And he really did want to be a proper father to Peter.’ She gave herself a visible shake and said briskly: ‘Anyway, I don’t know how we come to be talking about that time. Did you know Luke? I thought perhaps you did. Is that why you were in St Bidulph’s taking those pictures?’

  ‘Yes, I did. Although not well. And no, it wasn’t.’ I didn’t see any necessity to tell her I hadn’t taken the photos.

  ‘Do you know how he died? The papers don’t say much and I can’t ask without drawing attention to myself.’

  ‘He was stabbed.’

  ‘Oh, God. Do the police know who did it?’

  ‘As far as I know, they haven’t a clue. Do you think they’re likely to come looking in your direction?’

  ‘Why should they? I told you, we were very careful. Luke insisted. He was very sweet like that. He didn’t want to cause any trouble for me. From the beginning, I think we both realised that it couldn’t ever lead anywhere. I mean, we dreamt, but at the back of our minds was the knowledge that it would only ever be this one summer. In fact, we’d already said our goodbyes. Those few days at St Bidulph’s were our last. He wanted us to spend some time as if we were a couple, instead of just snatching a few hours when we could. It was magical. We locked all the doors and there was just the two of us in the world. We never went out of the house.’

  ‘Except for visiting the shop.’

  ‘Yes. That was so stupid. I came on. And if there’s one thing you can’t find in a bachelor’s house, it’s a packet of tampons. I was only out for a couple of minutes at most. There was no one around except for the woman in the shop. I don’t see how you could have photographed me without my seeing you.’

  ‘There’s a seat in the wall in Cowslip Lane. It’s hidden by shrubbery,’ I said, ducking the question of the photographer again.

  ‘It must have been a surprise. Stumbling across an MP down there.’

  ‘Not really. To tell you the truth, it took me a week to recognise you.’

  ‘But it can’t have done. I mean, I’m all over the papers and television at present with this diphtheria business going on.’

  ‘I’m not really into politics.’

  She stared blankly. Her face was expressionless. Then she managed to surprise me again. She laughed.

  ‘Oh, heavens,’ she said when she’d got her voice under control. ‘I wish some of my colleagues could have heard that. Or perhaps, in the circumstances, I don’t. We all think we’re so vital to the country. When the truth is, there’s more chance of the voters recognising a soap star than the Home Secretary.’ There certainly was in my case. I found myself desperately trying to pull up a picture of him/her. I could just about recall the faces of the major party leaders and a few other politicians who seemed to get a lot of air time - although I hadn’t a clue what jobs they held.

  ‘I really only remember the ones who do something a bit different. You know, marry their mistresses, or get picked up kerb-crawling, or, em—’ It occurred to me I wasn’t being very tactful here.

  ‘Quite so,’ Faye agreed dryly. ‘And I’m sure you’ll understand why I’d rather not be remembered in those circumstances.’

  ‘Sure. But listen, you were supposed to be in France doing a bit of DIY – oui?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you came back early. Or left late. And stopped off in St Biddy’s for some shopping. No big deal.’

  ‘Unfortunately it’s not that simple. I chose to be in Brittany deliberately because we don’t have a telephone line installed yet. I’m only contactable on my mobile.’

  ‘Which could be anywhere.’

  ‘Precisely. I spoke to my husband that morning. In fact, I became quite lyrical describing the garden in Brittany. And I had a call from a reporter who wanted to know if I could do a slot on the local lunchtime news. I had to explain I was currently sitting in a cow shed in France so it wasn’t really feasible. If she were to get her hands on photographs that proved I was really in St Bidulph’s on that morning ... Well, let’s just say she’s been looking for the next step up for some time now. And believe me, she doesn’t care whose face she steps on to get it.’

  ‘Well, she won’t get them from me, if that’s your point.’

  ‘Then you’ll give me the negatives?’

  So that’s where this was leading. Dead end, I’m afraid, lady. ‘I don’t have them.’

  ‘Please. I’ll pay whatever you think is reasonable.’

  ‘What happened to publish and be damned?’

  ‘Common sense. Being brave is all very well if it only
affects yourself. But if this became public property, my daughters would have to deal with it too. And my husband. I do love him, you know.’

  ‘You said. But listen, they really are rotten shots of you. Your face is partially obscured in all of them. Why not just claim it’s someone with a vague resemblance? You were in France.’

  ‘It won’t work, unfortunately. Did you notice the T-shirt I was wearing?’

  ‘Very colourful.’

  ‘And totally unique. I’m involved with a respite centre for mentally impaired teenagers. Some of them painted it especially for my birthday. It’s my lucky shirt. There’s not another one like it in the entire world.’

  ‘Not so lucky then.’

  ‘Let me have the negatives? Please, Grace.’ She leant forward and rested her hand on mine. ‘Please.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can get hold of them,’ I promised weakly. I had no great hopes of prising them from Barbra, but my energy seemed to be draining through the soles of my feet and I just wanted to get rid of her so I could close my eyes.

  She gave my fingers another squeeze and slipped out, wishing me a good night’s sleep.

  Some hopes. I’d left the curtains undrawn and the tops of the bay windows open to let in whatever air there was. Switching off the lights, I lay on the fitted sheet watching the raindrops sliding down the glass, back-lit by the street lamps and flashes of sheet lightning. Silently I chanted the formula we’d learnt as kids - counting the heffalumps between lightning and thunder clap - to estimate the position of the storm centre.

  I’d hardly got enough heffalumps for a small-sized herd when the door opened again. I was laying facing the window and didn’t bother to turn over as the mattress dipped under another weight.

  He curled against me spoon-fashion. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi, yourself.’

  ‘I’m glad you decided to stay. I’ve missed you.’

  He nuzzled my ear. (There was no doubt about it. This guy could make the Olympic nuzzling team. Hell - he could captain it.) ‘There’s something I wanted to ask you.’