by Liz Evans
How did I? I searched my memories and came up with the Rouses.
‘Harry Rouse! You’re kidding. I used to fancy him like mad. How is he?’
‘Not very fanciable,’ I said truthfully. ‘His dad said you tried to lead him astray.’
‘Cheek!’ She gave a sudden giggle and I glimpsed the girl she must once have been. ‘I really thought I was the business: miniskirts up to my bum, enough hairspray to float the Titanic and false lashes like loo-brushes. I used to sneak out at night and Harry’d drive us to the discos in that old truck. Magic times. This number was one of our faves.’
Shane was doing serious damage to his knee joints behind the counter, grinding himself into the floor to the sounds of ‘Twist and Shout’.
It was ironic, really, I thought. Ginny had turned into the drabby homebody Atch would no doubt have considered suitable daughter-in-law material. I had a brief fantasy of getting her and Harry together. Rosy pictures of the pair of them playing with the kids in front of ye-olde-farmhouse-roaring-fire danced behind my eyes before reality placed a call and asked if I’d care for the last seat on the shuttle to Real Life? I refocused on Ginny. Nostalgia had opened her stopcocks in a way that her eldest’s death hadn’t. I started to panic. We were into that empathy moment that I dreaded.
It was lucky we had a window seat. It enabled me to spot Peter wandering like a lost soul and signal frantically.
‘Sorry, boss, had to park miles away.’ He slid in beside me and directed a two-thousand-watt smile at Ginny. ‘Mrs Bowman, it’s wonderful to meet you at last. Even if it is in these awful circumstances. Luke talked about you so often. I know how he deeply regretted the problems between you.’ Reaching across the table, he captured both her hands. ‘He felt terrible about the way the situation between him and his stepfather had caused you so much trouble.’
‘Did he?’ Ginny said. She was staring into Peter’s eyes, almost mesmerised by them. ‘You could have fooled me.’
‘You were his stability, Ginny. He knew he’d screwed up, but he intended to make it up to you. It’s tragic that he won’t be able to now. But I want you to know we’re here for you.’ He bent her fingers into the palms of his own hands and gently stroked the bases with his thumbs. ‘Whatever help you need, Ginny, Grace and I are going to be right there for you.’
Wow, was he good at the empathising. Ginny was lapping it up.
‘Now, is there anything, anything at all, that we can do, Ginny?’
‘Well, em ... this is going to sound real bad ... but . .. you don’t know if he left a will, do you? I wouldn’t ask, honest,’ she gabbled, her grip on Peter’s fingers now turning her knuckles white, ‘only with Roy gone and all the toing and froing to the hospital before that ... We’re so strapped for cash at home ...’
‘We understand, Ginny.’ He released her left hand and softly stroked one cheek in a gentle gesture of comfort. ‘I know he intended to make one. He wanted you to have everything if anything happened. Make up for all the times I screwed up with her, he said.’
‘Really?’ A flicker of hope lit up her tired face. ‘Did he go to a solicitor? They’d have a copy, wouldn’t they?’
‘Not necessarily, Ginny. But we could look for it for you.’
‘I couldn’t ask you to do that.’
‘It’s our job. Right, boss?’
‘In a manner of speaking. I’m a private investigator,’ I enlightened her.
‘I can’t pay.’
‘We wouldn’t ask you to, would we, boss?’
For preference - yes.
‘Heh, Ginny, this one is for Luke. We’ll have to start at the cottage. You realise that?’
She nodded, scrabbling in the zippered pocket of the battered case to draw out a key. ‘I took it when we went up there. The policewoman said it was really up to his executors, but I thought, I’m his next of kin, who’s anyone else to say I can’t go in my own son’s place? I was going to go back and have a look round myself, but Miranda’s not doing so well. She’s a good kid, but she’s only seventeen. The boys are playing her up. Missing their dad. I’ve got to get back—’
Peter’s long, slim fingers closed over hers; he contrived to caress them as he drew out the key. It was a seductive gesture. But then let’s face it, he was a seductive sort of guy ... and I should know. Perversely, I asked Ginny if she was quite sure she wanted to hand over the key to complete strangers.
Peter threw me an exasperated look, before turning the charm offensive up to nuke mode. ‘Luke was the best friend I ever had, Ginny. I want to do this for him. But if you feel you can’t trust me, then I understand. Perhaps it would be best if you got a solicitor to sort things out. But promise me you’ll get a proper quotation out of them. Remember, they’re there to make money for themselves - not you. Will you promise me that, Ginny?’
‘Yes ... I promise.’
‘And if they ask for a deposit up front, I want you to contact me. I’ve got a bit in the bank and you’re more than welcome.’
‘Deposit? You think they might want one?’
Peter raised helpless shoulders. ‘If you had a will, it would be harder for them to string it out, of course, still ...’
You could see caution and greed chasing each other around her face. Guess who won?
‘Give her a card, boss. Let her see we’re on the level.’
That was easy for him to say; he didn’t have to pay for them. I’d only had a couple of dozen printed and I generally like to flash one and return it to my pocket. Now I had to give one up. I also heard myself weakly telling Ginny we’d do an inventory at the cottage whilst we searched.
We took her to the station and waited with her. The parting scene on the platform between her and Peter was like something out of Brief Encounter.
‘Nice performance,’ I said as he spun the cottage key one- handed and caught it. ‘Very simpatico.’
‘It’s a gift. I can be all things to all women. And men, if I put me frock on.’
I’d nearly forgotten Rainwing until he said that. It was strange. He was so definitely masculine out of costume.
The road to St Biddy’s was reasonably clear, but the incoming traffic was unexpectedly heavy. I said as much to Peter.
‘The forecast is another mini heat wave over Bank Holiday.’
I’d forgotten it was the last break of the year. And an unseasonably settled one. No wonder the place was packed. ‘How come you’re so anxious to help out here, Peter?’
‘Various reasons.’
‘Name three.’
‘One: Luke was my closest friend - and he really did want to make things right with his mother. Two: it gives me the chance to make good with you. Three: Luke had a rather unfortunate habit.’
‘Cocaine? Heroin?’
‘Poetry.’
I thought it was street slang for a new designer drug. Peter enlightened me.
‘He wrote it. Used it to express his feelings.’
‘Or who he was feeling?’
‘Exactly. For all I know, there are whole epics in that cottage to my mother. And Luke’s descriptive powers could be quite ... crude, to put it kindly.’
‘I thought he was supposed to love her? At least, she thinks he did.’
‘What’s that got to do with it? It’s like a happily married man watching porno movies, isn’t it? The one has nothing to do with the other as far as he’s concerned. I’m going to feel a lot better when I’ve gone through his place and burnt any odes. Or anything else that might connect him with my mother.’
St Biddy’s hadn’t escaped the holiday rush to the coast. Cars were squeezed in along the main street but Cowslip Lane was clear apart from us.
Someone had left a bunch of flowers on the cottage step. They were already fading and desiccated, but such was superstition that no one would remove them until they’d rotted to nothingness.
Not so the junk mail. Half a dozen envelopes squeezed back with the opening door, but a larger stack had been picked up and stashe
d on the hallway table. The ones I could make out were all addressed to Eric Groom. It was oddly eerie seeing garish banners telling a bloke who’d been dead for three-quarters of the year that he’d definitely won a cash prize.
The strange atmosphere must have had the same effect on Peter: he took the stairs two at a time, muttering about needing a slash. That left me to make the short trip from normal life to murder scene all by myself.
They’d left the curtains partially drawn in the back room. The furniture loomed from the shadows in vaguely sinister humps. It was amazing how your imagination can twist ordinary things into objects from your worst nightmares.
It wasn’t cold in there, but an involuntary shudder went through me from skull to toes. A floorboard creaked behind me and I turned back to ask Peter if he could feel anything odd.
Something detached itself from the shadows behind the door and took form: arms, legs, body. And a grinning head half hidden by a baseball cap and designer sunglasses.
28
‘Hi,’ Carter said.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Just hanging out.’
‘Behind the door? What are you ... a coat-hook?’
‘Heard you come in. Could have been burglars. I was going to make a surprise attack. Sort them out.’
‘Why don’t I believe that, Carter?’
‘Dunno.’ He took off the cap and glasses to reveal a forehead peeling with the effects of too much sun. ‘What you doing here?’
‘That’s none of your business, kid,’ Peter drawled.
He’d slipped silently back downstairs and was blocking Carter’s route to the front hall. Not that Carter showed much inclination to leave.
‘Who’s he? Another investigator?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ Peter said. ‘How did you get in?’
‘Door was unlocked. I reckoned the police forgot last time they were here.’
‘Have you been nosing around this place?’
‘No.’ Carter’s fingers scoured more skin from his forehead, leaving a fresh pink oval between fringe and eyebrows.
‘Don’t feed me any bullshit, kid.’
‘Get lost.’
I interrupted the machismo-rattling contest. ‘I’ve a better idea, Carter. You get lost. But hand over the key first.’
‘What key?’
‘The police don’t make those sorts of mistakes. Give.’
Peter hooked his thumbs into his belt. ‘Want me to frisk him, boss?’
‘No thanks. I can do my own frisking. Only in this case I think he’d probably enjoy it. Anyway, it won’t be necessary. Will it, Carter?’
He held my eyes for another second and then shrugged, delved into his jeans pocket and produced a bronze-coloured key. ‘Which door is it?’
‘One through to the garage. Found it months back stuck up under one of the shelves. I reckon old Mr Groom put it there, case he locked himself out.’
‘And you forgot to mention it to Luke?’
‘Suppose. I never took anything,’ he exploded indignantly. ‘I just hung out. It’s better than home. Anyhow, I thought you said it wasn’t any of your business?’
I held up the key Ginny had given us. ‘It’s become my business.’ The last thing I needed was Carter breathing down my neck whilst we searched the place. ‘Just push off now and we won’t mention the fact those look suspiciously like Luke’s shades.’
‘They’re Armani,’ Peter said. ‘And that’s his hat, too.’
‘He gave me that. You know he did. For my birthday.’ Carter appealed to me.
‘Go, Carter. But hand over the garage key too before you do.’ With a heavy sigh Carter dug out another key and slapped it in my hand. ‘I left some stuff around.’
‘We’ll post it on to you.’
‘No . . . don’t do that.’ Alarm flooded amongst the freckles. ‘I could help out. You going to find out who topped Luke?’
I’d have told him the truth - well, partial truth anyway - that we were tidying up a few loose ends for Luke’s mum, but Peter got in first again.
‘Need-to-know basis, kid.’
‘Well, I know something. The police asked me loads. They asked me about the Sioux lance. One he used to keep in here. Is that what they used to kill him? I asked the copper but she wouldn’t say.’
I didn’t intend to either. ‘The lance belonged to Luke?’
‘Yeah. Kept it in a brass umbrella stand.’
I suppose that made sense. Few would-be murderers go hunting with a six-foot toothpick - unless their intended victim is a buffalo.
‘What else did the police say, Carter?’
‘Not much. They took some stuff from the house. Did all that crawling around picking bits up and taking photos, like on the telly, and they were asking people about when they last saw Luke. And then they just cleared off. One of them came back the other day, brought this woman with her. They went inside for a bit and then she - the woman, I mean - stood around in the garden and cried. Was that Luke’s mum?’
‘Probably.’
‘Now beat it.’ Peter started to propel Carter towards the front door via a grip on his shoulder. It opened before they reached it. Kelly Benting’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘Oh!’
‘It’s OK, Kelly,’ Carter said, twisting himself free. ‘He works with her. Private investigations, remember? I told Kelly about you. No secrets now we’re together.’
‘Very new man,’ I said, looking Kelly over.
To my eye she’d lost a few pounds, but it might have been just the illusion created by the wide-legged drawstring pants and baggy top. Her face was definitely paler and the dark curls had lost their bounce to hang limply to her shoulders. Only her eyes had any sparkle. And I had a feeling that wasn’t due to joie de vivre.
‘You ’vestigating Luke, then?’ she asked.
‘Amongst other things,’ I intervened before Peter could give her the benefit of his hard-nosed act. ‘You got anything to contribute?’
‘Me? No, why should I?’
She advanced a few more steps. There was no telltale smell on her breath, but I was certain she was either drunk or stoned.
‘Hi, Carter. You miss me?’ She snuggled her arms round his neck and hoovered out his mouth with her own.
‘Yeah ... right ... We’d best push off now, Kelly.’
‘I thought we were going to screw.’
‘Kelleeee ...’
You could see conflicting emotions chasing over Carter’s face.
Embarrassment was just about winning over pride at pulling Kelly.
‘Pack it in, Kelly.’ Carter was finding himself with more wish- fulfilment than he could handle. Desperately, he tried to unlock her arms from his neck whilst shuffling her backwards towards the door.
I advised him to watch her until the effects of whatever she’d popped wore off. ‘That, or tell her parents so they can do it.’ ‘God, no!’ Sheer terror ignited the flat features. ‘Her dad would kill me. He’d think I got them for her. He thinks she’s perfect. Well, she is, course. Kelly, come on.’
He tried to lever her over the step, but she twisted and giggled in his grasp. The loose T-shirt sleeves slid towards her shoulders, revealing a circlet of yellowing bruises, like tattoos, around her upper arms.
Carter caught my eye. ‘I didn’ know girls were so soft,’ he mumbled. ‘I never meant to hurt her. I wouldn’t ever do that. Let’s go, Kelly. Pleeeese.’
‘OK, Car’er. Did yer tell them about the woman?’
‘What woman?’ Peter asked.
‘No one. She’s off her head. Come on, Kelly.’
‘Stay, Kelly.’ I grabbed a wrist. ‘Has this woman got something to do with Luke?’
‘Yes,’ she giggled.
‘No,’ Carter snapped.
‘Is this something you’ve already told the police? Or something you’d like me to mention you failed to tell them?’
‘Yes. No. It was hours before he died. It’s got nothing t
o do with him getting killed.’
‘Let us be the judge of that, kid,’ Peter said.
If he said ‘Spill your guts’, I promised myself I’d scream.
‘Spill your guts.’
I passed the scream off as a spasm of cramp.
‘You were about to say, Carter? And I should do it before your girlfriend passes out on the step and we’re forced to go get help from her father.’
‘It was that afternoon. When we came up here and Luke gave me ...’ He flicked the cap peak. ‘I told you about that. When we got here, the front door was open. It really was this time,’ he added hastily. ‘So we came inside. And Luke was arguing with some woman in the back room.’
‘Arguing about what?’
‘I couldn’t really hear. Just that she wanted something and Luke wouldn’t give it to her,’ Carter said quickly. ‘Soon as we realised it was all getting a bit heavy, we were going to leave. Only she started coming out, so we dodged inside the coat cupboard in the hall and waited until she’d gone. We didn’t want it to look like we were eavesdropping or anything. And then we came out and knocked on the front door. Like we’d just arrived, see? Anyhow, it was hours before he died, so it doesn’t count.’
‘I daresay you’re right. Don’t forget what I said about keeping an eye on Kelly, will you?’
Carter received the ‘get lost’ message. With one of Kelly’s arms around his neck and his own encircling her waist, he steered her down the path and displayed the better part of valour by turning right up the lane away from the village.
‘So,’ Peter said, closing the door behind love’s young dream, ‘who’d you reckon for the mystery broad?’
‘How would I know?’
‘Don’t bullshit me, Grace. You figure my mother for the part, don’t you?’
‘Peter, is it my imagination, or are you turning into Dirty Harry?’
Sheepishly he grinned. ‘I was trying for Mickey Spillane, actually. Sorry. It’s a habit. I like to get inside the skin of a character. Walk it like they talk it.’
‘Like you did with Daniel Sholto? Lies to order; scummy action optional?’