by Liz Evans
‘I thought we’d called it evens on that? I conned you into bed - by your standards - and you kicked me out. Quits?’ He held his hands up in a gesture of surrender.
‘Not even sixty/forty, mate. And for your information, investigators don’t generally strut around with a loaded piece, inviting punks to make their day. The idea is to be Mister Average and blend in with the crowd. Now, let’s hit those mean streets and get on down.’
‘Before we get started, come upstairs a minute. There’s something I want to show you.’
‘That’s a hot contender for worst chat-up line of the millennium.’
‘I’m not trying to come on to you, you silly bitch. Come look.’
He led me up to the back bedroom. It was plainly and unfussily furnished, with cream linen, polished floors and scattered rugs. Uncle Eric’s taste, I had to assume. I would have liked it - if it hadn’t been for the addition of a dozen roses disintegrating over the pillow cases, a bottle of supermarket wine and two glasses on the bedside table, and an overpowering musky scent emanating from a couple of candles.
‘Your friend Carter’s idea of sophisticated seduction,’ Peter remarked. ‘There’s more.’ He ducked under the bed and came up with a paperback entitled How to Have Her Begging for More.
‘I guess it hasn’t got quite the frisson of expensive champagne and cheap Shakespeare. But what the hell - the kid’s young, he’ll learn.’
Spitting on his fingers, Peter pinched out the candles. ‘Keep harping on like that, Grace, and I’ll begin to think you really care. Did you say something about hitting those mean streets?’
Or, in this case, we hit those mean rooms. Turning out drawers, crawling under furniture, looking into cupboards, opening boxes, unloading shelves, and generally nosing into all those little places that might conceal a will or sheets of purple poetry.
The strange architectural style had been continued internally. The lower rooms had tall walls and high plaster ceilings that created an optical illusion of narrowness, whilst on the upper floor I could easily put my hand flat against the ceiling, so that the rooms had a rambling feeling.
Luke had moved into one of the spare bedrooms rather than take over Great-Uncle Eric’s. The clothes in the wardrobe were mostly designer labels, and the dressing table held an assortment of pricey men’s toiletries. He’d also got a laptop computer and printer; a couple of remote-controlled video cameras; and a watch that - if genuine - hadn’t left much change from a thousand pounds.
In the bathroom cabinet I discovered a large tube of instant tanning cream and a spray can of hair highlights. It was beginning to look like everything about Luke was fake - including Luke himself.
Most of the papers we came across were connected to Uncle Eric’s life. The old boy had been a hoarder. He’d got letters, cards and bank statements harking back fifty-odd years. It was sad in one way and fascinating in another, tracking the life and times of Eric Groom from middle age to death. His statements showed two regular payments coming in each month. I did a bit of mental arithmetic and decided the smaller one was his state pension.
An equal amount flowed in the other direction. Uncle Eric had lived each month as if it might be his last, by the looks of it, and hadn’t bothered with any future rainy days. The last statement sheet hadn’t been filed; I found it crumpled in the base of the envelope. It was dated this June and showed a steadily increasing balance that was explained by the fact that the larger payment was still being credited in but nothing was being paid out.
A deduction that was rather confirmed by continuing demands from the utility companies over the past eight months that had culminated in threats of legal action and disconnection. It looked like no one had bothered to tell them Uncle Eric was now in a place where not even the bailiffs could reach him.
The only letters I found addressed to Luke were from a classic car restoration company who’d billed over three thousand pounds for work on the MG, and realtors in the States providing details of office space to let.
‘He really was living this fantasy of moving to the USA, then?’ I asked, dry-washing my hands of grime and cobwebs. ‘Has the bloke ever spent more than four weeks out there in his entire life?’
‘Sure. He did film studies in New York.’
‘You mean that wasn’t another one of his fantasies?’ On his previous form I’d translated the ‘film studies’ into a weekend at the flicks in Manhattan.
‘No. In fact, that’s how we met.’
We’d come full circle back to the hall and were perched side by side on the bottom stair. Peter drew his legs up and rested his heels on the edge of the tread, embracing his knees. ‘I went over to tout my arse around Broadway - figuratively speaking. Ran into Luke. We shared a place for a few months.’
‘Did you get any takers?’
‘No.’ He stood up. ‘I couldn’t get an agent without a green card. Couldn’t even begin to get on the bottom rungs of the green card lucky dip without an agent on my case - catch twenty- two. Fancy supper? I’ll cook.’
I checked my watch and was startled to find I’d been rooting for nearly five hours. ‘Is there anything to cook?’
‘There’s some cheese and eggs in the fridge. Past their sell-by dates, but they look OK to me.’
I popped into the loo while Peter went off to get domestic. On the way back, I guiltily remembered I was supposed to have called my parents to reassure them I was still in the land of the living. I was evidently going to have to do it from somewhere else: the phone was dead. I tried cadging another call on Peter’s mobile.
‘It’s in the car. Do you want to fetch it?’
‘Later.’
Straddling a chair in the kitchen, I watched whilst Peter whisked eggs and grated cheese. He had his mum’s brisk competency with a recipe, but his movements were more graceful and fluid. Almost feminine, I found myself thinking. Until I recalled that for periods of his life this bloke was a woman. I erased Rainwing and concentrated instead on her alter ego’s masculinity. He’d pushed up the sleeves of his jersey to cook. The muscles I remembered only too well were rippling along his arms. Stretching to retrieve the salt and pepper from a higher cupboard gave a glimpse of flat midriff. I was beginning to feel like a voyeur.
When he strolled outside and casually picked a few herbs to chop into the omelette mixture, I was really gone. All that and a real chef too. If only he wasn’t a chronic liar who wore women’s frocks, the guy would be pretty damn perfect.
He slid the omelettes on to warmed plates and suggested we eat in the lounge.
‘Why?’
‘Because we’ve both been avoiding it.’
That was true enough. Our joint search of the room had been done in total silence and a gritted determination not to mention the discoloured patches on floor and furnishings.
Thankfully, whoever had tidied the place up had rearranged some of the furniture over the stains. There were indents in the wooden flooring to show where the heavier pieces had once stood and the slightly darker geometric outlines of rugs that had been burnt into the wood by the bleaching effects of many years of sun. The chaise-longue had gone altogether, and the rest of the chairs and sofa had been repositioned to face away from ‘that’ spot and look out of the back windows.
We ate watching the midges dancing patterns over the blowsy back garden, and flocks of birds rising from the newly planted fields and swirling against the pink-tinged sunset like chocolate chips beaten into marble cake.
When I got bored with that view, I watched from under my eyelashes as Peter forked up softened cheese and perfectly cooked egg. And was embarrassed when he looked up and caught me doing it.
‘Something bothering you?’
‘I was thinking you don’t look particularly Chinese.’
‘Quarter Chinese - by birth. By upbringing, not at all. I think Chinese was about the only nationality not represented at the commune.’
‘Did you like it? Being brought up by strangers?’
&nbs
p; ‘They weren’t strangers. They were family, as far as I was concerned. Extended; weird; funny; screwed-up, maybe. But definitely family. More so than my real one.’
‘I gathered you had problems with your grandfather?’
‘No. In order to have problems, you have to have a relationship. Grandaddy Chang simply refused to acknowledge I existed. He behaved as if I was invisible. I was a bastard by birth; he was one by inclination.’
‘And that bugged you?’
‘Wouldn’t it you? When I was really young I didn’t realise I had a grandfather, so it was no big problem. Later, after Mother and Hamish hooked up and my sisters came along, he started turning up at family gatherings. Which, when you think about it, showed a breathtaking arrogance, considering he’d literally thrown my mother on to the street. She should have told him to get lost.’
‘Why didn’t she?’
‘I never asked. But I guess because he was her father. You can dump other halves, but it’s not easy to split with your parents. It’s not like you can divorce each other. So Old Man Chang turned up for Christmas, birthdays and Chinese New Year, and everyone pretended he’d never been away. He always brought presents for the girls. Mother would buy me something so I shouldn’t feel left out. She used to pretend it was from my grandfather at first, but that rather fell down when he ignored my attempts to thank him. After a while, we both got caught up in this stupid game of seeing which of us could ignore the other’s existence best. I guess he won in the end. When he died six years ago, he made a point of listing the rest of the family in his will - even Hamish - but not one word about me. Game, set and match to Grandaddy Chang.’
Levering himself from the large leather club chair, he walked across to the light switches. The wall sconces glowed softly but the central fixture remained dark. I craned my head back to peer under the shade. ‘There’s no bulb.’
Switching it off again, he res-eated himself. This time he chose the sofa, next to me. His hand draped along the back behind me. It smelt of whatever herb he’d chopped into the eggs. Pretty soon now I was going to have to decide where I was going to sleep tonight. And with whom.
‘Do you ever see your real dad?’
‘Never. My mother wanted a clean break.’
‘You’re not really twenty-nine, are you?’ I said, recalling that brief hesitation in Sholto’s flat.
‘I’m twenty-four. Daniel is twenty-nine.’
‘Staying in character, eh?’
‘Yep.’ He leant a little closer. His lips were practically touching my cheek. I could feel his breath teasing over my flushed skin. This was crunch time. Self- respect or sex?
‘Grace?’
‘Mmm ... ?’
‘Can you hear anything under these cushions?’
I bounced a little more weight forward. The crackle of paper sounded clearly.
It was stuffed way down the back. Deep enough for us to miss it on our hasty earlier search. Peter wriggled the padded envelope free. The address label had been ripped off, leaving a jagged patch of the inner filling to crumble away.
‘It feels pretty substantial. Like books.’
‘Perhaps Luke wrote a volume of poetry to your mum. Or - with any luck - a diary listing all the people who might want to kill him.’
It was neither. Two DVDs fell out. They had crude hand¬printed labels: Whiplash Wendy and Naughty Night Nurses.
‘Well, well. Naughty old Uncle Eric,’ I said lightly. ‘Or Luke?’ We were kneeling face to face, leaning on the sofa’s cushions. Deja vu swept over me again. And I wasn’t even high on champagne this time.
Peter shook his head. ‘Not really Luke’s style.’
I picked up a DVD ‘Ever acted in one of these things?’ ‘Never been asked.’
I snuggled a little closer. ‘Fancy auditioning?’
Peter didn’t respond in kind. In some way he seemed to have pulled away from me. The intimacy that had been growing before our discovery had gone. Don’t tell me he was embarrassed? Or did he have a hang-up about women and adult DVDs?
‘I should be getting back. Mother will need the car.’
‘Fine,’ I said coolly. ‘Do you want to meet back here tomorrow?’
‘I think we’ve pretty well exhausted the possibilities of wills and odes, don’t you?’
‘There’s the inventory to finish off. And Luke’s murder: don’t you think your mum might ask how we’re getting on with that?’
He returned the DVDs to their envelope. ‘Not me, she won’t. I’m not supposed to know about her toyboy, remember.’
‘True.’ Junking the dirty plates and cutlery on a side table, I scrambled up. ‘Can you drop me back in Seatoun? I don’t fancy the bike in the dark.’
‘Yes. Sure. Let’s go.’
He already had gone. Far away. It was like sitting next to a stranger on the short ride home. I couldn’t figure out what had gone wrong. As soon as the glow of Seatoun’s garish neon lights appeared on the horizon, I told him to let me out here. He unloaded the bike without another word.
‘To hell with him,’ I said to no one in particular.
I free-wheeled through West Bay and down to the wide promenade that bent around the coast towards Seatoun. It was dark along this section, with just the flash of fluorescence on the black sea to illuminate the ‘No Cycling’ signs, and the perpetual hush and swish of waves over the shingle to provide a counterpoint to the squeak of the left pedal.
I took the ramp up off the prom and cut inland, heading for my flat. For the first time, I found myself privately admitting that I didn’t really want to go home. After Faye’s house and Uncle Eric’s cottage, a partially trashed flat held limited appeal. Did turning thirty activate the gene that made cruising B&Q comparing paint charts on a Saturday afternoon suddenly seem an attractive deal? It was a worrying thought.
The first thing I saw when I drew into the kerb was the tub of highly desirable Tierra Caliente succulents. Despite being so highly desirable, nobody had nicked the damn things.
The second thing I saw was the police car.
29
It was Jerry Jackson’s own car. Which rather suggested I wasn’t about to be invited to the station to answer a few more questions on Luke’s death. Chief inspectors don’t provide a personal chauffeuring service unless you’re a high-profile serial killer or a relative of the Chief Constable.
I dismounted and glided along the pavement with one foot on the off-side pedal. ‘Hi. You waiting for me or just doing a spot of kerb-crawling?’
I regretted that last crack as soon as it came out. Jerry wasn’t the sort of bloke you swapped sexual innuendos with. It wasn’t that he was strait-laced, just - grown-up, I guess.
‘Can we talk, Grace?’
‘Sure. Come in.’
‘I think it might be best if I didn’t. Why don’t we drive out somewhere for a drink?’
From anyone else I’d have assumed it was the beginning of a clumsy pick-up. But that wasn’t Jerry’s style.
‘OK. Let me dump the bike. Won’t be two secs.’
‘There’s no hurry. I’ll hang on while you change.’
That one hadn’t occurred to me. Now I suddenly felt like something the cat had not only dragged in, but buried, dug up, and rejected in favour of week-old Whiskas. ‘Make it five minutes, then.’
Somehow I couldn’t see Jerry chilling out in the coolest bar scene around town. In the end I settled for my second-best pair of jeans with the flared bottoms and flowery inserts, and a man’s blue shirt I’d got from the dump bin at Oxfam. They proved to be a good choice for the country pub we ended up in.
The bar was busy enough to be sociable, but not full enough to be uncomfortable. Which meant we’d be able to talk freely without being overheard. We both had orange juices. Jerry ordered a chicken sandwich. In response to an enquiring eyebrow, I shook my head: ‘No thanks, I’ve eaten. So, what’s this about, Jerry? Why the tour of the countryside?’
‘I thought it would be prudent for us not
to be seen together. Let’s move over there.’
He indicated a table by the brick fireplace that had just become vacant. I obediently trotted after him and hitched up a tapestry- covered stool.
He took a sip of the freshly squeezed (i.e., reconstituted) juice, before saying abruptly: ‘You remember asking me why Customs and Excise were interested in you? Do you honestly not know?’
‘Why else would I ask?’
‘It might have been a bluff. A pretence of innocence.’
‘I am innocent. Well, of whatever it is Customs are accusing me of anyway. What is that, by the way?’
Jerry seemed to be weighing up his options.
‘Come on, Jerry. You’ve broken the rules this far. Be a devil and go the whole way.’
He nodded - to an internal voice rather than me. ‘You know about the illegal immigrant operation? Please don’t pretend otherwise, Grace,’ he added before I could. ‘It’s just wasting time. I’m aware that Zeb will have spoken to his sister and his sister will have spoken to you.’
‘OK, I know about it. So?’
‘A certain number of phone taps were applied for. Including on those in the offices of - well, let’s just say someone with serious connections to this unpleasant business.’
‘And?’
‘Your name came up. There was also a description which made it fairly certain you were the right Grace Smith. A tall, skinny blonde with a mouth on her, I think was the exact wording.’
‘Yep, that would pin it down to me, wouldn’t it? Where did this call originate?’
‘Public telephone. Public house.’
‘Local?’
‘St Bidulph’s-atte-Cade.’
‘Did you trace the caller?’
‘No. The reception was very poor. It’s not even clear if it’s a man or a woman. However, they did extract one partial phrase: “she connected with the last shipment”.’
‘News to me.’
‘Is it?’ He wiped the grease from his fingers with a red paper napkin. ‘There was something else. A suggestion that you could be bought off ... Were you?’
‘There was nothing to buy off.’