Grace Smith Investigates

by Liz Evans

  Rainwing uncoiled himself from the floor. ‘I think perhaps it’s time we were leaving, don’t you, Grace?’

  He clamped my arm and led me back to the hall. The hollow reverberation of floorboards above our heads made us both look up. Esther was striding along the first-floor landing, a bundle of clothes in her arms.

  ‘Esther,’ I shouted up. ‘How was Luke when you left him?’

  Pausing to glance down, she said coolly: ‘Alive.’

  ‘I know that. But was he happy? Sad? Frightened?’

  ‘Smug.’

  ‘Because he’d ripped you off for twenty five grand?’

  ‘Yes.’ A little of the tension faded from her face. ‘No. Not entirely. He seemed to think his film deal was “coming together”, whatever faith you can put in that.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He’d found a way of raising the rest of the finance he needed. All we had to do was wait a couple of years and Selwyn and I would be percenters in a future Oscar winner.’

  ‘Did he say where this cash was coming from?’

  ‘No. But if you’d like my guess, he was going to put his little pickaxe over his shoulder, trip-trap off to the end of the rainbow, and dig up a pot of gold. Goodbye, Rainwing.’

  33

  ‘Does something about this place strike you as odd?’

  ‘Tell me, master. Or should that be mistress?’

  ‘Neither whilst you’re in that frock.’

  We were perched side by side on the front step of Brick Cottage, staring out over the garden where the flora had rioted under the effects of the recent downpours and heat waves. The vaguely uncomfortable feelings we’d been left with after witnessing the Purbricks’ bust-up had been exorcised by flinging ourselves into the inventory. For the past few hours we’d rechecked and relisted every damn thing in that building down to the last bent teaspoon and cracked flowerpot. As we’d gone along, we’d opened all the windows, releasing the last ghostly traces of Luke and Uncle Eric.

  ‘So what’s odd?’ Rainwing asked.

  ‘We didn’t find any correspondence from local estate agents. Luke was supposed to be keeping the place warm until he found a buyer. So how come there’s no agents’ particulars?’

  ‘He could have fixed up a private sale.’

  ‘With who? There are no letters from anyone apart from the American realtors, the car restoration lot and threats from the electric and gas to cut the cottage off if he didn’t pay the bills. In fact, Luke seemed to specialise in taking what he hadn’t paid for.’

  ‘He wasn’t like that.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No,’ Rainwing said in Peter’s voice. ‘I know how it looks, but Luke truly believed in his work. He put everything into it. And he really did intend to pay everyone back. He wasn’t a con man; it’s just that passion about something can sometimes make you forget that not everyone feels the same.’

  ‘Did he borrow from your mum?’

  ‘No. I asked him.’

  ‘And you believed the answer?’

  ‘Yes.’ He slowed slightly on the step so that he was looking directly at me. It was eerie. I could actually see Rainwing receding and Peter emerging. ‘I knew Luke. A lot of the time he was my only friend. I’d have known if he was lying about taking cash from my mother. He wouldn’t. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘So what now? About Luke, I mean. Is it too much to hope that you have a cunning plan?’

  I admitted to being clear out of plans on that one: ‘Cunning or otherwise.’

  ‘You’ve no theories at all about who could have done it?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue. I told your mum, I don’t do murders. The general idea is to look at means, motive and opportunity.’ I ticked them off on my fingers: means - he provided that himself. Motive - could be anything. Money, I guess. Or rather Luke’s somewhat casual attitude to other people’s.’

  ‘Esther could have come back,’ he offered. ‘After those kids left. If they had another row and things got ugly, she knows how to use Indian weapons. I’ve seen her shoot a hunting bow.’

  I duly chalked up Esther as a possible. ‘And then, of course, there’s good old sex. Always a hot contender in the motive stakes. Any idea where your stepfather was that Friday?’

  ‘Hamish! You are joking? I mean he didn’t even know ...’

  Maybe not, but he sure as hell suspected, if he’d got as far as putting out feelers for an investigator. However, I’d promised Annie to keep shtum on that one, so I kept it vague. ‘Partners pick up signs. Even if they don’t know what they mean, they know something is wrong. Believe me, we’ve had enough of them through the agency.’

  ‘Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind.’ Peter said in his apt- quotations voice. ‘I don’t know where he was. I could perhaps find out from Mother. But if it was Hamish ... I mean, there would be no way of keeping her out of it!’

  ‘It would be difficult,’ I agreed, standing up and stretching out muscles cramped by hours of paperwork. ‘And as for the third of that trio - opportunity - the guy lived in a relatively isolated cottage: you don’t even have to come through the village to get to it. He had no regular habits, so no one was going to miss him for days; and time of death can only ever be approximate in a post¬mortem, so there are a couple of hours either way to play with. To sum up, then - a large part of the county could have driven over and stabbed him, if they’d felt so inclined, and then provided themselves with an alibi from a dozen assorted witnesses in a fifty-mile radius. What I wouldn’t give for those old cliches: the button torn from the murderer’s jacket and the initials scrawled in the victim’s dying blood. I think I’ll walk along the village and stretch my legs. Coming?’

  ‘No. I’ll see you in a minute.’ He almost ran inside the cottage, his movements awkward inside the dress now he was no longer Rainwing but Peter.

  I sauntered up to the main street and into the local store. Carter was slumped moodily behind the counter, watching a couple of trippers rummaging in the ice-cream freezer. The action caused the sunburned flesh to bulge around the back of their bra straps and from the uneven bottom edges of their shorts.

  Grannie was tidying greetings cards in the revolving stand. I saw her mouth tighten in disapproval at all this flashing flesh and then look to check that Carter wasn’t being corrupted. His chin went up and he met her gaze defiantly. Surprisingly, it was her that coloured and dropped her eyes away first.

  I’d come in to pick up a local paper and, hopefully, a bit of local knowledge. But since I was here, I mooched along the shelves adding milk, a box of jam tarts and bag of mixed toffees to the pile. By the time I’d finished, the girls had left and Carter and his gran had swapped places behind the till.

  ‘It’s last week’s,’ she said, holding up the paper. ‘The new one comes out tomorrow.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I just want to look up local estate agents. I was wondering, Brick Cottage, you don’t know who’s handling the sale, do you?’

  ‘We’ve no idea. The young man never said.’ She ran the barcode reader over the cellophane packaging and tsked-tsked in exasperation as it refused to read. ‘Carter, this isn’t working again.’

  Carter was now lounging by the door, his arms folded over those girlish breasts and his attention fixed on the scene outside. Barely glancing our way, he said: ‘Flatten out the back and try again.’

  It took her a dozen more goes, with the till beeping like a demented electronic orchestra. She had the same trouble with the rest of my collection. The agitation increased the tremor in her fingers. ‘Wretched thing, I wish we’d kept the old one. Carter, can’t you be a little angel and come and do it?’

  But Carter wasn’t going to be moved from his attempt to prop up the door jamb with one shoulder. ‘Just do as I told you, Gran. It’s easy.’ He did at least look directly at me this time. ‘You were up the Rouses’ place, weren’t you? When they had the shooting? They’re saying Harry was shot by his dad.’

  ‘Are
they?’

  ‘Went crazy, they reckon.’

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘Had to call in loads of armed police to catch him. That right?’

  I advised him to ask the all-knowing ‘they’, since they were obviously so well informed.

  Carter looked like he was about to argue, but Gran had finally beaten the till into submission and announced the total was two pounds thirty pence.

  I handed over three pound coins and checked the printed receipt the till had spewed out in the hope it had rung up something twice in the midst of all that angst. No such luck. It did, however, thank me for my custom, tell me the date and time and inform me my assistant today had been Kar the Klingon.

  Carter seemed reluctant to part with me. Either that or he was too tired to lever himself off the back of the door. ‘You going to buy Luke’s place, then?’

  ‘No. Just curious. I’m sorting things out for his mum. Thought she might be interested in the asking price.’ I also hated inconsistencies.

  ‘Oh?’ Carter twisted to put his back against the door and give me his full attention. ‘You living there now?’

  ‘Nope. Just passing through.’ I was about to add a warning that I’d be back and forth, in case he’d got any more keys, but I realised his mind wasn’t on me anymore.

  St Biddy’s was the sort of village that attracted a better class of day-tripper. It was a place for browsing, leisurely drinks and cream teas. The souped-up roar of the Escort, plus the thundering rhythm of the sound system, tended to stand out. It was dangerously overpacked again, but I thought I caught a glimpse of Kelly Benting squashed in the centre of the back seat. Carter was dead certain he did. ‘Kelly! Wait!’

  The accelerator pedal was slammed to the floor. Wheels spun. The ice-cream sign went flying in a metallic crash. The Escort raced away, forcing an approaching car to sound its horn and bump to a standstill at the entrance to Cowslip Lane.

  ‘Kelleee ...’ Carter’s voice rose in desperation. ‘Wait. Come back. Kelleeee ...’ He ran several ungainly steps up the street and then realised it was hopeless. Kicking the air in a futile gesture, he slouched back.

  His grandmother called to him from the doorway to pick up the sign.

  Carter stopped, fists balled into his fleshy waist. ‘Pick it up yourself, you stupid cow,’ he said loudly and clearly.

  ‘Carter! Where’s my Master Smiley gone?’

  Carter didn’t even bother to answer. Hands in pockets, he slouched off. I glanced at Grannie and made an interesting discovery. She was scared of Carter.

  Her eyes slid away and refused to meet mine. Without a word, she righted the sign and dragged it back into position. I’d have probed a bit further if the driver across the street hadn’t whistled to attract my attention.

  ‘Oi. Supersnoop. You know those bozos in the Escort?’

  ‘Afraid not, Lee.’ I walked over to where he was picking out the shards of a shattered wing mirror. ‘They’re just passing bozos as far as I know.’

  ‘Prats!’ He banged the mirror with a balled fist and the remaining pieces fell out into the bag he was holding under it.

  I expected him to lob it over the nearest wall. Instead he wrapped it carefully and walked over to the rubbish bin outside the store. It was a strangely conventional thing to do. In fact, when I looked him over, everything about Lee Delaney seemed oddly normal, if that isn’t a contradiction in terms.

  He was dressed in a pair of light trousers and overshirt that looked to be clean and recently pressed. His hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail and the twisted sneer had been surgically removed from his upper lip. Even his eyes had lost that slightly spaced-out expression.

  He looked ... I groped for a comparison, and realised he looked like what he was - a young man in his mid-twenties, rather than the superannuated teenager I’d been introduced to at Barbra’s unforgettable lobster and listeria luncheon.

  ‘You still working for me mum?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Wasting your time. I told yer.’

  ‘And I told you - it’s not my time I’m wasting; it’s your mum’s money.’

  Reaching into the car, he removed a bouquet of flowers from the front seat and locked up. ‘This where she found ’em? The ones in her will?’ Without waiting for me to reply, he nodded and said: ‘Makes sense. The daft biddy just can’t let it go. Want to see what this is really about?’

  He started to walk deeper into the village, not bothering to see if I was following. Cradling my goodies, I caught up with him.

  ‘You feeling OK, Lee?’

  ‘Top of the world, thanks. ’Ow about yourself?’

  ‘I’m fine now. But I just spent most of the week in bed with food poisoning. In fact, everyone at your mum’s that Sunday had it. Except you, apparently.’

  He hefted the bouquet on one shoulder and twisted round to walk backwards so he could look at me. ‘So you reckon what? I’ve been sprinkling lightly chopped toadstools over the salad?’

  ‘Just a thought.’

  ‘Scrub it. It was probably the prawns. I reckoned at the time that wanker had defrosted and frozen them twice. That’s why I didn’t eat none.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have warned the rest of us?’

  ‘After the way my mum had talked me up to you? Would you have believed me?’

  ‘Probably not,’ I agreed.

  ‘There you go, then.’ Spinning back, he bounced away, whistling ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’.

  Given the flowers, I half expected a girlfriend. But Lee managed to surprise me yet again by heading for the church and making his way to a grave nestling under the shade of the trees near the boundary. Its edge was delineated by a row of whitewashed stones and the shrivelled flowers in the sunken holder still retained some colour. Evidently it was a double plot. There were two inscriptions.

  ‘There you go. The reason for me mum’s latest tantrum.’

  I read silently:

  Sacred to the memory of

  Matilda Ann Tanner

  Beloved wife, mother and gran

  and

  Her great-granddaughter Carly Ann Delaney

  Fell asleep 1st August aged 9 years

  Sleep safely my precious in Nan’s arms

  ‘This is where your sister is buried?’

  ‘Nicely spotted, supersnoop.’ Lee started dragging the faded flowers from the holder and replacing them with his own. ‘That’s me mum’s gran. Her old man should have been in there with her, but he went and got himself lost at sea, so Mum got them to put Carly in instead. Thought it would be less lonely for her. Daft idea, really, but I suppose I can see where she was coming from.’

  So could I. It was odd I’d never wondered before why Barbra had chosen St Biddy’s for her morning photography excursion.

  Lee stabbed a chrysanthemum into a waiting hole. ‘See the date she died? Well, that’s special. Sort of sacred. We always had to come up here then. Make a big show of putting flowers out, telling Carly how we’d been doing all year.’

  I guessed what was coming. ‘You missed this year?’

  ‘I was busy this year. I got a life, all right?’

  ‘Who’s arguing? So you think that’s why your mum is trying to leave her money to a load of complete strangers?’

  ‘Course it is. Carly was always more important than me. She still is. Even when she’s been dead for seventeen frigging years.’ He started rolling the dead blooms into the cellophane wrapper from his own bouquet, kneading them in with vicious little stabbing movements. ‘It was always Carly. There was never nothing left over for me. When I was kid I used to get really excited about something I’d done at school - like winning a race, or getting a good mark in me book - and I’d go running home to tell me mum and she’d not even hear me. It was always: I’m busy, Carly needs this, Carly wants that.’ Smashing the crackling parcel flat, he knelt up on it. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I loved Carly. She was my big sister, weren’t she? But sometimes I used to dream how it would be if it was just
Mum and me. And then she died and it was. Only me mum still didn’t have any time. She started doing all these poxy jobs instead.’

  ‘She says she needed the money after your dad walked out. Single-parenting doesn’t come cheap.’

  ‘What did she expect? She never had time for him either. He weren’t even allowed to pick Carly up in case he bruised her. She bruised easily. Big purple and yellow marks on her arms and legs like flowers. I remember that.’

  Snatching up the parcel, he stalked over to the rubbish bin, then filled a plastic bottle from the standpipe. ‘This is why she’s writing that daft will,’ he said, dribbling water into the flower holder. "Cos I phoned her and said I couldn’t make the first of August.’

  ‘Not entirely it’s not, Lee.’ I wondered just how far I ought to trust him. ‘Have you been prowling around your mum’s place this past week? Or making funny phone calls to her?’

  ‘Is that what she’s saying?’

  ‘It’s not just her. I’m saying someone is.’

  ‘Well, it ain’t me. I told yer, I’ve got a life. If my mum ain’t, that’s her problem.’ He looked down at the stone-edged oblong. ‘Well, so long, kid. See you again one day, eh?’

  He strode off, leaving me to catch up again. Approaching the Royal Oak, he asked if I fancied a drink.

  ‘Better not.’ I raised the shopping I was still cradling. ‘I’m expected back.’

  ‘See yer then. Oh, and give me mum a message - tell her she can leave her frigging cash to anyone she likes. I don’t need it. And I don’t need her no more. Cheers.’

  He headed for the pub. I headed for Cowslip Lane. As soon as I stepped into Brick Cottage, the old subconscious picked up the signals and was issuing a danger warning.

  34

  For a split second I thought I’d walked in on one of those private moments where three is a crowd, or the answer to a personal ad in the Swingers’ Gazette.

  Peter was kneeling on all fours over something on the sofa. Since the back was to the door, all I saw at first was his head and shoulders. He was panting with exertion, his weight forward on his outstretched arms.