by Jan Jones
“Do we ever.” The woman waved a despairing hand at a filing cabinet. “It’s all in there taking up space. I only wish I could find somewhere else to store it.”
“How about the county records office?”
The secretary’s expression took on the wild hope of a starving Israelite to whom Penny had mentioned that she had a cartload of manna waiting on her signature. “That’s a fantastic thought. I’ll ask the council. It’s their prize. The archive shouldn’t really be here at all.”
Penny made a sympathetic noise. “As Mr Williams has been asked to judge the prize this year, he would like to write a brief piece about it for the Messenger. May he come and read up on the history? Or - as you are busy - is it easier if I borrow some of the papers? It would save you being interrupted again.”
The secretary hesitated. “You’re Frances’s mum, aren’t you? I bought a lovely scarf from her at that craft sale we held. Look, I’ve got masses to do this week and there’s no one here now to ask, so why don’t you just help yourself to what he needs.”
Penny smiled. “That is very kind of you. I’ll make sure it’s back by Friday.”
As a result of which, when Leo phoned later to tell her they’d had a fantastic day on the coast, she was dipping in and out of the history of the Salthaven essay prize.
“Bless them, they started off with such high ideals,” she told him. “It was designed to help Salthaven sons make a mark on the world before coming back to benefit their fellow Salthavians. There used to be a fancy silver quart mug that the winner held for a year. I don’t know when that stopped being given. I don’t ever remember seeing it presented. Noel certainly never held it.”
“You’ve got it all there? The whole archive?
“Not the winning essays themselves, but I’ve got the lists of the winners and the questions and stuff, yes. Do you want to come down and pick it up along with this year’s essays once Daniel is in bed?”
“He went out like a light half-an-hour ago. It must be all the sea air, plus the excitement of eating fish and chips out of a piece of newspaper on the seafront. Put the kettle on. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Ma, what’s Leo’s phone number? He isn’t on his boat. I knocked and there was no answer. There’s graffiti everywhere this morning.”
Penny held the phone away from her ear and stared blearily at the clock. There were disadvantages to having a son who got up at the crack of dawn. She told him Leo’s mobile number and added, “He’s quite likely up at Granny’s. His parents and little boy are staying there this week.”
“Thanks, I’ll get on to him. Caitlin’s really upset. The harbour is a terrible mess.” He cut the connection.
Penny edged unenthusiastically to the side of the bed. She knew what was going to happen now. She started counting down under her breath. Ten... nine... eight... Sure enough, the phone rang again.
“Penny...” said Leo’s wheedling voice.
“You are going to have to start driving yourself again soon,” she said.
“Yes, I know. And I do know it’s mostly in my head. But meanwhile, Noel told me he’d phoned you for my number, so I knew you’d be awake, and...”
“There’s a perfectly good bus in twenty minutes.” But she was heading for the shower as she spoke and she suspected he knew it.
“And this time in the morning it takes half an hour going all round the houses before it gets to the harbour.”
“You so owe me breakfast, Leo.”
“Full English at the Market Café, I promise. Thanks, Penny.”
Not only had the Seagull Brewery been targeted again - along with other riverside businesses - but there were clashing, jagged bursts of spray paint all the way along New Cut as well. Market House hadn’t escaped this time either, not the back of it or the front.
“Vandals,” one shopkeeper was saying as he grimly scraped paint off his window. “They need something to keep them out of mischief.”
Leo’s photographer was there as well. “Amazing,” he marvelled, snapping away. “This sort of thing just doesn’t happen in Salthaven.”
“You want to tell that to these guys?” asked Leo, indicating the shopkeepers.
“I’m glad you’re here, Penny,” said Caitlin. The girl was pale and shivery, huddled into Noel’s fleece. “Dad and the men said just to get on with work, but I feel horrible. Violated. Is that stupid?”
Penny put her arm around her. “Completely natural,” she said. “A place you love and care about has been assaulted. It’s a personal thing. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t feel sick.”
“Thanks.” Caitlin felt in her pocket for a tissue, wrinkled her brow and pulled out a small blue book. “Oh, here’s that diary you were asking about. I was going to give it to you this morning.” She gulped again. “It’s so stupid. I can’t even think straight.”
Penny hugged her. “Take the day off, love. Go home with Noel now and have a cuddle and a mug of hot chocolate.” She spoke soothingly, but her mind was on the graffiti. It was puzzling her. “This is really odd,” she said. “Leo’s CCTV contact says nothing has shown up on the cameras. That means the vandal must have dodged around very carefully to spray the riverside windows without being seen.”
Caitlin gave a watery sniff. “So?”
“That speaks of self-control, wouldn’t you say? But along New Cut it’s different. There aren’t any cameras, so whoever has done it has let rip.” She stepped back, looking thoughtfully at the graffiti along both arms of New Cut, picturing what it would have taken to create it. An idea formed in her mind. The more she considered the scenario, the more it made sense. She’d brought up children, she’d helped in playgroups and schools. She was ninety per cent sure she was right. “I’d say this is a temper tantrum. Just look at those sharp angles and the way it’s been sprayed over and over, enough to pool the paint in some places. Imagine doing it yourself. Whoever did this was angry.”
Leo had come over to them and was listening intently. “That’s interesting. Come and see something else.”
They followed him around to the front of Market House. The words ‘Support residents’ rights: more jobs, lower prices, don’t rip us off’ were sprayed on the wall.
“Wordy,” commented Noel.
“Exactly so,” said Leo. “I have been all over the world and this is the weirdest graffiti I have ever seen. Not only is there a colon and a comma - when did you last see punctuation spray-painted on to a wall? - but the apostrophe is after the word residents.”
“That’s where it should be,” said Penny.
“Precisely. This is one educated vandal.”
“An educated graffiti artist in a temper. That narrows it down.”
He met her eyes. “Teamwork, you see?” he said lightly. “Can’t beat it.”
He stood them all breakfast at the Market Café. Penny suspected he was going to claim expenses from the Messenger as he was also taking the opportunity to interview the various disgruntled shopkeepers there.
Noel and Caitlin were heading back to the Seagull, a bacon roll having done wonders for the girl’s natural resilience. “I’ve got orders to process,” she said. “Quite a lot. So much for that ‘failing brewery’ story. If it goes on like this, we’ll have to turn people down.”
“Oh no. That would be really annoying,” said Penny.
“Annoying for us and dumb of them,” replied Noel. “People know when they are holding functions. If only they’d order the beer well in advance, Iain would have time to schedule production. As it is, they’ll lose out.”
And the Seagull will gain a poor reputation for not filling orders, thought Penny with concern. “Good luck,” she said. “I hope they understand.”
“Me too,” said Caitlin. “I hate disappointing people, but I can’t promise beer that we can’t deliver.”
They disappeared off.
“Don’t wait around for me,” said Leo. “I need to file the story before I can ta
ke Daniel and my parents upriver to visit Uncle Charles. I’ll ring Mum and ask them to meet me down here.”
Penny felt a prickle of guilt. “Oh Leo, I’ve just remembered, I never did get those Hornby trains down from the loft for Daniel to play with. I’ll tell you what, I’ll go up to the bungalow right now to do it, and then I can let your parents know what’s happening at the same time. You crack on here.”
He smiled at her. “Would you? That’s really kind. Thank you, Penny.”
That smile, thought Penny, is going to get somebody into serious trouble one day.
Penny’s mother had been immensely proud of all her grandchildren. She’d kept photos and cuttings of all Noel’s sporting and academic achievements, copies of Lucinda’s wedding photos, and every birthday and Christmas card Frances had ever made her. They were all still in the loft of the bungalow. Penny located the vintage clockwork train set for Daniel to play with and passed the boxes carefully down to Leo’s father waiting below. Then, indulging in a moment of nostalgia, she opened the topmost dusty box of Mum’s memorabilia. She would have to go all through these at some stage. Most of the contents would be thrown away. Despite her mother’s example, you couldn’t keep everything. This, for instance, she thought, lifting out a long panoramic shot of the exhibition display at the end of a summer art-taster course that Frances had gone on, aged 12. Who on earth would want this now?
“Any more to come down?” called Leo’s father.
“No, that’s the lot. Sorry about the dust.” She unrolled the display, more for sentiment than anything. In pride of place in the centre was Frances’s patchwork shawl, appliquéd and embroidered and containing as many other techniques as she had been able to cram into the week. It was flanked by ceramic pots, paper sculptures, silk screening and...
Oh my word. Penny had to steady herself against a joist, unable to believe her eyes. There at the end of the display was a long painted chain of fish-with-teeth eating more fish-with-teeth.
“That’s it!” she whispered. “I knew I’d seen them before.” She rolled up the panorama again distractedly and hastened towards the loft hatch. There was no doubt in her mind that these fish were the precursors of the ones that had been appearing as random graffiti around Salthaven. That meant the vandal, whoever it was, had either been on the same summer course as Frances some five years ago, or had seen the exhibition, presumably as a family member, and retained the image. She refastened the padlock on the loft access (not that she thought Leo’s parents would run amok up there, but Salthaven Lets had been very clear on the need for one), put the stepladder away and hurried home.
She had no great expectation that Frances would remember who had painted the fish, and so it proved. It had been five years ago, and Frances had always focused on her own projects to the exclusion of everything else, even at that age. She remembered her friend Marissa being on the art week with her, and another girl in her class who did pottery, but had no idea beyond that.
Penny drummed her fingers on the table, thinking. The Arts board organising the course no longer existed. It was possible Frances’s old school might have kept records of who they’d recommended for the week, but Penny wasn’t sure it was her place to ask. She phoned Leo.
“Leave it to the police,” agreed Leo. “This is present-day vandalism - taking them the display photo could be very useful. They’ve got resources that we don’t have access to. What a find, though. Clever you. Can you bring it into the office quickly before you turn it in? I’ll scan it so we’ve got a copy. I doubt we’ll see the original back before it’s ceased to be of any use as far as the Messenger or our puzzle is concerned.”
They were still having a go at solving the mystery, then? Penny felt her spirits give a silly skip. “Will do. What time are you setting off to visit your uncle? Frances is seeing Marissa this morning. I’ll give her a lift to the gallery on the way down to you. Marissa was on the art course too. She might remember who painted the fish.”
“Thanks, Penny. We’re not going until lunchtime. Mum is going to pack a picnic for the boat. I’ll see you at the newspaper office.”
Marissa ooohed over the photo - remembering principally her own jewellery - and added the name of the girl who’d been interested in ceramics.
Rosamund drifted in. “Hi, sweetie,” she said to Penny. “What have you got there?”
“Mum, look what Penny found. It’s the art-course display.”
“That was a while ago.” Rosamund peered at the photo. “I still wear that necklace. You always were a talented child.”
“I don’t suppose you remember who painted the chain of fish?” asked Penny. After all, Rosamund ran a gallery which sometimes showcased some very ambiguous work. If anyone was going to remember a five year old student art show, it would be her.
“The ones at the end? Oh yes, that was Shane Durham. Odd boy, I’ve always thought. Doesn’t have the best genes, of course. Do you remember his father used to charge us five pence at school to sit in the seats nearest the boiler?”
Penny’s eyes widened. “Shane used to paint? Are you sure, Rosamund?”
“Oh yes.” Rosamund tilted her head as she studied the fish. “It’s difficult to tell whether it’s his own aggressive style or just derivative. Either way, it’s probably a good thing he’s following Terry into business studies instead of pursuing art as a career.”
Shane Durham. That explained... well, no, it didn’t explain anything really, but it opened up a lot of intriguing possibilities. Penny was already reaching for her phone to tell Leo. “Why didn’t you mention this before, Rosamund? Have you not seen any of the graffiti around Salthaven?”
Her friend looked at her serenely. “When would I, darling? I haven’t been into town since the supermarket started free deliveries.”
Penny rang Leo with the information.
“Ask if he’s got a motorbike,” said Leo.
Penny repeated the query to Frances. She and Marissa rolled their eyes.
“He has,” said Marissa. “A brand new one. He says it was a present for doing so well in his GCSEs and he’s been posing with it, like, every break time.”
“How come he got a motor bike and we only got a pizza evening and box sets?” said Frances.
“That was all you wanted,” replied Penny and Rosamund together.
“You couldn’t be creative?”
“Did you hear that?” said Penny into the phone.
“Bingo,” said Leo. “I do love it when things start getting interesting.”
Leo had filed his story, and he and Harry had reorganised tomorrow’s front page to make space for it, by the time Penny arrived. He scanned her panorama, then they took the original to the police station, told them Rosamund remembered Shane Durham as having painted the chain of fish, and walked back to the boat where Daniel and his grandparents were now waiting with their picnic basket.
“But why Shane?” mused Leo, not for the first time.
“I don’t know,” said Penny, “but it explains the lack of new graffiti the night before the Salthaven Prize and why it all exploded in a fury afterwards. He was cramming for the original question - then got cross because it had all gone to waste. To my mind the question is really, does Terry suspect?”
A council van was crawling up the road, delivering something to each shop and house. Penny watched as one of the men disappeared up New Cut with a notice and a pot of paste. Leo had just stowed the picnic basket on Firefly and had stepped back ashore to swing Daniel on board when there was a shout from inside the Seagull Brewery. Moments later, Noel and Caitlin came catapulting through the archway.
“Oh good, you’re still here,” said Noel breathlessly. He thrust a piece of paper at Leo. “Look! Can the Messenger make a fuss? It’s a disaster.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The notice was what the council van had been delivering. “What is it?” said Penny in alarm.
“It’s the last straw,” said Caitlin, white faced and tearful again. “I couldn
’t believe it when I read it. There’s an application in to redevelop Market House. I can’t bear it, Penny.”
It was the last thing Penny had been expecting. “Redevelop Market House? Into what, for goodness sake?”
“A shopping mall.”
Penny gaped. “A shopping mall? In the centre of Salthaven? Oh, no, how ridiculous. Apart from anything else, it’s not big enough.”
Noel’s mouth set in a line. “That’s evidently not what the developers think.”
“It’s going to be hard up against the brewery stables,” wailed Caitlin. “My poor horses. Can you imagine all the noise and disruption?”
Penny could indeed imagine it, only too clearly. Noise. Mess. Disruption. It wouldn’t just affect the Seagull stables. The harbour and market would be grid-locked for months by construction traffic and the subsequent jams. Her mind grappled with the sheer impossibility of such a thing being allowed to take place in the mercantile heart of Salthaven.
“No,” she said, common sense reinstating itself. “It won’t happen. Alice will never allow the application through the council planning committee. I can’t think why the developers even imagine they might have a chance. They must have consulted the council first.”
Leo was reading the notice. “Don’t forget Alice has been busy winning a by-election. Her mind will have been on other things,” he said, just as his phone rang. He glared at the display. “Damn. It’s Harry, my editor. How much do you bet that the rest of today has just been cancelled?”
He turned away to answer. Daniel’s hand crept into his, not understanding the furore, but knowing something was wrong. It was evident from Leo’s demeanour which way the conversation was going. He shut the phone off and turned back. “The notice has just been delivered to go in the paper this week. They left it right until the deadline, hoping to slip it through without comment. They evidently don’t know Harry. We are going to have to rip the front page apart for the second time this morning and remake it. A potential big development like this is major news in Salthaven, even more than the graffiti.”