A Perfect Likeness (2 page)

Jackie spoke to Victoria every night before sleeping. The curtains of the dormer window had been removed so she could lay in bed and look up at the stars as she drifted off to sleep. But it wasn’t night-time and there were no stars. Just the rain clouds speeding by, as yet undecided whether to discharge their load on Draycliffe or a little further along the coast. Her voice was soft and loving as she spoke. The two sisters couldn’t have been closer; like twins in every way except looks. Jackie was devastated by the violence of Victoria’s death and the regular one-way conversations with her sister were a way of coping with her loss.

‘I’m going to do it,’ decided Jackie. ‘I’m going to find this Trish Grant and see if she can help. I hope it’s alright with you, Sis, but I have to do it. I’ll keep you posted. Love you, Sis. Bye for now.’

*

The sky was dark and heavy and it
did
decide to rain on Draycliffe. It was three o’clock in the afternoon, but could easily have been mistaken for midnight. Jackie drove to Clumber Street and found a space to park right outside The Study public house. She cursed at herself for not bringing an umbrella. The rain exploded against the car’s windscreen, masking her view across the road. She increased the speed of the wipers. It helped, but she couldn’t make out the office she had counted on being there. In desperation she lowered the driver’s door window only to be drenched by an avalanche of wind blown rain.

‘Fish!’ she shrieked, the nearest Jackie ever came to swearing, as she struggled to find the switch that raised the window. Another scream as the passenger window lowered. ‘Bring back the winder,’ Jackie pleaded to the world’s car manufacturers, as she finally managed to close both windows.

I’m wet now
, she thought,
can’t get any wetter
. She reached behind her, took the Maxfords shopping bag from the rear seat and removed the tin of corned beef and other bits purchased for a late lunch. She formed the bag into a hat, looked in the mirror and smiled at herself. ‘Grief, neither looking stupid nor a drop of rain are going to stop me now,’ she said to her reflection.

She selected her target house as she crossed the road, making a dash to the one with a brass plate on the front door hoping it might indicate the business she was after. There was no gate to open; it lay on the ground, half hidden under a confused looking privet with uncut grass tangled around its metal frame and ornate scrolls. She ran up the garden path glad to reach the shelter of a small porch. A useful modern addition, but not in keeping with the Victorian character of the house. The brass plate told her she had got the right house. ‘John and Trish Grant, Private Investigators’. It was covered with deep scratches and gouges where an unsuccessful attempt had been made to obliterate all reference to John Grant. The tools of the aggression had been left on the path; a large headed hammer and a screwdriver with its plastic handle shattered. A curled up note stuck by one corner to the inside of a window stated John and Trish had gone to lunch in the pub across the road. Knowing that was not the case, Jackie rang the bell. There was no response so she bent down, lifted the letterbox flap and peered into the vagueness of a darkened entrance hall. It smelt stale, unlived in. She got up and turned towards The Study knowing her next move was not going to be easy. It would test her nerve as Jackie had a loathing of pubs like others hated snakes and spiders or enclosed spaces. She hated the noise, the smoke and other smells like stale beer that clung to your clothes. She had not been in a pub for close on five years and never had she entered a pub on her own. But now she was going to do just that. There was no choice, she had to do it, but her body was rebelling against it. As she approached the entrance she could feel herself becoming sticky despite getting soaked by the rain. She reached out for the door handle, but quickly withdrew as if receiving a shock. She tried again, this time successfully managing to open the door a little.

The Study wasn’t inviting. An old, unattractive building, like so many built during the early twentieth century. Well maintained, but beginning to look tired. Only the sign was up-to-date; a student at his desk with open books and a glass of beer. She inhaled deeply, believing it would be her last intake of clean air for a while and forced herself to enter. Jackie was amazed at what greeted her. It could not have been further from her expectations. The Study was spacious, recently decorated and with contemporary, but comfortable looking furniture. She stopped at the door, taking it all in and beginning to relax. She couldn’t believe how quiet it was. No noisy gaming machines, no blaring music or television screens and the smell was not disagreeable. She acknowledged the smiles from some of the turning heads although most didn’t consider her important enough to waste more than a cursory glance and grin. Of the thirty or so people she guessed were in the pub the majority seemed absorbed in their books and drinking a wine or shandy. Some were picking at burgers and chips, using a fork to chase the next mouthful around the plate whilst still concentrating on their study material. Even though no greasy food smell had ambushed Jackie’s nostrils the sight was enough to start her tummy rumbling. She suddenly felt very hungry; the sticky bun she had in the coffee bar earlier had long since ceased to satisfy.

The man behind the bar looked toward her and smiled. A handsome man in his mid-forties wearing a white shirt, a plain red tie and sports jacket with the corner of a red silk handkerchief hanging out of the breast pocket. She didn’t expect to see such formal dress, in fact, she hadn’t expected anything to be like it was and for the first time in her life Jackie did not feel uncomfortable in a pub.

‘Hello, Miss, please don’t think me rude, but I have to tell you we had all the roof tiles replaced last year so I can assure you it’s safe to take your ‘hat’ off.’

‘Fish.’ Jackie’s hands shot up and removed the dripping shopping bag from her head, unable to hide her embarrassment. ‘And I thought your customers were giving me a smile of welcome.’

‘I’m sure they were, Miss. What can I get for you? Looks as though a change of clothing might be useful, but I’m afraid I can’t help there.’

Before Jackie could answer, the occupier of the stool against the far wall shouted an instruction. ‘Barman, give me another and be quick about it.’ She didn’t raise her head, just continued to look into the glass as she tilted it towards her willing the final drops of liquid to form a reasonable swallow.

‘One moment please, Miss, it’s best I sort
her
out first.’

Jackie acknowledged with a nod.

‘How many times must I tell you I’m not the barman, I’m the bloody owner. And, when I’m serving, may I suggest a little politeness wouldn’t go amiss. Much more of this and, I’m sorry, but you are going to be barred from here.’

The woman on the stool raised her head and glared at him. ‘Okay, Mr Bloody Owner, give me another G & T.
Please
. If it’s convenient, that is.’ The expression on her face didn’t change and her eyes remained fixed and empty of emotion.

Mr Bloody Owner smiled at her. He liked Trish, always had done. More than liked her if the truth were known. Just now, though, the great sadness he felt was tearing at his heart. He leant across the bar until their faces were inches apart. ‘Show me your money, Trish,’ he whispered, ‘you’ve caught me out so many times before, but no more.’

‘That’s not the way to treat your most regular of regulars,’ she said pulling a dirty plastic purse from her raincoat pocket and tipping the contents over the bar. ‘And I know you wouldn’t bar me.’ She winked at him, but no smile.

‘My other customers always pay in full for what they have,’ said Mr Bloody Owner stretching far to his right to catch a ten pence piece as it rolled over the edge of the bar. He collected the money, all small change, counted it and placed it in three piles next to the till. He walked to the other end of the bar, where Jackie was standing, and took a tonic from the fridge.

‘Sorry Miss, almost there,’ he said to Jackie as an apology.

He placed the glass and bottle of tonic in front of Trish telling her to make it last because she wasn’t getting another.

Her mild grunt of indignation exploded into rage as she began pouring the tonic. ‘What the hell’s this?’ she yelled. ‘Only one ice cube and a short measure of gin.’

Mr Bloody Owner picked up the money by the till and counted it out in front of her. ‘You’re forty pence short of a full measure so I’ve adjusted the gin, the ice and, if you look again, you might recognise the slice of lemon as being the same slice as was in your last drink. You get what you pay for from now on.’ He put the money in the till and turned away.

‘Bastard,’ she said, just loud enough for him to hear.

He raised a hand in acknowledgement and smiled a sad smile.

‘Sorry, Miss, she’ll be quiet now for a while. What can I get you?’

‘I’m sorry, but it’s not a drink I’m after. It’s just that I’m looking for someone and I thought she might be in here?’

‘Well, Miss, as you can see we’re not that busy at the moment. Best have a look around.’

‘Trouble is I don’t know her and so I wouldn’t recognise her even if she was here. I need to get in touch with a good private investigator and have been recommended a Trish Grant. Do you know her?’

Mr Bloody Owner turned his head in the direction of the lady on the stool. ‘You’ve almost met her.’

Jackie followed his gaze to the crumpled mess he had just served. Her profile showed no signs of make up, her hair was uncombed and knotted, and her coat creased and stained. ‘Oh, my gosh.
That’s
her? All she needs is a cigarette in her mouth.’ Jackie didn’t know why she had mentioned the cigarette, but put it down to the shock of finding out her investigator was a drunk.

‘Oh no, Miss, she doesn’t smoke. Used to, but gave it up after her husband disappeared with a wealthy client. When her money got short she said it had to be a choice between fags and booze. As you can see, booze won the day. Gives her more comfort, for longer. So she says.’

‘Does she still work?’

‘You’re joking, love, not in her state. Can’t stay sober for long enough. I’ve known Trish for years, she and her husband had a great business and it was a hell of a shock when he shot off with ‘Lady Muck’. You can see how Trish took it. I keep trying to get her back on track, but she won’t listen. She was the best investigator in the area, much better than her old man. Had clients queuing up for her.’

Jackie just shook her head, unable to think of an appropriate response.

Mr Bloody Owner wasn’t deterred. ‘Don’t go away, Miss, all I need is a minute and I’ll arrange a meeting.’ Without waiting for a reaction he was gone, to the woman on the stool. ‘Got a client for you, Trish, that young lady at the other end of the bar.’

She didn’t turn her head. ‘Don’t even think about it. Don’t want any clients and you know that.’

‘Yes you do, I’ll send her over.’

Trish remained bent forward over her glass.

‘Go on, Miss, she’s ready to receive you. Don’t take any notice of her rants, just tell her how much you need her. If you can get her back to work she’ll do you proud, whatever it is you need her for. One word of caution. Don’t call her Grant. She refuses to hear it and will only respond to Lister, her maiden name.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. She doesn’t really look like the kind of person I’m after. I need someone I can trust to do a good job for me. I would say she needs more help than I do. Sorry, I’ll find someone else.’ Jackie turned to leave.

Mr Bloody Owner stretched across the bar and touched Jackie’s arm. ‘Please, Miss, give her a try.
Please
.’

Trish didn’t move as Jackie edged closer, but the whiteness of her knuckles increased as she squeezed tighter on the glass. Jackie expected it to splinter any second.

‘Miss Lister, may I speak with you.’

‘She’s not in.’ Her tone sharp and persuasive.

Jackie hesitated, half turned towards Mr Bloody Owner who was urging her to carry on with a wave of his hand. ‘Er… I think you probably are in, Miss Lister. I’m in desperate need of a private investigator and you have been recommended to me.’

Trish turned, but preferred to look at the floor rather than her prospective client. She wore no make-up and struggled to keep her eyes open. Her skin was a deathly white, but unblemished and her teeth almost perfect. The nails of her neglected hands were varnished although not all with the same colour and some were badly chipped. The long white coat must have cost a bomb, Jackie thought, but it looked as though it hadn’t been removed for weeks. The black leather belt had slipped out of one of its loops and was resting on the floor. Her denim slacks were too long and both hems were badly frayed. The black plimsolls did nothing to improve the overall shabbiness. Despite the way she was looking, Jackie believed, it wouldn’t take a great deal of work to transform Trish into a very attractive woman. Jackie felt herself beginning to feel sorry for her.

‘And who might have recommended me? Obviously someone who hasn’t seen the state I’ve got myself into. Just look at me.’

Jackie was surprised at her clarity and assumed she had only recently commenced her drinking for the day. ‘Detective Inspector Deckman. He did tell me that things had gone wrong for you, but he also said you were the best investigator in the area. He told me he wasn’t allowed to recommend, but , in my opinion, by giving me your name he’s as good as done so.’ Jackie saw the flicker in her eyes. A glimmer of hope, she thought.