Stardust: A Sam Smith Mystery (The Sam Smith Mystery Series Book 10)

by Hannah Howe

  The rugby match over and the lasagne ready, we sat down in the dining room to eat.

  As I hacked my way through the lasagne, I said, “Check your feet.”

  Alan sipped his wine. He frowned then glanced down to his feet. “Why should I do that?” he asked.

  “Because I think this lasagne tastes like your slippers.”

  “I’m still wearing my slippers,” he pointed out. “But this lasagne is a little bit...”

  “Rubbery?” With a sigh, I dropped my knife and fork on to my plate and pushed the plate into the centre of the table. “How did that happen? I followed the recipe, to the letter.”

  “What recipes fail to mention is, you need to add an ounce of intuition.”

  “In the kitchen, I lack all intuition.” A domestic goddess, I would never be. “Will you settle for beans on toast?” I asked.

  “Will you burn it?”

  “Probably.”

  Alan smiled. He stood then walked over to kiss me on the forehead. “What say I phone out for a pizza instead?”

  Back in the living room, we sat on the sofa and chatted, while we waited for our pizza delivery. We sat close together, partly out of intimacy, partly because Marlowe insisted on taking up most of the room.

  “You haven’t explained,” Alan said, “why you were late.”

  So I told him about Jeremy Loudon, about Loudon’s gambling parties and missing briefcase, along with details of my chats with Mickey Anthony and Slick Stephens.

  “Sounds a bit suspicious,” Alan frowned. “Why doesn’t Loudon contact the police?”

  “My guess is he doesn’t want to embarrass his fellow gamblers or land his girlfriend, Annabel, in any trouble. From what Mickey Anthony said, and from the look of Annabel, I’d say there were plenty of drugs around in Loudon’s gambling den.”

  “So you’ll take Loudon’s shilling and search for the briefcase?”

  “Our agency needs the money; we need all the clients we can get, so we can get off that boat.”

  “I quite like the houseboat,” Alan said.

  “Then you have it, and we’ll have your office.”

  Before Alan could reply, our pizza arrived and we enjoyed a belated dinner.

  As I munched my way through the pizza, I thought about Loudon, about his motives for hiring me. Okay, he was a multimillionaire and vast sums of money do tend to warp people, highlight their eccentricities. But to the extent where they take photographs of a briefcase? What did that briefcase contain, apart from money? Something illicit? Possibly. I’d be on the trail again in the morning, keen to find out.

  Chapter Five

  The following morning, at 7.57 a.m., I parked my Mini in Velvet’s street, three doors down from her house. It was a cold, damp, dark morning, a morning designed for snuggling under the duvet with the one you loved. Unfortunately for me, the one I loved had a full day of clients ahead, followed by a social evening with his rugby club mates. Although we shared our lives as a married couple, Alan and I retained an independent streak. This independent streak made the time we did share together all the more special.

  The lights were on in Velvet’s house, in the living room. So I eased myself out of my Mini, walked to the front door and rang the doorbell. No answer. I glanced towards the living room window and the lights went off. Someone was playing hard to get.

  The houses in Velvet’s street had front and back doors. It seemed logical to assume that the householder was seeking to avoid me and, therefore, would make their exit through the back door. So I ran around the corner to a tall wall that bricked off the back garden. Sure enough, a figure emerged through the tall back gate, a female figure. She had frizzy, shoulder-length hair, a light shade of ginger. Her eyes were brown and serious, fixed in a perpetual stare. Her face was pleasant, oval in shape, dominated by small, round, black-framed spectacles and a dark mole above her upper lip. Slim, she wore blue jeans and a short leather jacket, similar to mine. Stud earrings adorned her ears, her only item of jewellery. At a guess, the woman was in her late twenties, though a few silver streaks did snake through her hair.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Hi,” she said, somewhat defensively, the single word hinting at a Dutch accent.

  “I’m looking for Velvet.”

  “She’s not in.”

  “Mr Loudon sent me.”

  “Oh.” The woman paused then glanced over her shoulder to an elderly neighbour, who was eyeing us with some suspicion. The neighbour dropped a black bin bag beside her back gate and continued to stare.

  While shuffling uncomfortably from foot to foot, my Dutch friend said, “You’d better come in.”

  We wandered through the kitchen, into the living room. There, the woman removed her coat and draped it over an armchair. The armchairs, comfortable enough to look at, were covered in a floral fabric that revealed a lot of wear. Indeed, the seats on the armchairs shone when the woman switched on the living room light.

  “You’re Lia Jansen,” I said.

  She nodded, “Yes.”

  “Where’s Velvet?”

  “Away. Singing.”

  “Where exactly?”

  “She didn’t tell me,” Lia said.

  “Does she go away often?”

  Lia paused then shrugged, “When she can get the gigs.”

  “She travels alone?”

  “Most of the time, yeah.”

  “What about her equipment?” I asked.

  “Equipment?” Lia frowned. In all truth, the frown was never far from her forehead.

  “Microphone, instruments...”

  “She uses the nightclubs’ stuff.”

  “You’re Velvet’s friend,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re Dutch.”

  Surprising me, she offered a brief giggle then a smile. “You can tell by my name and my accent?”

  “I’m an enquiry agent,” I said, “a trained sleuth.”

  “Loudon hired you?”

  I nodded.

  “Oh.”

  Lia paused. She flopped on to an armchair, adjacent to the window. Meanwhile, I glanced around the room, spying an extensive CD collection. The collection contained a range of styles, moods and eras, from soul and disco to rock and rap, from twentieth century classics to modern masters. Female singers predominated and offered a theme to the collection.

  “How did you meet Velvet?” I asked.

  “At a nightclub.”

  “You’re a singer?”

  “No.” Lia shook her head. “I went there to dance, to enjoy myself.”

  “Velvet sings at The Stag,” I said.

  “I try to stop her.”

  “She dances there too.”

  “It’s so degrading.”

  “You disapprove?”

  Lia nodded vigorously, “Don’t you?”

  “I do,” I said.

  “I try to stop her, but she won’t listen.”

  “She’s stubborn?”

  “Yeah,” Lia said. “Velvet wants to be a singer. She’ll do anything to sing.”

  “And what about you, what do you do, for a living?”

  “I’m an activist.” Lia glanced across the room, to a laptop computer and a line of books, dominated by feminist authors and feminist issues. “Mainly women’s rights.”

  “They pay you?”

  “Not really,” she shrugged.

  “How do you cope, financially?”

  “Velvet helps me,” Lia said.

  “Through her cleaning, dancing and singing.”

  Lia scowled; she offered me a dirty look. “I never said it was ideal, right.”

  “Right,” I said.

  “I’ll pay her back,” Lia said, shuffling sideways, turning in her chair, offering her shoulder. “Velvet trusts me; we’re good friends.”

  Outside, the rain began to pitter-patter against the windowpane. The day was still dark, bleak, even though we’d past mid-winter. It was cold enough for snow, though none was forecast.


  “What’s this all about anyway?” Lia asked, her eyes narrow as she stared at me through her spectacles.

  “Velvet didn’t show up for work, at The Stag or Loudon’s.”

  “I told you,” Lia said, “she’s away, singing.”

  “She didn’t inform Loudon.”

  “So what; she can be absent-minded at times.”

  “The day she wandered off,” I said, “so did Loudon’s briefcase.”

  Lia paused. She turned to gaze at the raindrops, at the icy rain as it pinged against the windowpane. She shivered, maybe because of the rain, maybe due to our conversation. “I don’t know anything about a briefcase,” she insisted.

  “Velvet never discussed it with you?”

  “No, never. We talk about feminism, music; we never talk about Loudon or anything to do with him.”

  Maybe Lia was telling the truth, though I had my suspicions. We live in a world where lies have become standard, an accepted form of communication; the bigger the lie, the more people tend to believe it. Indeed, it’s startling and you feel a sense of unease when someone is straightforward and offers you the truth. Lies are an integral part of my profession. However, if you can rise above the cynicism, lies are often revealing; sometimes people lie when they don’t need to, out of habit; other times, you just have to turn a lie around to reveal the truth.

  “Look,” Lia said, standing, walking over to the window, “I have to go out.”

  “When is Velvet due back?” I asked.

  “This evening.”

  “Can I call on her then?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Lia slipped into her coat. She walked to the front door – not the rear entrance – and I followed. On the doorstep, she looked up to the leaden sky and shivered. Then she pulled the coat zipper up to her chin and wiped the raindrops from her spectacles. In deference to the unpleasant weather, she removed her spectacles and placed them in her coat pocket. The ritual complete, she locked the front door.

  As we walked towards my car, I asked, “Where are you from, in the Netherlands?”

  “Amsterdam.”

  I smiled and nodded.

  “I’ve got to go,” Lia said. Then she scurried down the street. Only once did she look back, a furtive glance over her shoulder.

  Yes, Lia was definitely lying. But how did that square with Velvet and the missing briefcase?

  Chapter Six

  I was tempted to follow Lia Jansen. However, she’d left home with just the basics, which suggested that she would return. If necessary, I could follow her on another occasion.

  Velvet remained my main target. It seemed fair to assume that she’d return home at some point too; she was passionate about her music; she wouldn’t abandon her CD collection. So, with the icy rain falling, I sat in my Mini to wait.

  As I sat, I thought about Alan and the fact that I was not a domestic goddess. Did he truly, deeply, sincerely not mind? Or did it irk him that his wife could not prepare a simple dinner? That was embarrassing; regardless of my disjointed upbringing, I should have enough nous to prepare an edible dinner.

  Then my thoughts wandered to Faye. Troubled by her past and her mind-crippling obsessions, Faye was visiting a psychologist on a weekly basis. She was making good progress and when she had more time, I would enlist her help to transform me from a kitchen klutz into someone who could cook with pride.

  With that idea settled in my mind, I turned to my mobile phone and a chess puzzle. I solved the puzzle, a mate in five, in seconds. I enjoyed chess puzzles, found them both relaxing and stimulating. And I was good at solving them. I think that’s because with chess puzzles you isolated the possibilities, a lesson I transferred into my professional life.

  As well as gazing at my navel and chess puzzles, I kept an eye on Velvet’s front door. The postman arrived at noon and posted a number of letters; apart from that, no one called. Instead, people scurried along the street, their bodies arched as they fought the rain and bitter wind.

  I switched on the car radio only to encounter a politician lying for all he was worth. Why don’t interviewers challenge politicians and expose their blatant lies? Lies annoyed me, in all walks of life, maybe because I encountered so many lies through the course of my work.

  From the black hearts of politicians, my mind turned to Velvet and music. I wondered about the greatest popular music decade of the twentieth century. Eventually, I settled on the years 1966 – 1976, with their blend of pop, rock, folk, jazz, singer-songwriters, psychedelia, blues, gospel, soul, funk, punk and disco; truly a melting pot and an exceptional period of musical creativity.

  The minutes turned into hours and my thoughts turned into mush. So I went for a stroll along the street, to stretch my legs and distract myself. I was walking along the street when a woman turned a corner. Dressed in a black overcoat and a short black dress, the woman had silky black hair pulled back into a ponytail, black, expressive eyes and a pure unblemished ebony face. Standing around five foot three, she was slim and lithe. She wore a collection of wire bracelets around her right wrist and long, dangly silver earrings. Thanks to Jeremy Loudon’s photograph, I recognized the woman. Velvet had arrived.

  “Hi,” I said, approaching Velvet, “my name’s Sam. Jeremy Loudon sent me. I wonder if we could talk.”

  Velvet paused on her doorstep. She glanced over her shoulder to a knot of three women who had gathered around a pushchair to admire a baby. The women glanced up to eye us with a measure of curiosity. Noting their look, Velvet sighed, “I suppose you’d better come in.”

  I followed Velvet into her house, into the living room. There, I waited while she adjusted the heating. Then she leaned back, against a radiator. With her hands and body warm, she walked to the living room door where she called her friend, “Lia? Lia?”

  “She’s out,” I said.

  Velvet frowned, “You’ve been waiting for me?”

  “Four hours,” I said.

  “I’m sorry I kept you.”

  “No problem. I get paid whether I’m running around after runaways or sitting in my car.”

  Velvet returned to the radiator. She continued to stare. “You work for Mr Loudon?”

  “He hired me. I’m an enquiry agent.”

  “What’s that?” Velvet asked.

  “A private detective, though I reckon enquiry agent is a better name; less seedy. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know.” Velvet turned her head, to look through the window. The knot of women and the baby had moved on; it was too cold to engage in a prolonged gossip. Acknowledging my presence, Velvet offered a sly, oblique look. She said, “I try not to mix with detectives.”

  “You have something to hide?” I asked.

  “No. I have nothing to hide.”

  I smiled, “I’m sure Jeremy Loudon would be delighted to hear that.”

  Velvet turned to face me. Once again, she glared. Like Lia, her features were often intense, serious. In that regard, the pair were well matched. She asked, “Why should I care what Mr Loudon thinks?”

  “You work for him,” I said.

  “Not anymore. I quit.”

  “Any reason?”

  “I found something better to do.”

  “Like dancing at The Stag?”

  “I quit that too.”

  “In favour of...”

  “Singing,” Velvet said.

  “In nightclubs?”

  “Yeah. I’ve got a manager. I’m going to sing full time, with a recording contract, everything.”

  “Congratulations,” I said.

  “Thanks,” Velvet smiled. She had an impish smile, which totally transformed her personality.

  “I’m looking for Jeremy Loudon’s briefcase,” I said.

  Her smile vanished rapidly; she replaced it with a frown. “A briefcase?”

  “Stuffed with money, his gambling winnings.”

  Velvet unbuttoned her coat. She walked out of the living room to hang her coat in a closet. When she r
eturned, I noticed her satin blouse, and a small scar below her neck. In absent-minded fashion, she fingered the buttons on the blouse, pulling the garment away from her skin.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, “I remember now. I saw his briefcase.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “By his chair. At the gambling table.”

  “What happened to the briefcase?”

  Once again, Velvet turned away. Once again, she offered an oblique look. “I’m not sure,” she said, her voice small, barely audible.

  “Take a guess,” I said.

  “I think someone stole it.”

  “Who?”

  “This man. A new player at the game. I think he stole it.”

  “His name?” I asked.

  “Tony...” Velvet paused. She placed her left hand to her forehead. “Tony Michaels.”

  “Why do you think that?” I asked.

  “All the other players were drunk or stoned. He was the only one sober, with a clear head.”

  “Except you,” I said.

  “I don’t drink.”

  “Drugs?”

  Velvet giggled. “I can’t afford them.” With her face serious again, she continued, “That’s right, I remember now, Tony Michaels walked out with the briefcase after the game.”

  “Why didn’t you raise the alarm?”

  Velvet shrugged a delicate shoulder, “No one seemed bothered. I thought maybe Mr Loudon had said that Tony Michaels could take the briefcase.”

  “Jeremy Loudon was drunk?”

  Velvet nodded, “Not as much as the others. But, like I said, everyone else apart from Tony Michaels was out of their heads.” Making eye contact with me, she offered a shy smile. “One man proposed marriage. He said there was a caterpillar upstairs waiting to marry us. He’d taken acid or something. His mind was well scrambled.”

  “Do Jeremy Loudon’s gambling parties always end like that?”