Spin and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 3)

by Whitelaw, Stella

  ‘What about the cafe?’

  ‘It’s closed for the time being. I’ll re-open it when I feel better.’

  ‘Let’s sit down and I’ll read you the descriptions of the two men who did the Mexican, if you feel like it, that is.’

  ‘Let’s get it over with.’

  ‘Man One: short, dark hair, skinny, small black moustache. Man Two: heavier, bit taller, thinning hair, mean-looking eyes. Not much is it?’

  ‘That’s them.’ Mavis put down the mug of tea and dabbed her face with a handkerchief. ‘I’d know them anywhere.’

  ‘Are you sure? You aren’t just saying this because you want the two cases to be linked? Sometimes people do agree with whatever is suggested to them.’

  ‘You know me. I don’t agree with anything I don’t agree with.’

  I did know what she meant. Mavis was not the most amenable of people if she was in a certain mood. Several times I had borne the brunt of her sharp tongue.

  ‘Can you add anything, give a more detailed description?’

  ‘I didn't have time to look. Jordan. They came up to the till and demanded the money. They were wearing Mickey Mouse masks but in the tussle, they slipped down. I got out my frying pan but the larger man grabbed it out of my hand and started hitting me with it. What could I see? I was trying to protect my face. Look at the back of my fingers, all black and blue.’

  They were badly bruised and swollen. It was a wonder she didn’t have broken bones.

  ‘Mickey Mouse masks?’

  ‘Those plastic things from fancy dress shops.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘They pushed me down on the floor and then one of them said, “Get the money. Chuck,” and I heard them opening the till and tipping out the money.’

  ‘Are you sure the name was Chuck?’

  ‘Oh yes, I remember that all right. Clear as a bell. Then they ran out of the door and I called 999 pretty quick. There was blood splashed everywhere. The edge of the frying pan must have been damned sharp.’

  ‘Thank you. Mavis. I expect CID will want you to look at photographs of known villains, in case you can identify them.’

  ‘I’ll do that, anytime. But I’m not going out till the bruising is gone,’ she sniffed.

  ‘They’ll probably send a car for you.’

  I left soon after. Mavis was tearful and I can’t cope with tears. I’m a pathetic friend. Before 1 left I put the little glass mermaid into her hand.

  ‘Pressie,’ I said. ‘To cheer you up.’

  Mavis looked quite astonished with her one open eye. The mermaid was exquisite, her scales sparkling. ‘Ain’t she lovely,’ she said, looking closer. ‘Thanks, Jordan.’

  *

  I had no idea how I was going to track down these two thugs. They must be the same pair. Chuck is not exactly a universal name in these parts. If I could get sketches made, I could trawl the town, shops and restaurants where they handled money, in case the two were seen again. But the men could be anywhere by now; Brighton, Manchester, even Belfast if they could stand the weather.

  It was hard to understand the thinking behind the second hold-up. The price board in Maeve’s Cafe should have told them that the till was not exactly floating in cash. Or was there a different motive, something more sinister? Mavis had a lot of men friends, the kind with small sexy bottoms. That always causes trouble.

  Number eight Luton Road looked shut up and unoccupied. The car had gone. There was no eager doggy face peering out at a window. I cruised Latching looking for the white Toyota, registration now memorized, but Sonia was not out shopping. She was not walking the beach. I drove in and along the lanes of cars parked at the supermarket. I drove to the leisure centre on the outskirts. Sonia was nowhere. She’d escaped me again. At this rate I should be biting my nails and grinding my teeth. Shopping list: aromatherapy oils and meditation mat.

  And no Maeve’s Cafe open where I could down my sorrows in chips. Where was I going to eat now? Where was DI James going to eat? This was serious decision time.

  There seemed to be activity at the Latching Bowling Club. Several police cars were parked outside and I could see figures moving about. Something was happening. It wouldn’t hurt to have a look around. I parked the ladybird alongside a patrol car and strolled towards the group of men talking.

  Oh dear. Something had definitely happened. They were getting out the scene of crime tape.

  ‘Go away, Jordan.’ DI James strode over to me, inches taller, shoulders squared and in bristling Detective Inspector mode. ‘This one is ours. We found him, not you. So go away.’

  ‘I’m a spectator. A member of the public. You can’t boss me around. Found who. Found a him? Who have you found?’

  My eyesight is pretty good. The damaged pavilion was not that far away and the JCB was still impacted on the pavilion, but even at that distance I could see something very disturbing. In the shovel, bucket, whatever it was called, a stiff white thing was protruding.

  It was a human arm.

  I had never really got over finding the nun in Trenchers Hotel. Death is never pleasant. Now this and the rest of the body must have been there, under the debris when I had wandered round the damage the other day. Zero marks for not noticing. The arm looked like a slim branch, skinned of bark and bleached by the sun.

  ‘Do you know who it is?’ I asked.

  ‘No, not yet. But we have found a baseball cap.’

  ‘Good heavens, the driver. The person who drove the JCB off in the first place. But how did he end up in the shovel? If it is him. I mean, he was last seen in the driving seat, rampaging across parks. It doesn’t follow.’

  ‘Jordan, I don’t have time for this now. I’m too busy.’ DI James dug his hands into his pockets and swung away. ‘A nasty business.’

  ‘But you did ask me to cruise the pubs, which I did, at great expense to my weekly units. You did ask me to listen to the gossip, which I did, endlessly, and I got stuff from the security guard. You can’t cut me out now, simply because the crime has moved on from building site theft and damage to murder.’

  ‘How do you know it’s murder?’

  ‘You don’t put yourself in a bucket and let tons of debris fall on you. If you want to commit suicide there are easier ways. Say, an overdose of Valium, cannabis and a bottle of brandy.’ A fleeting glance crossed DI James’ face. He looked concerned. And that was a one-off. His brain was teetering between work and some tenuous link with normal human relationships. ‘You’re not thinking … Jordan?’

  ‘Heavens, no,’ I said brightly, storing that momentary feeling of concern. ‘I’ve everything to live for. Work. Shop. Several panting admirers beating a path to my door. Life is immense fun. Except that I don’t know where to eat. Mavis is staying out of circulation till her face heals. And by the way, it’s the same pair of thugs that held up the Mexican. One of them is called Chuck. Tell your nice DS Evans. He’ll be interested.

  ‘There’s Macaris, McDonalds or the Pizza Hut.’

  I shook my head. ‘No, thank you. Let’s find a small pub with music and a secluded garden.’

  It was an outrageous suggestion. But he did not seem to mind. His eyes softened and mellowed for a fleeting second before he went back to the grisly discovery. Was there more than an arm, or just a single arm? It made me feel so sick that eating was the last thing on my mind.

  ‘Sorry, James. I have to go. You know how it is. I’m following a dog called Jasper.’

  ‘See you around, Jordan. Don’t overdo it. You look stressed.’

  ‘I’m not stressed,’ I said indignantly. ‘I’m just ignored and lonely. When did you last come round for a coffee?’

  But he had gone. He was striding away, looking chilled and just as lonely. He was a man, work-obsessed. He had no time for anything else. Not even me.

  *

  Jasper was in the car. Sonia had left him locked inside. He looked miserable. He was cold and it was way past his lunch time. I did not know what to do. I could ha
rdly knock on her door and say I was representing the RSPCA now. I didn’t think Mrs Spiller would believe me. But why had she left the puppy in the car? Had she had enough of him? People threw unwanted pets out of car windows onto the motorway.

  I walked down to the end of the road and back again. The sky was leaden, dark clouds gathering in fistfuls. The temperature was falling. My hands were frozen. I ate a yawn. I’d forgotten my WI gloves again. I ought to have them sewn to the sleeves like a toddler.

  I went into a phone box. At least it was working and not vandalised. This was not a mobile type call. I put in some coins and phoned the local animal rescue branch.

  ‘There's a puppy been left in a car in Luton Road,’ I said. ‘It’s a bit cold for a puppy to be left outside, isn’t it?’

  ‘How long has it been there?’

  ‘About twenty minutes, maybe a lot longer. I don’t know.’

  ‘We’ll send one of our inspectors round. It won’t hurt to have a word with the owner. We could offer a training programme if the owner is having trouble.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘And what’s your name, please?’

  I put the receiver down and cut off the call. Sneaky, but I did not want to be traced. Nor did I want Sonia Spiller to catch sight of me and report that her stalker was about again.

  The answer was right in front of me. I went into the health centre, signed on and went upstairs, passed the changing rooms, the steam and sauna, into the gymnasium suite. It was not full. A few members glanced at me. I was not dressed for a workout.

  One of the high windows faced number eight. I climbed onto an exercise bicycle, set a programme, level six, and began pedalling. The extra height was just enough for me to see over the wall and into the front paving area of number eight. The car was still there with Jasper looking forlornly out of the back window.

  It was some time before a man in a fawn raincoat turned into the house. He stopped by the car and said something encouraging to Jasper. Jasper responded with violent tail wagging.

  He rang the bell and after a pause, the door opened. It was Sonia Spiller wearing a tracksuit, her black hair tumbled over her shoulders. A man stood behind her in the dimly lit hallway, one hand casually on the door.

  Was this the elusive Colin Spiller, the husband I had never seen? I leaned forward on the bike, perilously balanced on the pedals. My foot slipped and I almost fell, nearly catching my toes on the spinning pedals.

  I knew the man in the doorway. It was a shock. And it was not Colin Spiller. Oh no, it was a man I knew quite well. A man I liked. A man I trusted.

  Seven

  The bike went into a slight wobble as I hung onto the handlebars, my feet still slipping off the pedals. They spun round and caught my ankles on their next circuit. I leaned over to see what was happening on the doorstep.

  Sonia Spiller stormed out of the house, obviously annoyed, and unlocked the car door. Jasper bounded out, delighted at his release, all forgiving, poor doggy fool. The inspector was saying things which Sonia clearly did not like and she turned on him, giving him a piece of her mind.

  The man standing in the doorway made some comment, calling her back indoors perhaps. Jasper jumped around, getting in the way, adding to the confusion. The inspector gave Sonia some leaflets which she barely glanced at. Anyone could sec she was going to throw them away as soon as he had gone.

  I drew back in case they saw me.

  The confrontation was coming to an end and the inspector was losing. He shrugged his shoulders and walked away. He was used to awkward people and knew when to retreat.

  Sonia and the man went back inside number eight, Jasper scampering after them, and closed the door.

  I slipped off the bike, wishing I had not caught sight of the man in the doorway. I was not prepared to change all my opinions about him without further evidence. There might be a perfectly good reason for his presence. Though just what that was I could not think. I needed a walk or a good night’s sleep. If I could sleep. My brain was bruised and I did not like the feeling. I was lost in a maze of fast-growing prickles.

  It was getting dark. Rows of Christmas lights were glowing along the front and strung across the shopping arcades. Cascades of tiny silver lights twinkled prettily through the trees in the clock square, as if Tinkerbell had suddenly multiplied in their branches. Santa drove his reindeer from one store shopfront to another; a seal balanced a ball on his nose; Charlie Chaplin raised his bowler hat, then his walking stick. Latching council had gone to town with their decorations.

  The Christmas fair people were arriving, rumbling lorries with trailers and caravans, littering the seafront with food packaging and empty Coke cans. The young love the scary excitement of the funfair attractions, screaming their heads off as they pay to be spun around in the air at dangerous speeds.

  The tide was out, stretching blackly into the distance, the sand cold and dark. The pier tracked out to sea on grim stalks, dominant and forbidding. A loose shuttle of rain was peppering the deck. I avoided walking under the pier in the dark, keeping to the hard sand not far from the shingle. This was no time for going further out. My leather boots were not made for the shallows and pools.

  It was bitterly cold, but I welcomed the numbing. My brain did not want to think. Non compos mentis was more comfortable. I had to put a gate on my feelings and stop sitting on it. Emotion doesn’t travel in a straight line. The darkness was like a shield. I was hidden within it, scarf wrapped round my neck, hat down to my ears, hands thrust into pockets. The sand was a murky grey carpet, barely visible, rocks hard and sharp to catch my unaware feet. All my thoughts concentrated on walking safely in the dark, the sound of the waves lulling my ears, the wind low and mocking.

  I could not understand why we, as a nation, are so keen to scare ourselves silly. It was something to do with facing death but knowing that you are going to walk away afterwards, a bit shaken maybe, but unscathed. It was the thrill of acceleration, the spinning, the suspension, hanging upside-down, the sudden lurching towards the earth, chests flung hard against a harness or bar, the sickening drop. Errck!

  Every year the fair had some new attraction. Something higher, faster, steeper, more devilishly cunning. One day, some skinny thirteen-year-old blonde with butterfly clips in her hair was going to die of fright, strapped in mid-air.

  I’d once paid a pound to go on a rotor drum amusement ride. The Cage, I think it was called. All the kids were smaller and younger than me. It was my way of ridding myself of this absurd fear of funfairs. We stood against the inside curved wall, not talking. It revolved at a gentle pace. OK, I thought, I can cope with this.

  But all at once the floor dropped several feet and the drum gathered speed. Centrifugal force, fierce and unrelenting, pinned us against the wall. The kids turned themselves sideways, spread-eagled, upside-down. I closed my eyes and prayed for the ride to end. It was the most terrifying thing I’d ever experienced. I thought my inside was going to fall out or be flattened to a pancake. Something sharp stabbed into my thigh. I found out later it was my pen.

  It took me a while to get over it.

  The long walk along the beach helped my suspicions settle down and make some kind of sense. But the man in the doorway of Sonia Spillcr’s house was another male to be struck off my meagre list of upper bracket guys. It was shrinking rapidly. 1 knew the sea was dangerous in the dark, but I was beyond caring.

  Stars shone through the inky blackness of the sky putting on their own Christmas show. I climbed the shingle and found a gap between caravans parked on the front. Some of the caravans were bigger than my two bedsits.

  More lorries and forty-foot trailers were crawling along the promenade as a clutter of amusements arrived. They parked in allotted spaces and unfolded their contents like a magician’s box. The sides of the trailers let down to become the floor of a sideshow; central hydraulic hubs arose to support the wheels; cars and capsules and swings were slotted into place with the ease of fifty venues a year. Bolts wer
e slammed in, structures braced, motors run.

  The shingle disappeared, the sea retreated. The seafront became one enormous pleasure park. Win a giant stuffed lion, leopard, bear, dog on the Black Jack stall. Get it home somehow. There, what do you do with it? Sit on it? Give it to the hamster?

  Then I saw Sonia Spiller. She had hurried right into my line of vision. No Jasper tugging on a lead. She was obviously going somewhere and I had the perfect opportunity in these crowds to follow her. She had a heavy zipped holdall with her which she was swapping continually from hand to hand.

  It was easy to keep her long black hair in sight. Her sheepskin collar was hunched round her ears, crunching her hair untidily. I wondered where she was going with such purpose. Twice I almost bumped into her as she stopped abruptly. She was looking for someone, or watching out for someone. Someone who said they would meet her along the front, forgetting the crowds and the funfair perhaps?

  The milling crowd had become a blur, a noisy disjointed blur, but I kept seeing another figure. It was a man in a belted navy raincoat, quite smart and upright, wearing a sort of uniform. He had a dark cap on, but I could not make out what it was. Again, I got the impression of a uniform. I could not see his face, shut in shadows.

  Something was not quite right. I couldn’t pin it down. A feeling chilled my spine. A thin, driving spike of fear. Then the truth dawned.

  We were both following Sonia Spiller. He paused at the same time as me, half turning his face away; he hurried at the same time, not wanting to let her out of his sight. She was right. She did have a stalker. This man was definitely stalking the woman. Her instinct had been right.

  Sonia made a sudden dart across the road and into Macaris, the Italian cafe and ice cream parlour. She stood at the counter, ordering, and moments later took a tall, frothy coffee in a glass over to a bench seat. She cupped her hands round the warmth, her face a mixture of agitation and anxiety. She was clearly worried.

  Now I wondered what the raincoated man would do. He went into a bus shelter opposite and lit a cigarette. He leaned against the wall. But he wasn’t waiting for a bus. He let two Stagecoaches to Arundel go by before he even changed his weight.