‘You bet I’m suitable,’ said Mavis, growing inches, guts coming back, mental mascara being applied. ‘No one dare say I’m unsuitable. And I’ve got friends who’ll vouch for me.’
Friends … hunky fishermen. Brawn and bronze. They’d say she was suitable, take Jasper for power walks along the beach, teach him to obey, have the time and patience. They have to be patient to fish. It’s all those long hours alone at sea.
I knew I had done the right thing.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t come and see you on Christmas Day. I don’t know where the time went. Boxing Day I was working at the store. Sales time, you know. The stampede of the century. I meant to come, but I didn’t.’
‘Don’t worry, Jordan. I know about all the pressures you’ve had. Doris tells me what’s happening. She knows everything. You look thin. I must get back and feed you.’
‘James is missing your good food. He hasn’t eaten anything except take-aways since you closed. Open up for him, please.’ Mavis threw me a lancing look I had never seen before. She knew how I buried myself in longing. Perhaps my torment is close to her torment, only she gets better results.
‘I hate to ask you this, Mavis. Please don’t get upset or be angry. It is important in my enquiries. But your friends, your fishermen friends … what do you know about them?’
She made an indignant move as if to stop me but I fenced my hand and went on. ‘I know they are special and nice and extra hunky, and I don’t blame you, heavens no, for encouraging them, not for a moment. I am not making any moral judgement. But might it be possible that one of these fishermen has an extremely jealous wife or girlfriend or partner-type female?’ The seconds hung in a stiff silence, broken only by Jasper wanting to jump around and explore his new home. Mavis did not know what to say or where to look.
‘Well … there might be. What makes you think that?’ she said at last.
‘Chuck, one of the men who robbed you, and his mate, were picked up under the pier by a local fishing boat, after they had attempted to rob a funfair kiosk. Now, that starts to look like some sort of pressure to me. The fishermen are ninety-nine percent honest, measuring their catches in case a fish is half an inch too long. But supposing a jealous woman employed these two thugs to bash you up, then threatened her fisherman husband so that he had to help the robbers escape or you would get bashed up again …’
Mavis was trying not to look at me.
‘You're right,’ said Mavis, visibly shaken. ‘There is a woman who would do that. I know her all right. She’s as jealous as a green cat. Got red hair, face to match. She’d pay. Yes, she’d pay anything to keep … to keep him … this man … well, you don’t need any names, do you?’
I let her off the hook. ‘No names, Mavis. As long as I am on the right track.’
There were only so many fishermen along Latching beach. It was a dying trade. It would not take long to weed out the pensionable, the paunchy and those over the hill in bed. The hunks in yellow waders were few and far between, winching their boats up the shingle at dawn. Very few.
‘Yes, you’re on the right track, Jordan. So that’s why I got a face like this.’ She touched her bruises with care. ‘They weren’t after the cafe money at all, I can see it now. The money was petty cash. They’d been paid already.’
Jasper was bored. He wanted action, strained at the lead to make himself noticed. Mavis moved the glass mermaid I’d given her on to a higher shelf.
‘Come on, old fellow. Like a nice walk? How about twice round the pond for starters? That’ll give the ducks a fright.’ Jasper was all for a walk. He followed Mavis with complete confidence and trust. If she’d suggested a walk to the moon, he’d have gone along for the fun of it. They were on the same wavelength.
We cruised the pond a couple of circuits. Jasper was near hysterical with excitement, ecstatic tail thrashing weeds. He’d never created so much fuss. Ducks were a lot noisier than seagulls.
‘I can see this one needs a firm hand,’ Mavis grinned. She was already looking brighter. The brisk walk was bringing colour into her cheeks. ‘But I’ll manage him. I had a dog when I was a girl. It takes time and patience and I’ve got plenty of both.’
I gave her a hug and a girl kiss and she promised to open the cafe soon. Doris had some theatrical make-up that would cover the bruising, she said. I drove away, well pleased.
There was still a lot to do. I drove back to my shop and immediately knew something was wrong. My nose told me. My stomach shrank. The stench was awful.
I parked the ladybird in the rear yard and went in the back way, holding my hand against my face. It was not easy to make myself go through the office into the shop.
A pile of rotting fish lay on the floor. They had been posted through the letter-box. By the bucket. My stomach, the most delicate part of my anatomy, could not stand the sight nor the smell. I rushed back outside into the cold air, holding onto a wall, until my breathing eased and my brain took over. Instant shopping list: mask, disinfectant, lavender oil, new film.
I made myself take photos. Lesson recently learned: always take photos of the evidence. Wearing the mask, I cleaned up and disposed of the same, well wrapped, in distant bins. The lavender oil was on my pulse points and near my nose. It was the only way I could cope. Then when the floor was damp but cleared of debris, I scrubbed every inch with strong disinfectant. The fish fluids had soaked into the floorboards, taking off the polished stain. I wondered if I would ever rid the shop of the smell.
‘Hell’s Revenge,’ said Doris, pausing at my doorstep, nose wrinkled in disgust. ‘Fish guts.’
‘A ton of them,’ I said.
‘You’ve upset someone,’ said Doris, backing off.
‘Did you see anyone near my front door this morning? Someone with a barrow or a Land Rover or van?’
‘I saw a red convertible,’ she said.
I groaned. ‘No … I don’t believe it. Not a red convertible. Was it an Aston Martin?’
‘Come off it, Jordan, I don’t know makes of cars. They’ve got five wheels, one at each corner and one at the front and that’s about all I know.’
‘That car’s a stolen car. Someone’s got hold of it, but who and how? His father hasn’t seen it for long enough. Now it arrives at my doorstep and delivers a load of stinking fish.’
‘You’d better leave the door open, get rid of the smell.’
‘But I’m so cold. It’s winter.’
‘Put on another jersey. Who’s father?’
‘Oliver Guilbert’s. Oliver had a red convertible.’
Doris paused and thought, crinkling up her Joan Crawford brows. ‘That means that Oliver’s death is in some way linked to the two morons who painted by numbers on Mavis’s face and then robbed the funfair kiosk. Are you missing something, Jordan?’
‘I’m missing a brain,’ I said. ‘Thank you, Doris. I’ll call on you again when I need help.’
Doris was right. There must be a link. The three robberies were linked to Oliver’s death. Or whoever paid Chuck & Co to re-arrange Mavis’ face had somehow come into possession of Oliver’s car. If I could find out when he last had the car … his last day alive. The trail could go cold so quickly but the clue must be there somewhere. And fish again. This time through my letter box. It would take me some while to face fish on a plate.
The fair had arrived that day. Oliver had visited Sonia at her listed cottage. Where had he parked the car then? Suddenly I knew, at the health club opposite. A man who played squash so well would pump iron. Later I’d seen Sonia hurrying somewhere, followed by a man who could have been her stalker. She’d sat in the cafe, Macaris, then thrown a bag off the end of the pier. Oliver had been found on Hell’s Revenge with a broken neck. Brother, was this getting complicated.
The disinfectant and the lavender oil were winning against the fish. No customers today for sure. No one would pass over my threshold. But perhaps DS Ben Evans had a blocked nose because he made the leap.
‘Got a leaking pipe?’ h
e asked, stepping over the wet floor. ‘Looks like you’ve been flooded.’
‘I got flooded with a pile of rotting fish. Sorry about the smell. I’ve done my best. That’s why the door is open. Come through to the back. I’ve some good coffee brewing.’
‘This is better than that station stuff,’ he said, moments later, perched on my desk, looking very much at home. ‘Brown mud, I call it.’
‘Coffee is one joy in life that must be enjoyed slowly and seriously,’ I said. ‘It should always be good quality and made with care.’
He grinned at me. He had a nice face, openly attractive, regular manly features. The WPCs must be swooning in their black tights. A bit young for me. I really prefer that older, mature DI James look, his knit of anguish. And my jazz trumpeter who I had not seen for ages. Perhaps he was in the States, blowing his horn for a pocketful of dollars.
‘I can think of a few other things that should be enjoyed slowly and seriously.’ He was teasing but it suited me to make out that I did not understand. It was so long since I had slept with anyone. And that had been a single horrendous mistake. Mistakes are easy to make when your hormones are aroused and it’s too late to stop.
‘So, is this a social call? Did you smell the coffee? Or do you want to ask me something?’
‘All three,’ he said. He’d been on a diplomacy course. ‘You were working at Guilberts. You spotted that the goods were not being delivered, only signed for. You also got consignments checked and found the empty crates. What else do you know?’
‘Did DI James send you?’ I’ve such a suspicious mind.
‘Do you know anything about the outlet? Where the stolen goods are sold? OK, it may be country-wide. A few container lorries full of stuff and twenty-four hours later it’s on sale in the north. But what about locally?’
‘There’s a midnight boot,’ I said. What was the purpose in keeping quiet? But I did not want to involve Jack. He was an innocent customer. ‘Out near Ford, in an old barn. Don't ask me how people find out it’s on. Loads of dicey stuff. I recognised merchandise from Guilberts … well, I’m almost sure it was from the store.’
‘You should have bought sonic of the goods. It could have been checked.’
‘What was I suppose to use for cash?’ I scoffed. ‘Monopoly money? I don’t carry a wad. It’s up to you. And I can’t find this place again. It was in the dark.’
Suddenly I remembered the parking yard. I remembered the cars and vans parked in the dark, among the dense bushes and hedges. There had been a red car, long and low, its colour turned almost black in the shadows. I remembered the long bonnet and air vent. Oliver’s car. But he was already dead. Someone else had driven it there. I felt a headache coming on.
‘Thanks,’ said Ben Evans, rising. ‘I owe you. Want to come for a drink some evening? I hear you like jazz. There’s jazz at the airport terminal every Sunday evening. Like to come along next Sunday?’
I nodded dumbly. I’d go anywhere for some real jazz. My soul needed a transfusion. It was near to body breathing. The music would infuse me with glorious flames. Jazz began in the fields, men and women working, needing pulsating sound and beat to lift their worn spirits.
‘Sure. Phone me.’
I tried not to sound too enthusiastic. If DI James learned that Ben Evans had taken me out, then he might think I was spoken for. And that was definitely not the case.
‘Perhaps some of your mates might like to come along,’ I added. ‘The more the merrier.’
‘Your flood is icing over,’ he said, leaving. ‘Perhaps you’d better close the door.’
A thin film of ice had formed on the floor. Iced fish juice. I’d never get rid of the smell till the summer. I might as well close the shop and go for a walk. The sky was heavy. I didn’t like the look of the clouds, too dark and moving so fast. It was a northerly wind. Time to batten down the hatches.
I took a narrow short cut down to the beach. These lanes were only wide enough for a fisherman and his barrow, used daily by fishermen, nightly by the smugglers from the past. Only tourists used them now. And dogs. And seagulls. Canyons between houses, eerily empty, dark, cobbled walls. Field Row was haunted, they say. I’d never seen anything … yet.
The sea was churning, huge waves towering over the shingle. The pier had been closed already. The sound of the restless sea was ominous, torment of a seabed being uneasily disturbed. A storm was on the way. Somewhere isobars were wrecking havoc with the tides. People were scurrying home, heads down, not wanting to be caught out in it.
I pulled up my collar, jammed down my ski-hat and thrust hands into pockets. Perhaps twenty minutes’ ferocious fight with the elements would clear my mind. I had to lean into the wind to make any progress. Breathing was hard work.
It puzzled me how seagulls could fly in a storm. They are merely puffs of feathers, yet somehow they find thermals in which to wing it. They had more control than a human. You never see a seagull being tossed about like debris.
Some people were coming down to the sea with video cameras, keen to film the raging seas. A few brought toddlers in pushchairs. I wanted to warn them but knew there would be parental abuse. Those babies were at risk.
The beach guard driving his four-wheeled buggy was clearing people off the shingle. They were expecting a high tide. The sea was bucking and rearing like a nervous horse. But the sound was more like that of an enraged sea monster emerging from an underwater lair after centuries of imprisonment.
Rain clouds from the north opened up, drenching Latching with nasty stinging bolts of icy rain. The weather was getting worse. I could hardly see where I was going, keeping my eyes on the ground ahead, avoiding puddles, putting one foot down after the other with deliberation. My boots were sodden, the rain soaking through the stitching. The wind was determined to blow me over. I strained ahead, tried to cross the road but the wind made it impossible. The lower level from the front was like a wind tunnel.
‘What the hell are you doing out here, Jordan?’
The wind whipped his words away but I got the gist from his face. DI James was done up in a patrolman’s black bad-weather gear. Wind and rain resistant fabric, the kind they wore in the Falklands. He did not seem to have a patrol car.
‘I could ask you the same,’ I said.
‘The patrol car’s broken down,’ he shouted. ‘I’m walking back. Why aren’t you at home? It’s not safe to be out.’
To emphasise his warning, a dustbin came rolling across the road, its contents blowing all over the place. I hoped it didn’t contain a package of rotting fish.
Rain was streaming down my face. I was hardly Kate Moss but James had the arms and legs of a rescue team and I needed help. Not like when I was choking to death in an old cinema or locked in a hermit’s hole, but something simple, elemental, like being totally unable to cross a road without help.
He took my arm. It was not a lover’s caress but more old lady across a road type assistance. I took what pleasure I could from his closeness, even wet closeness.
‘Mavis is going to open her cafe soon.’
‘Good, I’m hungry.’
Before I could offer him ginger and lentil soup, a car came screaming round the corner, far too fast, heading straight for us. I was transfixed. James yanked me back onto the pavement, only seconds to spare, almost wrenching my arm out of its shoulder socket. It was a reflex reaction. The spray from the car wheels spinning through a deep gutter puddle drenched us both. I felt displaced air batter my face, sting. The car righted its spin with a screech and careered down the road.
‘Damned fool,’ James shouted again, his face angry. ‘He could have killed us. Are you all right?’
I hung onto his arm, swallowing hard, shaking. ‘They meant to,’ I choked. ‘They meant to kill us or kill me. They were after me.’
‘Jordan? Get your head on straight, for goodness’ sake. Stop imagining things.’
‘See that car that nearly hit us?’ I said, grimly, biting my lip till it bled. ‘That’s
Oliver Guilbert’s car. How many red convertibles are there in Latching? How many red Aston Martins? It’s a stolen car. It’s been missing since the day Oliver died. That’s his killer driving it.’
DI James took out his mobile and shook it. ‘Damned battery’s gone.’ I didn’t know if he was listening or taking any notice.
‘He was trying to k-kill me, I tell you,’ I whispered, teeth chattering. I could barely speak. My legs didn’t belong to me. They had gone walk-about and not in my direction.
‘But he didn’t, did he? He missed. If the driver was aiming for you then he was only trying to scare you. A killer driver would have mounted the pavement and slammed you against the wall. Splatter. End of Jordan Lacey.’
I nodded stupidly, wanting to believe he was right. ‘But that’s only what you think, and you don’t know. Perhaps he saw you and changed his mind at the last minute. I’ve got a mobile that works. It’s in my left pocket. You can use it.’
His hand went into my pocket, felt around and took out the mobile. ‘First sensible thing you’ve said in years. Let’s hope it works.’
His hand had touched my hip. It was almost worth dying for.
Seventeen
Sergeant Rawlings rolled out the VIP treatment, tea in a china cup, not a polystyrene burn-your-hands beaker. He opened a packet of low-sugar digestives, not a speck of fluff in sight. I was still shaking.
‘Can we dry her off?’ DI James asked as if I were a creature not a person, something just fished out of the sea.
‘The warmest place is by the radiator,’ said Sergeant Rawlings. ‘We don’t have any female clothing around.’
WPC Patel produced a scratchy towel and I dabbed at my hair and face, not really caring. My boots were sodden. Everything dripped. I took my boots off and put them near the heat. It would probably ruin the leather. I draped my anorak over a chair and the sleeves hung like washing, dribbling onto the floor. I could hardly strip off my jeans. They clung to my legs in folds of wet blue blotting paper.
Spin and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 3) Page 16