Spin and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 3)

by Whitelaw, Stella

Francis Guilbert would have the muscle. Surely he could demand to see both sets? Maybe he already had them. His solicitor would advise him. But we had to have both sets of plates.

  I put Deep Chestnut back on the shelf and peeled away. I did not have to follow the sisters any more. I could prove there were two of them. It was such a relief. It had got a bit tedious and I was running out of disguises. There was a limit to my charity box.

  Time to celebrate. Another cappuccino and a Danish. It was treats non-stop and going to my head and my waist. I cruised Latching, trying to make up my mind where to hitch my horse. My brain was cafe hopping.

  *

  The warmth of the coffee bar and the sweetness of the Danish, apricot and apple, helped to sort out my plans. I had to make an uninvited entry into number eight Luton Road, and not merely to admire her stencilling. And I had to do it this evening, before my courage evaporated with the frost and before I saw in the New Year with Francis.

  I parked the ladybird in the health club car park, well out of sight of number eight and strolled upstairs swinging my bag. I could watch the lights in the house from the gym window. I sat on an exercise bike, keyed in a programme, uphill, level five, for six minutes. The calorie usage might knock off half the pastry.

  Lady Luck was certainly on my side tonight. Sonia came out of the house, all done up, got into her white Toyota and drove away. I wondered if she’d fixed her hair. There were no lights left on in the house. Then I remembered there was a forties band on at the Pier to bring in the New Year. She wouldn’t want to miss some jiving.

  New Year. I had almost forgotten that this was the last day of the year. It always made me feel sad. Time passing, parents gone, etc. I wondered if James had been invited to a party. And my trumpeter … where was he? All those jazz musicians would be having a rave-up somewhere, playing their hearts out, telling their outrageously silly jokes.

  And I was pretending to cycle uphill, watching an empty house, planning how to effect an entry. New Year’s Resolution: unmince words, i.e. say ‘break in’.

  I marched up to the front door and rang the brass bell.

  Surprise: no answer. I rang again and then walked round the side. It seemed deserted. No Jasper now. No Colin Spiller either. Perhaps he was on a long haul. I climbed over the garden wall and tried the back door. She had locked it.

  A small window had been left slightly open. It was enough. I climbed on a dustbin and managed to get my arm down inside. My fingers were still sore but I made them reach the catch of the larger window and open it.

  Once inside I wasted no time on Sonia’s DIY work. I knew exactly what I was looking for. I raced upstairs to her bedroom. I remembered an array of framed photos on the chest of drawers. It was not the wedding photo that I wanted, nor the childhood pictures of the twins. I didn’t need them. I had their birth certificates. But what I did want to look at was the photo of a group of young women in army fatigues, sleeves rolled up. One service woman was definitely Sara, her hair scrapped back into a pleat. I slid it out of the frame. On the back was written: ‘Sara, Sierra Leone 1999.’

  The neck collar was abandoned on a chair. I scraped off some fragments and put them in a specimen envelope.

  Sonia had a jewellery box covered in seashells. I raked through the contents. Again it told me exactly what I wanted to know. I was making a quick count when I heard a sound. A key turning in a lock.

  For a second I froze then I moved fast. Someone was coming in. I closed the lid of the box then I crossed the landing in a Hash and went into the small back bedroom. The window opened easily and I swung myself over the sill and let myself down, hung on with my fingertips and then with a brief look below, let myself drop. My WPC fire training helped.

  I fell into a flower bed and rolled over. It only hurt a bit, but I didn’t hang about. I hobbled for the wall and climbed over into the twitten. Head down and face covered, I hurried towards the centre of town. I needed to merge in with booze-buying crowds.

  I vaguely heard someone shouting, ‘Stop, stop.’ My car would have to wait. I’d go back for it later. Anyway, it was New Year’s night. No drinking and driving.

  My feet were hurting by the time I got to Francis’ house in the back of town. Perhaps he’d let me take my trainers off. I wasn’t dressed up, only London gear. There had not been time to change. I brushed down my clothes. Francis opened the door.

  ‘I hope I’m not too early,’ I said with a smile now my breathing had steadied.

  ‘Not at all, just about right. Come along in, Jordan. There’s some supper. Knowing you, I don’t suppose you’ve eaten.’

  I’d lived on coffee all day but I didn’t tell him. ‘That sounds lovely. And thank you for the pay cheque. You were very generous.’

  ‘Not at all. You earned it. Good staff are hard to come by.’ He looked pleased to see me. Perhaps he had thought I would chicken out, get a better offer.

  I remembered how much I had nearly charged that poor woman for two pillowcases and hid a smile. I took off my anorak and hung it on the old-fashioned hallstand. The house was warm and welcoming in its jewelled colours. There was a stained-glass window at the turn in the stairs. I didn’t mention my feet but Francis had noticed my ungainly stance.

  ‘How are your poor feet? I heard what happened. Do you want to take your shoes off? I could find you a pair of slippers.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘That would be far more comfortable. My feet are not healed yet. The cuts keep breaking open.’

  ‘Would you mind putting these two garbage bags outside by the bins first, Jordan? I don’t want to go out.’

  ‘Sure. OK. Give them to me.’

  So I saw in the New Year wearing Francis’ second-best slippers and drinking his best champagne. Supper had been ample, cold turkey pie and salad; apple cheesecake and cream. His housekeeper had done us well.

  ‘She’s been having a really bad time with her daughter lately. The girl’s in trouble with the police, GBH, I think she said the charge was.’

  ‘Grevious Bodily Harm,’ I said. It clanged a big bell and I hoped I wasn’t right. ‘Not very nice.’

  ‘Husband problems,’ Francis added, helping himself to Stilton. ‘He’s a local fisherman.’

  Oh dear.

  Then we watched the New Year coming in all over the world on telly, fireworks lighting up a dozen skies and people linking arms and drinking and singing, and I could see Francis was thinking of his son and there was nothing I could do.

  ‘Happy New Year, my dear,’ he said, toasting me, remembering I was there.

  ‘Happy New Year, Francis,’ I said.

  My keen ears caught the nuance of a noise, a foreign, close-by noise, despite all the celebratory racket on the box. ‘Did you lock the front door?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I rarely do. This is a safe neighbourhood. Nothing happens here.’

  ‘I think something is happening now,’ I said.

  It was like the fish and chips party all over again. The door burst open and two men came in, faces hidden in black balaclavas. Eyes behind slits. They’d been drinking. 1 could smell it.

  ‘Don’t move,’ shouted the short one. ‘This isn’t what you think it is. We aren’t going to hurt you. Shut up and do nothing.’

  ‘How dare you …’ Francis began, but he was quickly silenced by a knife brandished in his face. He went pale. I hoped he didn’t have a heart condition.

  ‘Great joke, well done, joke finished now,’ I said, waving my glass. ‘And a Happy New Year to you! Would you like a drink?’

  The shorter one hit my hand and the flute went flying, shattering on the floor. All that expensive cut glass, no longer elegantly cut.

  ‘Hold on,’ I protested.

  ‘Just you shut it,’ he said. He did not recognise me. He had no reason to. But I knew who he was. ‘Sit down here, both of you. And keep quiet.’

  The other man had tugged two chairs together, back to back, and we were bundled onto them. I knew what was coming next. I’d seen it
on the films. I closed my teeth and blew out my cheeks so that the adhesive tape would slacken a fraction across my face. My heart was racing.

  They tied us tightly to the chairs with thin rope. I stuck out my elbows and put fingertips touching so that the rope would loosen when I relaxed. Now my feet hurt and my hands hurt and my wrists hurt. This was becoming an epidemic.

  ‘Wanna know what this is all about?’ The shorter one was obviously the brains. I nodded but no eye contact.

  ‘Well, Mr Guilbert. It’s all about your contribution to a nice little pastime we got going on with collectables, i.e. leather goods, household, CDs, videos … you name it, we collect it.’

  Now I knew for sure. The two men were Chuck and his mate. And they were involved in the organised store non-deliveries, the midnight boots, the truck loads of stolen goods going north. Full-time criminals. They’d done the Mexican, the fair kiosk, Mavis’s face. They were versatile. It was time they were caught and serving secure time.

  ‘We don’t want no trouble with the police so we thought they might take a bit of notice of a few demands if we keep you under wraps, Mr Guilbert. A bit of luck there being a young lady friend with you. Now she’s going to be our trump card, know what I mean? Wouldn’t want anything happening to her, would you?’

  Francis started to say something but he was shut up with more tape slapped across his mouth.

  A hostage situation. My mind ran through the police procedure. It could take days, bugging the walls, experts brought in to set up a rapport with the men, food packs sent in. Meanwhile Francis Guilbert and I would be roped to chairs, tape across our mouths, longing to go to the loo.

  I was already desperate to go to the loo.

  Twenty-One

  Trying not to think about wanting to go to the loo was agony. I had taken in far too much liquid … coffee, champagne, water. My bladder was objecting. It was a misery. Pass me a catheter.

  The two men were making themselves at home, finishing up the turkey pie and cheesecake, swigging champagne in tumblers. I had no idea what to do. My new cheapo mobile was in my bag. It was on the far side of the room. Spiralling panic blurred the distance.

  Thought transference? I thought of DI James with intense concentration. I sent random thoughts to Jack. Then I thought about my jazz trumpeter even though he would not have the slightest idea what to do. He could not play me out of this situation even though the magical notes would be a comfort. Comfort stop.

  ‘I m-ave to mend a penny,’ I mumbled in desperation.

  ‘No way.’

  ‘M-m-urgent.’

  ‘Let her go,’ said the other one. ‘I’ll stand outside the door. She won’t escape. I’ll make sure.’

  ‘Mank you,’ I nodded with drowning relief, humble and grateful as they untied the rope. I jerked my head upstairs, as if I knew the layout of the house and grabbed my bag on the way out of the room.

  ‘Stop that! Leggo the bag!’ spluttered Chuck.

  ‘Period. Mime of the month,’ I mewed back, mouth still strapped with tape. ‘Tampon.’ He seemed to understand. Perhaps he had a wife.

  I found the bathroom upstairs. My guard stood outside, stance grim, looking at his watch. ‘You got one minute, sister,’ he said.

  One minute. I sat on the loo. I keyed in the D1 James code on memory and let it bleep. I didn’t have the time, or steady enough fingers to text him a message. I flushed the loo several times. He would hear cascading water again.

  ‘Francis Guilbert,’ I mumbled inarticulately. ‘We’ve been taken hostage. Hostage. His house. Help us. Please, James.’

  I came out of the bathroom, relieved at least. ‘You’ve taken a long time,’ he said.

  ‘Had to wash my hands,’ I mimed.

  I was tied up again and we were left alone. The two men were rifling the kitchen again, opening the fridge door, looking for beer now. They were not champagne drinkers. The knots were pretty secure. There was no way I was going to wriggle loose before starvation reduced my wrist size.

  We were sitting back to back so I could not send Francis encouraging eye signs. I wondered how he was coping. Nothing had prepared us for this.

  The two men came back with opened cans in their hands. It was a warm house and they were beginning to sweat. They’d shed their bomber jackets but couldn’t take off the balaclava helmets. I hoped the itchy wool was making their acne worse.

  ‘Now, Mr G, we’ll tell you exactly what we want. We want the combination to your safe. It’s not your wife's jewels we’re after though we might fancy a couple of baubles for souvenirs. A little birdie told us that your Securicor van didn't make its usual pick-up last night. Funny that, it broke down on the way from Brighton. So that’s a whole day’s takings unbanked. Pity. Quite a tidy sum, I should think.’

  I tried some quick maths in my head. A lot of customers paid by credit card or cheque but the cash transactions would still be a hefty sum. Multiply by the number of tills in the store … wow!

  ‘We’ll also take the keys to your car. We’ve got an order for a Mercedes.’

  I was pretty sure it was Chuck. All the same signs as the other hold-ups. These two men looked the same heights as the bandits who held up the funfair kiosk. It was cash they were after. I felt Francis stiffen and wondered what was going through his mind.

  ‘You ain’t got anything we want,’ said Chuck rudely, twisting my arm. ‘Though if Mr G has trouble remembering the numbers, we might start burning those pretty eyes out.’

  I remembered Mavis’s face and believed them. They were a nasty pair. He got out his lighter and flicked it on and off. Not a nice sound. I wanted to go home. I’d even settle for cooking a meal for Joshua.

  People were celebrating the New Year in all the capitals of the world. The television screen was still bright, but they’d turned the sound right down. I could see small flickering figures dancing around, waving sparklers.

  I tried to remember my WPC training; gain their confidence, begin bonding. Not easy with tape across my mouth. I started coughing.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Chuck.

  I couldn’t. The coughing was for real. Perhaps they thought I was going to choke. Chuck whipped off the tape.

  ‘Ouch,’ I spluttered. I was wheezing. ‘I’ve g-got asthma.’

  ‘My kid’s got asthma,’ said the other one. ‘Where’s your inhaler?’

  ‘In my bag.’ I always took it to London.

  He rummaged in my bag. He knew what he was looking for and did not seem to notice the mobile. Not surprising since I was using a soft suede spectacle case as a cover.

  I used the Ventolin, two puffs, and my breathing steadied. ‘How old is your kid?’ I asked. ‘Boy or girl?’

  ‘Boy. He’s seven. He’s got asthma, quite bad.’

  ‘Poor little soul,’ I said sympathetically. ‘Does he have to take his inhaler to school?’

  ‘The teacher keeps it in a cupboard. Let’s him have it when he needs it.’

  ‘That’s all right in theory,’ I said, keeping the talk going. ‘But do the teachers know what they are doing? After all they are not medically trained —’

  ‘Shut it! No more talking,’ snapped Chuck, advancing with the roll of tape. ‘Shut your mouth.’

  ‘I’ll keep quiet,’ I said quickly. ‘I promise. But don’t put the tape on me, please. I can’t breath with it.’

  ‘She can’t breath,’ said the other one. ‘She’s got asthma like my boy, Gavin. She could choke. Then where would we be? We’d have a stiff on our hands.’

  Chuck saw the defeat in letting me choke to death. No lever. He paced about, growling.

  ‘OK, but don’t talk.’

  I shook my head and sent a genuine thank-you look to Gavin’s father. He nodded once, briefly, and glanced away, not wanting to be caught. Chuck was in charge.

  ‘Good idea, actually,’ said Chuck. ‘Mr G’ll be able to hear her scream if we have to use a little persuasion.’

  His mate laughed, relieved at being let off the hook.
‘That’s for sure, she’ll scream all right.’

  It was difficult to bond with either of the men when I’d promised not to speak. I tried expressions, sweet, humble, friendly, co-operative. The room was getting very warm and the two men were sweating and agitated. I knew Francis was sweating. His hands were close to mine and I could feel the dampness.

  ‘Where’s the safe?’ Chuck said to Francis. ‘No funny business now. Untie him.’ They untied F'rancis and I took advantage of the activity to smile at them, then at Francis. His appearance shocked me. Francis was looking poorly, sick and pale and I was seriously worried about him. He’d had a rough enough time with his son dying, working so hard at the store and now this.

  ‘Look, Mr Guilbert isn’t feeling well,’ I said, but I was stopped with a smart slap across the face. It stung. ‘He’s ill, can’t you see it?’ Another slap nearly sent me sideways flying, me and the chair.

  ‘He don’t look right.’

  ‘Give him a drink,’ I ordered. This time the slap did send me and the chair onto the floor. I used the impetus to move my arms so that the rope was twisted round a thinner part of the chair than before. The rope immediately became looser. I was now lying with my back against the chair on the floor and they could not see what I was doing.

  But they did take off the tape and get some water from the kitchen. Francis nodded his thanks and drank. Some of the water spilled down his shirt. It was humiliating. My heart wept for him. I’d got to do something.

  My red hair exploded. I boiled over with indignation. How dare they do this to Francis? The soreness of my fingers was forgotten as I mentally planned the strategy required to untie the knots. There was now a slackness of about an inch giving me extra space in which to wriggle my fingers. I pushed the extra inch through the knot to loosen it.

  I could move a finger through one loop. Promising. They were taking Francis through to another room. He had a study and the safe would be there. He might refuse to open the safe.

  But not too much guts, please Francis. I’d rather he lived to see another day. The knots round my wrists were changing shape under my manipulation though whether they were becoming undone, I couldn’t tell. They might be creating a different tangle. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t feel and I didn’t have a clue what I was tackling. It was all part of my driving fury. Francis was my responsibility and he was paying me.