Spin and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 3)

by Whitelaw, Stella

  There were shouts coming from the study. Shouts, loud threats and my blood chilled. They dragged Francis back. He was hardly on his feet. The tape had been removed from his mouth though his wrists were still tied behind his back.

  ‘I tell you, I don’t know where the money is or who took it home. No one knows.’ Francis was gasping but the words were coming out. ‘We had a sort of sixth sense about the security van breaking down. It seemed just too convenient. So we drew lots as to who would take home the bulk of the store’s cash.’

  ‘You’re making this up. We’ll tear the house apart!’ Chuck was choking with rage.

  ‘It isn’t here and I don’t know who took it home,’ said Francis. ‘Nobody does. So you might as well untie us and let us go.’

  ‘It might be true,’ said the other man miserably. He looked as if he’d rather go home. ‘Why don’t we give up?’

  ‘Give up? We can’t give up now, you fool! These two know too much about us.’ Chuck was chewing on the hem of his balaclava.

  ‘We don’t know anything about you,’ I put in meekly. ‘We can’t see you. Why don’t you just go and we’ll forget all about it.’

  This hit home. He seemed eager. ‘I’ve had enough of this,’ he went on. ‘We’re wasting time. Leave ’em tied up and let’s get out of here. Chuck.’ He’d let the name out. I hoped Chuck wouldn’t notice. It would be curtains for us if he had. But he was pacing the floor, trying to think where the money was.

  ‘Right! We’ll leave ’em tied up. Bloody useless! Why didn’t you find out about all this? You said the money would be here.’

  ‘How was I to know?’ he said, finishing his beer. ‘I’m not a bloody mind-reader. I’m not the brains of this outfit.’

  ‘You haven’t got any brains, you moron …’

  I lay very still. They were on the verge of going and nothing must change their minds. Francis had slumped onto the door and I prayed that he realised the importance of not doing anything.

  I closed my eyes as if I had passed out with fear exhaustion asthma attack. There was nothing I could do but hope that DI James had understood my call. He might be off-duty, raving it up at some New Year party, surrounded by adoring WPCs ready to unbutton their uniforms.

  Silence drifted down into the house. All I could hear was the ticking of various clocks and Francis’s breathing. It was too early to dare to move. They could be anywhere, rifling the fridge, seaching the house, looking for car keys.

  I heard the noise of vehicles being started and driven away. It sounded like two vehicles, different engine noises.

  ‘That’s my Mercedes,' said Francis in a low voice. ‘I’d know those revs anywhere. I gave them the keys so that they would go.’

  ‘They’ve gone then?’ I whispered. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Nothing that a good malt whisky won’t cure,’ he said, sounding remarkably cheerful. ‘I don’t mind about the car. I wanted a new one anyway.’

  ‘I’ll soon be free,’ I said, struggling with more vigour. ‘Nearly there … I’ll be done soon …’

  The front door burst open, icy cold air streamed in, and I froze. Detective Inspector James and Detective Sergeant Evans stormed in followed by a thrash of uniformed police.

  ‘Freeze,’ shouted DI James.

  ‘I already have,’ I said.

  ‘What have you been doing?’ DI James said, kneeling on the floor beside me. ‘Is this some heathen way of bring in the New Year?’

  ‘We’ve been waiting for you, that’s what we’ve been doing,’ I stormed. ‘What took you so long? I phoned ages ago. Didn’t you get my call?’

  He sat back on his heels, looking bemused. ‘What call? Oh, all that loo flushing? Was that you? I thought it was a hoax call.’

  ‘So why are you here?’

  ‘We got a call from a Miss Kent. She was worried. Apparently Mr Guilbert always calls her after midnight on New Year’s Eve to wish her a Happy New Year. And this year, he hadn’t called.’

  Miss Kent …’ I breathed.

  ‘And she told us about the security van breaking down.’

  ‘Two and two …’

  ‘Exactly. Move over. Let me untie the rope.’

  I sat up straight. It took an effort. My wrists were free. ‘Too late,’ I said, rubbing at the marks. ‘I’ve done it myself.’

  DS Evans was freeing Francis and I was relieved to see that Francis was looking better already. He went straight over to his drinks cabinet and poured two stiff whiskys.

  ‘Drink this, my girl,’ he said. ‘You were wonderful. What a woman. Such courage. I’m full of admiration.’

  I glowed in the praise. I couldn't think exactly what I had done but if Francis thought I’d been Joan of Arc, then it was OK by me. The whisky went down in small fiery droplets. It made me cough.

  ‘And the money, Mr Guilbert,’ said James. ‘Perhaps we ought to put it into safe keeping.’

  ‘But it’s not here,’ I said. ‘Nobody knows who took it home.’ Francis Guilbert was smiling, a mixture of sheepishness and satisfaction. ‘The money is safe. It’s outside by the bins, in the garbage bags you so kindly carried out, Jordan. The story about the secret draw … well, I lied. Sorry.’

  Twenty-Two

  The police arrested the two crooks at the Newhaven ferry terminal, trying to book the Mercedes on to a Channel crossing. There was enough on them both for charges of robbery with violence on three counts, car theft and attempted robbery and holding two persons against their will. DI James was pleased with events. It was a well-organised swoop.

  He told me that Chuck Waite had a record of petty crime. Chuck Waite? The name seemed familiar but I could not think where I’d heard it before. Then I remembered and more pieces fell into place.

  The syphoning of goods from Guilberts was part of a wider operation and had passed out of the hands of West Sussex. It was no longer an isolated crime, but referred to several Metropolitan county forces. I wondered if there was a reward. A mercenary streak.

  I clocked in for the New Year sales. It was the least I could do for Francis. No detective work, no being taken hostage. It seemed like a holiday. Francis decided to call by later in the afternoon, which seemed sensible after what he had been through.

  The creases had fallen out of the black dress. I took care with my appearance. DI James might call by to thank me for my help, bravery recommendation etc. The sales pace in the store was frenetic. Where did people get the money? Or the energy? Christmas should have cleaned them out of loose change.

  When Francis Guilbert eventually made a tour of the store, I stopped him discreetly near Electrical. It was noisy enough to drown what I was saying.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘A bit shaken,’ he admitted. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Annoyed more than anything. The police caught them at Newhaven.’

  ‘So I heard. Dl James phoned with the good news.’

  ‘Mr Guilbert, I have to ask you something which may be distressing. Can you tell me what Oliver was doing during the afternoon before he died?’

  I expected him to say Oliver was working in the store, checking accounts, at a board meeting, anything but what he did say.

  ‘Oh yes, I know where he was. He’d gone to visit Mrs Sonia Spiller, the woman who was suing us.’

  ‘That’s extraordinary,’ I said, taken aback. ‘Why on earth would he go to visit her? Surely everything was being conducted through your solicitors.’

  ‘I sent him,’ said Mr Guilbert reluctantly. ‘It seemed a good idea at the time. I wanted it to be settled out of court. Oliver was against a settlement as he was convinced it was a fraudulent claim. But I felt she might be satisfied with a modest payment and no costs.’

  ‘And did she accept a settlement?’

  ‘I don't know. I never spoke to him again.’ His voice broke and he turned away. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Jordan. I have a lot to do.’

  Both feet well in that time. Knee deep. Mr Guilbert had known all the time
that Oliver went to see Sonia and I’d been trying to keep it from him. But Sonia and Sara had certainly not been arguing about a settlement at the watermill. They had been going for the big one. There was a chink of transparency on the horizon.

  ‘Before you go,’ I said, hating myself. ‘I need to check Oliver’s briefcase. He did use one, didn't he?’

  ‘Of course. It’s in my study, at home. No one has touched it. Funnily enough, he didn’t take it with him that afternoon. I don’t know why. Come by anytime. Don’t look so worried, Jordan. I know you have to ask these things.’

  I’d seen the study. I’d been there, sat in the tapestry armchair, drinking wine. And Oliver’s briefcase had probably been there all the time, within reach. I had no instinct, no intuition.

  ‘I must look in his briefcase. And there’s news about Sonia Spiller. You remember that I told you that there are two of them, twins, Sonia and Sara. They are identical except for one thing. Sara has her ears pierced and wears two tiny gold studs in the lobes. If you look at the shoulder area X-rays and see tiny metal pin-point studs, then the woman examined is Sara, not Sonia. Sara hurt her shoulder last year, skiing on holiday in Austria. She was skiing off-piste, at her own risk, and took a tumble.’

  ‘Is this true?’

  ‘Yes, and I think Oliver had spotted the difference. He was very observant. I’ve checked on Sonia’s jewellery. She wears all clip-on style earrings. Maybe they decided to get rid of him. I think one of them engineered his death.’

  Francis Guilbert seemed to stagger, but then righted himself. He leaned against the edge of a counter. ‘But to kill him? Could a woman do it?’

  ‘An army-trained woman could do it. Or maybe it’s tied up with the stock disappearing. Oliver was on the track of that, too. We must look in his briefcase, find out what he had discovered. Your son was very bright. He employed me to follow Sonia but he was also doing his own investigating. He did not want to worry you. He was going to solve the thefts on his own.’

  ‘I wish he had told me.’

  I touched his arm. ‘Be proud of him, Francis,’ I said.

  *

  The briefcase was hand-stitched black leather, the best. It had a coded lock. Brilliant. I had to find four numbers out of millions which would open it. I tried Oliver’s date of birth; his father’s date of birth; his phone number, his mobile, silly numbers like 1234 and 3333. I could feel a familiar headache coming on when I thought of his pride and joy, the red Aston Martin.

  It worked. I tapped the three numbers of his personalised registration plus the initial of his name. The briefcase lock clicked open and I gazed at the sheaf of papers inside. Oliver had a file of delivery notes. He had scribbled on them, non-deliveries, empty boxes, van numbers, names of delivery men, staff on duty. He had not needed me. He was a one-man detective agency.

  Daffy’s name cropped up, again and again. The man still off sick after a liquid Christmas. Was he Chuck’s mate?

  Chuck sold stolen goods. Maybe Chuck had also stolen the Aston Martin and taken it to the midnight boot. He’d beaten up Mavis, paid for by a fisherman’s wife. But why the Mexican? Or the cinema? Or the funfair kiosk? Were they just a pair of small-time opportunist crooks?

  So, who had killed Oliver? Put a cool arm round his throat and broken his neck? Who’d driven him down to Hell’s Revenge, manoeuvred him into a ride seat in the dark, taped his head to the brace, sat beside a dead man for the whole nightmare spin, then untaped him and disappeared into the gloom. Chuck? Sara? Or Chuck and Sara? Sonia? Sonia and Colin? I was no nearer the truth.

  *

  I gave the facts to DI James that evening. Guilberts had closed to the sound of credit cards whooshing. Maeve’s Cafe stayed open. We were drinking tea at a table by a darkened window.

  ‘You solve it now,’ I said. ‘It’s your case.'

  ‘I have,’ he said complacently. ‘Do you want to hear some more facts? Daffy made a confession, i.e. he shopped Chuck.’

  ‘A confession is hardly solving a case.’

  ‘There speaks the voice of jealousy.’

  ‘Convince me.’

  DI James was looking far too pleased with himself. ‘Chuck and Daffy followed Oliver Guilbert to Sonia’s house in Luton Road, knowing they had to do something to stop his investigations. They found him talking to a woman about money. They didn’t know what was going on, but she didn’t try to stop them when Chuck crept up on Oliver with a head blow. However, they told her that he was only knocked-out and would soon come round. Of course, we know he didn’t.’

  ‘Was that when Sonia Spiller offered them the use of a neck collar? Instant first aid?’

  ‘Right. She seemed anxious to get rid of some holdall, wanted to get down to the front. Daffy said she became distraught, tried to leave. They couldn’t resist taking the Aston Martin, lifting Oliver’s keys. They took Oliver to the funfair, all three of them, propped him up in Hell’s Revenge for some air. Chuck rode alongside Oliver, then untaped him and left him to be found by the attendant.’

  ‘And they knew Sonia wouldn’t talk because she was a silent accomplice. That is Sonia or Sara, whichever one it was. And did you find fish scales in the Aston Martin?’ I asked.

  ‘Odd question, Jordan, but, yes, huss scales in the boot.’

  ‘I got a car load of huss, very dead, delivered to my shop. And Chuck is the brother of a woman, Tracy Jones, who has a sexy husband. And this bronzed husband happens to be a fisherman with a roving eye. Does that add up?’

  DI James nodded. ‘Mavis? A brother tempted to help out a grateful sister and get some ready cash? Chuck wouldn’t care.’

  ‘That’s my guess. And Chuck’s mother is Mrs Waite, Francis Guilbert’s housekeeper. She may have overheard something or seen papers at the house and passed the information on to her delightful son.’

  ‘Possible. Chuck was once sacked from Miguel’s restaurant for helping himself to the till. Although Miguel didn’t recognise him, revenge could again have been the motive. Nasty.’

  ‘And he was one of the waiters at Brenda Hamilton’s party,’ I added. ‘No connection, but weird …’

  ‘I’m surprised you can remembering anything about that party,’ said DI James.

  *

  It was a still winter’s night. So still even the stars had stopped winking, no dancing with frost. The pier was deserted. The nightclub was belting festive rock and noisily serving drinks. No one saw the woman at the end of the pier, walking along the lower angler’s level, then climbing down the girders.

  She lowered herself into the dark sea, not flinching at the coldness. Then she let go of the slippery bars and let the waves bash her against the ironwork till the tide took her out and the cold claimed her body.

  No one was ever sure if it was Sonia or Sara. The studs, if there had been any studs, would have fallen out of her lobes and drifted down to the sea bed. The female body was washed ashore in January somewhere near Shoreham.

  ‘Are you going to arrest Sonia/Sara for not reporting Oliver’s death?’

  ‘We’ve been round to number eight Luton Road. The house is empty. The birds have flown.’

  ‘The husband was her stalker. He’s an airline pilot.’

  ‘So they have flown indeed.’

  ‘What about the JCB rally driver?’

  ‘A good local doctor, retired, momentarily not of sound mind who was denied membership because of a change in rules. So he look it out on the clubhouse. He has been charged. He’ll probably get community service.’

  A doctor? With knowledge of amputation? I shuddered. ‘What about the two arms? Brenda Hamilton’s missing husband.’

  DI James made no comment about the name slip. ‘On the files, Jordan. Case left on file.’

  *

  But DI James was not right. Facts nagged at me. Daffy’s confession didn’t ring true. OK, parts of it happened. But not everything. Sara/Sonia were shielding someone.

  I could guess who it was. Colin Spiller. Both sisters were in love wi
th him. Perhaps he married the wrong one, was having an affair with the other. Sonia had said Sara was greedy, always wanted the best. Perhaps she wanted Colin, too.

  Maybe he had been in Austria, on holiday with Sara when she had her accident. That holdall may have contained the tickets, the brochures, the photos, the souvenirs of that illicit holiday. Evidence that now had to be destroyed.

  It was Sara who was at number eight Luton Road that afternoon, meeting Colin, when Oliver unfortunately called by. Maybe he spotted the pierced ears, said so. It was Colin who killed him, not the two thugs.

  Chuck had been telling the truth when he said Oliver was only knocked out. Colin, or was it Sara, who finished him off with a highly trained throat chop while the two thugs were outside, trying to start the Aston Martin. They never saw Colin, although he followed them down to the seafront to make sure everything went according to plan.

  How could I prove it? Well, I couldn’t. It was all instinct but one day I would tell James. After all, that’s why Jasper was shut in the car. They hadn’t wanted any interruptions.

  *

  The Bear and Bait was full. I had no real hope that the jazz would be good that evening, but there was always a chance. Then my special trumpeter walked in as if he had never been away, pushing back his floppy, silky brown hair and adjusting his glasses. His black clothes were crumpled and creased from a trans-Atlantic flight … but his jet-lagged eyes lit up at the sight of me.

  ‘Jordan, sweetheart,’ he said, closing his arms round me and kissing my cheek softly. ‘Long time. How are you?’

  ‘Where have you been?’ I asked.

  ‘Blowing a few notes, across the pond,’ he said. He opened his case and took out his trumpet. It was an instrument to die for. The brass gleamed in the smokey light. The mouthpiece was dry. He blew through it and winked at me. I folded myself into his presence. It was crowded and the only place to sit was on the floor, my back against a pillar, my eyes closed against the storm of sunlight.