Jest and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 5)

by Stella Whitelaw

  Jest And Die

  Stella Whitelaw

  © Stella Whitelaw 2004

  Stella Whitelaw has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2004 by Severn House Publishers Ltd.

  This edition published in 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  One

  Summer was still on a roll along the West Sussex coast and the seaside town of Latching was caught in a soporific haze which did not improve my current lack of work. Even the villains were snoozing on the beach, clad in factor 30 and little else.

  Since various bits of me still needed time for healing, it was not all groom and tomb. The warmth of the sun on my bare arms was the gentlest of massages, the waft of sea breeze a kind of aromatherapy. Not exactly oil of seaweed, but near. My mind was coasting along on some internal thought wave that was half daydream, half sleep. A fringe area of consciousness that I could not name.

  This delightful state was broken by the low-key ringing tone of my new mobile. Having lost count of the number of mobiles I have owned and mislaid recently, it took me a few moments to remember the new procedure to log on.

  ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Jordan Lacey.’

  ‘Are you the lady private investigator?’

  ‘Yes, that’s me. How can I help you?’

  The caller hesitated. The voice of the man was county, polished, professional. I put him in his fifties, fairly well off, solicitor, doctor, architect. No clues, just an instinct.

  ‘My name is Samuel Steel. My wife and I live on Updown Hill.’

  The picture grew. Updown Hill is an area of large houses with large gardens on the outskirts of Latching. Its quaint name comes from the medieval past when traders and merchants struggled up and down the hill with their sacks and bundles.

  Now the owners of the spacious properties have BMWs and Jaguars and four-wheel drives to save them the uphill climb. ‘Yes, Mr Steel.’

  ‘I am at my wit’s end and I just don’t know what to do.’

  I was beginning to doze again in the sun.

  ‘You see, my lawn is being killed off.’

  I wondered if I had misheard. His firstborn? His fawn? A pet prawn? ‘Your what, Mr Steel?’

  ‘My lawn. I have a very beautiful garden and my lawn is being decimated. Someone is doing it on purpose. I know we have had a lot of sunshine and very little rain, but this is most peculiar, not normal at all. And now there’s a footprint.’

  ‘Footprint? What sort of footprint? Where?’

  ‘On the verge outside the garden. A sort of burnt out footprint. Quite definitely in the shape of a boot.’

  ‘Who wears boots in this weather?’ I remarked.

  ‘Exactly. That’s why I’d like you to come and talk to me. I know it may not be the kind of criminal investigation that you usually take on, but I would appreciate your opinion.’

  He obviously did not know that I live on serving court papers, finding lost animals, lost husbands, lost anything, and surveillance cases. A dying lawn might be refreshingly different. ‘Have you spoken to the police?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not really up their street, they said. Vandalism is rife in town. But the detective I spoke to gave me your number. He seemed to think you were the right person.’

  Detective Inspector James or Detective Sergeant Evans. It could be either. My two musketeers. One who barely tolerated the sight of me and the other longing to take me on an exclusive twin-bedded holiday. I was in the middle between them, caught in a trap of my own making.

  ‘Give me your address, Mr Steel, and I’ll come round and see you right away.’

  ‘We live at Denbury Court, Updown Hill. It’s at the top of the hill, on the right-hand side. I hope you have a car.’

  ‘I have a ladybird,’ I said mysteriously. ‘I’ll be with you in half an hour.’

  Half an hour was an optimistic guess so it was skates-on time. I half ran, half jogged back to my two bedsits. No time to explain why I live in two bedsits. I changed into summer working gear, clean jeans, clean T-shirt, leather sandals and scraped my hair back with a tortoiseshell claw.

  I grabbed a notebook, a banana and keys to the ladybird, then sprinted to my shop, First Class Junk. My shop is on a corner site with two small optician-style windows and it sells what it says, first class junk. Hours of combing the charity shops, going to house clearances and spotting a bargain, provide my stock. As the shop windows are small, I can change the display in minutes. Only a few choice items go in the windows, always with a theme. Nostalgia, war, music, herbs, the sea … The ladybird is parked in the backyard of my shop. She is a classic red Morris Minor, 1l00cc, with huge black spots and goes like a dream with minimal attention, as long as I remember to put in petrol and talk to her occasionally. I looked at the fuel gauge. Almost full. Thank the Lord. I had barely fifteen minutes left.

  I know Latching like the underside of my foot. Updown Hill is past the golf course and up a steep hill towards the South Downs, my second favourite walking area. The four miles of promenade and sea shore is always my first. Updown Hill is very select. You can hardly see the houses, lost behind trees, shrubbery and long drives. I bet the trick-or-treat kids never come here.

  Denbury Court was on the right-hand side, as Mr Steel said, a discreet hand-carved name at the drive entrance. I drove slowly, first taking in the absolute tranquillity and beauty of the garden, and then the signs of a garden dying. The once gracious lawn that swept up to the house was turning brown in lines. The herbaceous borders were shrunken and withered. Roses were drop-headed and liquid black. I could almost smell the decay.

  The house was a dream. Could I live there, please? An attic would do. It was a long L-shaped house, low roof, old stone, slate tiles, creeper, square-paned windows like rows of watchful eyes. The front door was oak, heavily barred with wooden dowels, and a long bell pull on a rope. The door opened before I even got out of my car.

  Samuel Steel was in his fifties, tall, a mass of grey hair brushed back from a high forehead, light-blue eyes, cleft in a firm chin, casually dressed in an open-necked shirt and chinos. He looked successful. Money oozed from his gold watch and hand-made leather tooled shoes.

  ‘Miss Lacey,’ he smiled, holding out his hand. ‘I’m very glad to see you. This garden means a lot to me and my wife. And someone or something is destroying it.’

  ‘Mr Steel,’ I said. His handshake was firm and not sweaty. ‘There certainly seems to be something wrong with your garden. Will you take me on a tour and tell me everything that you’ve noticed.’

  ‘It’s dying before my eyes,’ he said, turning away and shaking his head. ‘We’ve spent hours working on this garden. It’s our main interest outside the family.’

  I could see what he meant. The green lawn was disfigured with patches of scorched brown as if someone had painted out the grass. Mr Steel, talking all the time, pointed out the plants that were dying. Roses, peonies, begonias, dahlias and delphiniums, all drooping and curling into decay. Even the herb garden was affected. Every clump of herbs was shrivelling, tiny leaves burnt and blackene
d.

  ‘I know there’s the usual summer drought but this doesn’t look natural,’ I said.

  ‘No way. We have been conserving water and throwing it on the garden. The other gardens nearby are not affected. We are at the top of the hill and water drains down, but not to this extent. This destruction is heart-breaking. We’ve lost 42 plants already. Anne and I spent hours transporting and replanting shrubs which we grew in our former home and they were taking well. They had great sentimental value which can never be replaced.’

  I did not question the sentiment. I couldn’t see myself getting fond of a busy Lizzie.

  ‘Do you know if you have any enemies or perhaps jealous gardeners in your circle of friends or neighbours?’

  ‘No, never. I don’t know of anyone.’ He managed a grin. ‘We are all keen gardeners up here. My first wife never liked gardening but Anne loves it.’

  ‘Could you show me the footprint, please,’ I said.

  It was one boot mark burnt into the verge outside the house. I crouched down to look at it. The grass had been scorched as if someone had stepped into chemicals and left a footprint behind. I’m no good at guessing sizes so I asked Mr Steel to put his foot carefully beside the faint mark.

  ‘I take a size nine,’ he said.

  ‘And this is a good two sizes larger?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘OK. Someone is targeting your garden. They are using a chemical sprayer, the kind council workers use to kill weeds,’ I said confidently, knowing nothing whatever about chemical sprayers.

  ‘Glyphosate is the only weedkiller that kills grass,’ said Mr Steel, who clearly knew more than I did.

  ‘He’s dangerous,’ I said. ‘We ought to be able to find out the exact chemical from a sample. I have friends in Forensic who would help.’ This was sheer boasting. I have friends of a sort in Forensic who might, with a bit of arm twisting, help. ‘But I need to take a plaster cast of the boot mark first. It could be valuable evidence. Like a fingerprint.’

  ‘Excellent. What a good idea.’ Mr Steel looked much cheered by my efficiency. ‘I suppose we ought to cover it up so that it doesn’t get damaged?’

  ‘Right. Any sort of plastic sheeting would do, weighed down at the corners. Have you got one of those frame things? We don’t want any accidental damage. By the way, Mr Steel, do you have any pets?’

  He looked surprised. ‘We have two dogs. Jack Russells. We call them Jack and Russell.’

  ‘Jack and Russell.’ I wrote it down.

  ‘Yes, I know it’s daft,’ he went on, ‘but at the time we both thought it rather clever and funny. We have lived to regret it.’

  ‘They are lovely names,’ I said to reassure him. ‘And what does it matter if people laugh? But while this damage is being done to your garden, you should make sure that your dogs are kept in at night. If you have to let them out after dark, then take them for a walk on a lead.’

  ‘You don’t think that they could get hurt?’ Mr Steel looked shocked.

  ‘It might happen. Intruders don’t like dogs, especially the small yapping kind. He might turn the spray on to them.’

  ‘How awful. We’ll make sure they are kept in although they won’t like it. They like rushing about in the dark, chasing shadows.’

  ‘And I would like to have a word with your wife before I leave,’ I said. I cut an area of scorched grass with nail scissors and put the samples into a plastic specimen bag. Then deadheaded some roses and let them drop into bags. ‘That is, if you want me to take on this case.’

  Mr Steel stopped in his tracks. ‘Miss Lacey, of course we want you to take this case. There’s absolutely no doubt you arc the right person.’

  ‘You haven’t asked how much I charge.’ At that moment, I was not quite sure what to charge. I normally charge £10 an hour or £50 a day, but I did not want Mr Steel to think I came cheap. My brain went into a mathematical spin.

  ‘I don’t care what you charge,’ said Mr Steel. ‘Just send me a bill at the end.’

  ‘I’ll have to ask you to sign a contract and pay a retainer. It’s customary,’ I said, not believing my luck. I always carry a spare contract. I might fall over a lost tortoise.

  ‘Naturally. I’ll make out a cheque for £200 right now. Will that do as a retainer?’

  I took a deep breath, pure odourless Updown oxygen. ‘Thank you.’

  We walked back to the house and I took in the extent of the damage. Mr Steel had not shown me the garden at the back of the house. It was the same there. Long lines of scorched and burnt grass and plants.

  ‘Someone has been creeping into your garden in the dead of night with a lethal herbicide spray,’ I said.

  ‘Perhaps I ought to stay up all night and keep watch. I’ve got an air rifle. And a licence,’ he added.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Don’t let him know that you are on to him. We’ll let him think he is safe from being identified for the time being. I wonder if I could meet your wife.’

  Mr Steel left me waiting in a sort of hall, part study, while he went to find his wife. It was a room with character, long slim windows and beamed ceilings, classy furniture and heavy curtains draped and folded. His desk was a partner’s desk made of oak, leather-topped. On it was the newest flat screen computer and keyboard. A man with a business to run.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, returning. ‘I can’t find Anne. She must have gone out somewhere. She probably didn’t think you would want to talk to her. Can I offer you a drink?’ he said, going over to a cabinet.

  ‘Coke or juice would be nice,’ I said.

  ‘Orange or pineapple?’

  ‘Pineapple, please.’ I’d had enough orange juice to tint myself a delicate shade of carrot.

  He poured out a juice into a crystal goblet and added ice.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He made himself something stronger with ice. I reckoned from the waft that it was whisky or maybe rum. I’m not an expert on spirits. Memo: become an expert.

  ‘I’ll make out this retainer for you now. Who do I make it out to?’

  ‘First Class Investigations,’ I said.

  He switched on the computer, fed a cheque into a printer, keyed in the name and amount and pressed enter. It came out immaculately printed. I still write my cheques long hand, joined-up writing, biro.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Lacey,’ he said, signing the cheque in a normal, human fashion. ‘I take it that you will return soon to make a plaster cast?’

  ‘Almost immediately,’ I said, folding the cheque and putting it into my back pocket. ‘I have to collect some plaster.’

  ‘I’ll cover the print with some plastic sheeting in the meantime,’ he said. ‘And get a frame from the potting shed.’

  Mr Steel walked me down to where I had parked the ladybird. He was interested in my car, walked round it, but was too polite to say very much. I got into the driving seat and wound down the window. It was boiling hot inside the metalwork. The seat was burning my seat.

  ‘May I ask what you do for a living?’ I said, my hand on the brake, expecting architect, solicitor, stockbroker.

  ‘I’m a butcher,’ he said.

  People can surprise you. I was surprised. Samuel Steel was nothing like a butcher. I could not imagine him in an apron, chopping up chops, feeding pork scraps into a sausage machine, hacking great carcasses into weekend joints. Still, that is what he had said. I’m a butcher. Whatever kind of butchery he did, he’d made enough money from it to live on Updown Hill in Denbury Court. And someone was bent on destroying his garden.

  I knew how to make a plaster cast from my WPC career. I was once a WPC in the days when a certain detective inspector let a rape suspect go free when I knew there was enough evidence for an arrest. He did not like it when I filed a complaint. Guess who got suspended? No prizes.

  Let me explain, this was not the present hard-working Detective Inspector James whom I rate pretty highly even on an off day. DI James replaced the scumbag who has moved up north now. I hope I will nev
er see scumbag again. He lost me my job and my living. If I had not pulled up my socks, I might be sleeping in the beach shelters like Gracie. Maybe even alongside Gracie and her six supermarket trolleys piled with loot. Heaven help me.

  I drove back to Latching, blinded by the sun, hot and sweaty, hungry, already asphyxiated by chemicals. What a strange case. Still, the retainer was burning a patch in my jeans and I could not wait to get it to the bank. My last cases had not exactly made my bank manager glad to see me.

  My two bedsits were cool and welcoming. The side-by-side rooms have high ceilings and sloping roof corners. I have two doorbells, two keys and two kitchen sinks; unusual but ideal for my needs. I threw myself into the bathroom, shed clothes and stood under a lukewarm shower. Twenty-five Celsius with a sea breeze. It had been a long cool spring, a slow summer and now a tropical heat had burst on us with volcanic violence. A crazy climate but I was not complaining.

  I knew how to do acceptable impressions of footwear on a floor. Zinc powder and specialized lighting equipment. But plaster work had always been in the hands of a technician. Sergeant Rawlings would know. My clean casuals were still clean and I walked round to the station. It was my lucky day and the sarge was on the duty desk, looking hot and uncomfortable.

  ‘Jordan,’ he said. ‘This is a surprise. I thought you were sunning yourself on the beach, not like us cretins, working our butts off.’

  ‘Try getting yourself suspended and then you’ll have all the time in the world.’

  ‘Spare me the sob story, Jordan. We’ve heard it all before. How can I be of help?’

  ‘I need to make a plaster cast of a boot print. How do you do it these days? Where do I get the plaster? Are you still using plaster of Paris?’

  ‘Your memory is correct. But we also use a new quick-setting plaster.’

  ‘Trust in progress when my back’s turned.’

  ‘I daresay I could find a bag of the quick-setting, if you are in a hurry. Footwear prints get walked over so you’ve gotta be quick. You can replace it when you’ve got a spare tenner.’

  ‘What a tiger,’ I said, grinning. ‘You’re a star. My client will pay.’

  ‘Careful, Jordan. A star and a tiger. It could go to my head.’ He got up and walked heavily towards the back of the station.