Jest and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 5)

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘I was not taken into custody. I was given a lift home,’ I said, with restraint. Tawny hair has a temper too, even when it is tied back with a scrunchie. ‘What can this grapevine tell me about Mrs Steel? I haven’t met her yet.’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ said Doris, moving on. ‘It doesn’t work backwards.’

  I was not convinced. I shut shop early and took my lunch break right then at Maeve’s Cafe, the best seafood and chips cafe in Latching. It was busy, height of the season. My regular window table was taken by a couple of wheelchair tourists. I did not begrudge them the view. The tide was out and they could enjoy the vast sand, endless sea and therapeutic sunshine.

  Mavis did not mention my ribs. She nodded towards a corner table at the back. ‘They’ll be going soon. They’re on their second coffees. You won’t have to wait long.’

  ‘I’ll wait here,’ I said, leaning on the counter for support. ‘It won’t hurt too much.’

  ‘I could start cooking your order.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ I said. ‘Grilled haddock fillet and chips, please. I won’t have cod as stocks are running out. Weak tea, if you’ve time.’

  ‘With honey.’

  ‘Please.’

  It was impossible to pin an age on Mavis. She could have been a worn-out thirty or a well-preserved fifty. The colour of her dark blonde hair changed with the seasons. She had a fondness for the bronzed fishermen who enhanced Latching’s shores with their muscular bodies. I envied her such a rampant love life.

  ‘I hear you have a friend who works up at Denbury Court for the Steels,’ I said casually.

  ‘Not exactly a friend. She’s my next-door neighbour, Joan Broseley. I met her this morning when I was out walking Jasper. She told me all about the shemozzle up at the house. It sounded like you. Thank you very much, sir. That comes to six pounds fifty. I hope you enjoyed your meal.’ She dealt quickly with a departing customer.

  The couple in the corner were collecting their belongings and leaving. I was only too happy to sit down and rest. Mavis would bring my lunch over when it was cooked. I wiped the table clean with a paper napkin. It was the least I could do.

  Mavis came over with a steaming plate of fish and golden chips. It looked succulent and the smell was enough to make me faint. I’d lived on cheese rolls for several days. Stodgily boring even with excellent apple chutney bought at a summer fete.

  ‘Thank you, Mavis,’ I said. ‘Do you think Joan Broseley would talk to me?’

  ‘I’m sure she would. She likes visitors. Take her a box of chocolate mints. Only don’t tell her I told you.’

  I nodded my thanks and tucked into the delicious food. I ate like someone on the verge of malnutrition. Chips with fingers, fish on fork. Don’t ask me to pass no etiquette test.

  DI James came in the cafe and straight over to where I was sitting. My heart missed half a beat. Where did he get those dark, brooding looks?

  ‘How come you get a seat?’ he asked, eyeing my chair.

  ‘Because I am nice to Mavis,’ I said. ‘And I’m an invalid.’

  ‘So bribing Mavis is my only chance today.’

  ‘She’s busy. But you could sit at this table if you bring over a stool. There’s room. Someone’s taken the other chair.’

  He sat down and rubbed his cropped hair. His tie was loosened and hanging at half-mast, shirtsleeves rolled up. ‘It’s hot. How is your rib? The cracked one?’

  ‘Painful. The only way I can sleep is to hug a pillow. It’s the one thing that helps.’

  ‘You could merchandise the idea. Cracked rib pillows.’

  ‘I’m not sure that there is exactly a vibrant market out there,’ I said, offering him a chip. My pounding heart had settled down. He looked so handsome, but dark and distant. His skin had tanned with the summer days. His hands and bare arms were a darker shade than his face. Very touchable but out of bounds. I found I could cope if I concentrated on the food.

  ‘Do you want to hear some odd news?’ he asked, reluctantly, as if I was the last person he ought to tell.

  ‘Sure. Shoot.’

  ‘Samuel Steel has reported a missing person. It’s his wife, Mrs Anne Steel. She has not been seen since the night of your tree incident. Yet you saw her arrive home, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ A chip stopped halfway. ‘I definitely saw her.’

  Three

  Mrs Joan Broseley lived in the same terrace of small Victorian cottages at East Latching as Mavis. Nesta Simons and her charming son, Dwain, also had one of the small houses. I was beginning to know the whole row. The Simons house looked closed up, windows dusty. They had either gone away, been sent away or removed entirely. Mrs Broseley’s house, in contrast, was bright and sparkling with whiter than white net curtains and a brass door knocker that outshone the sun.

  The duck pond and its inhabitants were surviving the arrival of Jasper, the untameable puppy who now lived with Mavis. Perhaps they had come to some doggy-duck agreement that he could chase them as long as he did not catch them.

  It seemed reasonable to me. I knocked gingerly, concerned about leaving fingermarks on the polished brass. I heard brisk footsteps coming to the door and it opened.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mrs Broseley?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Jordan Lacey, a private investigator. I’m at present working for Mr Samuel Steel and as you work for Mrs Steel, it seemed a good idea if we could have a chat.’

  ‘Of course, that dreadful business of the garden. Come in, miss. I’ve never talked to a real detective before.’

  I was not sure if I could be classed as a real detective but I was not going to argue and it was a pleasant thought. Mrs Broseley was a roly-poly, small mountain of a woman. Her flesh was a miniature landslide. Somewhere hidden in her face were twinkling eyes, button nose and a smiley mouth covered in glossy lipstick. She wore a brightly flowered tent and flip-flops.

  ‘It’s cooler in the kitchen with the back door open,’ she said. ‘I was making a cold drink. Would you like one?’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, following her along a narrow corridor. It was painted white with lots of colourful pictures on the walls and souvenirs from holidays in Majorca. The kitchen was yellow with white tiles, curtains and work tops. Everything was spotless. You could have eaten off her kitchen table.

  ‘Your house is a great advertisement for your work,’ I had to say. ‘I’ve never seen anywhere so clean and tidy.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, miss,’ she said, getting out a jug and starting to pour juice into it. ‘I really like housework. I’m never happier than when making a place look polished.’

  ‘I’m sure Mrs Steel appreciates your work.’

  ‘It’s a lovely house. They’ve got some really nice things. But the kitchen is a bit of a bugbear. I don’t go for that old-fashioned look. All them garlics hanging from the beams, gathering dust. I wouldn’t cook with that garlic. Is this enquiry about their lovely garden being wrecked?’

  ‘Yes. Someone is intent on destroying it.’

  I was fascinated by the cold drink in the making. Orange juice, pineapple juice, lemonade, cascades of ice and now a generous tumblerful of rum. Mrs Broseley was stirring vigorously, talking all the time.

  ‘This is my rum punch,’ she said. ‘I learned how to make it in Barbados. We were on holiday there last year. I got a proper recipe but I usually put in anything that’s handy.’ She poured the punch into two long glasses, added some sliced fruit and then two paper umbrellas. She handed one to me. ‘Down the hatch,’ she said cheerfully.

  ‘Down the hatch,’ I agreed.

  Phew. It was some drink. Tangy, tingy and icy cold. It went down like a glacier stream. I coughed on the alcohol as it hit the back of my throat. For a nanosecond I forgot why I was there. A breeze wafted in from the garden. I bet the garden was as tidy as her house. Petals ordered to stay attached till midnight.

  ‘Mrs Anne Steel,’ I reminded myself, twiddling the umbrella. ‘Is she a nice lady to wo
rk for? Do you get on well with her?’

  ‘Oh, yes. We get on very well, but I rarely see her. She leaves me alone and I don’t see her around much. She’s always out somewhere, bridge, workouts at the gym, golf, shopping. Mr Steel lets her do exactly what she likes. She’s very independent.’ And now Mrs Steel had disappeared. I said nothing. Mrs Broseley did not know yet apparently.

  ‘Do you work at Denbury Court every day?’

  ‘No, five days a week. I have every Sunday off and one day midweek. I’m taking today this week. It’s a very good arrangement. Flexible, you know. Would you like another drink?’

  ‘Thank you.’ The rum was cooling on a hot day. ‘Does Mrs Steel ever go off for days on her own?’

  ‘Oh, those weekends at the health farm? Yes, she loves doing that. Every few months, she’s off. Comes back looking really fit. She’s got such a lovely figure but she works at it.’

  Mrs Broseley needed no encouragement to talk. I was getting a good picture of Mrs Steel with every word. She would be blonde, slender and smart, wearing lovely clothes and lots of gold jewellery, driving her white coupe round the leafy lanes of West Sussex every day. Yet Mr Steel had given me a more homely picture, all this compatible hoeing and weeding. He said his wife had helped in the garden, that they enjoyed working there together. The gardening Mrs Steel sounded a different woman.

  When I eventually decided to leave, the kitchen had a fuzzy edge and my asthma was becoming addicted to the punch. I thanked Mrs Broseley, quite forgot to give her the mints, and went looking for my car. No way was I in a state to drive my ladybird. I’d have to walk first. I’d take the coastal path and enjoy the sea air. Clear away the fumes of the rum punch. It had been enjoyable but not conducive to solving local crime. Shopping list: water.

  The heat coming off the beach was blissful. I took off my sandals and walked in the shallows, the water cooling my overheated feet. (Does alcohol go to the feet?) The tide was coming in and I had to walk fast to get round the end of each groyne before a deeper wave made it impossible. It was a contest between me and the sea. I had to judge each receding wave and the amount of time it gave me to reach and scramble round the end post of the next groyne. My jeans got splashed as the tide entered into the spirit of the game, determined to beat me. Who was this mere human? Taking on the mighty pull of the moon. What impudence.

  Several dogs entered into the fun, racing me, leaping up with playful paws. I was still apprehensive about dogs since a violent encounter with a bull mastiff, but these were sweet-faced, long-boned collies and without a single vicious streak in them.

  ‘Good boys,’ I said, encouragingly. ‘Let’s beat the next one!’

  The dogs were not so worried about getting wet. But I was quite wet already. Sandy paw marks on my white T-shirt adding to my general disarray.

  ‘Hi, Jordan. Don’t you wish we were in Cyprus?’ a man shouted from the shelf of shingle. His jacket was flung over his shoulder. It was Detective Sergeant Ben Evans, my fervent admirer. I hoped he would not start kissing me on the beach. One could never tell. Even police behaviour is unpredictable on a hot day.

  ‘This is just as sunny,’ I said, not giving him the answer he wanted. He was not the paddling type. He kept walking alongside on the lowest rim of the pebbles.

  ‘We’ll make it another time,’ he said confidently. ‘I’ve still got some leave to come. It’ll be great.’

  ‘Sure. Are you busy?’

  ‘Usual mindless crimes. Robberies, muggings, car thefts. Latching’s normal happy holiday scene. What are you doing?’

  ‘Vandalism of a lovely garden on Updown Hill. Isn’t that exciting? No clues as yet apart from a crushed boot print.’

  ‘I’m sure you will give it your best.’

  ‘Of course, don’t I always?’

  Ben flashed his attractive grin at me. It was such a pity that I was not in love with him. It would have been so easy. But you can’t turn on love to order. I liked him, liked him very much. That was as far as it went. I sent him a return smile.

  ‘You are going to get soaked,’ he shouted as the tide raced in. ‘Bet you can’t make the next one.’

  The dogs made it, their legs deep in water but I did not. The waves swept over my knees, dragging me back as they receded, heels dug in swirling sand. I’d had enough. I staggered ashore, very wet indeed, laughing.

  ‘That last wave served me right,’ I said. ‘You put me off my calculations.’

  ‘Sorry. I did not realize the great mind was at work.’

  That’s what I liked about Ben. This casual ragging. As if he was my brother. The thought consolidated. Yes, I liked him as a brother, not a lover. But he was not in brother mode. Was I falling into incest? I did not have a brother. This was becoming too complicated for me to cope with.

  He took my arm as I staggered up to the shingle, pulled me towards his chest, kissed me quite thoroughly. My sore ribs winced in the embrace. I hoped he could not feel the long-line bra. But his mouth was both gentle and seeking.

  ‘Jordan,’ he said, the word coming from the pit of his stomach. ‘Darling … ‘

  It was the rum punch, of course, but I kissed him back in broad daylight. All of Latching could watch. A semi-porn video was showing on the beach. No, not quite. Not a stitch came off. It was all in the mind.

  ‘Ben,’ I said, disentangling myself.

  ‘Still love me?’ he asked.

  What could I say? I have never loved him in the same insanely passionate way that I feel about DI James. But I could not hurt him. Ben was nice, attractive, a dish. The sort of upright man that any normal woman would be thankful for. He was second-best for me and it was wrong to give him any encouragement.

  ‘I care very much,’ I said. ‘But I’m not going to say that I love you until I’m sure.’ It was the best I could do.

  He seemed satisfied. I felt as guilty as hell. We walked along the shingle, slipping and sliding. He took my hand.

  ‘How’s the rib?’ he asked.

  ‘Healing. As long as I am not grabbed by hunky men.’

  ‘Sorry. I forgot.’

  ‘I won’t breathe for a few minutes.’

  ‘Like to go out for a drink tonight?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Dancing, jazz, razzmatazz?’

  ‘Can’t promise more than a sober glass of red.’

  ‘Give me a call.’ I did not want to say yes. I could pretend to be out, not answer the phone. I’m such a coward.

  We said goodbye and I walked back to collect my car. On the way I bought a bottle of mineral water from a kiosk and drank the lot. Ben had not tasted the rum in my mouth. Life was taking me in strange directions. The tide was high now, pounding the shore in a dominant don’t-argue-with-me way. It was hissing and growling.

  ‘OK. You win,’ I said.

  The sea sucked itself back and returned with a smooth reflex action, washing over the pebbles, shining them with sea-gloss, strands of seaweed and dewdrops from a distant ocean. The sky was a reflective ceiling of blue with rags of clouds scattered like wings of angels. Sometimes I thought I had a guardian angel, but I was not sure. I might have seen him once.

  I walked back, wondering who could be so vindictive that they would want to destroy a quite beautiful hilltop garden. Whatever kind of chemical spray they were using, it had already killed the former glory of Denbury Court gardens. There was little left. Only dead and dying plants and scorched grass.

  Who would do such a thing? I made a list:

  1. Former employee of successful millionaire butcher.

  2. Former owner of Denbury Court.

  3. Present owner of Steel’s previous home, but why?

  4. Ex-lovers of either Mr or Mrs Steel.???

  The possibilities made me feel quite ill. How could I possibly track down all these people, find out what made them tick, discover if they had a hidden agenda? I preferred being up a tree. I’d bring my own sandwiches.

  And the disappearance of Mrs Steel was not my case load though I had
an uncanny feeling it was going to become so. I drove back to Updown Hill, carefully. The potent punch had worn off but blood tests these days are pretty scary. You can still be over the limit hours later.

  I turned into the drive of Denbury Court and caught my breath. The monster had made another overnight visit. Whole new areas of lawn were burnt brown. Where had I been while it was happening? I should have been here.

  Mr Steel came out to meet me. He was distressed, pale-faced, hands flapping and wringing. The whole atmosphere of the place had changed. Shafts of light were making crazy patterns and the acrid smell was overpowering.

  ‘My wife has gone, disappeared, without leaving a word. She didn’t say where she was going. I don’t know where she is and now this … What is happening, Miss Lacey? Please help me. I don’t know what to do. This is driving me mad.’

  I knew how he felt.

  ‘Please try to stay calm, Mr Steel. I’ll do all I can. You have informed the police, haven’t you? Perhaps Mrs Steel has taken a sudden visit to a health farm, something to surprise you?’

  ‘Yes, she might have but she always tells me. I informed the police as soon as I realized she’d gone.’

  ‘I’ll take some more samples,’ I said. ‘Try to date this stuff and identify the chemicals.’

  I put on gloves and found a patch, out of sight, that was still slightly burning, and dug around it, lifting the sod into one of my larger plastic specimen bags. I needed my own forensic expert. Some hope. Perhaps I ought to chat up a scientist.

  The garden smelt bad. It had that last breath feeling about it. Any moment it would turn over and expire. It was horrendous and pointless. What did it achieve? Nothing. Fortunately, no human bones around. I had a sudden nightmare vision of Mrs Steel immersed in a vat of chemicals.

  ‘I take it that the police are making all the right enquiries following Mrs Steel’s disappearance? Hospitals, ferries, airport? Did she take her passport?’

  ‘She took nothing, no money, no clothes, not her passport or credit cards. Only the car. The car has gone. Her white Mazda coupe. And I’ve phoned everywhere that I can think of, the hospitals, her friends. No one seems to know anything.’