Jest and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 5)

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘And the police are searching for her car?’

  ‘Yes. It must be somewhere.’

  ‘Would Mrs Steel have sold it? It must be worth a lot of money.’

  ‘She might have sold it but only under duress. It was her pride and joy and she was very fond of it.’

  Samuel Steel was clearly distraught. This was no playacting. He was pacing about like an animal, a film of sweat on his face, his hands clenched. His hilltop garden was a scene of desecration, shredded like an old secret. The sweeping lawns were scarred with ancient lava paths, burnt earth and long lost rituals. This was about the past. Some Iron Age fort. Bones long buried. I could feel an old animosity searing the air itself.

  ‘I can’t believe this is happening.’ He was talking to himself now, quite unaware that I was present. ‘Anne, Anne … where are you? Please come home. Please get in touch with me, wherever you are. Dearest, don’t leave me like this.’

  ‘Have you had any strange communications? A letter or phone calls? No threats? Had Mrs Steel received anything odd in the post in the last few days? A parcel or delivery?’

  ‘No, no, I don’t think so. Nothing.’

  ‘Does Mrs Steel have a mobile? Have you phoned her mobile?’

  ‘I’ve tried. There’s no answer. I don’t think it’s switched on or the battery has run out.’ Mr Steel was running his hands through his hair. I was starting to worry about the man. And I did not like the feeling in the garden. Lawns one night, house the next?

  ‘Have you got someone who could come and stay with you, Mr Steel? I don’t think you should be on your own.’

  ‘There’s my daughter, Michelle.’

  ‘Would she come over? Where does she live?’

  ‘Chichester. Half an hour’s drive and she’d be here. That is, if she’s in. She’s an actress.’

  ‘How lovely. Why don’t you give her a ring?’ I had a second thought. ‘You have told her, Michelle, haven’t you, I mean, about her mother?’

  ‘Anne is not her real mother. Anne is my second wife and no, I haven’t told her, but I will now. Michelle will come if she can, I’m sure of that.’

  So Anne was a second wife, probably younger and prettier, Botox and Barbie. I’d heard it all before. I did not ask about Michelle’s mother. It could wait.

  He hurried into his study and I heard him on the phone but the words were not audible. It was a long conversation. Michelle had a lot to say. I wandered about the garden looking for signs of entry, any indication of how the intruder arrived and left. He must have left something genetic behind. No one goes anywhere without leaving something of themselves behind. But what? I could hardly send the whole garden for DNA testing.

  A scrap of silver paper caught my eye. It was the screwed up wrapper of a Penguin chocolate bar. Not Mr Steel’s style. Nor would he have thrown the wrapper away in his own garden. I scooped it into a specimen bag without touching. People bite bars. There might be saliva on the inside folds of the wrapper.

  Mr Steel came out into the garden. He had a belled brandy glass in his hand and seemed steadier. ‘Michelle’s coming over,’ he said. ‘She’s not working at the moment. The acting profession is very volatile. She’s resting more often than she is acting.’

  ‘A bit like detecting,’ I said. ‘It comes in seasons. I either have a lot of cases or none.’

  ‘What do you do in between?’

  ‘I run a shop.’

  ‘How very sensible,’ he said, his voice full of shopkeeping approval. ‘I wish Michelle would do something like that. She just lounges about, drinking a vast amount of coffee.’

  ‘Could you tell me a little about your work?’ I said. ‘I don’t imagine that you are an actual butcher in a white and navy striped apron, serving in a shop or butchering out the back.’

  ‘No,’ said Samuel Steel. ‘Although I did wear one when I was younger, that is, when I was working in my father’s shop. I did learn the trade. But then I discovered that I was better at running shops rather than chopping chops, and began to expand. There’s now a whole chain of our shops and I have gone into retail supply. I supply big supermarkets with fresh meat.’

  ‘I don’t eat meat,’ I told him.

  ‘Very wise,’ he agreed.

  ‘Have you any competitors who might have a vendetta against you? Have you trodden on any toes?’

  ‘Heavens, no! What an idea. We all get on very well, play golf together. Anne is more likely to have a bridge friend who does not like being beaten.’ His face clouded over as he thought of his wife. He gulped at his brandy; not the way to drink it. He saw my eyes on the drink. ‘Would you like one?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, thank you, I’m working,’ I said, like a police officer on duty. I was also driving on Mrs Broseley’s punch.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please. Black.’

  We went back into the house and through to the kitchen. I could see Mrs Broseley’s handiwork. The gleaming pans and sparkling surfaces. Mr Steel knew how to make real coffee. Ground some Brazilian beans. I was addicted to the smell. As I drank the mug of coffee, we went through the possibilities of why Anne might have disappeared.

  ‘I hate to ask this, Mr Steel, but do you think she might have met another man? It does happen.’

  ‘Never. Out of the question. We are so happy together, always have been. No, that has never crossed my mind. We’ve been married eight years and they have been the happiest ever. Truly, Miss Lacey, there is no one else for either of us.’

  For a moment his face was uplifted, perhaps momentarily flushed by the brandy. He was, truly Miss Lacey, devoted to his wife. I only hoped that she was as devoted to him. She might be halfway to Sorrento with a darkly Italian lover.

  ‘And how about Mrs Joan Broseley, your cleaning lady? Could she know where Mrs Steel has gone?’

  ‘Joan? Heavens no. She’d have no idea. Wonderful cleaning lady, an absolute treasure, but they were not close, never were.’

  I hoped Michelle would arrive soon. I was running out of consoling-type conversation. DI James was supposed to be looking into this. He should be here, saying all the right things, looking severe and intense. I knew he was doing all the right things, but back at the station. Mrs Anne Steel was one case among many. Latching might be a sleepy seaside town, only a ghost of its former Georgian glory after Princess Amelia visited it in 1798. Before then it had been a small fishing village with night-time smugglers. But now, in its new growing catalyst, crime was expanding alongside commerce.

  My shop, First Class Junk, was an expansion. First Class Investigations was an expansion. Latching had not had a private investigator before. I was the first. One day they would put up a blue plaque on my shop:

  JORDAN LACEY

  LATCHING’S FIRST

  PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR

  I hoped they spelt my name right.

  We heard a loud roaring noise heading up the drive. It could only be one of those little open roadsters with souped-up engines. Samuel Steel nodded.

  ‘That’s Michelle, my daughter,’ he said, putting down his glass and hurrying out.

  I followed him outside. The roadster was bright yellow, open topped, and Michelle was climbing out without opening the door. She was a dark-haired beauty, finely built, face like a bird. She was wearing skinny jodhpurs and a skimpy top that showed off her tanned shoulders. She came striding over to her father, all pent-up energy.

  ‘So she’s gone, has she? The robotic Barbie wife? Not before time. Well, all I can say is, good riddance!’

  Four

  Michelle launched into a passionate tirade as soon as her father went indoors to answer the phone. Most of it was vitriolic, anti-Anne stuff. It was like a scene from a play and I wanted to leave after the first act. Although I knew I should stay on in case any useful or useless information came up accidentally. I’d rather surf the Internet.

  ‘I’m not surprised she’s cleared off. Not exactly Lady of the Manor material. More Barbie of the Bar. With or wi
thout the extensions, Botox, the laser. Did she take a meat cleaver with her? She might find it handy in her next career.’ I’ve no idea.’

  ‘I expect the family silver has gone. Have you counted the spoons? She’s partial to the odd heirloom.’

  ‘I guess I ought to go soon,’ I said, interrupting the flow. ‘I’ve other work to do.’ Liar.

  ‘You’d better find out who’s done all this vile damage to my father’s beautiful garden,’ said Michelle. ‘Don’t bother about the ubiquitous Anne. She’s all right. She’ll make her own bed. Probably shacked up with one of those gorgeous fishermen on the beach.’ No, I didn’t think so. Mavis had a monopoly.

  ‘I wonder if I could have a contact number for you, Michelle? There may be several points to check.’ She handed me a flamboyant deckle-edged gold card which had a flash face photo on it and detailed CV. Michelle had apparently appeared in several soaps. Bubble acting.

  ‘Wow,’ I said, feigning impressed. ‘Well done. TV. What are you doing at the moment? Chichester Theatre is right on your doorstep. Do you ever get any work there?’

  ‘I’ve been in a few pantos,’ she said, not going into which pantos or when. Back row of the chorus? ‘I’m reading scripts at the moment. The rubbish they send me. It’s heart-breaking.’ Actor-speak for resting.

  ‘Your father must be very proud of you,’ I said, walking towards my ladybird. ‘I shall watch out for you on television.’

  ‘Don’t hold your breath,’ she said with a tinge of bitterness. She was a very pretty girl but I guessed they were a dime a dozen at auditions. It was that extra special something that made one hopeful stand out, and perhaps Michelle did not have that quality. I would never stand out despite my hair. They’d think I was merely a shadow or something washed up by the tide.

  A magpie strutted across the lawn like a male model. There was some folk poem about one magpie or several magpies but I could not remember what it was. They were either good luck or bad luck. You took your choice.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ I said, getting into my car.

  ‘Please yourself,’ said Michelle. She swung away, tiny hips swinging in tight jodhpurs, bikini line in view. ‘She damned well did this, you know. She didn’t care a jot about Dad’s garden. Or perhaps she paid someone else to do it. She’d know how to hire a thug or two. It’s probably charged to him on one of his cards. Bet she signed her name somewhere.’

  ‘Give me a motive,’ I said sharply, leaning out of the window. ‘She would have to have a motive.’

  Michelle’s face was twisted. It was not a pretty sight. The mauve shadowed eyes were hooded. ‘It was revenge, Miss Lacey. Revenge, pure and simple.’

  ‘Revenge for what? Mrs Steel has everything. A doting husband, a lovely home, car, money. Why should she want to ruin everything? I don’t understand. Revenge for what?’

  ‘Find that out and you’ve solved the mystery,’ she snapped. This was too enigmatic for me, yet I knew that things were often not what they appeared. ‘Thank you, Miss Steel. You’ve been a great help. Keep reading those scripts.’

  I was not sure if Mr Steel’s retainer covered investigating the activities of his wife. It did not seem ethical. I had never met the woman. Perhaps I had to find her and that would not be easy if she had disappeared. My resources were one spotted car, one mountain bike, a mobile and a clapped out portable typewriter. DI James: I need your help. One word might point me in the right direction. Phone me, please. He didn’t.

  I added two more names to my list of suspects. Mrs Anne Steel and Miss Michelle Steel or Michelle Tapley as she was professionally known. I had read the card before stowing it on the passenger seat.

  Michelle had a stronger motive than Anne Steel. She disliked the new Mrs Steel intensely and might do anything to drive a giant stake between her father and the woman. Even at the cost of his precious garden.

  Perhaps I should start by investigating Michelle Steel’s background and current pursuits. Ladybird was revving to go but I had not yet let off the handbrake.

  ‘By the way,’ I added, still leaning on the open window. It was hot. ‘Where did you train? Did you go to RADA?’

  ‘No, I trained at the Italia International School of Drama. I went there to combine normal schooling with drama training. It’s very well known.’

  ‘I have heard of it. So you took A Levels?’

  ‘I got three A Levels: French, Biology and Science. I was no good at English or Maths.’

  ‘Me neither,’ I agreed. ‘Still hopeless at Maths. I have to use all my fingers and toes, ears as well sometimes. Bye.’

  The ladybird was tired of waiting and leaped away as soon as I cased off the handbrake. Her interior was intense with heat and I could feel the backs of my legs prickling with sweat. The breeze through the open window was like a hairdryer on top volume. It lifted the hair round my neck, dried off my skin. The sky was a well of blue, limpid and lucid. Not a cloud in sight.

  Biology and science. Diverse subjects for an artistic drama student. Still, she’d know a few chemicals, paraquat and nicotine in particular, both highly toxic pesticides.

  *

  The light was changing and the air charged with a coming storm. I could feel it. So could every cat in Latching. Their fur stood on end, whiskers twitching, eyes watchful. Dogs, on the other hand, romped around on the beach, chasing seagulls, with their usual indifference to the weather.

  A man was pacing the pavement outside my shop. He was athletic looking, broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, over 6 feet, wearing immaculate white jeans and short-sleeved white shirt. His dark hair was tied back in a ponytail, his forearms tattooed with serpents. His appearance was a mass of contradictions.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Don’t you ever open your shop?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, fishing for my keys. ‘Won’t be a moment. Is there something you want to buy?’

  I had not sold anything for several days. No wonder shops are always changing hands or closing down. You had to sell a lot of stuff to cover overheads. Thank goodness my staff are unpaid and not prone to complaining. Staff = me.

  ‘I want to buy your time,’ he said.

  He had a really nice voice. Warm, deep, a pleasantly light baritone and casual. He held the door open for me. And manners … this was almost over the top. I was tempted to go back and see if he did it twice.

  ‘Please come in,’ I said politely, hoping the dust would not show. Me and my magnetic duster had not seen each other today. And I couldn’t feel sexy in a long-line bra. ‘Have a look round.’

  ‘I don’t have much time for shopping. Just lead me to the detective agency and the lady detective. Is that you?’

  ‘That’s me,’ I said modestly. ‘Please come through to my office.’ I needed another case. Desecrated gardens are static and somewhat unsatisfactory to work on. I put on the coffee percolator and asked my hunky visitor how he liked it. ‘Black, no sugar, thank you.’ Same as me.

  I got out a notebook, crossed my legs and tried to look calm and professional. He was disturbingly good-looking. He had the brightest of eyes, colour indecipherable, somewhere between grey and brown, flecked with gold.

  ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I have had a stalker for months and she’s driving me nearly mental.’

  It was the last thing I expected to hear. He looked so capable of taking care of himself. He could flick off a stalker with a toss of that ponytail. But apparently not.

  I poured out the coffee and handed him a mug. ‘I’d like to take some notes,’ I said. ‘Please begin with your name.’

  ‘My name is George Hill, George the Jester in the trade. I’m in show business. I’m a comedian. I tell jokes. Hire me for any event and I’ll make it swing.’

  This was disappointing, and it hurt swallowing the disappointment. I had expected a higher profile, stockbroker, lawyer, airline pilot. And here was an end-of-the-pier act, telling jokes at any event, making it swing.

  ‘Go on, Mr Hill.’

&nb
sp; ‘I’m well known on the South Coast circuit. People like me. I’ve bookings right into next year. But this woman is stalking me. She’s always there, at every function, every event. There she is, out front, looking at me. I can’t get away from her. Now she has found out where I live.’

  ‘Do you live in Latching?’

  ‘Yes, I live at Chapel Court. It’s a block of flats behind the Co-op supermarket. Newish built. Brick boxes. Nothing special.’

  ‘I know the block. And the number, please.’

  ‘Seventeen. That’s on the top floor. It’s small, just a home base. I work away a lot of the time and live in hotels.’

  ‘Tell me about this woman,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve just told you. She sits in the front row, staring at me. Everywhere I go, she’s there. Now she stands outside the flats, waiting for me to leave. The other day she was behind me in the queue at the Co-op. I nearly dropped the basket and ran.’

  ‘Hey,’ I said. ‘You’re a grown man. Surely you could cope with a woman in a queue? That’s not so difficult.’

  He gave a snort of pure annoyance. ‘You don’t seem to understand. She’s stalking me and I don’t like it at all. It’s an infringement on my privacy. I’m a very private man. I want to know who she is and what is going on.’

  ‘She probably has a crush on you, Mr Hill. You are a very attractive man and she may be lonely.’

  He was mollified for five and a half seconds. ‘That is not the point, Miss Lacey, and it’s far more than that. I want you to find out who she is and I want her to stop. No more. You tell her. I’ve had enough and am ready to go to the police.’

  George Hill gulped down the coffee. He was obviously annoyed. Artistic temperament. Two show business people in one day, an actress and a comedian. Perhaps I should specialize. PI to the Stars. I sat back in a momentary glow of career escalation.

  ‘So you would like me to find out who she is?’ I said, floating back to earth, my office, my shop.

  ‘Of course, that’s the whole point of coming to you. Find out who this woman is and get rid of her.’ His voice was unexpectedly edged with steel. The flecks of gold in his eyes had hardened.