Jest and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 5)

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘My fee is £10 an hour or £50 for a day.’ I’ll take the day rate. I want it done quickly.’

  I had no scruples. Mr Steel had paid me a retainer. No rate or time specified. So the work might overlap. Well, so what, I told myself. I wrote out a contract and George Hill signed it with a flamboyant signature.

  ‘Tell me exactly any dates and times that you can remember,’ I said.

  He got out a slimline diary, the kind I gave DI James for Christmas. Coward. I had wanted to give him the moon.

  ‘I’ve been making a note. Here are some of the dates and times that I wrote down. There’s lots more that I can’t remember. This is serious, I tell you. The woman is no teenage crush. She’s dangerous. I could be knifed on the street.’

  I was impressed. I wrote down a series of dates and times. George Hill was right. This was no ordinary crush. I hoped it was nothing sinister. Women go through hormonal changes which send them off balance. There was even an illness called

  De Clerambault’s syndrome. Perhaps it was one of those things.

  ‘And can you describe her?’

  ‘Easily. About forty, well-built, brown hair twisted up in a French pleat, good clothes, loads of jewellery. Maybe a face lift.’

  She sounded a lot like Anne Steel.

  ‘I’ll work on this straight away,’ I said. ‘But it may take longer than you think. Stalkers are often very devious people.’

  ‘Would you come with me to some gig?’ he asked suddenly. ‘Do yourself up, wear something snazzy. She might think you are my girlfriend and clear off.’

  I was not sure if this was a compliment or not. Do myself up? I’d rather go out with Jack from the Pier Amusements. He never tells me what to wear, bless him. And my jazz trumpeter, the man with the top F, is pleased that I am there, listening to his music.

  ‘Hello sweetheart,’ he always says.

  ‘We’ll see,’ I said. ‘If absolutely necessary, it could be arranged. If you think it would work.’ Shopping list: take black dress to the cleaners.

  It was the best I could do. Gorgeous hunk rose and shook my hand. He was in the wrong profession. He should be standing for Parliament. I would vote for him anytime. So would the entire female population of Latching.

  ‘It’s worth a try.’

  ‘Tell me a joke,’ I said.

  He looked at me in surprise. There was a theatrical pause, then he raised an eyebrow. ‘How many politicians does it take to change a light bulb?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Eleven. One to change the bulb and the rest to form a committee.’

  I raised a smile.

  ‘Not one of my best but you did catch me on the hop,’ he grinned.

  My office felt empty after George Hill had left. There was no doubt that he was a super stud. And he would improve with age. It was not fair. Men got better looking as they matured. DI James is a la carte now. In ten years’ time he would be an outrageous, hormone-racing, irresistible six foot plus of pulsing manhood with streaks of silver in his hair. And that was on a bad day.

  A distant rumble of thunder gave notice of the coming storm. I put a couple of umbrellas in the window. They always sold well. They did not merit a £6 price ticket as you could get brollies for a couple of pounds at Woolworths now.

  A woman came into the shop almost immediately. She was thin, hawk-like, wearing a long dress, floaty scarves and gloves. ‘That umbrella in the window, the one you’ve just put in, the one with the silver handle,’ she began without stopping for breath. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘The old black one? I didn’t notice that it had a silver handle.’ I was still in Hill haze.

  ‘Yes, but where did you get it from?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, from some house clearance perhaps. I’ve had it ages. I think it’s got a split.’

  She leaned against the counter, clutching the edge. ‘It’s my mother’s. How much is it? I’ll pay anything.’

  The £6 price tag swam back into view. A silver handle was worth £6. But it was her mother’s … My conscience wrestled with my acute business acumen.

  I went to the window and took out the umbrella. The black silk was faded, almost fawn in places. The silver handle was tarnished but a scrolled pattern was still visible. I could imagine some lady in the Thirties or even Edwardian days carrying this very elegant brolly along the front to shield her delicate skin from the sun’s rays.

  ‘Are you sure it is your mother’s?’

  ‘I’m sure. She’s dead now. But I remember this umbrella so well from when I was a little girl. She was very fond of it.’

  It was no contest. I took off the price tag and handed it to the woman. She looked at me in amazement. ‘Here you are,’ I said.

  ‘It’s yours. I couldn’t charge you for your mother’s umbrella. It’s full of memories, your memories.’

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ she said, touching the silk. ‘I feel I ought to pay you.’

  ‘Buy something another time,’ I said, much cheered by my own generosity. ‘You’ll need the brolly. It’s going to pour any minute now. Look at that cloud.’

  The sky had darkened. The Cornish coast was sending Sussex the clouds that it didn’t want. A strong wind hurried them along, streaking the sky with long arms of menace. I did not like the look of it. Thunder rumbled again, near this time.

  ‘You’d better get home.’

  But she seemed rooted to the spot and I almost had to push her out of the door.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ she managed to say.

  ‘That’s OK.’ This was one of my halo days.

  ‘You’re really very kind. Maybe one day I will be able to repay you.’

  It was starting to spit as she went down the two steps to the pavement. She hurried away, all fluttering scarves and thin legs. She did not look back, already lost in her childhood memories. I wondered what her name was. I should have asked. Contacts of any kind are always useful.

  The heavens opened, large drops splattering the pavement, and I drew back, standing in the shelter of my doorway, feeling the chill of the cloud burst. This rain might just revive Mr Steel’s lawn. It depended on whether the weedkiller had reached the roots.

  I pulled on a waterproof, blinked at the lightning, locked up my shop and set out for the Co-op. The thunderclaps were overhead, loud as an explosion, making me jump every time. It was not far to walk even when it was chucking it down and the rain bounced back off the pavements, so you got wet twice.

  Chapel Court was a lacklustre block of concrete flats designed by architects with no imagination and built by builders with even less. Plain, characterless identical windows. No balconies. No interesting stonework. Number 17 was on the top floor. It had a high-tech answerphone entrance. I pressed the button for number 17 but no one was in as I expected.

  I hovered, searching the area for similarly hovering woman with intense look. There was no one about. Only a woman walking a dog and she did not look once in my direction.

  I did a quick tour of the Co-op. George Hill had said she shopped there, but maybe only occasionally. I bought a tin of mixed salad beans and a jar of curry sauce. Curried bean soup? Every shopper had the normal frazzled look of busy, tired, irritated mums with whining children, legs hurting, depressed, complaining, or like me, passing through in a haze of boredom.

  It was still raining and the storm was right overhead, thunder stalking the Downs, lightning zagging the dark with electrical slashes. I was not frightened of lightning but I didn’t like the crack of thunder. It was awesome. As if a bit of heaven broke off and hurtled towards earth. Straight towards me.

  As I drifted away, wet hair wrapped round my neck, head down, a shadow crossed my vision. A woman had come out of Chapel Court and merged into the swirling rain. She crossed the road and then hurried into the supermarket entrance. There was something vaguely familiar about her although I knew no one who lived in the flats except George Hill.

  I went back into the Co-op and scanned
the aisles but she had disappeared into the crowd of shoppers. People hung around in the entrance, not wanting to make a dash for their cars.

  A line was nagging me. Was it something George Hill had said? Or something that Michelle had said? It’s annoying when a thought nags. I couldn’t shrug it off.

  Five

  The ladybird had been through a complimentary rainwash.

  Her spots gleamed, and the red of her paintwork glistened as new. Unfortunately I had not closed the passenger window properly and the upholstered seat was damp. I picked up Michelle’s sodden business card and took it indoors to dry off.

  I propped it on a windowsill so some air would get to it. The heavy clouds were rolling off in a different direction and the storm was clearing. The coolness had a tinge of autumn in it. Ah, were we being told that summer was over? Surely not already? We had not had our fair share of summery days this year. The heat had been a passing wonder, a haze of sea merging with sky.

  I stripped off my wet outer clothes and hung them up to drip. The card fluttered off the windowsill and landed at my feet. I picked it up and was about to stand it again, when I caught sight of some writing on the back.

  I turned it over. ‘Who’s next?’

  It was written in biro, the question mark smudged as if the writer’s hand had been sweating. Who’s next? I stared at the words. Who’s next for what? A wayward thought came unbidden and I caught my breath. Disappearing, desecration, stalking? Which of the three? My three cases. The hairs on the back of my neck cringed. The words had not been there when Michelle gave me the card. I’d looked on the back to see if the stagey CV continued. It had been blank.

  The words had been added while the card was lying on the seat in my car. It made me feel sick that someone had invaded my car, touched any part of it while I was not there. Someone who knew what was going on, perhaps a person who knew of my cases, someone who was involved in some way.

  Was it me next? And how? Acid on my car? Paint sloshed over my shop or worse, burning rags stuffed through the letterbox? Me being stalked and watched? Me mysteriously disappearing?

  On the other hand, it could be a nutter with nothing better to do. There were people like that.

  I hurried into some dry clothes, squeezed my feet back into clammy sandals. The discomfort went unnoticed. Now perhaps DI James would listen, take me seriously. I was desperate. I prayed for help. It was auto-pilot to the police station.

  The station was packed wall to wall with people. They were the feuding families of some domestic punch-up; both sets of relatives still arguing among themselves while a pregnant young woman was weeping in a corner and a young man was holding a bleeding nose.

  ‘I’m not having it,’ he was shouting. ‘You’re all f****** morons.’

  ‘Don’t you dare touch her,’ threatened a heavyweight mother, arms akimbo. ‘Leave her alone.’

  ‘She’s my wife.’

  ‘I’ll knock your bleeding head off,’ growled an equally heavyweight father, glowering. ‘You f****** her up.’

  ‘You leave my son alone! You ignorant bastard!’

  It sounded potentially dangerous. I bleeped the swear words out of my head, left the desk sergeant and the WPCs to deal with the party and wandered off to look for DI James. He would not be involved in a domestic. The same old notices hung on the corridor walls. Upstairs was out of bounds for the public but I was not public. Surely an ex-WPC had special privileges?

  He was sitting at his desk, body swung away from the door, talking on the phone. He did not hear me come in. I could stand and drink in the broad shoulders and dark, cropped head without anyone wondering. Just being there and watching him at work calmed my nerves. I even felt a twinge of lust. The back of his neck was strong and muscled though he was rubbing it with one hand as if it was stiff. My fingers knew exactly where to find those tense muscles.

  ‘I want that information by tomorrow morning,’ he was saying. ‘On my desk. No more excuses. You’ve had enough time.’ His voice was firm, authoritative with a hint of menace. But no swearing, no blustering, my man in charge. I like a man in charge.

  He put the phone down, swung his chair round to face his desk and opened a file.

  ‘No,’ he said, without looking up.

  ‘I didn’t say I wanted anything,’ I said.

  ‘You always want something.’

  ‘Sheer exaggeration and unfair to age and gender.’

  ‘I don’t see what your age has got to do with it.’

  Neither did I but it was the kind of repartee that I used as a defence. ‘It’s got everything to do with it,’ I went on determinedly. ‘Take a look at this. I found it in my car.’

  The sodden card was drying deckled everywhere. But Michelle’s photograph was still recognizable though the CV was nearly unreadable.

  ‘Who’s this?’ DI James asked, looking at the photograph. ‘That’s Michelle Steel, daughter of Samuel Steel whose garden on Updown Hill has been rubbished. She’s the stepdaughter of Anne Steel, the wife who has since disappeared. Michelle gave me her card. Then, hours later, after the storm, I found that someone had written this on the back.’

  DI James turned it over. ‘“Who’s next?” Are you sure it was not already there, when she gave the card to you?’

  ‘Positive. It was blank. I know, I looked. Someone has nipped into my car and written on the card. They left the passenger window half open in their haste. Is it a threat?’

  ‘Unfortunately I am not clairvoyant.’

  ‘Nor are you polite, caring or interested.’ The violence of the brawl downstairs had rubbed off on me. I glared at him. James did not seem to notice.

  ‘Did you leave your car unattended at all?’

  ‘Of course, several times. I have not been sitting in it all day.

  If I had, I would have noticed someone getting in and writing on the card. My eyesight is not that bad.’

  ‘It could be a joke.’

  A joke. I simmered down. George the Jester. Could it have been George Hill? His light bulb joke had not been very good. But I had the feeling that his stage act would be smooth and sophisticated, the result of hours of scriptwriting, rewriting, rehearsal, timing and delivery.

  I’m not laughing,’ I said.

  ‘Would you feel happier if I took a photocopy of the card and put it in the Steel file?’

  It was a gesture, even a slim one. I nodded. James got up and went over to the photocopying machine. Just those lean movements were enough to send my pulse racing. I could watch him for ever. In that instant, I understood stalking now. I had the genes of a stalker too. Perhaps I might be driven to following James everywhere, standing outside the station, his home, waiting for a glimpse of him, except that I did not know where he lived.

  ‘Where do you live?’ I asked.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘In case I decide to stalk you.’

  ‘In that case, I won’t tell you,’ he replied. ‘I couldn’t stand the thought of you out there in the street, day and night, in the cold, in the rain, getting pins and needles, chilblains, a red nose.’ He was laughing at me now. A silent kind of laughter. It was one degree better than being ignored.

  ‘Have you any news about Mrs Anne Steel?’

  ‘None. We’ve checked the ports, airports, stations, hospitals, car parks. Not a sign of her or her white car. She’s done an Agatha.’

  ‘An Agatha?’

  ‘Agatha Christie, the author. She stage-managed her own disappearance for ten days or thereabouts in the Thirties. I’m not sure of the details. Harrowgate, I believe, was where she was found, the spa town. Perhaps Mrs Steel has signed into a health farm in a different name. Or she’s having a face lift at a discreet cosmetic surgery clinic and will return a new woman. That’s a strong possibility.’

  ‘Michelle and her stepmother do not seem the best of friends. Quite the reverse. Michelle does not have one kind word to say about Anne.’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ said James
, handing the card back to me. I did not want to touch it but dropped it straight into a plastic envelope. I am paranoid about prints. ‘Perhaps I ought to talk to her. She might tell me if Mrs Steel has a secret life.’

  ‘She’d invent a secret life for sure,’ I said. ‘Michelle is an actress. She might have been putting on an act for me. It has just struck me that this might be an elaborate piece of playacting to pull the wool over the eyes of innocent private investigator.’

  ‘Did you say innocent?’

  ‘OK, ignorant. I’m still learning, James. How deep do we have to dig?’

  ‘As far as it takes. You ought to know, you’ve worked here. It’s a long slog, turning over every minute detail and it all takes time. Relish your freedom, Jordan. You don’t have a tightrope to walk or a treadmill under your feet.’

  ‘I don’t have a pension either,’ I said.

  James slammed the file shut and stood up. He pulled on a lightweight jacket, loosened his tie. There was a momentary look of amusement. ‘Then I’d belter buy you an iced coffee,’ he said. ‘At Maeve’s Cafe. We could both do with a break.’

  ‘You’re bribing me.’

  ‘It’s a sweetener. I might want a favour.’

  *

  Doris was outside my shop. As usual, she was laden with bags of produce from a cheaper supermarket which she sold on. I was not sure if this was legitimate but then I was not an inspector.

  ‘Jordan. Your shop has been shut for days. What is happening? Are you having an affair with Miguel?’

  ‘No, I’m not. I haven’t seen Miguel for weeks.’

  ‘Then it’s about time that you did. He’s the only man who is any good for you. You never take my advice. His restaurant is doing great business and he’s so generous. You’re wasting your opportunities. He’d set you up for life, take care of you.’

  ‘Any more suggestions?’

  ‘We’ve a very nice mulligatawny soup in. We know you like it hot and spicy, like Miguel’s Mexican dishes.’

  ‘We’ve got? We know? Have you suddenly acquired a partner?’