Jest and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 5)

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe I ought to be more vigilant.’ I remember my odd feelings of fear. Perhaps she was following me, harbouring malicious thoughts.

  ‘And the rustic vandalism is still continuing,’ he asked, ‘even after Samuel Steel’s wife’s death?’

  Ah, the conversation was going in the right direction.

  ‘Yes, they’ve been there again. Early one morning. I missed it. I should have been up a tree but I wasn’t. They took a saw to some bushes. Mr Steel is distraught. He thinks his wife’s death and the wrecking are connected. He thinks that she disturbed the perpetrators and got killed for her trouble. He’s wondering if these spreadsheets are linked to Mrs Steel in any way.’ Deviously planted herring of pinkish hue.

  ‘Have you heard the autopsy report?’

  ‘No, of course I haven’t.’ I held my breath. His glass was half empty. ‘Was it interesting?’

  ‘It confirmed what we thought. She was not killed by the garden shears. They were not the primary source of homicide.’

  ‘How did she die then?’

  ‘She stopped breathing.’

  I could have hit him. These CID police officers think they own the world. But he was grinning at me. It was a joke which I did not appreciate. Death is no joke.

  ‘Don’t ask me to come to your funeral,’ I said.

  He covered my hand with his in a firm grip. His skin was warm and dry. ‘You are the only person that I’d want there,’ he said intently.

  A tremor of fear ran down my spine. There was always danger around the corner. The newspapers ran stories every day. A druggie who took out a knife; domestic violence when the husband brandished an old hand gun; car crashes chasing a drunk driver.

  I shivered. ‘Please don’t talk like that,’ I said. My parents had died in a car crash. The pain was never far away. When I wore the black leather jacket they gave me for my twenty-first birthday, I could hear their voices and their laughter. I look a lot like my mother, all this unruly tawny hair. She had tried to tame it into a chignon or a bun without success. ‘You’ve got straggles,’ I used to say when I was young. ‘I’m a straggly lady,’ she’d laugh.

  ‘Don’t look so sad,’ said Ben. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I was thinking about my parents. Sometimes it comes back to me like it was yesterday.’

  ‘Then I am here to change all that,’ he said very firmly. ‘I believe this life is good despite the crime and violence. And I believe that every minute is for living.’

  He took my hand to his lips. My bones melted a fraction. He was so sensitive, good-looking and streets ahead of any man who had courted me in the past. And so persuasive. Yet I did not love him. Something was wrong with me. My head needed testing.

  ‘Ben … ’ I said. I could only say his name.

  ‘I’m not rushing you,’ he said.

  ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘I know where you live, a couple of bedsits over a shop. But you don’t know where I live. Why don’t you come and see? I’d like to show you.’

  Red alert. Danger! Danger! My pulse escalated.

  ‘I don’t know … ’

  ‘I promise to take you home the moment that you say you want to go. Does that make it easier to say yes?’

  I hesitated. ‘Yes, all right.’

  He finished his glass of shandy and stood up. ‘Let’s get going then. It’s not far from here. The Gun is my local.’

  He led me out to his car. My heart was thumping. I wanted to run away but my legs would not obey. It was too dark now to see where he was driving me. I hoped I could walk back if things went seriously wrong. It would be a long walk.

  The trees entwined overhead in a gloomy canopy as we drove along a winding country lane, always climbing. His headlights caught the eyes of some small creature on the green bank. A rabbit? Where did Ben live? In a derelict barn? Then we began to climb a bumpy track. I hung on to the seat belt. I think I knew where we were heading. Hadn’t I walked this track, a long time ago, before my PI work took over my time and my feet?

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘You’ll soon see,’ he said mysteriously.

  He took a sharp right and we were bumping up another track. The sacrum and coccyx regions of my spine were protesting. A round building loomed ahead, its crenellated roof etched against the sky. I knew where we were. It was Marchmont Tower, the local folly.

  ‘This is the folly, the one on the Downs,’ I said, intrigued. ‘I didn’t know anyone lived in it. I thought it was derelict.’

  ‘Marchmont Tower,’ said Ben, sitting back and enjoying my look of surprise. ‘It was built in 1841 by a Lord Marchmont. He wanted to block the view of his neighbour, a local farmer who refused to sell him some land.’

  ‘How weird. But then I suppose all follies have an eccentric history. But do you live here?’

  ‘Sure. The tower was converted into a home probably ten years ago and mostly it’s let out. It’s all stairs. I hope you don’t get vertigo. Four rooms, one on top of each other. The views are quite magnificent over the Downs. You can even see the sea on a clear day.’

  My curiosity overtook any caution. I followed Ben into the tower. It was built of stone with Sussex pebble ornamentation round the door and windows. The ground floor was a big kitchen. A bachelor kitchen. I itched to get going on the pile of washing up in the sink. The scrubbed oak table in the centre had the remains of several meals, with sauce bottles and newspapers.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s always a rush, getting called out at odd times. We never manage to catch up. This is the only floor with water. The bathroom was built on and is out the back. The sitting room is on the first floor with two bedrooms above. Want to come up? I can offer you a nightcap.’

  A nightcap. I hoped this did not imply a cosy twosome with strings. I was definitely not staying.

  ‘I can’t stay long,’ I said breathlessly, following him up the narrow spiral stone stairs. It was pretty difficult, keeping a safe distance. ‘I’ve things to do. People to see.’

  The sitting room was octagonal which was unusual for a start with windows on four of the walls. It was furnished with two well-upholstered, comfortable sofas, odd low tables and rugs, television and video, radio and CD player. Books and newspapers littered the floor. They were catching dust but I liked the room. Nothing matched, which was part of its charm. It looked lived in even if the occupants had no time for housework. Occupants? Ben had said ‘we’ or had I imagined it? Perhaps there was a lodger or a partner. He had never mentioned a partner.

  Ben put on a disc, smooth jazz, my kind of music. Early Ella Fitzgerald. I was impressed. He had been doing his homework. Then, from a cupboard in one of the wall angles, he produced a bottle of wine. Wow. I could read the label. 2000 Marques dc Casa Concha, Cabernet Sauvignon, from Chile. I thought: classic blackcurrants. It tastes like a £20 wine but cost £7 from Safeways.

  ‘I’m not staying,’ I said again. It sounded feeble. I was feeble. This was a Grade A seduction technique. I should lie back and enjoy it.

  ‘Tell me about the fingerprinting you want done,’ he said, leading me to a sofa. This was not fair. It was one of those deep sofas that you sink into like gravity collapsing. When I had sunk about two feet into the cushions Ben brought over a large glass of wine. The 250 ml pub line was infinitely lost. ‘Taste that,’ he said. ‘Tell me what you think of it.’

  ‘It’s delicious,’ I said, after a taste.

  Now this I could get used to. The stunning wine, the big kitchen, the homely but comfortable sitting room with two huge sofas. I thought of my upright moral chair that discouraged amorous advances, and my minuscule kitchen counter where slicing a tomato meant bumping elbows. Folly, this might be, but it had immense potential.

  And the views. I had not seen the views yet but I could imagine them. I’m a sucker for views; solace for the soul. The rolling Downs speckled with sheep, dotted ancient woodlands, sweeping fields of corn and rape seed, glimpses of the sea as the
sun disappeared beyond the horizon. The tower might have a roof. I would not ask.

  ‘Has the tower got a roof?’ I asked.

  ‘Crenellated. Perfect for topless sunbathing,’ he said, nodding with approval.

  ‘I’m more into sunsets,’ I said.

  ‘Topless sunsets,’ he grinned, sitting down beside me. Not too near, but I could smell his lemony aftershave. He was drinking wine now. He was off duty. His shift had ended. He was all mine if I wanted him. But did I? That was the million-dollar question.

  ‘I’d like the fingerprints off a few spreadsheets,’ I said, tapping my bag. ‘There are about twenty spreadsheets, but I’m fairly sure they are all pretty similar. The same people would have touched them so you need only scan a few.’

  ‘What’s this got to do with the vandalized garden?’

  ‘You will recall that Anne Steel was murdered in her garden.’ This was deep water.

  ‘And these are her spreadsheets?’

  ‘They were found thereabouts … ’ I was floundering.

  ‘Now Jordan, you know that if they are something to do with Mrs Steel, then the spreadsheets are part of our investigation. What’s the content of the spreadsheets?’

  ‘No idea. Mr Steel gave them to me. They are connected to the garden investigation in some way. Just a few accounts, I believe, nothing special.’ That was a close call.

  Detective Sergeant Ben Evans leaned over towards me, putting his glass down on a table in the same movement, ‘I don’t believe a word you are saying,’ he murmured with a wicked smile, his eyes bright with amusement. ‘You’re not telling me the whole story. Now I don’t do anything for young ladies who harbour secrets.’

  I am not quite sure how it happened. But my glass was swiftly removed from my hand and Ben slid over and began kissing me very thoroughly. I did not move. They were wonderful kisses, soft and probing and the kind that made my stomach churn with feeling. He certainly knew how to kiss.

  A lot of men don’t. They are all slobbering lips and eating flesh. Women put up with them, thought of England, made shopping lists. Although I had never been married, I had read Relate reports and attended enough domestic violence in my WPC days. If only men could learn how to kiss properly. It ought to be an A level option.

  DS Evans was no amateur. His kisses were made in heaven. I lost count of how many times he kissed me, moistening my lips, tasting my mouth. I lost count of everything. Yet his hands never strayed. A gentlemanly kisser? He was a complete rarity. He would be wonderful in bed, gentle and considerate. I knew that. Maybe I ought to find out?

  He pulled the scarf out of my hair and let it fall around my shoulders. ‘Such beautiful hair,’ he murmured, letting the strands run through his fingers. ‘So fiery, so silky. Don’t ever have it cut off, Jordan.’

  ‘What about split ends?’ I don’t know what made me say it. I had to break the spell before I found myself climbing another flight of vertiginous stairs to the room above. We would not be admiring the magnificent views once there.

  ‘Another of my many talents,’ said Ben, laughing to himself. ‘Split ends are a doddle. Snip, snip.’

  Was he trying to tell me something? Snip, snip had another meaning. I hoped not. He was too young for such a drastic procedure. Supposing he wanted to get married and start a family? Supposing he … we … Ben had not exactly said anything, but those kisses had been full of feeling. I remembered other kisses when men had been using me. Joshua and Derek among the few. They all wanted something that I was not prepared to give. Joshua wanted big dinners and shirts ironed. Derek wanted to own everything on the cheap, preferably with me paying. What did Ben want?

  ‘I only want to love you,’ he said softly.

  ‘Love me? Are you sure?’ He had me confused now. I could feel his warm breath tickling my ear. I had completely forgotten the purpose of our meeting.

  ‘Of course, I love you, darling. How many times do I have to tell you?’

  It was easy to forget everything when Ben was kissing me.

  It was easy not to hear things, like a car stopping outside the tower and footsteps coming up the first flight of stairs. But it was never going to be easy to forget what happened next.

  Someone came into the sitting room.

  I knew instantly who was standing there. My head was obscured by Ben’s shoulder; his face buried in my neck. My legs were draped across his lap. Fortunately I was still wearing all my clothes.

  ‘Jordan? This is a surprise.’ The voice was cool and blunt. I could imagine his face.

  ‘Hello,’ I said weakly. ‘What are you doing here?’ I struggled to sit up, pushing back my hair.

  ‘What am I doing here?’ he enquired, strolling over to the player and switching off the music. ‘Making myself at home. Not difficult, Jordan. After all, this is my home.’

  ‘This is your home, James?’

  ‘Your hearing is excellent. Marchmont Tower is my home.’

  Twelve

  Ben and I somehow managed to extricate ourselves from each other and get off the sofa with a shred of dignity left. He offered to drive me home. He also kept the spreadsheets and half promised to do what he could about them.

  The narrow stairs were hard to walk down, especially when I could not focus properly. The treads seemed to come up at me. I went into the automatic tea-making routine, the solace for all suffering. And I was suffering. I found three mugs, the biscuit tin, sugar. I could not remember who took sugar and who didn’t.

  I looked round for a tray but abandoned the idea of carrying a tray up those stairs. I called out instead.

  Tea’s ready. Come and get it.’

  My voice was weird. It did not sound like me. I was emotionally blunted. It was strangled and strange, like an echo down a tunnel. Perhaps I was in a tunnel. Maybe this tower of a folly was inbuilt with a device that changed vocal vibrations. Folly of all follies. Oh yes, this was my folly.

  I poured out a mug of weak tea for myself, spooned in extra honey. I needed the sucrose.

  ‘If you stir that tea any more, Jordan, you’ll take the colour off the mug,’ said James as he came down the stairs and into the kitchen. There was no expression on his face. He looked his usual remote, immovable self. The scene into which he had walked did not seem to have disturbed him one iota. I suppose I ought not to be surprised.

  ‘You make the perfect cuppa,’ said Ben, also totally composed as if James’s presence was expected and normal.

  ‘I didn’t know you lived here,’ I said, trying to sound normal. ‘And with Ben. How long have you two been living together?’

  It came out sounding all wrong. That wasn’t what I meant. Every word I said made everything worse.

  ‘Ben has been here three days,’ said James, coolly. ‘His digs at Portslade were appalling and he had to move out. I offered him a room.’

  ‘It’s only temporary until I find my own place,’ said Ben, dunking his biscuit. ‘But I like it here. It’s pretty cool.’

  I swallowed hard. ‘So Marchmont Tower is actually your home?’ I said. James nodded. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘You never asked.’

  ‘I thought you rented a room somewhere.’ I was flailing about, out of my depth, wondering if I looked flushed and as thoroughly kissed as I was.

  ‘I thought it was time I had a more permanent place,’ he said, taking his tea outside. ‘You can’t live out of a suitcase for ever. ‘By the way, you never came by the station. I had some questions to ask you.’

  ‘They can wait,’ I said.

  *

  Ben took me back to my bedsits. I thanked him before getting out of the car. He leaned across to open the door, kissing my cheek on the way.

  ‘Don’t worry about James,’ he said. ‘He’s not shockable. He’s seen it all before.’

  What did that mean? Seen it all before? I imagined a procession of women climbing the narrow stairs to the folly’s sitting room and accommodating sofa. But in three days? That was some schedule.


  It was a relief to get back to my uncomplicated bedsits, despite the minimal space and moral chair. There was only one way to get my mind off the embarrassing scene I had escaped from so recently. Unpuzzle a puzzle.

  I took out the rest of the spreadsheets and laid them on the floor. I work better on the floor. Anne Steel was no Avon lady. These were not orders for moisturisers and bath foam. I put them in date order. I also ate Mrs Carlton’s delicious chocolate cake with a cup of black coffee. Comfort eating. It was understandable.

  The amounts gave no clues. Everything was a number slashed with a further number: 1952/33. It meant nothing to me. Unless it was a code. I went into code-mode without success. The dates covered the last three months. No wonder Samuel Steel had passed them over to me.

  The number 1952 came up several times. Perhaps it was a customer number or product identity, whatever it was she might be selling. Spreadsheets meant selling something usually.

  It took a long time to go through the small A5 notebooks. They were filled with a neat handwriting which I presumed was Mrs Steel’s script. I had forgotten to check. But most of it was a personal sort of speedwriting. Words that were not whole words. I ought to be able to make sense of it if I concentrated. Hs was easy = has. Hd = had. Bn = been. Some of her abbreviations were more difficult, even impossible. It was like a sort of diary, covering several years. Was she writing a book? This was giving me a headache.

  I sank back on to a pair of cushions, wishing I had some sort of insight into the woman’s mind. But she was dead. A pair of shears plunged into the neck. I had never met her and yet I seemed to know the woman. Her presence was everywhere in the beautiful house. There must be some reason for this murder and it might be nothing to do with the garden.

  These notebooks had the clue. But I could not see what it was. I put everything tidily away into a box and marked it STEEL/2. The box marked STEEL/1 was the garden. It was time to go to sleep and forget the day.

  But I did not get a chance. My phone rang as I was getting out of the bath. I wrapped myself in a big towel and staggered to my mobile, thrown carelessly on the bed.