‘Is that the woman in number three or number five?’ I asked.
‘Number four,’ said the postman. ‘Mrs Lechlade. Spends the rest of her time shopping, judging by all the catalogues. She ought to get a job. Keep her out of mischief. Well, I’d better get on.’
I held out my hand. ‘Number 17. Shall I take it up for you, if it’s a help?’
‘Thanks, mate. Save me doing the top floor. I’ve got nothing else for up there.’
I staggered under the stack of mail he offloaded on to me. If Mrs Lechlade had been shopping again, who was going to return all this stuff? Not me, I wasn’t paid in a secretarial capacity. Come to think of it, I had not been paid at all. Sum total of payment was the small amount I had left over from the money George gave me to get a taxi home.
I remembered where George kept his key, on top of the fire extinguisher outside the lift. It was still there. Thank you, George. Handy place. Lucky I spotted you automatically checking.
No yellow tape across the door. This was not scene of crime. I opened the door carefully. It looked pretty much the same. I did not think anyone had been in. Stale air. Perhaps he had a London address as well and this was a secret escape hole.
Never any letters from his stalker, George had said, but nonstop gifts. If his stalker was not yet aware that George had died, then Christmas would still be flowing to his door. It was. I did not open the packages, but from the store’s addresses, I guessed there was more Stilton, some CDs, and the long, flat packet from Harrods could only be a tie. Silk, of course. There was a lot of financial mail, items from several banks, building societies, heavy annual reports from companies. The joke business obviously paid well. I didn’t open them.
Time for a quick search of the flat. Along the tops of shelves and under shelves, under seat cushions, behind furniture. All the usual hiding places. Nothing but dust. I was very thorough. But there was something strange about the kitchen and I could not work it out. I stood, looking at the walls.
‘Dear George,’ I said aloud to the empty atmosphere. ‘Would you mind very much if I took the Stilton? It’s criminal to waste it and it’ll start to run in this heat. And the Belgian chocolates?’
I had a feeling he would understand. I relocked the door and was about to put the key back on the fire extinguisher, but then I didn’t. I kept it. No one knew it had been there anyway. He didn’t need it anymore.
On my way home I passed Gracie, Latching’s bag lady, with a convoy of heavily laden shopping trolleys on the way to her current beach shelter. I gave her the box of Belgian chocolates. She said nothing. Sometimes I think she has forgotten how to talk.
*
Leroy had said that the sequins would not stand up to dry cleaning so not to bother. They’d probably melt. I returned the dress to her at the estate agents in Rustington with my thanks and a flowering azalea plant. She wondered why I was a bit subdued but thought that the evening had not gone well.
‘But he liked the dress?’ she said.
‘It was perfect, Leroy. Quite brilliant. He loved it.’
‘But the evening didn’t work out?’
‘It … the end was a bit unexpected.’ There was no way I could tell Leroy that he had died. It sounded like my fault. ‘And one day you will tell me what happened?’
‘You’ll read it in the newspapers, only too soon. It was awful, but thank you again for the dress.’
‘Thank you for the lovely plant.’
‘Keep it out of direct sunlight.’
I stepped out on to the pavement.
A large lady was speeding by on a motorized scooter. I recognized her and waved. She did an immediate U-turn in the road and came up alongside me, her face all smiles.
‘Jordan, lovely to see you. I’ve been meaning to thank you for the invitation to your BBQ on the beach. I’m coming, of course, when you let me know the date. But do give me plenty of notice. I’m terribly busy these days.’
It was Mrs Edith Drury, chairman of Latching Women’s Institute. I smiled at her enthusiasm. I did not know I had even sent out invitations. It must have been by word of mouth. Doris was making sure it happened.
‘I’m glad you’re coming,’ I said. ‘It’ll be fun but don’t expect the kind of food your clever members cook.’
‘My dear, we’ve had twelve activity courses this year and none of them have had anything to do with cooking. I’ve been driving a tank.’
‘A tank?’ I was full of admiration, but come to think of it Mrs Drury had driven her old car a bit like a tank.
‘A group of us had a day at an Army track and drove a 13-tonne armoured tank and a Rapier support vehicle. We even had to drive them up and over a very steep hill. It’s called the knife-edge and the drop was hair-raising, I can tell you.’
‘Wow, that took some nerve. What are you going to do next?’
‘Hot-air ballooning, then gliding and canoeing.’
‘Sounds wonderful. When can I join?’ It was wishful thinking. I would never have time, but I liked the idea.
‘Anytime, my dear. You’ll be welcome. Must fly. Going to a meeting.’
My shop opened willingly. It was feeling neglected. I went through the post, mostly junk. Then I got a shock.
There was a jiffy bag addressed to me. It was not big enough to be a bomb but I opened it gingerly.
Some words were scrawled on the back of a shiny George the Jester theatre flyer:
Hi, Jordan,
I forgot to tell you I’m booked on a cruise ship for the next two weeks, so IOU several days’ pay. This is all the cash I have on me. Enclosed is a cheque. Carry on the good work. Come for a drink when I get back. Wear snazzy red dress. George xxx
It was a voice from the mortuary freezer and the cash he had on him was two hundred and ten pounds. The cheque was made out for five hundred pounds, that was ten days’ work. Moral dilemma: take the money and run. Take the money and find stalker. Take the money, find stalker and killer and present cheque to closed account?
I read the letter again. It hardly sounded like a man about to commit suicide.
*
I drove to Updown Hill, hoping to see Samuel Steel on his own, but his daughter, Michelle, came to the door. Her designer-faded jeans were as tight as ever, her face delicately made up, hair immaculate and glossy. She was not exactly grieving over the death of her stepmother. No dark glasses.
‘I’m very sorry about your stepmother,’ I said. ‘It must have been a shock.’
‘Well, I’m not sorry. She got what she deserved. Conniving bitch.’
Michelle was keeping her voice down as if she did not want her father to hear what she said. She had some human feelings for him at least.
‘Michelle, I don’t understand what you mean by that,’ I said. ‘It seems an extreme thing to say about your stepmother. After all, how long had they been married? So Anne Steel must have looked after you at one time, didn’t she, before you left home to work in the theatre?’
She didn’t exactly answer. ‘Father married her eight years ago. The wedding was nauseating. You’ve never seen such an elaborate extravagance and waste of money. I refused to be in any of the photographs. Father was annoyed, of course, but I told him I was feeling sick.’
‘Very diplomatic.’
‘You never met her, did you?’ Michelle tossed her head, her hand on her hip, eyes narrowed.
‘I never had that pleasure.’
‘Hardly a pleasure. She was two-faced, you know. Sweet as sugar to my father and anyone she wanted to butter up or get something from. But rub her up the wrong way and she was out for your guts. I still have the scars.’
‘Not physical scars?’ I hoped I was not actually hearing this.
‘Emotional, mental. She didn’t beat me up but she tried to wreck my theatrical career at one point, spreading vile and evil rumours about me. She taped a personal conversation and threatened to use it. It worked at first. I couldn’t get any work for months but I never gave in to her. It was always a f
ight between us. Father never knew, of course. She kept it from him.’
Michelle’s face was screwed up with bitterness, remembering the past. She was near to tears, but the tears were of rage and anguish. Her make-up was beginning to streak.
‘Michelle, you should really be careful what you say. This is a homicide case. You don’t want to find yourself the chief suspect.’
‘I don’t care,’ she said defiantly. ‘I’d have killed her if I’d had the chance.’
‘Now that’s a very stupid thing to say,’ I said firmly, suddenly being the elder sister. Michelle was childish beyond belief. ‘Take my advice and keep your animosity to yourself. Don’t broadcast it around. Police cells are no fun, even as temporary accommodation. They are minus any stars whatsoever and the food is terrible. And if you value the luxury of constant hot water and modern sanitation, keep your mouth shut.’
‘I’m sure you mean well, Miss Lacey, but I don’t need your advice,’ said Michelle, flicking back her hair. ‘Why don’t you direct your energies to finding the person who vandalized my father’s garden. That’s why you are employed.’
‘Your father has also employed me to make some enquiries into your stepmother’s death. I hope I’m not going to find leads that point straight to you.’ My patience was thinning. This was unbelievable.
Michelle looked at me with disdain. ‘I doubt if you are capable of finding leads of any sort. Your success garden-wise is minimal. Perhaps my father should be employing someone more successful, with proven experience in the field of private investigating.’
I swallowed my distaste for this unpleasant young woman. Her genes were in a nasty twist. I had to remember that she was not my problem.
‘I find your attitude extraordinary,’ I said. ‘This isn’t the way to make friends and influence people. I like the red slashed sneakers, by the way. New, are they?’
It was obvious that they were not new and I suddenly remembered where I had seen them before. It had been a fleeting glance. Surely not? Not Michelle. It didn’t add up. Why would she be in her father’s garden, late at night, dressed up in black, trying to break into the conservatory? But the punch was pure Michelle. It had been below the belt and spiteful. It did not hurt anymore but the intention had not been friendly.
And I remembered the noisy car engine starting up, a lot like a little yellow roadster. Note: start noise index, if possible.
‘I don’t remember,’ she said sniffily.
She began to close the door but I put my foot in the way. I’ve come to see your father,’ I said firmly. ‘He has excellent manners and is always pleased to see me.’
‘Don’t let him ply you with brandy,’ she said. ‘His manners might deteriorate.’
Fourteen
Samuel Steel came through from the kitchen with a blue striped butcher’s apron tied round his waist. He looked one degree less depressed than when I had last seen him. Perhaps his daughter’s company was good for his morale.
‘Hello, Jordan. You’re bright and early. I’m just making breakfast. Would you like some?’
A man cooking me breakfast? It was almost immoral as if we had just showered together after a long, hot, passionate night. But what would I know about long and passionate nights? In your dreams, Jordan.
I could smell the bacon, succulent home-cured rashers with no injected water. ‘A proper English breakfast would be wonderful,’ I said, moistening my lips and walking straight past Michelle. Shock can do strange things to people. I gave her the benefit. She may not have known what she was saying.
‘I always cook plenty,’ he said. ‘Michelle only has half a crispbread and a segment of grapefruit.’
Mushrooms, tomatoes, fried bread and scrambled eggs served on a big oval plate. I declined the bacon. A breakfast fit for a starving PI. Every mouthful was delicious.
‘You certainly can cook,’ I said, when I had scraped up the last morsel of glistening egg. ‘Gold star.’
‘I made the scrambled eggs,’ said Michelle, crumbling a crispbread, ‘In the microwave.’
‘Good for you. I’m impressed.’
‘She’s not just a pretty face,’ said Samuel, ruffling his daughter’s hair. ‘Michelle doesn’t have much time to come home when she’s in a show. She’s incredibly busy.’
‘I bet she is,’ I said, helping to stack the plates in the dishwasher. ‘All those rehearsals. I would never be able to remember lines.’
‘It’s a gift.’ Samuel was clearly besotted with her talent.
‘I wonder if you would mind if I had a quick look at your wife’s bedroom,’ I asked, choosing a good moment when Michelle had disappeared outside. ‘I promise not to disturb anything. Sometimes I can spot something which the police may have overlooked.’
I could not think of a single instance when I had done this but the odds were that there must have been one. But yes, at the Beeches. The dead nun case. Nearly a success story.
‘Of course,’ he said. He hesitated as if it was an afterthought. ‘I haven’t been in there since she died. I simply couldn’t bring myself … all her things. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with her clothes but I suppose I’ve got to do something. But if you see anything, anything that you like … please feel free to take whatever you can use. Don’t be at all embarrassed.’
‘That’s very kind,’ I said awkwardly.
It was a strange feeling at the door to Anne’s bedroom, actually walking in, like invading her privacy. I don’t know what I expected to find. The acres of white pile carpet and cream satin bed quilting were a surprise. I expected a decor more floral and Laura Ashley. This was pure Rita Hayworth in the Thirties. Glass lampshades clouding delicate porcelain stands. Gilded mirrors everywhere. The room had been polished, vacuumed and tidied up since the police had scoured the premises; even sprayed with a lilac air freshener as if her death had polluted the atmosphere. Or perhaps the uniformed mob had brought in an unwelcome whiff of the law.
She had a dressing room adjoining the bedroom with wall-to-wall fitted wardrobes, full of clothes. I opened the doors. The quality was staggering even for a successful butcher’s wife. It was all top designer labels with not a single Marks & Spencer garment in sight. Even the pink bomber jacket was Armani. The shoes had been made by that Jimmy Choo designer, dozens of pairs. Handbags by Gucci, mountains of frothy undies from Janet Reger. The cosmetics on her dressing table were the costliest paint pots from international beauty names. A staggered row of perfume bottles displayed a range of fragrances to suit any mood. Anne must have spent a fortune on her skin and face.
There was a photograph of her on the dressing table, taken at some dinner party. She was quite beautiful, blonde and cool, very Grace Kelly.
But even my maths told me that this Mrs Steel was living way beyond her husband’s means unless he had won the Lotto. Denbury Court was lovely. The garden, before the vandalism, was beautiful. Her car was expensive. But these clothes were not normal high street shopping and did not reflect posh country living, even on Updown Hill.
I began an inch-by-inch search of the drawers in the dressing room. There must be something which was the tiniest bit out of character. I did not know what I was looking for. A letter? A phone number? A pawn ticket?
It was all so damned clean. The smallest money spider did not stand a chance. I took to going through the jacket pockets like a suspicious wife. She liked polo mints so we had something in common. Then I found an appointment card for a Harley Street clinic. She was booked in for Botox, laser skin surfing, collagen implants, hyaluronic acid gel. You name it, she’d booked it. I was beginning to see a vulnerable lady, determined not to lose the fight against time.
Her bathroom was luxurious. Ivory marble, gold taps, fluffy towels and a thick, toe-kissing carpet. I went through the medication in the mirrored wall cabinet. The usual aspirin and paracetamol, antiseptic, plasters. No prescribed sleeping tablets. I expected a few exotic items. Then I struck gold. Behind a bottle of witch hazel (spots), I found a disk
, a three-and-a-half-inch floppy disk. It was hidden inside a packet of support tights. I doubted if she wore support tights or shopped a lot in Superdrug. No one keeps tights in a bathroom cabinet. The police had not noticed this inconsistency.
Then I went back into the bedroom and saw a membership card. It had been used as a prop under a lamp, to stop it wobbling as one does. Surely no one would notice if I took it. My palm closed over it like a pickpocket in flight. I closed the door as if not to disturb her slumbers and walked downstairs. The air seemed very peaceful. It was a curious feeling. Perhaps she had wanted me to find these clues. Her killer had not been kind.
Michelle was standing outside. ‘So you have been nosing around my stepmother’s room. What did you think of her clothes?’
‘Pretty fancy,’ I said.
‘They cost a fortune.’
‘They look it. Maybe a little too fancy for around here,’ I suggested, throwing the bait. ‘The countryside and all that.’
‘She wasn’t always around here,’ said Michelle with a sniff. ‘This was slumming. The slums of Latching, she called it.’
I was puzzled. Latching is hardly slummy, despite some of the monstrous council building. Its gardens and walks are a pleasure, the Georgian houses an architectural delight. I had a feeling that Anne might have been deliberately provoking Michelle. She had liked gardening.
‘If Latching wasn’t her scene, I wonder why she decided to marry your father. I presume you all lived together in The Corner House when they first married.’
‘They fell in love,’ said Michelle with a cynical sneer. ‘All that old-fashioned lovey-dovey stuff. But really it was rampant hormones. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other.’
‘Your father is a very nice man, a gentleman,’ I said hurriedly.
‘She wouldn’t have known a gentleman if it had been tattooed on his … forehead.’ She had almost said something else.
I decided to leave. There was only so much of this vitriolic young lady I could stand at any one time. She’d be the one needing the Botox if she continued ruining her face every time she thought of her stepmother.
Jest and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 5) Page 14