Jest and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 5)

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘What do you call this, a siege?’ she asked.

  ‘Sort of. I may not be around for a few days.’

  ‘Jordan, that’s not good enough,’ said Doris. ‘How can I keep an eye on your shop, if I don’t know where you are or what you are doing?’

  ‘You know more about me than I know about me,’ I said morosely. ‘I’m going to ground. I’ve been ordered.’

  ‘Ah … she nodded knowingly. ‘DI James. He was around here, wanting to know where you were. Seemed quite concerned. Take hope, Jordan. The man is not all stone and cement.’

  ‘Let me know when there’s a crack,’ I said, paying for my stock of food out of the money in my back pocket. I hadn’t gone for my bag. Luckily I had spare keys. ‘I want to be around when it happens.’

  ‘And I want to know where you are going.’ Doris stopped filing her nails which was a sign of concentration. ‘You’ve got to tell me.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I said, touched by her concern. ‘But I tell you what, how about I phone you at the same time every day? Would that put your mind at rest?’

  ‘You taking your mobile?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Have you charged up the battery?’

  ‘Just about to do it.’

  ‘Mind you do or I’ll have the police out looking for you.’

  She pursed her lips which meant she was seriously worried. I couldn’t put her mind at rest. It was a rule that my friends were never involved.

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ I said, packing the food into a large brown paper bag. ‘And it’s only for a few days.’

  ‘I don’t want them to find you floating off the end of the pier,’ was her parting shot.

  ‘They won’t. I can swim.’

  *

  George Hill’s flat was a cheerless place to live. No pictures, no cushions, no home comforts. Just the basics. Thankfully I had taken along a radio cassette player and could play jazz tapes. I’d also brought paper and card indexes. It was time I had another go at my game. Write everything I know down on different cards, place on floor and switch them around till a new picture emerges.

  Supper was a tin of tomato soup with ready-made croutons. This gastronomic wonder sent me into a superflow of energy and I wrote up Mr Arnold’s notes. I’m not sure why. He was not a case. He was only on the fringe of a case.

  An idea crept into my mind. Could he have committed suicide because he knew he was going to be found out? Had he been vandalizing the Denbury Court garden at night? He had a motive. Had he by some awful mischance played a part in the killing of his daughter? The dark thoughts tumbled around and I did not like the answers that were appearing.

  Man. Murder. Daughter. Weedkiller. Revenge. Shears. Plants. Shrubs. Night. Danger. Car. Car … car. I had not looked at Mr Arnold’s car. Cadaveric spasm. Maybe Anne Steel had gripped his coat or his hair. I needed to look at his car. I might find a lot of answers.

  There was a knocking on the door. ‘George? George, I know you’re there. Open the door. I’ve something for you.’

  It was a woman’s voice, urgent and demanding.

  Eighteen

  I froze. Without making a single sound, I carefully shifted a heavy chair and put it against the door, so that it would not open if anyone happened to have a key. The strength came to me from nowhere.

  ‘Don’t be stupid, George. I’ve made something really nice for you.’ It was the voice of Mrs Lechlade, the lady I had syphoned. I made it myself. Your favourite.’

  I was not tempted. I sat on the chair, adding my weight for security. The woman was still rapping on the door as if there was an emergency.

  ‘Look, I know you’re there, George. I saw you less than an hour ago. Don’t think you can walk right past me and pretend not to see me. I saw you on the stairs.’

  I was starting not to enjoy this conversation. An hour ago and she saw him on the stairs? I had been in the flat about half an hour. Time to heat a tin of soup, play around with my index cards. And she sounded almost friendly. An almost friendly stalker?

  ‘I shall be back,’ she said, annoyed. ‘You can bank on that.’ She flounced away, heel-tapping footsteps receding down to her flat on the ground floor, taking the something really nice with her, unless it had been left outside the door. I had no intention of trying to find out. A home-made Victoria sponge with butter icing? I eased off my trainers and walked around in bare feet. The wood floor was cold. This flat had no carpeting. My choice of hide-out was not comfortable. I was beginning to regret it. I had a feeling I would not be staying long.

  But I was in need of a stimulant to support my courage.

  Something a little Dutch. Unusual for me. I’m a social wine drinker. George must have a basic supply of alcohol somewhere. He liked a strong gin and tonic. It wasn’t stealing. I would pay him for it, if possible, somehow. It was well hidden. I could not find a drop, not even a miniature bottle removed from a hotel room bar.

  The refrigerator. Look for the ice and the gin could not be far away. The refrigerator was in the kitchen. I was getting warm. The cupboard had a glass. It fitted my hand. I was halfway there. The taste was already swimming in my mouth.

  It was a small refrigerator tucked under the working top. The door would not open. It was jammed shut. I wrestled with the handle. It didn’t move. Had George locked it? Do people lock their fridges these days? Perhaps burglars make a beeline for refreshment before trashing a place.

  Something was not right. I could smell the wrongness. I remembered feeling the same way before in the kitchen. It was the size somehow. The wall of cabinets and cupboards, the refrigerator and sink, encroached over the left side of the window frame. No one fits a kitchen like that, even a small kitchen.

  I went back to the refrigerator. It was an inspired move and I was desperate for a drink, anything would do. I got hold of the door handle and gave it a good shake.

  ‘Come on, drat you,’ I said, still shaking. ‘Open up.’

  I heard a click and the door swung slowly open. There was nothing inside. No ice. Nor was there a back to the cabinet. It led to a dark space. Show me a refrigerator without a back and I have to crawl through. This was Jordan in Wonderland, almost.

  I stood up on the other side and found myself in a narrow room. It was the other third of the kitchen. No window. I felt for a light switch. The room was suddenly very brightly lit.

  There was a big photocopying machine. A top-of-the-art photocopying machine. It could do everything except make tea. Colour, photo images, enlarge, decrease. The display manual was like a computer. The digital lights twinkled. I could have produced my fingerprints on it.

  On a table stood a high quality computer, scanner and printer. Inks, paper, more equipment I did not understand. There was a pile of passports. They came from Britain, Belarus, Estonia, Lithuania, the Russian Federation and Uzbekistan. It took me a few minutes to work out what was happening here.

  This was a passport factory, making forgeries from six different countries. They were helping illegal immigrants come into the UK with passports, driving licences and National Insurance cards.

  There was a box full of standard passport size photos, faces of all ages and ethnic races, both sexes. Were the photos for new customers? I was not sure how a passport factory functioned. DI James would like to know about this. Perhaps I was about to enter his good books.

  This lot were going to prison for a very long time if they were caught. George Hill was dead. So who were the others, the ones using his flat? Who were the rest of the gang? I was not waiting to find out. I got a horrid thought that I was in the wrong place. This flat had that inside-out feeling.

  My breathing was not going so well. I phoned Doris on my mobile as I bundled all the stuff back into the canvas bag. ‘Can you phone the police station and tell DI James that I’m coming round to see him right away,’ I said quickly.

  ‘Where are you?’ she asked. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘At George Hill’s place.’

&nb
sp; ‘A brilliant hideaway,’ she said. ‘A dead man’s flat. You chose well, Jordan.’

  ‘I’m leaving now.’

  ‘And about time. You seriously need your head testing.’

  I was out of the flat in seconds, locking it behind me, keeping the key again. My brain was not functioning well. Any escape route was too open. Even an air rifle could be a lethal weapon in the wrong hands.

  I hurried to the ground floor and flat number four. I knew Mrs Lechlade was in, pressed the buzzer. She opened it immediately, a half smile of welcome on her glossed lips.

  ‘Hello,’ I said brightly. ‘I’ve come to apologize for not bringing round those dear little cottages that you liked so much. I haven’t got them with me now, as I was not sure if you still wanted them. Can I come in?’

  ‘The cottages?’ She clearly did not recognize me without the glasses and headgear. And in my haste, I’d forgotten the different voice. There was no way she would associate me with the girl in the snazzy red number. I was strictly low key.

  ‘May I come in and see your collection?’ I asked, pushing past her and managing to close the door at the same time. Tricky manoeuvre. Mrs Lechlade was speechless for once. I went into raptures at the display of cuddly little cottages in a glass-fronted cabinet in her lounge.

  ‘Oh, the darlings,’ I beamed. ‘What a fantastic collection! I’ve never seen so many cottages!’

  Mrs Lechlade thawed half a degree. ‘Yes, they are lovely, aren’t they?’ She almost began a purr.

  ‘And oh, what a lovely cake,’ I enthused, spotting a big chocolate gateau on her dining table. I could see myself making a living doing television ads. The enthusiasm is so genuine. ‘It’s a dream and smells divine.’

  ‘It’s a Sandra Carlton recipe.’

  ‘Sandra Carlton! Heavens!’ My voice went up another notch. ‘Sandra is a friend of mine. She lives out Sompting way. I saw her only last week.’

  ‘You know her?’ Mrs Lechlade’s eyes opened wide. ‘I’ve always been a great fan. It was awful when they axed her programme.’

  ‘She was very hurt,’ I said. ‘But she’ll be pleased to know her recipes are still being used.’

  ‘Will you tell her? I’d really like that. I made this cake for a friend,’ she went on.

  ‘Lucky friend!’

  ‘You didn’t see him, did you, as you came in? He’s tall, dark and very handsome.’

  I went cold. ‘No, I didn’t see him and I would certainly have spotted someone of that description. Few and far between, these days.’ I did a merry laugh.

  ‘I saw him a few minutes ago and then he disappeared.’

  Time for me to disappear, rapidly. I was starting to feel unnerved.

  ‘I’ve got some cash now, for those cottages,’ said Mrs Lechlade. ‘I’ll go and get my handbag.’ She went into her bedroom.

  But I was out of the front door in a flash. Second time I’ve missed a sale for those cottages. I made straight for the supermarket opposite, feeling a certain safety among the crowds cruising the aisles for special offers.

  This supermarket had decent lavatories. It was time to go into the baby-changing room and alter my appearance. The scarf went turban-wise. I even used two free disposable nappies to change my bust size. I came out older but not wiser.

  There were often taxis cruising the store, picking up customers who had bought more than they could carry.

  I used a faltering step and a taxi driver put his head out of the window. ‘Where to, lady?’ he asked, guessing geriatric.

  ‘Do you know Marchmont Tower, the folly? It’s up some winding lane near Cissbury Ring.’

  ‘Hop in. I’ll find it.’

  I felt reasonably safe in the taxi and no one was following us. I checked several times. The driver was a decent sort and did not mind wandering about lanes looking for this folly. The clock was ticking up the miles. I could not remember any precise directions but I did try to amuse him with the story of why the folly was built.

  He found it eventually. The tower looked impressively absurd. I had just enough money to pay the fare. I was grateful although the tip was pathetic.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ll give you a proper tip the next time I see you.’

  ‘Don’t worry, lady,’ he said, grinning. One of my busts had slipped. ‘It’s been a pleasure. This is all new to me. I ain’t never seen these lanes before.’

  He drove off. I stood outside Marchmont Tower, wondering how to get in, remembering the last time I had been there was when Detective Sergeant Ben Evans and I had been caught kissing on the sofa. Dear Ben. It all seemed so long ago. I had to smile at the sweetness of the memory. Call Me Irresponsible. And I had not seen my jazz trumpeter for weeks. At this rate, I might forget him. He was probably across the pond, making a fortune.

  The folly was locked, of course. DI James did not leave his fortress open to intruders. I looked under a few stones, dislodged a brick. No key. I didn’t fancy breaking in. I wandered round, hoping he had left a window open. No luck. He’d probably got security cameras trained on me at this very moment. I nodded and waved to the air, just in case.

  I had to get in. I wriggled out of the second bust and wrapped my hands in the nappies. Any moment now I was going to have to break glass.

  *

  DI James found me asleep in the downstairs bathroom. In the bath. Wrapped in a large dark brown towel. The tap had dripped and my feet were damp.

  ‘I saw you on camera. There’s a relay to my office,’ he said. I sat up awkwardly. Later I would tell him that I had forced open the bathroom window with a metal nail file.

  ‘I’m doing what you said, following your advice. You said I had to go into hiding. And I’m doing just that.’

  ‘In my bath?’

  ‘Last place anyone would look for me, eh?’

  ‘If you say so. Get up. Dry your feet. I’ll make you some coffee. By the way, here’s your bag you left behind.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, taking it. ‘Can you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Make coffee.’

  ‘Instant, but it passes. There’s dry towels in the cupboard. Your jeans are wet too. I’d better find you something to wear.’

  ‘I don’t want anything.’ I panicked. ‘It’s only the hem. I don’t mind.’

  James was making coffee in sturdy blue mugs. He stirred in the granules. At least the label on the jar was gold. ‘Milk? Sugar?’

  ‘Neither, thank you. You know that.’

  He did not mention dry clothes again. The wet ends clung clammily round my ankles. This was weird. I was sitting with James in his kitchen, drinking his coffee. For months he had lived in one awful bedsit after another but at last he seemed to have settled down and I was glad.

  ‘So … ’ he said at last. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure? You don’t usually take my advice.’

  ‘I’ve found a passport factory. And a man who is supposed to be dead doesn’t seem to be very dead any more. In fact, he’s been seen and seen by quite a normal woman. If you can call a stalker normal.’

  James did not say anything for several moments. He was digesting the information. He looked into his coffee as if reading tea leaves.

  ‘Interesting amalgam of items. I suggest you start at the beginning, Jordan. I am a little confused. But you have all my attention. I’m going to take notes.’

  It was so strange, this moment out of time, drinking coffee (if you could call it coffee) which James had made for me, and he was listening to me. So, I rambled a bit. But the novelty was stimulating. I came to life. It was like being on stage with an audience of one.

  I did not know where to start but James kept bringing me back on track. He made copious notes. Once he stopped me and made a phone call. I could not hear what he was saying.

  ‘So where is this passport factory?’

  ‘In George Hill’s flat. I’m not surprised you didn’t find it. The kitchen is the wrong size, you see. The other room is full of high-tech equipment, a co
mputer, laminator, copier and a scanner.’

  ‘How do you get to this other room?’

  ‘You go through the refrigerator.’

  His face was blank. ‘Explain.’

  ‘You crawl through the refrigerator to the other side.’

  ‘Why did you go to George Hill’s flat?’

  M thought it would be a good place to lay low. No one would think of looking for me there.’ He didn’t ask how I got in. ‘You never told me why I had to disappear. I want to know.’

  ‘It was those spreadsheets. They tie in with some others that have turned up in Brighton. We thought it was smuggling but it could be forged passports. Both equally dangerous crimes.’

  ‘But the spreadsheets were from Anne Steel’s briefcase,’ I said without thinking. ‘She’s nothing to do with George Hill.’ James made no comment. I gave him the collection of forged documents to distract his thoughts. His face changed again.

  He went through every document that I had taken from George Hill’s flat, scrutinizing item after item. He strew them all over the table. I could see his interest rising. His eyes gleamed with Icelandic tenacity. They were almost the purest blue. He made another phone call but this one was on the long side.

  ‘Carry on, Jordan, I’m listening. Did you know that these blanks from Greece, Belgium and Holland have a street value of £1,500 each? And these doctored British passports change hands at about £600?’

  ‘No idea,’ I said. ‘Or I would have sold them myself. Set up a street market stall.’

  ‘You’ve got a shop. I shall have to search it.’

  He was only joking, I hoped.

  This was the most of his time that I had ever had. It was extraordinary. He was actually listening as if I was someone of consequence. I doubted if I would ever get over it.

  ‘And what about George Hill?’

  ‘Mrs Lechlade in flat number four said she saw him on the stairs. And she had made him a cake. Now she wouldn’t make him a cake if he was dead, would she?’

  I got up and looked in his refrigerator to see if there was anything to eat. Half a packet of dried-up bacon and a lump of Cheddar cheese. There was nothing gastronomical I could make out of that.