Jest and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 5)

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘Don’t you ever cook a meal?’ I said, closing the door.

  ‘Rarely. I eat at Maeve’s cafe mostly.’

  ‘Too much fried fat.’

  ‘But delicious. Would you deny me one of the pleasures of life?’

  I would deny him nothing. But James did not know it or care. I wonder if he would ever know how much he meant to me. Especially now, after that late night chase and car crash. And the youngsters had got away scot-free. They had walked away from their stolen vehicle, laughing, still high on drugs and alcohol. They had not even bothered to see if Ben was all right.

  ‘You could phone for a pizza,’ I suggested.

  ‘It would be cold by the time it arrived here.’

  ‘We could go out to a pub.’

  ‘You are in hiding.’

  He’d got all the answers. And he was hiding a smile. It was a pleasurable moment. He came over to me and pulled me to my feet. For one sublime instant I thought he was going to kiss me but he didn’t. I almost closed my eyes.

  ‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘Work calls. Thank you for all the leads. Eat anything you like. Open a tin of something. Go upstairs, take off those wet jeans and sleep in my bed. I won’t disturb you. Make sure that everything is locked up and don’t answer the door or answer the phone. And I will secure the bathroom window that you forced open. I was watching you. Neat job with a nail file.’

  ‘You’re going to leave me … ’ I could not believe it.

  ‘Yes, I have work to do. But, of course, you don’t know what it’s like to be married to a policeman.’

  In my dreams.

  James finished his coffee and left. I washed up. The tin of something was sausages in baked beans. I left it on the shelf. I found an apple which he had forgotten and ate that with the hard cheese. It was so hard I had to suck it. I locked up the fortress and went upstairs but I did not go into his bedroom. That was sacrosanct. One day, perhaps, if I was lucky.

  I slept instead in Ben’s bed. It was odd really, somehow feeling as if he was there, beside me. I had the strangest dream of his arms around me and he was saying the sweetest things. And he kissed me warmly. I could have sworn he was really there but I did not want to destroy the dream.

  Perhaps he came back to me for a moment to say goodbye. I did not doubt the strength of his feelings. Maybe they had been strong enough to travel a million miles, a million light years from eternity. Whatever that is.

  Nineteen

  I slept for a long time. I knew it was unhygienic in a dead bed.

  No one had changed the sheets or tidied Ben’s room. His possessions were strewn around as if he was coming back any moment. Books, letters and clothes lay in happy disarray. Perhaps it was something I should do when the time was right.

  There was no DI James around when I got up. I trailed downstairs wrapped in a sheet, just in case, but the kitchen was empty and so was the bathroom. The water was hot. He had left the immersion heater on. Thank you, James. And there was a selection of cereal packets for breakfast with a bowl of fruit. I had a bath, washed my hair using his shampoo (note brand for future reference), then trailed upstairs to dress.

  It was so odd, being here in James’s home. I felt like a thin, opportunist cat, seeing something I was not supposed to sec. But James did not seem to mind leaving me in charge. I didn’t sneak a look into his bedroom. An array of intimate family photographs would have spiralled me into a tunnel of despair. I still didn’t know what had happened to his family. Family? Had there been children? Once he had mentioned children … I couldn’t remember exactly.

  As I munched through a bowl of bran and sultanas with day-old milk, I moved my index cards around on the table. One of them rattled my memory box. I had lifted a plastic membership ID from Anne Steel’s bedroom where it had been propping up a lamp. It had seemed out of character and I wanted to follow it up. Rewrite: borrowed, not lifted.

  It was in my shoulder bag, right at the bottom, forgotten, a bit of fluff sticking to it. Mrs Anne Steel had paid to be a life member of the Higher Latching Post-mill Society, one of the town’s landmarks, standing alone, defying the weather. I knew it well. It was an impressive black timber building with two sixty-foot canvas sails, recently restored, and it ground grain on some days to make bags of flour for the tourists to buy. But I had never been in it. The steep walk up an unmade road always put me off.

  But from Marchmont Tower it would be a doddle. The folly was on higher ground than the windmill. It would be downhill all the way. No one would think of looking for me in a windmill. I was not a hiding-away for ever type person even after a serious warning from James.

  I washed up, wiped tops, tidied James’s kitchen, feeling very housewifely. I even made Ben’s bed if pulling up a striped duvet rates points. James wouldn’t mind if I took an apple, would he? He’d obviously been to one of those all-night shops and bought some fruit. I took a satsuma as well.

  There was another tinge of autumn in the air. It was just around the corner, an untimely frost up its sleeve. I wondered how Mr Arnold was getting on in hospital. He was a lonely soul. Perhaps he might like a visitor. But he might not. He might be appalled that I had arrived too soon and ruined everything.

  ‘No,’ I said aloud. ‘Have some sense, girl.’

  A startled rabbit looked up and scuttled back into the undergrowth.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. I always apologize to animals. You never know if there has been a previous life. This rabbit might have been a Tibetan monk.

  It was a good walk to the windmill. I would have enjoyed it if I had not been alert for every sound. But no one came along. Not a car, a bike, nor a cyclist. Not even a dog. There was just me and a disgruntled rabbit.

  The windmill stood on its isolated hill, awesome with age and power. It was first built around 1724 and had ground grain for all the local farmers for two hundred years. Then steam power came along and put paid to wind-driven mills. The millers went out of business, found other jobs.

  The gate to the grounds was padlocked but that did not stop this intrepid PI from climbing over. I was not breaking and entering. I had Mrs Steel’s lifetime membership in my shoulder bag.

  The roundhouse had been rebuilt recently and it was a sturdy structure on a brick base. It housed the main oak post and the diagonal quarter bars which took the colossal forty-ton weight.

  I remembered reading somewhere that the hurricane of October 1987 had turned the pair of sails for the first time for years, even though the brake was on.

  There was a steeply stepped ladder outside going up to the first part of the body of the mill with a handrail and grab ropes. The thought of coming down those steps was pretty scary. Scary alerted me to my exposed position. Anyone could see me. I was a standing target.

  I was up those steps faster than Hornblower, praying that the door would be open. It was closed but opened to my touch. There must be some of the volunteers around, doing their volunteering.

  It was not very big inside the first floor. I looked at a useful diagram on the wall. This was called the spout floor and the one above was the stone floor, i.e. the grinding stones were there. And the tiny storage area above that was called the bin floor. Now I knew where I was.

  It was all beams and pulleys and shutes and moving elements. Fascinating if you were seriously into grinding grain. The windows were tiny. I peered out of them into the surrounding countryside. The dusty glass needed cleaning. At least no one could see me. I decided not to take any chances and closed the door.

  The wooden steps up to the next floor were even steeper with a single handrail. I hung on to the rail and ascended crab-wise. Here I recognized two sets of grinding stones and the huge elm and apple wood wheels with 132 teeth that turned them. Both wheels had metal brake shoes fitted. All this information was on another helpful diagram. I didn’t understand the tentering system.

  It did not smell musty. It smelt wholesome and floury. If I’d had an egg, I could have baked a cake.

  Now why would
Mrs Anne Steel have paid for a life membership? It might have carried a few perks, like extra visits or open different hours. Or was she genuinely keen on old windmills? There were a lot in the area, at least eight within two miles of Brighton. No way of asking her. I would have to find out. I began a minute search of the building, every nook and cranny. More crannies than nooks. It was instinct.

  My hand closed over an odd thing to find in a windmill. A little square card, quite new. There were three cards, close together, each half the size of a normal business card, tucked away, almost out of sight, pinned to the wall behind a pulley.

  There was writing on each card. Groups of numbers. This might have something to do with Anne’s death. The answer hit me.

  It was ingenious. A device from some inspired criminal mind, if Mrs Steel’s activities were criminal. I kept my mind on that heavy haul of £5,000 cash and looked more closely.

  The windmill was a drop. It was a place where messages could be left. Who would notice small scraps of card pinned to the wood behind intricate unused pulleys? Some of the writing on the cards said a date and a time. But the dates were current and the times unsocial.

  This could be a chain of drops. Maybe all the windmills in the area were being used for this purpose. These beautiful old relics from centuries past. No one would think of searching them.

  I did not remove the cards but I made a note of the dates and times. Perhaps they would mean something to DI James. They could be totally innocuous, something to do with milling times. But grinding at 3.20 a.m.? You’d have to be a mad miller. Besides, didn’t you have to check if it was windy or not?

  There was a bit of a wind getting up now. I could hear the sails creaking. I looked out of the window. Fleeced clouds were racing across the sky as if chased by banshees. I did not like the sound of that wind. It was time to go back to the safety of Marchmont Tower.

  Just as I turned to go down the steps backwards to the first floor, I heard someone coming up the steep flight from outside into the buck, the body of the mill. I made a beeline for the vertical ladder against a wall that led to the bin floor, a tiny space at the top of the mill where grain was stored in sacks before going down shutes to the stone. I tried not to breathe but it was dusty and I felt a cough coming on. For once I had my Ventolin with me and took a quick inhalation. There was only room for me to crouch on my knees.

  The footsteps were heavy enough for a man and they seemed to know where they were going. This was not wandering about like a tourist, reading and peering everywhere. These footsteps came up the second flight of steps to the stone floor.

  I held my breath, trying to visualize the tight, complicated layout below me. The footsteps were going straight to where the messages were hidden. I heard a muffled oath. Definitely a man, and an impatient man.

  Then he turned and retreated down the steps back to the first floor. The wind had caught the door and it was banging. It was an easterly wind and streaming at a fair rate of knots already.

  The door slammed. I peered cautiously down the trap space. There did not seem to be anyone around but I waited a good ten minutes, nursing the cramps, to make sure he had gone.

  The bright morning air had disappeared as the clouds filled the sky with turbulence. It was time I went back to the folly. Maybe I could bake DI James a cake. Or scones. Something simple. I did not know how to make scones but it must be dead easy. Throw in a few raisins and stir, or was it sultanas? I hurried down to the spout floor.

  The door was not opening. I pulled and tugged and pushed but it would not budge. The man had locked or bolted it on the outside. For a moment I panicked. Millers did not believe in chairs. There was nowhere to sit. I sat on the floor and calmed myself. Perhaps I could climb out somewhere.

  The windows did not open and also they were too small even for someone my size. They would not accommodate a body. No sill outside. I would have to drop and it was a long drop. Unless I could slide down the sails.

  Drop. I went back up to the hiding place and now there was a fourth card. Tomorrow’s date and a time of I a.m. These were no grinding times. I had to get out and tell DI James.

  *

  I sat for a long time, still thinking. This brain was on overtime. I could think of no way of getting out apart from waiting till some volunteer came along to show a party around. And that might be days ahead.

  I ate the apple which I had taken from the folly. I had a small bottle of mineral water in my bag but it would not last long. A few polo mints as usual and the satsuma. Sum total of life-sustaining refreshments.

  But I had my mobile. I keyed in DI James’s station number. It was on answerphone. He was out.

  ‘James,’ I said breathlessly. It’s me, Jordan. I’ve found a drop. It’s really weird. Tomorrow at I a.m. Does this mean anything to you?’

  I was just about to add more information when the phone went dead. I shook it and dialled again. Nothing. The screen was blank. The battery needed recharging. I sank back on to my knees and cradled my head. I could never remember to recharge the damned thing. I had told Doris I would and I hadn’t.

  So I had to get out. I toured the mill for emergency exits. There were none unless you counted the small space in the roof at the top of the bin floor or the trap door through which the grain sacks were hoisted. What comes up, could go down. Seemed perfectly logical to me.

  It was a normal sort of pulley with a rope going over a grooved wheel. If I could hold on to both ropes, let myself over the trap, I might be able to slide down to the roundhouse where the sacks were stored. Hopefully there would be a way out from there.

  The important thing to remember was to grab both ropes to prevent the pulley mechanism from working. I hoped I was not too heavy. A sack of grain might weigh anything but maybe not my nine stone.

  I slung my bag firmly across my shoulders and centred it on my back. Then I sat on the edge of trap space, my legs dangling into nowhere. It looked a horribly long way down. Without changing my weight, I reached for both ropes and pulled them towards me. They were rough. My hands would be no good for washing up for days.

  This was no time for a coughing fit. A few deep calming breaths were needed. I could hear the wind and the creaking of the sails. It did not sound too healthy though I am never frightened of the weather.

  The moment of launch was tricky. I had to have a good grip on the ropes and balance the mechanism. It could be done, I told myself. This was not a Ye Olde Worlde pulley, but part of the restored machinery and still in use. I could slide down like 007 himself.

  Wrong. I judged it badly. My pull was enough for the furthest rope to slide out of my hands and rattle noisily on its way, snaking down to the floor of the roundhouse, dragging the other half with it. The descent stopped when the hoist mechanism caught in the hooks at the end used to grip the sacks, one rope left swinging. I looked up at the jammed hook. There was no way I was going to trust my weight to a hook that size.

  I sat back and contemplated the circumstances. This was not the first time I’d had to use my wits to get out of an unacceptable situation. What wits? They had deserted me. Shopping list: ginkgo biloba tablets, 6000 mg size.

  The phone was still dead. I searched the mill for spare rope which I could sling over some sturdy beam and shin down. Not an inch. Some tidy person had put it all away.

  The wind was gusting up. Tops of nearby trees were lashing about. I could feel the mill starting to sway, not much, but enough for feelings of alarm. It was like being at sea. The windows were taking a battering as well and the creaking noise was becoming quite loud.

  Some movement caught my eye. The huge ten-foot diameter brake-wheel was moving slightly, a tapered tooth tenon fitting precisely into a mortice hole. Surely it should not be doing this? I checked the metal brake shoe. It was firmly clamped to the rim of the wheel.

  I ate the satsuma slowly. Perhaps the vitamin C would revitalize my ideas. The bottle of water was three-quarters full. I would not be gnawing on wood for quite a while.


  I took up watch by a window where I could see the roadway in case there was any passing traffic that I could hail. The sails were straining against the wind. I had no idea what would happen if they started turning.

  Nowhere seemed safe. The swaying of the mill was unnerving and I did not like the movement at all. I managed to open a small window but the sudden force of the wind knocked me back and I had to struggle to refasten it.

  I could smell something acrid. I could smell burning. I raced up the steps to the next floor. The pressure of the sails turning in the wind was setting up friction against the steel shoe. It was getting hot. Wafts of smoke were already coming from the wheel, little eddies of grey that drifted around. I began to fan the area with my notebook to cool it down. Wrong again, Jordan. A spark ignited the wood and a network of tiny red embers wormed along the grain.

  I took off my T-shirt and tried to smother the embers. My shirt curled up into fragments of ash. Panic was making an entrance.

  I did not know whether to open the window to let the smoke out or keep it closed. I was beginning to cough. The smoke was finding its own way out through cracks in the structure. I wetted a handkerchief and held it against my nose. Surely there must be a fire extinguisher somewhere? I began a rapid search. Where was it? This was a public place. They had to abide by regulations. Fire equipment is so commonplace, it often goes unnoticed.

  The creaking of the sails was now so loud and ominous that I did not hear footsteps coming up the outside steps, the door bursting open, and helmeted firemen pouring into the mill, dragging a hose.

  ‘Anybody inside?’ they shouted.

  Relief swept through me. I went weak.

  ‘There’s me,’ I wheezed, peering down through the smoke. ‘Where’s the fire?’

  ‘Up here. The wheel has caught fire. Friction from the brake shoe, I think.’

  ‘Come on down quick, miss. This is our job.’

  ‘I was doing my best,’ I said, shaking an empty bottle of water.

  Twenty

  My macho fireman friend, Bud Morrison, was not among the rescuers. Perhaps he had moved on to another station or been promoted. No one carried me over a shoulder, but a burly chap in maroon gear, yellow helmet, guided me down the steep steps outside while the other fire fighters put out the smouldering fire. No one noticed the lack of T-shirt. I couldn’t look down. The fresh air was wonderful, exhilarating despite the gale blowing. The creaking of the sails was even louder now as the wind battled for supremacy.