Wave and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 2)

by Stella Whitelaw

  “They think I’m Al Lubliganio.”

  “Lubliganio who?”

  “Al Lubliganio, the Mafia gang leader.”

  Hardly my scene but I nodded knowingly as if the Mafia featured daily in my case schedules. “Who thinks you are this Al Lubliganio, the Mafia gang leader?”

  “The Scarlattis.”

  “And who are the Scarlattis when they are at home?”

  “A rival gang. Deadly rivals. They’re old criminal mobsters from the south of Naples. They are always killing each other off. Now they are after me. I’m terrified out of my wits. I can’t sleep, eat, daren’t go to work. They have already blown up my car. They send me threats. Watch my every movement. They may even be in here, at this very moment.”

  The Irish band started up a new wild skirmish, the fiddle screeching almost a tune. It was enough to scare off any Italian Mafia.

  “Am I hearing right? This gang from Naples are trying to kill you, here in Latching, a small sleepy seaside town in West Sussex featured in many holiday brochures?”

  He nodded. “I’m serious. I’m in deadly danger.”

  “I don’t think I can help you,” I said, mentally sliding off. Nor did I want to. Water lilies and errant husbands were more my style. The Mafia was a totally different cup of cappuccino. I had a basically fearful nature. “Perhaps you’d better start by telling me your name.”

  “Al Lubliganio.”

  “No, your real name.”

  “That is my real name. Albert Lubliganio. My father was an Italian merchant seaman. That’s the trouble. It’s a case of mistaken identity. They think I’m this gang leader in hiding when all I am is a mechanic at a local garage. They think it’s a… a…”

  “A cover?” I suggested.

  “Yes, that’s it. They think the garage is just a cover. But it isn’t. I’ve been there eleven years. And before that I worked for a metal company in Brighton.”

  I let Al ramble on. There was nothing I could do. It was a case for the police. The man needed special protection especially if they had blown up his car.

  “Do you have a family?”

  “No, I’m single.”

  I was not surprised. No woman would want to take on such a pathetic specimen of manhood. Only a saint. And she would need to be deaf and blind.

  “I can’t help you,” I said. “But I know someone who can.” I sounded like that advert for the AA. “They’ll know what to do. I’ll put them in touch with you. They’ll know the right way to handle this. Give me your home address and the garage address.”

  “Thank you,” said Al, staring into his beer. He came to with a jolt and scribbled the addresses on a slip of crumpled paper. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “I don’t charge for advice.”

  I had to get out of the Bear and Bait. His fear clung to me like a sticky cobweb. I finished my wine but didn’t taste it. I needed to walk the pier, even in the dark. I had to escape from the pub.

  The wind met me outside with ferocious gusts, taking my breath away. How the wind could change in Latching. One minute calm and balmy with the lightest breeze, then suddenly some wild tiger tore down from the north-east, whipping along the coast, churning the sea to mud, thrashing the waves on the shore.

  It took all my strength to cross the seafront road. The side road had turned into a wind tunnel. Another Force 6 nearly blew me over. I hung on to the railings that curled round a garden patch where an old fishing boat was filled with dying pansies and rotting ferns.

  They normally close the pier when the wind reaches gale force. Perhaps they had forgotten to lock the entrance or thought that no one would be that foolish to venture tonight.

  The gulls had disappeared, taking refuge on shopfronts, affronted and sulky.

  Parts of the pier had disappeared too. They had lifted sections of deck planking and a blank, gaping hole was enclosed by a metal fencing. I nearly didn’t see it in the dark. The moon was hiding behind scuttering clouds.

  Poor old pier. Just had her seventieth birthday and already they were amputating bits. I peered down the hole and saw only wet sand and rusted girders.

  The tide was going out fast. Even in the dark, I could see it racing over the flat sand in a froth of brown, leaving a carpet of murky seaweed behind. Out at sea, the dan lights from the fishing boats bobbed uncertainly. They had been caught out. The wind had been moderate when they pushed off from the shore. Now it was dangerous and certainly uncomfortable.

  I couldn’t walk round the end of the pier. The wind was too strong. I could barely stand and was aware that the unprotected area at the fishing end of the pier was dangerous and the gusts would soon bowl me over. I had no wish to be found clinging for life to a railing.

  The walls of the closed amusement arcade gave me some protection. My progress was spider-like, sideways flattened against the wall.

  But the wind had blown away my fear. Optimism surged through me and life was great again. It had also erased the cigarette smoke from my clothes. I’d been hung out on a washing line and blow-dried. I couldn’t remember when I had last eaten. Food had taken a back seat, somewhere next to writing my thesis on suburban culture.

  I zigzagged close by the protective shops to my bedsits, out of breath, clutching my keys. Don’t ask me why I have two adjoining bedsits but I’m not used to sleeping in the same room that I live in. There was not much food in my kitchen area but I managed to make a gargantuan sandwich with granary bread, tuna, cheese, sliced beef tomatoes, Chinese leaves and a dollop of herb dressing. Fit for a king. I could barely get my mouth round it.

  *

  Latching’s summer always ended with a carnival and a fireworks display. They held it the same weekend as the Agricultural Show. But summer had long departed and spectators shivered on the pavements as the floats paraded the streets with frozen kids dressed up as anything from South Pacific dancers to Stone Age hunters, their bare legs blue with cold, miming to taped music.

  I had rolled out of bed, stretching my brain into action. Time to roam the streets, get my bearings. I was not really watching the carnival, merely a walker who kept pace with the motorized floats. Occasionally, I clapped for a brave effort; put money in a rattled pail. I was pretty detached.

  A float rumbled by, an open-topped lorry belching fumes. Green-clad fairies gambolled self-consciously at the bottom of the garden among plastic flowers and ferns. And masses of water lilies. I did a double-take.

  Shopping list: mobile phone (urgent).

  I found a phone box and dialed Latching Water Gardens. Terence Lucan answered. He sounded weary as if he’d been up all night talking to his plants.

  “There are some more of your water lilies on a float in the Autumn Carnival. I’ve just seen them. American Beauty, I think.”

  “American Star.”

  “That’s right, the pink pointed kind. They are on a kids’ float going along the seafront at this moment. Guides or Brownies. No, it’s a nursery school.”

  “I’ll be down right away. By the way, do you still want that car?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “I’ve got someone else interested in it.”

  My heart hammered for a few seconds. I thought fast. “I’ll let you have a deposit. That should confirm my serious interest.”

  I had no idea how I was going to pay for it, but vaguely thought of going to the bank and getting a personal loan. But I had no security for a loan. A rented shop selling class items of junk was hardly collateral.

  The carnival floats were assembled in Summerstead Park by the time Mr Lucan got there in his delapidated Land Rover. He bounded over to the fairy grotto lorry like a man with springs in his boots. The nursery-school owners were bewildered and apologetic. It was the same story. They had bought them off a man in a pub.

  “They were going cheap,” said the woman. “And we’d used these plastic flowers two years running. It was time we had a change.”

  “I must have them back. This environment is no
good for them. Look at their roots, hardly in any water. Inches! They need a real depth of water to survive. And you’ve put them in pots. They need tanks, ponds. Not pots!” Mr Lucan spluttered out the last words. His face had gone a serious shade of red.

  “Of course you can have them back but would you mind waiting until the judging is over? It won’t be more than twenty minutes. It’s such good publicity for the school if we win or get placed.” The woman smiled hopefully but it was wasted on Mr Lucan. He was leaping around the lorry with a watering can, dousing his plants with a generous waterfall. The fairies got in the way. Soon sprayed fairies began to cry and flap bedraggled wings.

  “Water fairies! How lovely!” said one of the judges. “And real water!” I think it was the mayoress again, still in unsuitable shoes for a churned-up grassy park.

  The phrase, good publicity, instantly replayed in my mind. Mrs Edith Drury had said the same thing. Winning the wedding stand display would be good publicity for the Latching WI. Was everything done for publicity these days? Had good old-fashioned pride in an achievement been replaced by public imagery?

  The wet fairies got second prize, good enough for everyone to be pleased. As the parents hurried round with towels and changes of clothes, Terence Lucan was busy loading the water lilies into the back of his Land Rover.

  “Tots, indeed!” he muttered. “Don’t they know anything these days?”

  There were about a dozen plants. At this rate, it would be months before he got all his water lilies back. If they survived at all, that is. At least, I had justified my daily rate, I thought complacently.

  Suddenly guilt struck me with the force of a twenty-ton lorry with brake failure. I was charging Mr Lucan the daily rate, also charging Mrs Drury and Mrs Fenwick. All at the same time, for the same day. It was a colossal con. My day rate was meant to encompass services solely expended on one case for a whole day. Not three cases at the same time. I’d have to sort it out. My income plummeted. But I was still going to give Mr Lucan a cheque for a deposit on my car.

  My car. It felt like my car already. Spots or no spots. She was going to be mine. I was not sure how I was going to handle being a spot-conspicuous PI but I’d manage. My ladybird might be useful as a decoy. Park her in a different place… giving out the wrong message.

  “Thank you, Miss Lacey,” said Terence Lucan, heaving the last plants into the Land Rover. “I’m most impressed. But you appreciate this is just the fringe of my stolen plants?”

  “I do realize that. But these small hauls may lead us to the big one. Don’t give up hope. The thieves must know the plants need water to survive. I’ve a lead on a man trying to rent a swimming pool.”

  “That’s it,” exclaimed Terence Lucan, his face lighting up for the first time. “A swimming pool. That’s what they’d need to keep the plants alive. You’re on to something. Well done.”

  I wished I hadn’t mentioned it. My lead was hardly a lead. Still, I might get lucky.

  I opened up my shop late next morning. A man was waiting on the doorstep. He tapped his teeth with a chewed biro.

  “I wondered when you were going to open up. Thought you’d got the bailiffs in.”

  “Busy at auctions,” I lied. “Lot of good stuff moving. The trouble is that everyone is after it.”

  “That clockwork duck in the window. How much do you want for it?”

  It was an ugly thing, sulphur-yellow paint chipped and stained. The face of the duck, black-eyed and leering, looked pretty evil.

  “There’s no key,” I said.

  “That’s okay,” he said easily. “I’ve a box full of keys at home. I bet I’ve got one that fits.”

  He turned the duck over. “Not exactly Jacques de Vaucanson,” he said. “He made a clockwork duck that could quack, digest and eliminate.”

  “Fascinating,” I said, surfing prices in my mind. In my hurry to re-dress the window, I had forgotten to put my usual £6 label on the duck’s bottom. I wondered how much this particular oddity was worth. To the chewing tooth-tapper anyway.

  “I have actually got a dealer coming in this afternoon,” I said. Two lies in a single day. Was this a new trend? I’d have to watch it. “What would you like to offer me for this unusual clockwork duck?”

  “Fifty quid.”

  I pretended to hesitate but it was difficult. “Okay,” I said, trying to sound reluctant. “Just for you.”

  I wrapped the duck in tissue paper, took the money. He, in his turn, was trying not to look pleased.

  “You don’t know how much this is worth, do you?” he gloated.

  I didn’t care.

  “I don’t do it for the money,” I said. Lie number three. The trend was getting worse. “I just want my specials to find good homes.”

  He went out humming at his good fortune. Hell. Still I had £50 in a previously empty till and that couldn’t be bad. Anyway, the duck was hideous.

  Five

  The shop had produced little income in the last few days, apart from the duck. A clutch of books fetched a handful of coins. A pair of tarnished sugar tongs earned a pound. What on earth would they be used for, I thought, as I wrapped them in second-hand tissue paper. Serving pickled onions? I wanted lots of real money, crinkling notes, some fivers and tenners, blues and browns. Mr Lucan was not the kind to pay me in cash. He’d probably expect me to take gift vouchers.

  Food was not a problem. I had enough pasta and rice to live on for weeks. Boring but sustaining. A clove of garlic, a few drops of olive oil, throw in some sun-dried tomatoes, pine nuts. I was no culinary expert but own-brand baked beans were not a last resort.

  The hole in the wall beckoned me. I punched in my pin number and requested fifty pounds. It did not object. Amazing. The notes slid out, pristine and newly pressed. Next was not something I normally did as I know my account details by heart. But for once I keyed in mini bank statement, please. It was an automatic reflex, stalling time. Momentary euthanasia. A touch of curiosity to see if the works had already registered the withdrawal.

  I glanced at the print-out. The total was £2,633.00. Wow! Two thousand? I must need prescription glasses. It was a mistake. I knew I had only £600 plus in my account, yet it was showing over £2,000. I began the procedure once again. Punched in my pin number, asked for a mini statement.

  £2,633.00. There was no point in celebrating. The two thousand pounds were not mine. A clerical error, or whatever you called a computer cock-up.

  The branch was closed for lunch. I’d have to wait until later. For a few hours, I’d pretend I was solvent, quite healthily rich in fact. Spend, spend, spend. Two thousand might not be much to the average pay-roll high-flying executive but for this struggling PI, it felt very good. I could even spend it but what if someone came along and demanded it back? No, I couldn’t cope with the worry.

  I bought myself a modest camera with flash; left tape recorder, mobile phone on the stand-by list although I hate mobiles. People walk about, even school kids, with them glued to their hand or ears like some obscene black growth that attaches them to the world. I could live without a mobile, but perhaps First Class Investigations ought to have instant contact with its clients.

  Fenwick Future Homes had about eight branches strung along the coast. The Latching branch was their main office, a newish corner showroom with wall to wall gray carpets and spread-eagled desks, computer terminals and glossy photographs with panoramic views. If you wanted a run-down fisherman’s cottage sagging at the seams, they were not interested, barely bothered to take your name. But a villa and pool, garage for three cars, security lighting, and you were their man. Out came coffee served in cups, bourbon biscuits, photo-shot brochures in laminated folders.

  I cycled passed the wide window display of imposing properties and planned tomorrow’s surveillance. A bag lady was out. My charity clothes box would have to kit out a woman with assets. Tough assignment.

  The bank cashier was confused.”Not your money, Miss Lacey? But it was paid into your account this m
orning. A cash payment. Surely you paid it in yourself?”

  “I did not,” I said. “I know nothing about it. Could you make some more enquiries? I’d like to know how this sum got put in my account. And, of course, it should be removed.”

  “Oh no, I’m not sure how we can do that. It’s been properly paid in, Miss Lacey.”

  “But that’s ridiculous. It’s not my money and it should not be in my account. I want it out.”

  “I will have to ask the manager, Mr Weaver. If you do not accept this deposit…”

  “For heaven’s sake, I don’t accept it. This is a mistake,” I said. “How can I convince you? Get it put right, please. I can’t see what’s holding you up. It’s not my money and I don’t want it.”

  “I’ll report the matter to Mr Weaver.”

  I was fast losing my temper with the girl and she was trying to remember her training in the face of one very annoyed customer. It was a bad case of bank rage.

  I walked with my head down, ears tingling, towards the pier, trying to cool down. The wind was promising an early winter, testing resistance. The decorations for the birthday celebrations had been taken down. I walked the length, my mind spinning about the odd £2,000. My thoughts looped the loop. The anglers were minus luck today. Nothing was biting. They stood hunched by their rods, buckets empty, munching cold burgers. I had no idea how the money got into my account or who put it in. It was their mistake. Let them sort it out.

  Meanwhile, I had my water lilies, the wedding cake and Cllr Fenwick to sort out. I did not feel confident. I was being stretched in several directions without a foot on any ladder.

  Latching’s overworked wedding photographers were more than cooperative. Even now, approaching winter, the brides wanted to be photographed on the beach, veils floating, hair tangled by the sea breeze. Small bridesmaids ran about, kicking off their shoes, paddling in the shallow waves, suddenly having fun. The photographers caught the fun in their lenses.

  That weekend’s nuptials were already in photo print but none of the cakes matched the description.