Wave and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 2)

by Stella Whitelaw

  Her emotion was genuine. The elocution lessons were swallowed. She was pure Sussex now and I liked her more for it.

  “I don’t think I know your name,” I said to take her mind off the discovery of the body.

  “Leroy Anderson. I’m Mr Fenwick’s personal assistant. Oh, where is he… I don’t know what I’m going to do. I must speak to Mr Fenwick. I suppose I’d better phone him at home.”

  It was obvious he was not at home or he would have turned up by now. He was needed. There must be all sorts of questions the police would want to ask. Perhaps he had been otherwise engaged in some country hotel while his showroom was burning down and therefore he would not care to answer those questions.

  Mrs Fenwick of the blue BMW was paying me well to get those answers. Then I remembered her gimlet eyes and I was suddenly not so sure of her motive.

  “He’s bound to turn up soon,” I said to Miss Anderson. “You go home and have a nice cup of tea now. You deserve one after all this. It’ll help.”

  “Thank you,” she said tremulously. “You’re very kind.”

  I wasn’t being kind at all. It was called paying the rent.

  Six

  It was all the buzz in Latching. It was even more newsworthy that week than the burning down of Fenwick Future Homes. They had found the wreck of the Lancaster bomber only a few hundred yards out from the end of the pier. Helicopters circled over the spot. The national media turned up in speedboats, balancing zoom cameras, trying not to get sprayed. Police divers made a few preliminary dives in the area, more for the cameras.

  Everyone knew the Second World War legend of the Lancaster. Some said that most of the crew had got out and staggered up the beach. But no one really knew the truth. It was so long ago. Now they would find out. They were going to send divers down to the wreck.

  I went back for my bike. But it had gone from where I’d left it chained to the railings. Who on earth would want my clapped-out wheels? Without thinking, I marched into the police station, red alert.

  “My bike’s been stolen,” I stormed. “Is nothing safe in Latching?”

  “Calm down, Jordan. I’ll get someone to come and see you.”

  After a long wait, DI James appeared, somewhat shambolic. His shirt sleeves were rolled up. His five o’clock shadow was nearing ten o’clock. He treated me as if we had never met.

  “What’s your full name?” he asked, starting to fill out a form. “Address?”

  “Get wise,” I said, averting my eyes from his bare wrists and the sprinkling of dark silky hair on his forearms. This innocence had many delights. I could go overboard just looking at his wrists. “You know me. Once we even went to Cleo Carling’s party together. Remember, champagne, dancing in the dark? Way back in the Middle Ages. My bike’s been stolen and I want it returned. It’s essential for my work.”

  “Your bike’s here. We know it’s your bike and it’s evidence. It was found close to the scene of an arson attack. A witness confirms that the vehicle was there at the time of the fire. Pretty suspicious. We need it for forensic.”

  Joshua, my eccentric inventor friend, had made the metal label for me and screwed it on to the handlebars. Classy, he’d said. It had cost me a meal, a bottle of Shiraz and half a bottle of brandy. I hadn’t even wanted it but I had a soft heart. He’d hoped that he’d be screwing more than a label, but years of inaction had made action impossible.

  “Oh brother, am I hearing right? My bike has nothing to do with the fireworks at Fenwicks. Arson, you say? Okay, I was there, the day before. I was making an appointment with Mr Fenwick. Check with Leroy Anderson, his glamorous PA. I couldn’t ride it home and left it chained to some railings in the pedestrian precinct.”

  “Ms Jordan Lacey, looking for property along the coast? Won the Lottery, have you? Couple of million. Why couldn’t you ride it home?”

  “I wasn’t dressed for riding a bike.”

  “Ah, you need special clothes for riding a bike now?”

  I could have torn my hair out except it was plaited tight and it would have hurt. “No,” I groaned. “I wasn’t there as me. I was undercover. Mrs Barbara Hutton. Moneyed lady investor. You could check.”

  “Everything has been destroyed. You could say anything and we’ve no way of checking.” DI James swung away, none too steady. If it wasn’t that I knew he hardly drank, I would have said he was drunk. “You can’t have your bike back. It stays here.”

  “Why? You haven’t given me sufficient reason for keeping my bike.”

  “I think a can of petrol is sufficient reason. It was in a bag strapped to the back of your bike. And your bike was found in a parking space behind Fenwicks, apparently abandoned, and not chained to anything.”

  “Petrol? For heaven’s sake, it’s not mine. I don’t buy petrol. Why should I?”

  “You might want to buy a secondhand Morris Minor or give Latching fire brigade a busy night.”

  “Abandoned? I don’t abandon my bike,” I said coldly. “You’re making this up. My bike was obviously stolen.”

  “It’s your bike. It’s got your name labeled on the handlebars. A pointless gimmick, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t ask you.” I choked.

  “It stays here for the time being.”

  “How am I going to get about?”

  “Walk. Get a taxi like everyone else.”

  I flung out of the station, fuming. How could this have happened to me? It was ridiculous. I’d got to sort it out before DI James got any more silly ideas. Leroy Anderson would confirm my story. I’d got to find her pretty quick.

  I looked up Anderson in the phone book. There were a lot of Andersons. Anyway, she might not live at home. She might be shacked up with a Smith or a Jones. She was attractive in a brittle sort of way. She only had to cough and she would break a nail.

  Instead, I phoned Mrs Fenwick. A woman answered the phone. She sounded middle-aged, a housekeeper perhaps.

  “I’m sorry to be ringing Mr Fenwick’s home but Miss Anderson, his assistant, made an appointment for me and in view of the fire, I wondered how I could get in touch with her.” I had my Barbara Hutton voice on.

  “Just a minute,” said the housekeeper. “I think Leroy Anderson lives with her sister. Yes, here’s her address. Tarrant Close, number twelve.”

  “Do you know her sister’s name?”

  “No, sorry. That’s all I know.”

  “Thank you, anyway. You’ve been very helpful.”

  Tarrant Close… it rang a bell. Several abbey-sized clangers. Nothing to do with phoning a friend and becoming a millionaire. It was the address of Leslie Fairbrother, the manager of Sussex United Banking Corporation who had gone missing. Suddenly I put two and two together and came up with a frightening four. The corpse in the safe. It might be him, more than just a missing bank manager now.

  Perhaps Leroy had been hiding him in the office. Something odd was going on, even if I couldn’t make out what it was at this stage. I had no desire to pass this information on to DI James, not after the way he had commandeered my bike. I wondered if I could sue Latching police for loss of wheels.

  I was getting nowhere fast. I’d nothing on celluloid for Mrs Fenwick; dead-end for Mrs Drury; a few dozen plants for Mr Lucan. Hardly a sparkling success. I should be concentrating on one project at a time, not juggling three cases in the air.

  I wandered into Maeve’s Cafe on the sea front. It was one of my regular haunts, mainly because Mavis knew my taste in food and drink. I regarded her as a friend.

  “Tea with honey?” she signaled from the counter. I nodded. A hot teacake dripping with butter appeared on my table before I had hardly sat down and taken off my coat.

  “Get this down you,” she said. “You look half starved. You can’t live on sandwiches and soup.”

  “Who says I do?”

  “I know where you shop.”

  Doris and Mavis were long-time mates. I bought most of my groceries from Doris whose small, crowded shop was two doors down from
mine. They were an observant pair and took a delight in being one up on me.

  “Okay,” I said. “What can you tell me about stolen water lilies, vandalism of the WI prize-winning wedding entry at the Agricultural Show and the nocturnal activities of Cllr Adrian Fenwick?”

  “That’s a tall order,” said Mavis, bringing over a full mug of honeyed tea. She sat down at the table with me, pushing the tea cake towards me. Melting butter was sliding all over the plate like a golden pool. I broke off a piece of toasted dough and mopped up the glistening liquid. The mixed fruit went straight to my sweet tooth bud and said hello.

  “I don’t know anything much about any of that stuff, but I do know that Terence Lucan is nearly broke. Comes in here and orders half a portion of chips. He gambles, you know. Puts his money on the horses. And all that WI home-baked wedding catering, home-baked my eye. They bought half the stuff. I saw them in Safeways, buying up quiches and profiteroles and ready-cut salads by the trolley-load. As for Cllr Adrian Fenwick. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has got a fancy bit on the side. His wife is so saintly, I bet she makes him say grace before they get into bed.”

  I choked on a crumb. The glossy Mrs Fenwick had not seemed particularly saintly to me. “Gossip,” I said. “Pure gossip. You’re winding me up. I bet you and Doris made it all up over coffee this morning.”

  “That’s your job, isn’t it? To find out what’s the truth and what’s lies. Well, there, I’ve given you a few ideas to be getting on with.”

  “It’s help I need,” I said, nearly burning myself on the hot tea. Mavis’s idea of boiling water was several degrees above 100 centigrade. “Not half-baked gossip.”

  “Never turn down gossip, young lady,” said Mavis, getting up to see to another customer who had just come in, banging the door behind him. “There may be a gram of truth in it.”

  “Grain, you mean.”

  I stared at the pattern on the oil-cloth-covered table top. I had eaten at Maeve’s cafe a hundred times and never really taken in the intricacy of the pattern. Someone with an Arts degree had designed this cloth. Geraniums and pots and trellises. It was someone’s life work.

  Life work. It was time to get back to base roots. Not a flora joke. I had to start all over again. I’d missed something or perhaps there was nothing to miss. Latching Water Gardens was several miles inland and the Stagecoach bus service went nowhere near. My flushed finances gave me the solution. Fifteen minutes later I’d signed the rental agreement on one Raleigh Sunrise lady’s cycle, wheels with alloy rims and hubs, cantilever brakes and semi-raised handlebars. It was mine for a week, all 18-speed index gears with gripshaft. Cheap at the price.

  “You have to wear a helmet,” said the assistant. “It’s the law.”

  “It’s the law in Australia, not here,” I said. “But okay, I’ll wear a bone dome.”

  It felt like wings after a day of walking everywhere. The bike was in good nick. I only had to change the saddle height. O ladybird, ladybird, come fly home with me. I’d nowhere to park a car but I’d find space for her.

  Even the hill did not seem so steep second time around. I did not announce my presence. I put the bike in bushes, cupped-hand a drink from nearby standing tap, unzipped anorak for escape of excess body heat.

  Avenues of plants, shrubs and saplings stretched in all directions like a sea of green, tinged with autumnal russet. Winter was on its way. Although water lilies were Mr Lucan’s speciality, he obviously grew other things. The route to the ponds looked well trampled as if the Old Bill had held a reunion march.

  I wondered if I had come to the right place, blinked, checked landmarks. Everything had changed since my first visit. All the ponds were empty. They had been completely cleared out. The concrete bases and sides were murky and cracked, algae clinging to every crevice. A sea of mud rimmed the edges. It looked and smelled worse than when I’d first inspected the scene.

  And where were the rescued plants? At a rough count, there’d been a dozen or so from the Agricultural Show and about six from the kiddies’ float. Not an American Star in sight. Surely, they hadn’t died from mishandling?

  Mr Lucan did not seem to employ much in the way of staff. Trees grew by themselves but surely there was mulching and pruning to do, whatever mulching was. I could only see one khaki-clad figure in the distance, rhythmically bending over in a digging movement between lines of bushes. Very rural.

  “Miss Jordan. What are you doing here?”

  I jumped. I hadn’t heard Terence Lucan come along behind me. He looked closed up, withdrawn, not particularly pleased to see me, khaki combat trousers streaked with mud.

  “Hi there,” I said cheerfully. “Thought I’d have another look round. I might have missed something.” Especially when I don’t know what I’m looking for, I added to myself. “I see you’ve emptied the ponds.”

  “It seemed a good opportunity,” he said morosely. “Routine maintenance. Bacteria, you know. Can’t be too careful.” He kicked a nearby hose. “Soon fill ’em up again when you find the rest of my plants.”

  “When did you first start growing water lilies?” I asked.

  “About ten years ago. Always liked them, their serene beauty. I wanted to develop a speciality side to the business. Trees get boring,” said Mr Lucan. “No real skill needed. I wanted to be known for something.”

  “I didn’t realize you had so much land. Do you employ many people? I’d like to speak to them.”

  “Only odd-job men, now and again. I employ students in the summer.” Mr Lucan looked vaguely towards a line of saplings.

  “But I saw someone over there.” I waved in the direction of the line of bushes but the figure had gone. A mist was creeping up the hill off the sea. It was going to rain. I was going to get wet. No fun.

  “You must have imagined it. There’s no one around today. They’ve all gone home.”

  “Perhaps it was someone stealing a bush. What sort of bushes are they, over there?”

  “Deciduous, perennial, evergreens mostly.”

  Not a lot of help. “And your car, the red Morris Minor,” I changed the subject swiftly, sensing his discomfort. “Can I put a deposit on it? Say, three hundred pounds? I can send you a cheque now while I arrange finance for the rest.”

  Shorthand for get a loan from the bank, ha ha.

  He paused, doing arithmetic in his head. “I’d rather have cash,” he said. “I don’t want to put it through the books.”

  “Understandable. I’ll see what I can do. Nice to see you again. Don’t worry, we’re getting somewhere.”

  Freewheeling home downhill was a joy. I’d discovered something but I was not sure what it was. Mr Lucan had not wanted me there. He was not pleased that I had seen the empty ponds. He did not want me to interview anyone who worked for him. As for the car, he’d only agreed to the sale to get rid of me. I was no nearer owning that car than I was to living on the moon.

  The promised rain came lashing down. My Raleigh Sunrise held the road well but I soon felt icy fingers creeping down the back of my neck as the rain soaked through my anorak. My hair was a wet rope, eyelashes stuck with glue.

  I prayed for a panda car to come and pick me up. They could cook up any charge: riding a bike without insurance; riding a bike without a helmet; freewheeling downhill with my feet off the pedals. All I wanted was a vehicle roof over my head.

  Later, I phoned the bank and requested an appointment with Mr Weaver, the manager. I checked whether they had removed the two thousand pounds. They hadn’t. The manager came on the line.

  “Miss Jordan. This is William Weaver speaking. We simply don’t understand your request. A further two thousand pounds was deposited in your account today. Why put it in if you then want us to remove it?”

  “But I didn’t put it in,” I snapped. “Don’t you understand? It’s not my money and I’m not putting it in. I don’t care what you do with it, but don’t leave it in my account.”

  “It’s not that easy. It was correctly deposited,
both sums, and has to remain there. If you want it out of your account, then you must withdraw it in the normal manner and take it away.”

  “But I don’t want to take it away. It’s not mine. Haven’t you got some dead account you can put it in?”

  “We are not allowed to remove money correctly deposited unless under police instruction.”

  There are red bits in my tawny hair and those bits suddenly heated up, detonating like a mine underfoot. “I shall make a complaint,” I almost shouted. “Get rid of it. I want it out before I see you tomorrow about a personal loan to buy a car.”

  “I take a very serious view about your complaint,” said the manager, all stiff and official.

  “And I take a very serious view of your incompetence. My patience is evaporating fast.” I slammed the phone down. A severe case of detonation. Stress activated. Too late to count to ten.

  The retread of Latching Water Nursery had been fruitful but there was no way I could look at the WI marquee again. The Agricultural Show had been dismantled and all that remained were brown patches where the tents had stood. I thought about Mavis and the Safeways mega-buy. Her remarks could have been sour grapes. Maeve’s Cafe has a limited menu. Chips with everything. Even chips with chips.

  “Mrs Drury,” I said on the phone. “It’s Jordan Lacey of FCI. Could you let me have a complete list of your members and mark which ones contributed to the display and what they cooked. A tall order, I know, but I feel it’s necessary to get a complete picture.” I used the same phrase. Too tired to think up new words.

  “I can tell you’re on to something,” said Mrs Drury. “I can hear it in your voice. I know! A couple of our members were disappointed because their exhibits were not up to scratch and not accepted. We are very particular and our standard is high. You don’t think they deliberately sabotaged the stand, do you?” Her voice went up a scale. “How absolutely dreadful! But, of course, it could happen…”

  “No, I don’t think that happened at all,” I said soothingly. “The Latching WI is far too nice. But it might be someone who was denied membership. Can you think of anyone whose application was turned down?”