Head down, I started the long walk back to Latching. I was very tired. Tinned soup is not long-term nourishment. I needed protein. I had to keep going, pushing one leg forward, then the other, face against the wind. My lips were drying out. If I got as far as Maeve’s Cafe, I’d have a blow-out fish and chips.
I’d almost forgotten the way. The cafe windows were all steamed up as I opened the door and went inside. Mavis shot me a look across the counter.
“Surprised you got the nerve to come in here,” she sniffed. “Surprised I’ve got the strength,” I said.
“After what I’ve heard.”
“Obviously some walls have ears. Give over, Mavis. Don’t start the Cold War again. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Not what I hear, young madam. Private investigator, my foot. Private arsonist, more like.”
I took a seat by a window and sat down wearily. The cafe was half empty. “All I want is some decent fish and chips. If it means a moral lecture as well, then I’ll take it. But be quick. I’m liable to pass out from undernourishment and then you’ll have to cope with 999 calls and the ambulance service.”
She wasn’t talking to me. That suited. But my wan face must have stirred some compassion for she brought me a mug of tea, as I like it, weak with honey. Some minutes later, cod and chips arrived, steaming and golden and succulent. At least it was fresh. Mavis hadn’t warmed up some leftovers in the microwave.
“Thank you,” I said.
She sniffed again and plonked down some cutlery, her face set in disapproval. I couldn’t understand her sudden antipathy. I had always been her flavor of the month and it hurt. I hoped Doris wouldn’t put up the same barriers when I went into her shop for my daily supply of yoghurt and apples.
It took me a long time to eat the plateful. Although it tasted delicious and the chips melted their crispness on my tongue, my jaws had lost their chewing power. Perhaps it was all that soup.
I couldn’t even finish the last few chips. I wrapped them up in a paper napkin. The gulls would go for them.
I put a fiver on the counter and Mavis gave me some change without saying a word.
“Let me know when peace is declared,” I said, going out.
Fate must have decided to deal me some good cards for a change for as I was walking across the old Town Hall Square, coming towards me was Leroy Anderson. She looked perky, perched on absurd clumpy high heels, her hair in a smooth chignon, skin flawless with carefully applied make-up.
“Hi, Miss Anderson. How are you? You look well.”
“I’m fine. They’ve put me in charge of administration since poor Mr Fenwick died. A lot of responsibility but I know what I’m doing. He never really appreciated me.”
“Well done,” I said. “I’m sure you are the right person to keep things going. People always underestimate the ability of a good secretary.”
She smiled, all raspberry lip gloss and brushed blusher. “Thank you. Nice of you to say that. Do I know you?”
“Not really.” I wasn’t going to remind her of Barbara Hutton. “But we have spoken several times. I wonder if you could help me. Did a woman called Pippa Shaw ever buy a property from you?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Did Mr Fenwick have an interest in any properties? I mean, did he rent out places?”
“Oh yes, he owned a block of flats on the front. Very nice, if you like modern red brick and metal balconies. They pulled down several old houses and put up this six-floor apartment block. A sort of investment. It’s called Horizon Views.”
“Thank you. Carry on the good work.”
She tripped away on huge heels, quite consoled over the loss of her aromatherapy oils.
I knew Horizon Views, the ugliest block on the seafront. I couldn’t imagine Pippa Shaw liking anything but the sea view, but if it had been for free, then you could get used to red brick.
The cod fillet had given me a new spurt of energy. I walked along the front to Horizon Views. The wind was still relentless and biting. The swans on the boating pool were fluffed out like forked meringues as they glided across the rippling surface. I was glad of the WI pattern gloves.
The block of flats loomed like some epitaph to depressed elephants, encased in garish red brick and gray painted steelwork. The architect must have been having an away-day on bad coke.
I scanned the bell labels. There it was: P Shaw. Flat 5. I rang the bell. A female voice answered.
“Delivery from Interflora,” I said pleasantly.
“Please come up.”
The entrance door opened to my touch. I took the lift to the fifth floor and found the door for flat 5. It was painted a uniform white with a gold number 5. I knocked.
Pippa Shaw opened the door, expectantly. Her face fell when she saw me. There was nothing wrong with her memory.
“Hello,” I said. “Do you still want me to take photographs of your errant husband and his paramour?”
Sixteen
“So, hello again,” I went on as Pippa Shaw stood in the doorway, clearly lost for words. A nerve twitched at the side of her mouth, disturbing her lip gloss. “Can I come in? Sorry about no flowers, but we have several things to discuss.”
She was as immaculate as ever in sharp white cords and a white silk jersey. How could she keep so clean? Not a splodge of tomato sauce anywhere. I followed her into a big lounge that spilled out on to a fern-potted balcony. The lounge was all white leather and water-silk drapes. Not a book or magazine in sight. I began to feel androgynous.
“You do remember me?” I asked, not waiting to be asked to sit down. I needed to sit down. It was a deep slippery sofa.
“Yes, you are Jordan Lacey, the PL We met in the multistorey car park.”
“I’m glad you remember even though you have trouble remembering who you are married to. That was when you told me a load of nonsense about following your husband, Councilor Adrian Fenwick, and taking photographs et cetera, the councilor who was, in fact, at that time, your father-in-law and possibly your lover. So exactly whose affair were we talking about? You with him? Him with someone else? I’m confused.”
“We obviously need to talk,” she said. This was an understatement but at least she had not thrown me out.
I felt very much in control despite the extended nails. “Yes,” I said. “I’m here to get at the truth. Or there’s going to be a problem, Ms Shaw or Mrs Fenwick, whichever name you prefer.”
“I took my maiden name after the divorce,” she said.
“Except when it suits you.”
Pippa Shaw had got her breath back. She straightened a cushion, each corner in turn. “This isn’t easy,” she began.
“The truth never is.” I was surprised she even wanted to talk. Something didn’t ring true but I was prepared to listen.
“When I married Tony, I found I had made a terrible mistake. We didn’t really get along, apart from in bed with the lights out. It was hopeless. Then I found that the man I should have married was his father, Adrian. We were perfect together. We began an affair. I know it wasn’t right but we simply couldn’t help it.”
“But he was already married. To your mother-in-law. It sounds like one of those confessional stories in women’s magazines.”
“I know. And Mrs Fenwick was nice to me, friendly, the kind of mother-in-law one always longs for. It was a difficult situation.”
“And now you’ve found someone else, is that right? Mrs Fenwick even baked you a wedding cake.”
“I didn’t want it. A wedding cake, no way! I wanted to get away from the Fenwicks, even Adrian. They smothered me with kindness. And Adrian started getting possessive. I had to make a new start.”
There was a chink in the glamor. Pippa Shaw actually looked more human. Minute cracks were appearing like on an old oil painting that had been badly varnished. Even her bronzed hair looked duller.
“Why don’t you tell me everything, starting from the beginning,” I said, like an agony aunt. “And don’t leave out
the mobile phone and the thermos flask.”
She was thrown. Her mind was juggling with what to tell me and what to leave out. Yes, she admitted, she had lifted the mobile phone on an impulse. Yes, she had taken the call from Mrs Drury meant for the other Mrs Fenwick and made the appointment to see me. Yes, she had also taken the thermos flask but simply so that she could make her soon-to-be exbeloved some coffee. “It was a sort of gesture,” she added. “As if I were his wife.”
Nothing made sense. She was still not telling the whole truth. She was feeding me snippets to keep me off the real track. “So why employ me to take photographs?”
“I wanted to find out if we had been successful at covering our tracks. I was worried, now that I was remarrying. My fiance is the jealous type. He’s in the pop recording business. There’s a lot of aggro and stress in the studios.”
“And he’s a catch, is he?”
She studied her nails as if calculating his worth in manicures. “You could say that. A millionaire, several times over.”
I couldn’t even imagine so much money. Scrimping and saving was my way of life. Perhaps she’d buy me a poinsettia for Christmas.
“So you didn’t see Mr Fenwick the night of the fire at Fenwick Future Homes?”
She hesitated. “No, I didn’t see him.”
“But he got the coffee.”
“I left the flask for him at his office.”
“But you didn’t see him at all?”
“I’ve told you. I never saw him.” Tears spiked her eyes, clogging her lashes and I almost believed her. I think she actually loved Adrian whatever the scenario. He was a father figure. An older man had actually appealed to her, more than his callow son. If Tony Fenwick had been the callow sort. I’d never met him. Perhaps I ought to find out. Then maybe not. I was spreading the web wide, too wide.
“And the standing order payments into my account?”
“Yes, as I promised. All in order. I made arrangements for the standing order to be paid every week.”
“And nothing else?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Someone has been paying large sums of cash into my account. Someone pretending to be me. Is it you?”
She made a little laugh. “Large sums? Lucky you. I should spend it while you have a chance. But no, I’m not your fairy-godmother. God forbid, I need every penny. This place… eats money.”
“But these flats belonged to Adrian Fenwick. Surely he didn’t expect you to pay a rent?”
She didn’t answer, swallowed. That told me a lot. She shot a glance at a silver drinks tray well supplied with gin, vodka, whisky and mixers. Her eyes reflected a thirst.
“How about the sleeping tablets that you laced Adrian’s coffee with?” I threw at her. She went quite white neath the Porcelain Beige foundation. “Halcion, they’re called. Leftovers from your prescription after your divorce perhaps? Divorces are sleepless events, I understand. I only need to check with your doctor.”
Not true. He wouldn’t tell me anything. But he might tell DI James.
“How do you know?” she breathed.
“Forensic, Miss Shaw. They can find out anything these days.”
“I didn’t mean any harm. I only wanted him to be too sleepy to call on me. You know what I mean. He often called in late. My wedding’s not far off and I don’t want anything to go wrong. Adrian had been getting very ardent lately, not wanting me to remarry, that sort of thing. I was tired of the hassles. I thought a sleeping pill would… well, make him sleep instead.”
“It was more than one sleeping pill.”
“I didn’t count. I only had a few left over. Perhaps two then…”
“And you took the coffee to his office in the afternoon?”
“Just as they were closing. He wasn’t there. I left it on his desk with a little note.”
“Which conveniently got burnt. Did you go back later that night and lock the office door just to make sure?”
Pippa Shaw looked as if she was going to faint. I was sure she had locked the door. She probably had a key to let herself in the back door of the showroom, and the key to his office for little rendezvous. Adrian might already have been half asleep on the cocktail of brandy and Halcion. But she could not admit it. There was that wedding to a several times over stressed millionaire to protect.
I couldn’t think of anything more to ask the glamorous, but shaken, former Mrs Fenwick Jnr. I had run out of ideas. I didn’t know whether I believed her or not. My legs were miraculously still working so I gathered myself up off her deep sofa and turned towards the door. She was already heading for the drinks tray. Her hand was slightly trembling as she poured herself a generous straight gin into a cut-glass tumbler.
“I won’t have anything, thank you,” I said. “I don’t drink when I’m walking.” How I hate meanness. “By the way, do you ride a bike?”
She flashed me a look of contempt. The 37 per cent alcohol content of the gin had immediately shot into her veins, given her back her self-confidence. “A bike? I wouldn’t be seen dead on one.”
*
Jack. I went straight to Jack. In his booth, security guarded with devices I’ve never heard of, in the amusement arcade on the pier, he saw the entire world. He had a boring job, raking in all that money, counting it, putting thousands of pounds in the bank, keeping the yobbos out. Long hours, rainswept, windswept, but as cozy as toast in his booth.
“Got a minute?” I said, leaning against the glass.
“For you, darling. Any time.” He grinned.
He coded in some security number and the door opened. He was in his usual greasy T-shirt and jeans. I wondered if they ever saw a washing machine. I knew nothing about his private life. Perhaps there was a Mrs Jack somewhere in a bungalow in Ferring. I didn’t think so. He looked a lonely, undomesticated, sex-starved bachelor.
He put on the electric kettle, found two semi-clean mugs. They looked revolting but I had to drink the stuff. I couldn’t hurt his feelings. He put in lots of instant, lots of brown sugar, lots of coffee-mate. Stirred not shaken. His ideal brew, thick and sweet.
“Lovely,” I said, finding myself a stool in his crowded booth. It was nice to be surrounded by masses and masses of money, even if none of it was mine. People felt they had to throw it away on his machines and moving shelves. It was an addiction to the lights, the warmth, the feeling of a social activity, the promise of easy money.
He was smiling at me as if he had won the lottery. Dear God, the man actually liked me, fancied me, thought he had a chance, even when he hadn’t shaved for days. What could I do or say, except to smile back?
“I want to rack your brains,” I said. “You know everybody in Latching. Tell me what you know about Councilor Adrian Fenwick, his daughter-in-law, Pippa Shaw, Mrs Edith Drury, Mr Terence Lucan.”
“Blimey. You don’t want much.”
“I’m in no hurry.”
“Okay. But I still have to work. See to the machines. Dole out money to the punters.”
“You carry on with your work. Do what you have to do. I’m quite happy sitting here with a coffee.” I sat back and relaxed. He might give me another teddy. I had room on my bedside table.
There were erratic interludes when Jack could talk and he rambled on. He was a mine of trivial information. He was also starved of a woman to talk to. A woman who listened. Affection, it’s called. A warm feeling. He was a dam bursting with words.
“The dishy councilor… very good-looking gray-way, pulled the birds. Long marriage to old bird but he was still fond of the duck. Sorry he got burned, but it could have been an accident. I don’t believe he knew what was happening. Pippa… she was one of his birds, but she got wise. Wanted a diamond ring on her finger, security, money-minded. Found some pop geezer, filthy rich, flashy car. Ditched the councilor, not nice, bitch. The WI president, Dopey Drury they call her, mad driver, potty but kind-hearted. Never comes in here, but some of her members do, small-time gamblers, little flutter. They all love t
he woman. Never a word against her. Salt of the earth.”
Jack stopped for breath and took a long drink of his awful coffee. Heaven knows what it was doing to his stomach. His bad complexion was some answer.
“Yes…” I prompted.
“All that stuff in the papers about kids trashing the wedding show. Don’t believe it, na-arh. They’d have eaten the lot, been found on the floor, stuffed to the gills, sick as dogs. And the wedding cake… who eats wedding cake these days? They’d have taken it on the pier, fed it to the gulls for a laugh. No, ma’am, that’s the wrong track. You’ve got to find some other geezers.”
“Thank you,” I said. “What about Terence Lucan?”
“The nursery bloke talking to trees. Lost his marbles years ago. Don’t know how he survives. Place is a muddle, except for his plants. Can’t pay his workers. Up to his ears in debt, serious debt. The racetracks though, can’t keep away from ’em. Can’t see it myself, horses running about, jumping fences, breaking legs. Who cares? Half of them get shot, anyway.”
“So… what about the water lilies that got stolen?”
“I should look for a big hole. Who’d steal something that would die in a couple of days? What else d’you want to know? Ask me. I’ll tell you anything.”
“Who set fire to Fenwick Future Homes?”
His face fell. Someone was knocking on the window but he ignored them. “Can’t help you there. I would if I could, believe me. You watch it, me darlin’. Someone’s using you.”
I put down the mug. “You’ve been a wonderful help, Jack,” I said. He hadn’t told me anything that I had not already worked out for myself but it was confirmation.
“Any time,” he said, wondering when he would see me again.
When I got home, there was a message on my answcrphone. It was from DI James.
“Hello, Jordan? This is DI James. I picked up the tape. You left your shop open. Don’t leave the country. If you have a passport, could you please bring it into the station?”
I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. Jordan Lacey, the most trustworthy (almost) PI on the south coast. Friend of the homeless, old ladies, lost pets and feeder of swans on boating pool. Giver-away of hideous duck to gloater who made huge profit on same duck. Why me? Clearly I was being set up.
Wave and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 2) Page 16