Wave and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 2)

by Stella Whitelaw

  “And with a candle in a waste bin?” I interrupted.

  “That’s very good. I like that. Add candle in a waste bin.”

  I spelt waste “Waist” and added an extra nought to the blood money. He was very careless for a bank manager. But I felt impotent. My handwriting was barely recognizable. A drop of blood was running down my neck. He had nicked the skin.

  “‘And after locking the showroom door, I threw the key in the sea.’”

  I spelt sea “See”. “But I didn’t,” I said. “You’ve got the key.”

  “Don’t argue. Now sign it. Your full name.”

  I signed. I put Jordan MacLacey. Mac the Knife. Someone might get the connection. Someone with a few brain cells.

  “Well done,” he said. He did not spot the errors in the dim light of the church. “Didn’t know you were Scottish.”

  “On my mother’s side.”

  “I’ll pop it into the post, addressed to West Sussex police. They should get it tomorrow or the next day. DI James will be pleased to have one less case to deal with.”

  “He’ll get you for your wife’s death.”

  “Never. I disappeared weeks ago. I could be in South America by now.”

  He unlocked the hermit’s door with a large iron key someone had left in the lock and opened it. Stale air flooded out. It was total darkness inside. Just a hole in the hillside.

  Leslie Fairbrother caught my arms, my sleeves, the lobe of my ear. He had ten hands, pushing me inside. I fell, off balance, and the door slammed shut behind me. I heard the key turn.

  “Time for meditation on your sins,” he said. “No hurry. You’ve plenty of time. “Bye, Jordan. Nice meeting you. I’ll think of you when I’m sunning in Spain by my pool, maybe.”

  “Let me out! Don’t go!” I screamed. “Don’t leave me. This isn’t fair. I haven’t done anything.”

  “Sorry, Jordan. I’ve other things on my mind.”

  I heard him leave, the door to the church shut.

  It was the inky blackness of no light whatsoever. And it was small. The hermit must have been a midget or perhaps he shrank with time. The floor was hard earth, flattened by centuries. I made myself activate my senses. At the back were several piles of books. From the uniform size and thin pages, I guessed they were hymn books. The hermit’s hole was used as a store. I felt around some more and found several boxes of waxy sticks – altar candles. Wonderful. I could have a sing-song.

  In my pocket was the trawl of Waz’s kitchen counter top: I had gathered paper clips, a plastic wallet, a cork, a tube of wine gums and, glory hallelujah, a full box of matches. Note to self: always carry matches.

  I made a makeshift candlestick holder out of the clips, plastic wallet and cork, my fingers clumsy with haste. The contraption held a candle firmly enough to light. The match flared happily and took hold of the waxen wick. Lo, we had light.

  A soft light wavered round the hole. The light cheered me. I lit a second candle and held it aloft. Now I could see that the hermit’s cell had been dug out of the hill with two sides supported by walls of rough stones, holding back the earth. It was too low for me to stand. I could hardly dig out the back wall. A mile through the South Downs? There were no communion biscuits or wine. I’d have to survive on the gums.

  I had got to get out of this. No way was I going to let Leslie Fairbrother wash his hands all the way to Spain. I thought about burning down the door but it was inches thick and would no doubt kill me in the process. Surely someone would come to dust, water the flowers, straighten the kneelers, replenish the guide leaflets by the door. Perhaps.

  Or I would die. The timeless boredom before death was more of a worry. How long would it take? No food, no drink, not much air…

  I thumbed through a hymn book, peering closely at the print. I knew several of the hymns from childhood. The words were comforting.

  “All things bright and beautiful,” I began singing, “All creatures great and small. All things wise and wonderful, the Good Lord made them all.”

  Twenty-Three

  It was an endless vacuum of time that hung like an old sepia print. I couldn’t remember how long an hour felt like. Shopping list: buy a watch. No, delete that. I wouldn’t be needing a watch by tomorrow.

  I sat, knees hunched up, in the cramped hole, surrounded by stubs of candles, some burning, some gutted. I saw no point in being economical. I needed light and a flicker of warmth. My feet were beyond feeling. At the end of every verse I rubbed them. Terry Waite had exercised regularly for muscle tone.

  High-level dread was eating into my resilience, weakening my normal sturdy defences. This old church was miles off the beaten track. No one would find me for weeks.

  I was so cold it was hard not to doze off. I knew I must not sleep. It would be my last sleep if I did. My mind was slipping away. I was walking the pier in a kind of fog. Happy Birthday, Pier. As I strolled the decking, I realized what was wrong with one of those photographs in the exhibition. The negative had been printed the wrong way round. The east side of the pier appeared to be on the right; the view of the west side was portrayed on the left. A simple error. I knew east was towards Brighton, the Seven Sisters and Beachy Head which I could vaguely see; the west was towards Cornwall which I could not.

  No one had noticed. It was like my recent cases. No one had noticed that they were the wrong way round. What appeared to be on the right, was actually on the left. And vice versa.

  Terence Lucan appeared to be the victim with his stolen water lilies, but he was actually the villain with his insurance fraud. Mrs Drury and her WI appeared the victims of vandalism, but she was the villain, getting free publicity deviously manufactured by herself. And Mrs Fenwick… she might appear a victim, her cake being stolen which in fact it was, but then it was no ordinary brandy-laced wedding cake.

  Pippa Shaw looked like a villain, framing me for crimes I didn’t do, but she was a victim, being blackmailed all along the line. I tried to think about Waz Fairbrother, decide what she was… but my brain cells were sounding Whiskey Alpha Zulu, drifting back to panda-car days of long ago. I shook myself awake.

  Lacey’s eleven most loved hymns of Latching were on their eighteenth airing when I heard a faint noise outside. Hallelujah. I wasn’t sure if it was rats or ghosts or Leslie Fairbrother coming back to finish me off. Maybe it was a Holocene ghost, from the rock period. Ten thousand years ago. After all I was holed up in the South Downs. I don’t know where I picked up this useless bit of information. If it was a rat, I could try making a pet of it.

  I thought I heard a light being switched on. Yes, there was light, a glimmer under the door. Or was it angels with shimmering wings come to fetch me?

  I managed to call out. banged on the door with a hymn book till it slipped from my hand. I was so stiff I could hardly move. That hermit must have been a cripple.

  “Jordan! Jordan! Where are you?”

  I was hallucinating, of course. That voice. More dreams. It was the voice that I would die hearing. James… James… my James. Not my trumpeter because he was a fantasy figure and belonged to another woman. His music succored my soul but he had no place in my life, in my bed, in my arms…

  “I’m here… in the hermit’s hole.”

  “God! Why doesn’t the woman talk sense! This is no time for jokes, Jordan.” He sounded angry. I heard footsteps pacing the church, stamping over the floorslabs. They were making more noise than I was. It reverberated like half an army.

  I banged feebly on the door, sobbing. “Here… here… here.”

  “The banging seems to be coming from this tiny door in the wall, sir. It’s locked.”

  Bless his size-ten cotton socks. Some barely shaving rookie constable had noticed the door. He sounded about fourteen.

  “Move back! We’re going to break down the door,” DI James shouted.

  “You can’t!” I cried. “It’s centuries old.”

  “Move back, you idiot!”

  “I can’t. There’s no ro
om.”

  “Okay. Then you’ll have to stay there until you are thin enough to slide under the door.”

  “Break it down,” I said.

  It was a tough old door. Splinters of wood showered round me. They were using an axe. I covered my face. A shaft of light flooded in and I looked up. They had destroyed the area around the lock and the door swung open harmlessly. DI James stared in with a flange of faces behind him. They looked startled. I suppose I did look odd.

  I was so stiff, I couldn’t move. Someone blew out the candles. DI James hauled me into the transept of the church. I couldn’t stand properly. My legs had departed this earth.

  “Are you all right?” he asked roughly, letting me lean on him.

  I nodded. “Want a wine gum?” I asked, offering him the last in the pack.

  *

  Somehow, we got down the hillside to his car. It was dark now. The gloom was enveloping. He slid me into the front passenger seat, holding my head down in normal police procedure. My brain was thawing slowly. I was not going to die but I might lose my toes.

  He took off the mud-caked plastic hospital issue and began rubbing my feet.

  “You should get yourself some proper shoes, Jordan,” he said. “There are lots of shoe shops in Latching. Or you could buy a pair of trainers in a discount store.”

  “Yes,” I said. I was beginning to tremble.

  Then he did something amazing. He took off his shoes and socks, and put his own still warm socks on my feet. I could have died then from the sheer pleasure.

  He put his shoes back on his bare feet and turned on the car heater.

  “Who was it, Jordan? Feel like talking? Who locked you in?”

  “Yes,” I said. “It was Leslie Fairbrother, the bank manager. I think he’s planning to go to Spain. Maybe by ferry to France then driving down to Spain. He has a new Ford Fiesta, red. Didn’t get the registration number, but it’s this year’s. You’d better hurry if you arc going to catch him.”

  “I’ll radio through to the ferry ports and Gatwick airport, see if they can pick him up.”

  “And he looks different now. Grayish beard, trimmer build, well dressed, no glasses. He’s had a makeover. And he’s always washing his hands, creepy.”

  “Nothing like the photograph?”

  “No. How did you know it was me in the church?”

  “We didn’t at first. Someone spotted your spotted car outside number eighteen Tarrant Close.” DI James didn’t know he had said something funny. His face was set. “We decided that was shorthand for calling on number twelve.”

  “But the church… it was miles away.”

  “A woman walking her dog heard this strange singing coming from the church. She knew it wasn’t choir rehearsal night so she called the police.”

  “But you still didn’t know it was me in there.”

  DI James handed me a crumpled sheet of A4 paper. It had help, help, HELP written all over it.

  “You really must improve your writing,” he said.

  *

  It was VIP treatment at Latching police station. Sergeant Rawlings fussed about with a blanket and I got the same armchair. A WPC whipped out to Safeways and came back with a wrapped shrimp and mayonnaise sandwich and a packet of sour-cream crisps. DI James produced the Chardonnay although I knew it was against the rules. It was cool and oaky and slid down my throat like silk. I read the label. It was from Australia and was good with salads and meat and fish dishes. He recorded a statement from me and I told him all I knew. It took a long time because I was tired.

  “We can’t charge him just on this,” he said. “You could be making it all up.”

  “Sure, and I locked myself into the hermit’s cell just to lose weight and meditate for a couple of days. It’s up to you to find the evidence. I’m giving you the background and the motive for both deaths.”

  He held up his hands in submission. “I believe you. Jordan. But any good defence lawyer could shred this statement to pieces in court. No one can verify a word. No witnesses. Leslie Fairbrother would deny every word, say you were freaked out of your mind, deny he had even met you, never been anywhere near the church.”

  “Mud on his car wheels, from the farmyard, from the lane,” I said. I was really into forensic. “Get a match.”

  “He’s probably been to a car wash on his way to the ferry, hosed down the wheels.”

  I yawned. The wine was making me sleepy. My legs and feet had a degree of returned life in them. I needed a walk but even the few yards to the bleak station loo and back was hard going. It would be nice to sleep stretched out on a comfortable bed in a warm room, surrounded by hot-water bottles.

  “I want to go home,” I said.

  “Sorry, Jordan,” DI James. “But we can’t let you go home. We’ll make arrangements for you to stay in a hotel, one of our safe havens. WPC Patel will accompany you. We’ll get some clean clothes for you and anything else that you might need. You can’t go back to your flat or your shop until Leslie Fairbrother is safely behind bars. He’s a dangerous man.”

  “That’s what Adrian Fenwick was trying to tell me when he phoned before the fire,” I said. “Remember, he said something about being in danger?”

  “You’re probably right. We’ll never know.”

  *

  They caught Leslie Fairbrother in the act of throwing two keys into the Channel while on the Dover -Calais ferry. Perhaps he wanted to give my confession some validity. The keys caught in some deck superstructure and fell on to a passenger’s foot. They were identified as the keys to the hermit’s door and the FFH office key.

  He denied handling the keys but a party of French students on deck had witnessed the event and gave evidence several times, volubly and in several languages. The police sergeant got a severe headache.

  As soon as he was in custody, I was allowed to go home. Not that I hadn’t enjoyed my few days as a pampered hotel guest but the novelty soon wore off and I wanted to get out and go off. Seawards. They let me keep the jeans and sweatshirt kindly provided out of some fund. The sweatshirt was a mildewy green, not my color at all. It went in the props box.

  My flat said hello, hello, hello, despite the shut-in-air feeling. I opened windows, touched things, sal around, reminded myself that I paid the rent. As soon as I put on a jazz tape and turned up the volume, then it was all mine again and the drums rolled and the trumpets blazed. The Saints Came Marching In.

  It didn’t surprise me when DI James turned up on my doorstep, carrying a pair of trainers. I had left them at No 12, parked tidily behind the kitchen door. He looked drawn and tired. They work him too hard.

  First, I sat him down, gave him a bowl of freshly made carrot and orange soup at which he turned up his nose but managed to down two bowlfuls. There were granary rolls and garlic butter to mop up any spaces.

  “Don’t ask for tomato sauce because you’re not getting any.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of putting it on garlic butter but the soup could do with spicing up.”

  “Is this a social call?” I asked as he settled down with a cup of my best coffee. He was stretched out on my moral chair, all long arms and legs, hardly statement-taking, intimidating police stance.

  “Just a few gaps to fill in. I want to hear your side of things, Jordan, get the full picture. Could we start with Terence Lucan?”

  “I’ve solved that case,” I said grandly. “I found his water lilies.”

  “Where?”

  “Ah… they had been mislaid.”

  “You can’t mislay a dozen ponds of lilies. Come on, Jordan, where were they?”

  “I’m not sure where they are now,” I said carefully. Burnt, decomposed, returning to Sussex mold? “But Mr Lucan was reunited and he dropped the case, didn’t he?” I didn’t want the poor man to be charged with wasting police time.

  “What about Mrs Edith Drury?”

  “Nothing to do with the police,” I said promptly. “She didn’t call in the police.”

  “I read
about it in the newspapers. Did you find the vandals?”

  “Yes.” I put the soup bowls in the sink and started washing up with a lot of sudsy noise.

  “But they were never charged?”

  “The perpetrators were punished enough,” I said, remembering Mrs Drury’s desperate trotting to the bathroom. “It won’t happen again.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “We’d better send you some of our criminals. See if you can work the same magic on them.”

  I didn’t answer. This was just a warm-up. Now he was going for the jugular.

  “What were you doing in number twelve?”

  “Leroy Anderson gave me the key. She wanted me to look round and see if the police had missed anything. She thought I stood a better chance of finding a lead. Her sister was someone very special to her.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Leslie Fairbrother. Who had slept there since his wife was found murdered. A man who looked different, was no henpecked husband, a man with pound signs in his eyes.”

  “How does Pippa Shaw figure in this? Tell me all you know about her.”

  “You know as much as me. She is/was engaged to some pop impresario and Leslie Fairbrother was blackmailing her. He knew her affair with her father-in-law would not go down well with her fiance who liked to keep a squeaky clean image. His company sells to teeny-boppers. So he got her to do the bike-riding and money-dropping in an appalling red wig, nothing like my hair at all.”

  James nodded in agreement. He was actually looking at my hair. I had just washed it and it was all fire.

  “I’m surprised people were taken in,” I added. “Did Leslie Fairbrother admit this?”

  “Leslie Fairbrother has said nothing. He got a lawyer straightaway. But Pippa Shaw has made a full statement on condition she won’t have to go to court. I think this can be arranged. She admits to putting sleeping pills in Adrian Fenwick’s tlask but this cannot be considered chargeable. Leslie Fairbrother probably went to see Adrian Fenwick that evening to talk him out of backing away from their scheme, found Adrian Fenwick in a dozy state, shredding and burning the evidence. He saw his opportunity and returned with a can of petrol, splashed it about a bit and then locked Adrian into the office.”