Hide and Die (Jordan Lacey Series Book 4)

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘Put that inside you,’ she said like a nanny. I flashed her a thank-you smile. Since her face-bashing, we did not always need words. First-class female bonding. Things had progressed.

  ‘James. Can you look up a name for me, on the PNC? I’ve got to start somewhere with my two new cases. I’ve no jumping off point. I hope you’ll be able to help me.’

  ‘You know I can’t do that.’

  ‘You’ve done it before.’

  ‘Did I? I must have been out of my mind.’

  ‘It isn’t much to ask. Just one little name. It would only take a minute. Half a minute.’

  James added some more tomato sauce, tipping the plastic bottle upside down. He was a ten gallon sauce man. ‘What’s one little name in the great scheme of things? But I’m not promising anything,’ he said, forking another chip.

  ‘Phil Cannon, Nesta Simons, Gill Frazer and Brian Frazer.’

  James choked. It was either a chip or the sauce.

  ‘I thought you said one name,’ he spluttered. I poured him some water from the jug Mavis kept on the counter. ‘That’s four names.’

  ‘Yes, just one name. You can pick which one. You choose. I’d be so grateful.’ I put on my grateful face.

  He finished his meal then got up, all rangy and suppressed energy, ran a hand over his cropped hair. He was going already. So soon. A cloud gathered and that was just inside Maeve’s Cafe. My appetite disappeared even though the scampi was delicious.

  He lent over and took a chip from my plate.

  ‘One of mine, I think,’ he said.

  He put a tenner on the counter and spoke to Mavis. ‘I’ll treat Miss Moneypenny over there,’ he said, nodding in my direction. ‘Add a cup of tea and a chocolate ice cream. Her stamina needs building up.’

  ‘I don’t want an ice cream,’ I said.

  ‘Typical,’ he said, with relish. ‘That woman is never grateful.’

  Grateful. What had I to be grateful for? That he’d allowed me to breathe the same cubic foot of air? His carbon monoxide. Pause for cough. Nasty police station breeds germs.

  I could hardly finish that meal. Each morsel had to be forced down. Mavis looked at me suspiciously. She probably thought I was pregnant. Father unknown. The chips got smuggled out in a paper napkin. The beady-eyed gulls would appreciate them. They could smell food a sea mile off. They honed in like Exocet air missiles, practically snatching the chips out of my hand. It was unnerving. I swear they had grown bigger beaks over the winter. Any minute they might take a fancy to my fingers.

  It was like living on a seesaw. Up one day, down the next. My feelings swung giddily from one emotion to another, from one man to another but not in a promiscuous way. There were four courses of alternative action open to me:

  1. Embark on passionate Latin-British affair with dishy Miguel, owner of posh Mexican restaurant. Money and wine.

  2. Embark on unkempt, downbeat affair with besotted Jack, owner of Pier Amusements and flashy metallic blue Jag. Money.

  3. Embark on marathon cook-in for Joshua, scrounger supreme, sweet charmer and part-time inventor. Pass.

  4. Embark on becoming sexual plaything of Derek, violent, possessive, moody, sulk expert supreme. No safe conduct.

  All of whom said they adored me to different degrees.

  Thank you, but no. I’d stick to a good book.

  Note I have not mentioned DI James or divine jazz trumpeter, both of whom have a key to my heart. That left DS Ben Evans in the talent parade, unknown factor on the fringe, but nice enough. Perhaps I would take in Sunday evening jazz at Shoreham airport. If the Detective Sergeant was there, then what a coincidence.

  State of heart solved temporarily. I threw the oily paper napkin in a bin and walked the pier. My eight minutes of solace. The sea below was a deep green, splashing the rusted girders with lazy insolence. The balmy temperature was a signpost to spring. A gaggle of five geese flew over my head in perfect formation, long necks craning. I was entranced, stood with my head tilted back. They flew parallel to the sea, seeking some inland pond for a romantic rendezvous. All the creatures of the earth knew that spring was coming. Why should I be the only one left out?

  The Brian Frazer surveillance was more than a dead end. It was a complete fiasco, a black hole of zero results. I followed him regularly, sold ice cream at the theatre, watched a couple of plays, followed him home. I was beginning to think Mrs Frazer had made it all up. Wives can be devious. She could have got me watching him for a completely different reason, not wanting to tell me in actual words. It has been known. The police often get called out to domestic affrays only to find that the real reason is hiding in a wardrobe without any pants on.

  Then I got lucky. I was combing the charity shops for stock. My shop was a bit low on classy stuff. It needed a lifesaving injection, a lift, some overlooked Dresden or Art Deco Clarice Cliff pottery. Quality has a way of winning out. I was sifting through cigarette cards and had found some of the Lambert & Butler Aviation series. It was not complete. I was looking at Graham White’s five-seater biplane, awed by the elegance of the design, when I became aware of a man beside me.

  How did I know it was a man? The hands, of course. Usual giveaway. Knuckled and square, nails blunt, slightly bitten. But the sleeve cuffs were floral and the coat crimplene.

  ‘Do you collect cigarette cards?’ I said brightly.

  The watershine raspberry-pink lipstick parted in a polite smile, solid black mascara fluttered. The pitted skin was hidden under Estee Lauder’s Enlighten, shade Outdoor Beige.

  ‘No. But they are most interesting, aren’t they?’ agreed Brian Frazer. ‘I don’t collect them, of course.’

  I could definitely charge for this encounter.

  ‘Don’t I know you?’ I said artlessly.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I’m new to this area.’

  I had a kind heart and he was panicking. So I let him go.

  ‘See you around,’ I said.

  Three

  Brian Frazer, or was he calling himself Briony now? Brian Frazer toured the charity shops, buying tasteful little items. Anyone would think he was setting up a love nest. A velvet evening bag? An embroidered traycloth? A mirror decorated with pastel flowers?

  How he managed in those shoes, I’ll never know. I gave him a six for determination. I rarely wear high heels. I’m a trainers or boots person. But Brian Frazer valiently tottered round in a pair of ankle-strap wedges and I bet his feet hurt. Still, if you gotta do it, you gotta do it.

  I logged my sighting and route march and wondered how Mrs Frazer would take the news. It might be hysterics and smelling salts, or she might hit the gin. A double gin and low calorie tonic was my bet. Two ice cubes and a slice of lemon.

  Was I about to draw a double line under the job, too? Would she instruct me to continue following her husband or was confirmation all she wanted? Perhaps she had a quick divorce in mind. And I’d hardly earned enough to pay my shop expenses. I might hang on in there a couple of days longer. No harm done. He might do something spectacular, like impersonating Liza with a ‘Z’, busking on a street corner near Marks and Spencer.

  The hospice charity shop had a wedding room upstairs. A heavy red rope hung across the stairs so that grubby fingers could not mark the merchandise. Brian Frazer was actually asking an assistant to show him the wedding dresses. She looked at him with some astonishment.

  I turned to another assistant and smiled, all shy and virginal. ‘May I also see the wedding dresses, please? I’m planning a June wedding. Three small bridesmaids too. It’s going to cost a fortune.’

  ‘Certainly. Perhaps you’d like to follow Julie up the stairs. We’re a bit short-handed down here.’

  Upstairs was a room full of utter luxury, frothy, elegant and expensive beauty, pearls and lace embroidery, glistening and glowing, cascades of dreams that had walked down an aisle towards the man they loved. I could almost hear Mendelssohn’s triumphant wedding march.

  A whole wall rail was hung over
with a row of wedding dresses, brocade, lace, silk, taffeta, elaborately embroidered, pearled, trains trailing yards, bouffant skirts spilling over the floor. White, cream, ivory, magnolia, champagne, tucked, flounced, ruched. Empty, armless sleeves held out pearled cuffs to me. Wear me, they pleaded. We’ve only been worn once.

  I’d never wear one. I was not the fluffy type. The nearest I’d get to a wedding outfit would be white jeans. Besides, no man would walk with me to church. Left in the porch more likely, making small talk with the vicar, that would be my fate. And left with the bills to pay, no doubt.

  I felt quite faint. How could a display of dresses affect the emotions? I was getting soft. The adjacent wall of bridesmaids’ dresses steadied my nerves. At least they were in rainbow colours and designs, some flowered, long and short, puffed and innocent, skirts swishing as Brian went along the rail. He pulled out an extravagant lilac taffeta.

  ‘No, no, not exactly what I was looking for,’ he said, hastily. ‘Sorry. I can’t explain. I want something really unusual and spectacular.’

  You bet, I thought. How unusual could a man get? Veils and headdresses filled an alcove. Floral garlands, white lace gloves, white brocade shoes lined up on shelves. Huge brimmed hats with overblown roses in boxes. It was all too much. I was walled in by weddings.

  ‘We get new ones in all the time,’ said Julie. ‘Come in again.’

  ‘Yes, thank you. I will.’

  I fled down the stairs. My endurance was nil. I needed sea air. My asthma was coming on, airways constricting. All the old deodorant, talcum powder and perfume was clogging my airways. There must have been a pint of perfume lingering in that room.

  The pier walked in eight minutes and Maeve’s Cafe was my next call. The cafe was full but with no one that I knew. No dark crew cut silhouetted against a window. I leaned against the counter and drank a cup of tea, my style, weak with honey.

  ‘Mavis, can I ask you about the terrace where you live?’

  ‘Sure, thinking of moving? One of the houses is up for sale. Don’t ask the price. It’s monopoly money.’

  ‘But you have a flat?’

  ‘Yes, number five is the only house that has been divided. All the others are still lived in as houses.’

  ‘Do you know all your neighbours? Isn’t there another that’s divided into flats?’

  ‘What’s all this about? Are you asking me to snoop on someone?’ Mavis looked suspicious. She was trying a new hair colour called Burnished Blonde.

  ‘No, of course not. But I’m interested to know if a woman called Nesta Simons lives near you.’

  ‘She does indeed, a couple of doors down. And the son from hell. Nesta and Dwain, a right little tearaway. That’s a house, not a flat. My goodness, that kid is spoilt rotten. I know what I’d do to that young man. He needs a firm hand.’

  ‘Would you say …’ This was difficult. ‘Would you say that Nesta has a lot of visitors?’

  ‘You mean, men visitors? She sure does. Like a bus station at times. In and out all day long.’

  ‘The same men?’

  ‘Jordan, get off it. Are you interrogating me? I’m not answering questions like that. How should I know if it’s the same men? I don’t stand at my window, making a list. And I won’t, not even for you.’

  ‘Would you let me stand at your window?’

  I could see her thinking. She poured me another cup of tea. I’d be awash with caffeine. She did owe me. If it was me doing the snooping, then she was not involved. But what about her own visiting fishermen? She would not want me around then, getting in the way. I could always pretend I was the cleaner or take Jasper for a walk.

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Please don’t take too long or I’ll be driven to hiding in the bullrushes.’

  ‘You’d have to tell me when you’re coming.’ She was giving in slowly. ‘I’d have to know.’

  ‘By arrangement, I promise, Mavis. No dawn or midnight swoops. I could walk Jasper. Surrogate walker.’

  She gave me a sharp look. ‘You didn’t say anything about midnight.’

  I backed off. ‘Sorry. Joke, Mavis. Just a joke. Not one of my best.’

  *

  It was an extraordinary moment. I was laying on cold, wet pebbles on a darkened beach, looking up at the stars in the night sky.

  ‘Can you see Venus?’ DI James asked me. He was on the shingle slope beside me, bundled up in jersey and anorak, only the shape of his face showing, half in shadow. In repose, he looked Greek classical. His straight nose, the jutting jaw, forest of eyebrows forever etched in my mind. The stern look had gone. His deep-set eyes, if I could see them, had probably lost their usual disapproval. They held no colour. I was mesmerized by the plane of peace resting on his features.

  ‘No, where is it?’

  ‘Low down, on the horizon, over there. That red light. Venus is a red star.’

  I sat up on the shingle and looked at the glowering black of the horizon. There was definitely a red light, faintly twinkling, a bit low down for a star. So that was Venus. I was looking at Venus. How many other people in the world were doing the same? A thousand, a hundred, a dozen, or was it just me and James?

  ‘No, not that light, idiot woman. That’s a ship in the Channel. Can’t you see that it’s moving? Slightly higher, to the right.’

  There was another light, swathed in cloud, with only the faintest tinge of colour. I suppose it was tinted pink in comparison to the icy blue of the rest of the stars in the galaxy.

  Then I felt the cold sharpness of pebbles pressing into the bareness of my back. It was extraordinary. I could not understand how my skin had got bare. I thought I was fully dressed in my usual head to toe cover-up, suitable for a cold spring night, nearing a bleak midnight.

  How did I know it was midnight? Mavis had given me the thumbs-down for midnight. Was that why I was here? The chill of the pebbles jabbed my thoughts and the base of my spine. My jeans were round my thighs. Had the zip fractured? Had I wriggled down the slope in order to find a more comfortable hollow?

  A clothed body was moving against me with urgency, pressing hard. I could not believe it. Here was I on a black, deserted pebbled shore, half undressed, in a perishing easterly wind and someone was making love to me. Should I fake a tidal orgasm? Half of me was delighted, the other half convulsed with hysterical laughter at the absurdity.

  Of course, it wasn’t DI James. Or Miguel. Or Jack. It wasn’t anyone. Just a fragment of dream that punctured my continued starvation. I rolled over in bed, my T-shirt wrinkled up, a large tortoiseshell butterfly clip jabbing my bottom. So much for passion. It was a lump of cheap plastic.

  But I would look tonight for Venus. See if it was really there. Pink.

  *

  Jasper was appointed surveillance aid number one. Mavis lent him to me. We walked the duck pond in endless perambulations till even Jasper lost interest in the ducks and begged to be taken somewhere else. Dwain appeared from his house, a noisy boy, kicking a ball and playing a loud ghetto blaster at the same time.

  He did not look like Phil Cannon but then it was hard to tell at that distance. He looked like a normal, scruffy boy, hair spiked, clothes too big and baggy.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ he intoned to the ball’s bouncing.

  ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Are you a Beckham fan?’

  ‘I don’t rate footers,’ he said scornfully. ‘I’m into rugby, man’s game, doncha know nuffink? Yeah, yeah.’ He turned away with indifference.

  End of conversation.

  Jasper came to my rescue. The dog saw the ball as an end to boredom, suddenly tugged the lead out of my hand, and tore off with the ball, joyfully yelping and leaping into the air.

  ‘Strewth,’ said Dwain. What school did he go to? ‘Gimme back me ball.’

  Now I can still run. And I outran Dwain who was soon puffing and blowing like the unhealthy PlayStation child he was. I caught up with Jasper but instead of taking the ball away from him, I encouraged the dog to tear off wit
h it again.

  ‘Go get it, boy,’ I shouted.

  ‘Gimme b-back … me ball,’ puffed Dwain, dragging along a way behind.

  ‘Does your father play rugby?’ I asked, strolling back.

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Haven’t you ever asked him?’

  He shot a suspicious glance at me as if he was always being interrogated by PIs. Perhaps he was. Perhaps I was the latest in a long line of investigators who Phil Cannon had employed.

  ‘Wotcha wanna know fer?’ the boy asked.

  ‘No reason at all,’ I said. ‘Merely small talk until my dog decides to bring back your ball.’

  ‘That ain’t your dawg,’ he said. ‘That dawg belongs to that batty woman.’

  Now I don’t mind what people say about me but I object to them being rude about my friends. And Mavis was no way batty. She was a sane and rational person, maybe with a stretched love life and a trifle quick on the sharp draw, but nevertheless perfectly normal.

  ‘She is not batty,’ I said indignantly.

  He scowled at me as if I was too dim to bother with. ‘Fish and chips, fish in batter, batty. Got it?’

  He made me feel a hundred years old, then I remembered I could run faster. Jasper came back with the ball, grinning with satisfaction. ‘Good boy,’ I said, taking the ball from him. It was dripping with saliva. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wash the ball. Sorry.’

  Dwain snatched it away from me, not a word of thanks, and turned on a scruffy heel. I was no more nearer deciding whether he looked like Phil Cannon or not. But there was certainly an attitude link. Could you inherit an attitude?

  I took Jasper home and he flopped out on the floor too exhausted to climb the stairs to Mavis’s flat. ‘For heaven’s sake, Jasper, have a heart. Do you expect me to carry you?’

  ‘JASPER …’ At the sound of Mavis’s voice, he was up the stairs in a flash, tail thumping with joy. Doggy soulmates.

  ‘Want a cup of tea?’ Mavis grinned. ‘Thanks for taking him out. Jasper has more energy than all the dogs in Latching.’

  ‘Dawgs,’ I said.