‘Pardon?’
‘That’s what they are called. Dawgs.’
‘You’ve been talking to Dwain. I told you he was a charmer.’
*
Staking out at Mavis’s flat was not ideal. Window-watching brought on the cramps. I occasionally caught a glimpse of a lean, fit, bronzed fisherman arriving, all weatherbeaten and sex-starved, and scarpered pretty quick. Not easy when hormones were stirring. Fortunately, there was a back door for refuse bags, milk deliveries etc, and I went out that way.
I looked back and saw Mavis drawing the curtains. She looked happy, face glowing, and I realized how barren my life had become. I wondered when Miguel would be back. There was no point in waiting for DI James to come to his senses and see in me where his future lay.
I might give him one last chance. Like now.
The police station was almost empty. Had the villains gone on holiday? I always got a twinge when I went in, remembering my WPC days, the happy carefree ones, not when I was dismissed to save the skin of an inefficient senior officer who let a rape suspect go free. A scandal I was trying to forget. I should have had counselling. It was not in vogue then.
‘May I see DI James?’ I asked the new desk sergeant. My friend, Sergeant Rawlings, was not on duty.
‘Who shall I say?’
‘Ms Lacey.’
I read all the wanted notices while I waited. Obviously not a convenient moment. One down, already.
‘So, Jordan. What is it this time?’
My hopes fell. He was annoyed and curt. It was written all over his face, etched with overwork and lack of sleep. The job was killing him. Didn’t he ever take any time off? What had happened to rotas and rest and recuperation?
‘When’s your next day off?’ I asked.
He looked at me as if I’d started speaking in a foreign language. Sinhalese? ‘Say that again?’
‘Day off,’ I said, slowly and clearly. ‘The kind of day when you do not have to go to work.’
‘Not sure.’ He leaned closer to inspect my face. ‘Are you feeling all right?’
‘Would you like to walk the Roman walls of Chichester with me? Third century, one and a half miles. Or watch the tide flood Bosham village, making a guess about Canute’s throne? We could visit what’s left of the towering ruins of the Benedictine guesthouse at Boxgrove Priory. Courtesy of Henry VIII. It’s all free.’
He was making an effort. ‘Have you been drinking?’
‘Of course. Water, coffee, orange juice.’
‘I mean the hard stuff.’
‘Hard coffee?’
He ran his hand over the almost nonexistent cropped dark hair on his head. ‘Jordan. I haven’t time for this nonsense. If you want to see me, come to the point.’
‘I would like to seduce you,’ I said. Was this me speaking? I must be out of my minuscule mind. My knees weakened. ‘But first, we ought to go out together and get to know each other.’
There was a sort of stunned silence. A bee was buzzing against a window like a vacuum cleaner. I could hear a phone ringing, unanswered, somewhere, in the distance. Sun rays, of a kind, made a weary effort to lighten the office.
‘Jordan, go home. Have a cold shower. Take an aspirin.’
I stood still, ice frosting my veins. What had I said? Was this my answer? Did he know what he was doing? DI James was hovering, anxious to get away now. Was I so completely unattractive that he could not even come halfway to make his refusal palatable, to save my pride?
‘James …’ My voice trailed away.
He was disappearing along the corridor, tucking in his shirt. ‘I checked one of those names for you. Nesta Simons. Three convictions for shoplifting. Fined for soliciting. Now will you leave me alone?’
*
Miguel Cortes had returned from his holiday in South America. He looked well fed, relaxed, at ease, his dark curly hair touched with the sun. His restaurant was full, a well-dressed parade of widows and divorced women who fancied him, who queued for his flashing smile and personal service. But when he saw me standing hesitantly in the doorway, his face lit up. It was like a drug. It immediately lifted my heart and I smiled back.
(Caro mia, Jordan, joy of my life, face of an angel. Come in. You have come to eat? Yes? This special table, I have saved for you every evening.’
‘Hello, Miguel. Nice to see you. Did you have a nice holiday?’
It might be a polite lie but I did not care. There was a small table in a corner with a red rose in a vase. It had ‘Reserved’ on a card so he might be telling the truth.
He removed the menu. ‘I choose for you. I choose meal and excellent wine. Then, if you permit, I will sit with you and we will talk until the stars fade from sky.’
‘Lovely,’ I said. ‘All the stars?’ It might take a long time.
‘I have brought you a present, a poncho from my homeland. It will keep this cold heart warm. Very special wool. Red and navy. The colours of passion.’
‘Miguel. How kind.’
‘That is me, kind all over. But I should be keeping you warm, not a poncho.’
It was a superb meal, beautifully cooked by Miguel, hot and spicy, served by Miguel, and eaten with Miguel when he had time to join me. Miguel chose a Chilean red wine and poured me glass after glass. Crushed plum and blackberry, whiff of spice. Then as his restaurant began to empty, he came and sat down, drank from my wine glass like a drowning man.
‘I can taste your lips,’ he said.
It was heady stuff.
Four
Gill Frazer’s house was as boring inside as it looked outside. No wonder her husband was dressing up in women’s clothes. Anything to relieve the poverty of imagination in their home.
But surely his work as manager of the Community Shore Theatre brought enough spice into his life without adding earrings and wedgie sandals? I stood on the doorstep and rang the bell. Chimes announced my presence. I cringed at the tune. Some football anthem. What further horrors lay in store?
She opened the door wearing stretch fawn trousers, a green embroidered buttoned cardigan and an apron printed with a pineapple pattern. Hello, trendy fashion icon.
‘Hello, Mrs Frazer. I’m Jordan Lacey. Remember me? First Class Investigations. I have a report for you. May I come inside?’
If my colour coordination could manage to come along inside with me, I nearly added. It might refuse.
‘Miss Lacey, of course. I didn’t expect you so soon. Oh dear, I hope it’s not bad news.’ Well, it wasn’t bad news like the budgie had died, but it was bad news if it confirmed her suspicions.
She took me through to their back sitting room. There was an austere-looking dining room to the left of the hall, sturdy square table in the centre with four chairs and heavy sideboard. No plants or flowers or prints. Nothing on the sideboard either. Had they sold the family silver?
The sitting room was as bereft of personal input. Not a single book, magazine, newspaper, plant or bag of knitting laying around. Two armchairs were placed regimentally in front of a flat 28-inch television screen. Two cushions in a fascinating shade of fawn were placed at exactly the same angle. A glass-fronted bureau held a small group of trophies but I was not able to see what they were. A coffee table was laid with plain coasters. The faded curtains hung limply, without life or interest in their fate. They were just drawn or undrawn, waiting to be donated to a charity shop or car boot.
‘Please sit down,’ said Mrs Frazer. ‘Would you like some coffee?’
‘That would be nice,’ I said, following her into the back kitchen. I was intrigued by the lack of character anywhere. The kitchen was the same. Everything was a vague off-beige. Was she colour-blind? The windowsill was bare. I would have grown herbs in pots as it got the morning sun. She took two mugs from a fitted cupboard. They were plain white without adornment. Weird, really. Mugs these days are a fun part of life. Cats, dogs, flowers, crude jokes, traditional, folksy. Jack’s mugs, owner of the Pier Amusements, the booming business arcade and flas
hy Jag, were outrageously jokey. If they had been washed properly, I might have blushed.
‘Have you anything new to tell me?’ I asked as she filled a kettle with water from the tap. ‘Cases like this change all the time.’
‘I’ve hardly seen Brian lately,’ she said. ‘He works such odd hours. I’m always in bed by the time he comes home. We spend very little time together.’
‘Why don’t you do some volunteer work at the theatre,’ I said, without stopping to think. ‘They are always looking for extra help.’
‘I couldn’t work!’ she said indignantly, her tight hair bouncing. ‘Besides, my husband is the manager there. It wouldn’t be right.’
I put on a noncommittal smile and nodded. ‘Of course not. A position to keep and all that. Just a thought. What did you used to do, that is before you married Brian Frazer?’
‘I was a nanny,’ she said. I wondered if I had imagined the fractional hesitation before she answered. ‘A very well paid job. Lovely house. Sweet children. Two boys.’
‘How nice,’ I said. ‘I know very little about children. It must take a lot of patience.’
She was spooning in own brand supermarket instant coffee, not a real bean in sight. Cold milk from the bottle, stirred vigorously. ‘Do you take sugar?’
‘No, thank you.’
We took the mugs back to the sitting room and sat them on the coasters. Such immense fun. I felt giddy from lack of air. There was not a gin bottle in sight. Gill Frazer was obviously going to weep buckets. Shopping list: travel tissues.
‘I’m very sorry to have to tell you, Mrs Frazer, but I have had a definite sighting of your husband wearing women’s clothes.’
Her face went white but to her credit, she continued sipping her vile coffee. ‘Go on,’ she said, taking a deep breath.
I gave her time and place and description of clothes.
‘Those are mine,’ she said with remarkable composure. ‘Even the wedge shoes. I could not think where they had gone.’
‘Then, Mr Frazer went into a charity shop and upstairs into the bridal room. He spent a quarter of an hour looking at wedding dresses and bridesmaids’ dresses.’
Now this shook her. She put down the mug and wiped her hands on the pineapples. ‘Wedding dresses? Are you sure? How very extraordinary … whatever was he doing that for? We’re already married.’
‘Has Mr Frazer shown any signs of mental imbalance?’ I asked carefully. I did not know how else to put it. I did not know his sexual orientation. It was nothing, these days. Suddenly I had the most appalling thought. My dearest DI James. He never looked at me, touched me, gave me any encouragement … but of course not, not a of shred of evidence, not a virile man like him. Surely, not?
Bits of me died. Every inch of James was aggressively masculine and dominant. There were WPCs swooning at his feet from here to Wapping. He just did not fancy me.
‘You mean, is he gay?’
Bless her. For the first time I began to like her. I nodded in a sympathic way. ‘Is he gay?’
‘No. We make love every Friday night. Not very exciting but perfectly normal. What’s that position called? You know … what everybody does?’
‘Missionary?’ Every Friday … this plain woman was lucky and she didn’t know it. I couldn’t remember any Friday ever when I had made love in any position, even in my dreams. Perhaps I should email my current batch of admirers and ask what they were doing this Friday.
Possible answers: Joshua — do we eat first? Jack — why wait till Friday? Derek — your place? Miguel — bellisimo, I’ll bring roses. DI James — Jordan, are you ill?
Mrs Frazer was still talking. ‘Something is seriously wrong with him, of course, but I don’t know what it is. I’m very grateful for what you have found out already, but I need to know more. There must be a rational explanation. I mean, I found a magnifying mirror in the bathroom yesterday. It’s got flowers round it. I didn’t buy it.’
Instant recollection: Brian had bought that mirror at a charity shop. Was he making a statement in this colourless house? What about the traycloth?
‘So, you’d like me to carry on?’
‘Yes, please. Find out more. There must be a reason for this odd behaviour.’ She was not drinking gin or weeping. She was not doing anything. A strange reaction. A non-female type of reaction. Very controlled.
‘I’ve brought an invoice for the last few hours of work.’ I handed it to her. It was modest. ‘To keep things straight.’
She got up and fetched her handbag from a drawer. It was beige leather. ‘Is cash all right?’
‘Perfectly,’ I said, face immovable.
She put the notes in my hand. They were the only spot of colour in the room. The crisp notes felt good against my skin. Doris, here I come, splashing out on food. More soup and soya.
‘May I ask you something?’ I said, folding the notes into my back pocket. ‘How long have you lived in this house?’
‘Three years,’ she said. ‘Since it was built in the garden of the big house next door.’
‘And who lives in the big house? It looks so lovely.’
‘Some really snooty people. Made of money. They barely speak to us, but were quick enough to sell off part of their garden. It’s not our fault we’re here, so close to them. They wanted to raise some capital. It’s not fair to take it out on us. They made the profit.’
‘And who are they?’
‘You’ve probably heard of them.’
‘How do they take it out on you?’
‘It’s the Fontane family. They own half of Latching, or used to. The family goes back decades, back to the riots in the 1800s. Mostly they sold off to the council so that those two monstrous multistorey car parks could be built. They had a gracious house on the front once. Sold that off, too. Money, money, money. Big block of flats now on the site.’
I knew it. They called it Fontane House. Seven storeys of red brick flats with glassed-in balconies and a hefty maintenance charge. I was not enamoured of the family. But I thought I had read that there had been a bereavement recently.
‘Are they nice to Brian?’
I don’t know why I asked that. It came out without any prompting.
‘Nice? I don’t know what you mean. We rarely talk to them. We are not exactly friendly. We don’t socialize. They cut us dead when they see us.’
I put the mug down carefully, half drunk. ‘Thank you. I must get on. Pretty busy these days. I’ll continue to let you know what happens.’
She showed me to the door. ‘Goodbye, Miss Lacey.’
I took a sideways wander round the house, hoping she was not looking out of a window. They only had a slice of garden. It had been a rather small plot. The flowerbeds were empty. Just a few weeds looking for a good time and a small clump of parsley. The most colourful thing about the garden were the plastic bags put out for the refuse collectors. As I left I realized that I had not seen Max, the son.
*
Bin-raiding, that was the answer. I was going to go through people’s rubbish for confidential documents. There was no excuse for not shredding with personal shredders selling for around £39.
Bin-raiding might give me a lead. I would have to stay up all night but that was nothing new. I needed new information desperately. Bank statements might tell me that Brian Frazer’s finances were in a mess.
This was a positive decision. I looked at the Fontane’s old Regency house and garden, spacious and elegant. They let the Frazers have a meagre corner of land on which one could hardly swing a cat. Their bin bags might also be interesting. No harm in having a quick look. They were not exactly my clients but they were connected (loosely) to the Frazers.
The ladybird car did not like the idea of going out at all. A cool midnight and she refused to start. She gave a cough, a revving whine and then a pathetic sigh. It helped a lot when I trudged to a late opening garage with a can, returned with a couple of litres of petrol and poured them in.
I spent the small hours creepi
ng round like a burglar, grabbing black bags from the pavements outside the Frazers’ house, the Fontanes’ house and, just for luck, Phil Cannon’s semi-basement flat in downtown Latching. His lights were still on, watching late-night TV. The paternity case might take on an entirely new dimension if I found a few eye-openers among his confidential documents.
The ladybird was even less happy, bundled up with a dozen or so assorted smelly bags. I had stuck labels on each one just in case. I didn’t want the Fontanes’ empty caviar tins getting mixed up with Phil’s chicken tikka takeaway.
Dawn was breaking through the clouds, streaking light, as I hauled the bags out of my car and stacked them along the wall of the small yard behind my shop. But I didn’t have time to look at the approaching rays of light or appreciate their beauty. I tried not to think of the task ahead, stiffling a yawn.
‘Two pairs of rubber gloves, please,’ I said to Doris as soon as she opened up her shop.
‘You’ve been up all night,’ she said. ‘I can tell and I hope it was someone nice.’ Her eyes spelled Miguel.
‘No such luck,’ I said, propping open my eyelids. I’d caught a catnap on my office floor and my back was stiff. ‘Work and more work. Check my mileage.’
‘You look a mess. Go home and have a bath. My shop’s got a reputation. I’ve got to think of my other customers.’
‘Don’t worry. It’s high on my agenda, too.’ I put a pound on her counter. Doris looked at it as if the coin smelt bad. ‘Is that enough?’
‘It’ll do,’ said Doris. ‘I don’t want you going through your pockets. Never know what you might find.’
‘Thanks.’ Doris always made me feel humble.
If I had expected to solve both cases with one bag-raid, I was seriously mistaken. The litter littering my yard was horrendous. It smelt as bad as the council landfill site on the edge of town. I cut down on my breathing.
There was nothing of interest. Just revolting piles of rubbish which had to go back into bags and be disposed of somehow. It made me shudder. Get on with it, I told myself. Don’t be such a wimp. This is work. You’re getting paid for it.
I did the refilling with my eyes closed. It was like wrapping up Christmas presents. My usual reckless style of packing. Thrown it in any old how, catch the paper, fold and tape. Even the book of one-liners I gave to DI James last Christmas had looked as if a three-legged ostrich had packed it, instead of being wrapped with love (mine) and sealed with kisses (mine also).
Hide and Die (Jordan Lacey Series Book 4) Page 4