Hide and Die (Jordan Lacey Series Book 4)

by Stella Whitelaw

  Shopping list: get new mobile (again), mascara for fluttering eyelashes, perfume (trial size).

  A date with James. Had I eaten at all today? I tried to think back but it was a haze. I ought to eat but I was not hungry. It was only a drink at a pub, for heaven’s sake, not a night at the Ritz. No need to go overboard.

  I tried to calm down. I wrote up my notes, which was good exercise. The scribbled notes made at the computer desk were not enough. I needed every detail. Dates, times, courts, sentences. I knew a lot more about my clients now. And they were not all Persil squeaky clean. I hoped they were going to pay me. It seemed I was working for a load of crooks.

  *

  Although it was late May, our summer had not come. No swanning around Latching in a strappy suntop and sandals. I was still chilled to the bone. My two vests were in the wash. I wore my blue embroidered cowboy shirt, indigo jeans and boots, mascara. My hair went into a plaited rope fixed with an elastic band. No need to overdo the glamour. James didn’t expect glamour from me.

  He was not there, of course, at the Bear and Bait. I bought my own glass of red, Australian Merlot, leaned against the crowded bar, smiled around, unbuttoned my top button. Men smiled back, expecting to talk. Zero luck.

  Eventually I found a seat tucked in a corner and listened to the taped girly music. This was a lesson. Never wait for a dedicated DI. And I could have been in Findon, enjoying myself with the dishy DS Evans admiring my cleavage, holding my hand under the table. When will I ever learn?

  The second glass of wine went straight to my head. I had not eaten. I could not visualize even a cheese sandwich. I tried to think about my neglected cases. There was a lot to do now. Especially since I knew so much more about my clients. Ought I to warn Brian Frazer? I had a feeling that he was in danger. Did he know that his wife had been charged with the manslaughter of two children? Were they their children or had she been looking after someone else’s children? I remembered that she said she had once been a nanny.

  Another sliver of remembered information surfaced: they had been other people’s children. So perhaps she had been that family’s nanny. This was a gruesome thought.

  I was also missing James in a shattering way. No wonder his wife had divorced him. She had never known where he was, what he was doing, when he was coming home. The likelihood of knowing anything about his whereabouts was never open to discussion. The juicy headlines the next day might tell her where he had been. No wonder their marriage had fallen apart.

  At least I understood some of it, being a former WPC. But could I cope with such a lifestyle? Could I cope with his psychological quagmire? I was not used to pantomime baddies and goodies. I’d be a loser, proofreading my own wall graffiti. Did he like films, television, books? My knowledge of the man was recklessly insufficient. But my dreams knew all about him. So did my body.

  ‘Jordan? Don’t go to sleep. I think you’ve had too much to drink and it’s far too hot in here. Your face is flushed. You’re breathing carbon monoxide by the bucketful. Let’s get you outside.’ I felt a tug on my arm.

  The landlord was loudly ringing the ‘Time, gentlemen, please’ bell.

  ‘James?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve been here for a whole year, waiting for you.’

  His hand was under my arm, firmly pulling me up and out of the corner seat. It was a tight squeeze.

  ‘Exaggerating as usual. Come along, you need some fresh air. Let’s walk the pier.’

  ‘I like the pier. Indeed, I love the pier. It’s my habitat, my most favourite place in the whole world.’

  ‘I know. I know.’ He nodded.

  Detective Inspector James, the sweet, lovable, stiff-lipped detective, heaved me to my feet. Somehow he got me through the door and out into the cool, cooling air of a late spring night. He guided my feet. Above us the stars shone brightly in the black velvet like the galaxy that they were. The air killed off the alcohol. I breathed it in with the gulps of an asthmatic.

  ‘Sorry, James. I was waiting and drinking. It was such a long time.’

  ‘My fault. I was late. An assault case.’

  ‘There will be bouncers at the entrance to the pier. You know, the nightclub at the end of the pier has bouncers. They don’t allow anyone on except paying customers. It takes guts to walk the pier late at night.’

  ‘I can deal with bouncers. Jordan, please, I am a police officer. Even off duty.’

  We were walking the pier in the dark. It was a different planet. James said a few words to the burly bouncers and they opened the steel gates. The night air cooled my face. The waves were lashing the girders. Planes crossing the sky winked their red and green winglights.

  I hung on to his arm, feeling the hardness of his hip against mine, feeling his closeness, listening to the waves that washed around the pier. His body was cleaved to mine but he did not know it.

  Seven

  Phil Cannon had gone into hiding it seemed, not difficult with his face. I could not contact him anywhere and he still hadn’t given me those vital photos. He had vanished into the spring mist. Nesta Simons was swanning around in skimpy items of clothing despite the chilly winds. I tried to log her visitors. If she was on the game, it was not obvious. She looked like a normal young woman with a high-voltage social life.

  Her son was doing his usual neighbourhood terrorizing but without police interference. Dwain was addicted to throwing bins and tins, pinching, punching, pulling up flowers, shouting four-lettered words at anyone within listening distance. He was hyperactive, out of control. I could understand why Phil Cannon would refuse to acknowledge paternity, to part from his money.

  It was Maggie at the theatre who gave me a clue as to Brian Frazer’s afternoon activities. I had steered the conversation round to hobbies.

  ‘He loves trad jazz,’ she said. ‘I often hear him playing jazz and singing along in one of the rooms at the back of the theatre. You know, those dressing rooms we use when it’s a live show.’

  I was selling ice cream at a matinee of some mega cartoon film fantasy. It was a kaleidoscope of grotesquely leering animal faces leaping out with gaping mouths and the whole thing gave me the creeps. But the children loved it, screamed and cheered, bought and ate ice cream, crisps and popcorn, all at the same time.

  ‘There’s a jazz band playing tomorrow afternoon at Falmer Gardens. We’ll be slaving away at the theatre but he’ll take the afternoon off and be listening to jazz among the flowers.’

  Part of my heart warmed to him. Anyone who loved jazz, even the trad variety, could not be that bad. Gill must be mistaken. Despite this clothes swopping obsession, he seemed an average guy.

  Then a bad penny dropped and I didn’t like hearing the clang. I’d called in at the station about Bert Leech and someone said tomorrow was DI James’s day off and, one in a million, he was taking out an unknown woman. Don’t ask me who told me, the station was buzzing with the news. DI James with a member of the female population was a record-breaking, gossip-mongering first. They were going to Falmer Gardens to listen to afternoon jazz.

  ‘Didn’t know he had it in him,’ a WPC said, straightening her barely black tights. Nor did I, not to listen to jazz, my special love. Both of them. I wished I had not gone into the station to check whether they’d sighted my robber. And I had to get the crime number for my insurance claim. At least I had insurance.

  It was not easy in the circumstances. I would be there watching Brian Frazer cruising the talent. DI James would be there with a woman friend. Could I cope with a karate chop straight in the face? I tried a lot of mind-power training. I got my mind to think like an egg but it did not help my heart. Thinking like an egg is a complicated manoeuvre which involves building a mental shell round a problem. Mine was already cracking in several places.

  The wind was blowing off the sea, a southeasterly that pierced fabric and chilled skin. Was summer ever coming? I found somewhere to sit on the grass in Falmer Gardens and nibbled an oatmeal and sultana bar. The un
cut grass was hung with dews of moisture blown in off the Channel. Half an hour of this and I’d have a damp patch in an embarrassing place.

  The afternoon was family orientated. Babies in prams, instant picnics on rugs, kids kicking balls against the trees. No goal posts in this park. Only the grown-ups were lounging about, taking in the music, sipping canned beer. One middle-aged woman was dancing in an oddly buttoned-up orange cardigan and a long caramel skirt flapping round her ankles. She was well away, a resident from one of the residential homes. Still she was having fun, locked in her own world.

  It was not my beloved big band jazz or my soaring trumpeter, who could take my spirit flying into outer space. It was a six-piece group from Brighton, banjo strumming dominated. I was beating time but my body was not with it. Lurking in the same gardens was DI James with a woman and I did not know who she was or why they were together. I could not look round in case she was knock-out gorgeous. He did not really like jazz, merely tolerated it for some unknown reason. I’d always thought it was because of me, but I could be mistaken.

  Ben Evans threw himself down on the grass beside me, jacket unfastened. That showed stamina. But his hair was blowing over his heavy-rimmed glasses and he brushed it away repeatedly. DI James would not be discomposed. His cropped hair did not blow.

  ‘Are you working, Jordan?’ he asked.

  ‘What does it look like?’

  He put on a sage look. His attractive masculine profile caught my attention. I can still appreciate male looks.

  ‘It’s hard to tell with your variety of disguises. You could be on surveillance. Or you could be taking a well-earned break.’

  ‘A well-earned break is hardly listening to second-rate jazz in a freezing wind. But I am starved of jazz and would listen to almost anything. And this isn’t a disguise.’ I did not add that DI James was somewhere in the gardens with a strange woman and I dare not look about. If she was blonde and slender, and madly beautiful, I would die of shame. ‘I’m following a client’s husband.’

  ‘Ah, hanky-panky in the bushes?’

  ‘I doubt it. More like pass the mascara, lovie.’

  He looked bemused but did not push me for an explanation. I didn’t have one to give him. ‘Interesting.’

  ‘And what are you doing here?’ I asked.

  ‘Trouble, a gang of youths. We’ve had word that they are surging down to the seafront, causing trouble en route. They’ll pass this way. A whole gang of them, tanked up after some afternoon football match on telly.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be clearing the gardens? There’s all these children and people having fun.’

  ‘Not yet, they could take a different direction. No need to panic yet. I’m just keeping my eyes open in case.’ He patted his mobile as if expecting it to go off. I wondered if he had a call tune. ‘Land of Hope and Glory’?

  I nearly asked if DI James was keeping his eyes open too but held my tongue. After all, I was in the company of DS Ben Evans and that couldn’t be bad. We were sitting quite close. It might be misconstrued. I smiled at Ben with what I thought could pass for come-on body language and hoped DI James was watching.

  ‘This is great,’ he said, his foot tapping. But it was only to the drumbeat. The trumpet and saxophone were amateurish, a hard sound, all swagger and no feeling. Ben ought to hear my trumpeter. Those ascending notes that sliced the air with brilliance.

  ‘Not bad,’ I said, offering him a sesame biscuit from a packet. He looked queerly at the seed-covered biscuit.

  ‘What’s this? Left over from your breakfast?’

  ‘Healthy eating,’ I added. It was not time to throw him to the wolves. I had to be sociable. I wished I had a younger sister I could pass him on to.

  I longed for the deep timbre of James’s voice. Then I thought I heard it among all the other sounds. A small quiver of pleasure shot through me. A tingle of awareness. I only had to see the back of his head and my spirits lifted. A day could have a thousand hours and one second of time with him would be enough.

  I was seriously round the bend.

  ‘You’re looking very happy,’ said Ben, wondering if he was the cause. He cleared his throat hopefully. ‘Would you like to go out with me sometime? Perhaps a nice meal somewhere. Do you like Chinese?’

  He’d asked me out before in some other life and there had been Findon. And I vaguely remember turning him down in the past. But I have a thing about glasses and what they do to a man’s face. They give it character. They certainly gave Ben an irresistible something. He was an irresistable accessory.

  I shot him a big smile, Goldie Hawn style. ‘That would be very nice … Ben. When?’

  He started hedging. ‘Well, er … I hadn’t actually thought that far. Shifts and everything. Supposing I give you a call?’

  ‘Do that,’ I said. ‘Do you know my number?’

  ‘Tattooed on my heart.’

  ‘Could be painful.’

  He grinned. ‘Not the way I do it.’ He leaned over and loosely took my fingers. His nails were short and clean. Grimed and bitten nails are a real turn-off. Like socks in bed.

  This was getting out of hand and it was time to make a move. I spotted a rustling flamingo pink dress and high-heeled shoes. ‘Ah, my prey, I think,’ I said. ‘I have to go and see what’s happening. Time to earn my garlic bread.’

  There was something very nice about Ben Evans. A sort of open admiration which had long been missing from my life. It gave my cheeks a faintly warm glow and I hoped it showed. As long as DI James was looking in my direction. I had not seen him yet.

  ‘If you don’t like Chinese, I’ll take you somewhere posh, one of the big hotels along the front. A slap-up meal, a good wine. I’ll book a table. It’s what you deserve.’

  This was dangerously going to my head. I knew of no one more deserving. And I had that slinky black dress from Guilbert’s store waiting to be worn. Was this the start of something good?

  ‘You’ve got a lovely smile,’ he said. ‘One of your front teeth is a little bit crooked. That one.’ He touched my mouth. ‘I like it.’

  I had to move fast. I couldn’t cope with a proper invite and all these compliments. It was double-chocolate chip cookie time with a coffee cream filling. Very fattening. I still could not see James.

  Brian Frazer was swaying along towards the stage. It was a huge cavernous edifice flanked with mountains of amplification and eddying smoke like it was already November. He was climbing the ramp of steps and the musicians looked at him apprehensively but never missed a note or a beat.

  He tottered over to the lead singer, who lowered his hand-held mike and listened.

  What he heard seemed to amuse him. He was grinning. The group went into a huddle while Brian stood by, his hands preening his bouffant hair, the pink silk and chiffon designer dress blowing in the breeze, his feet squeezed into stilt heels. He was holding on to the folds and the silk roses stretched across his chest. Careful now.

  I knew what was going to happen. He was going to sing with the band. I saw it all happening, half heard it before it happened. Brian thought he was the new Danny La Rue, secretly rehearsing at the back of the theatre. Buying pretty things for his new image. This whole charade was a career move. He wanted to look like a woman, sing like a woman. ‘Cry Me a River’ … was that going to be his theme song? Or something Shirley Bassey style. ‘Hey, Big Spender’? I looked for glued-on painted silver nails, then hung back from the stage, longing for a straightforward case. Plain theft or harrassment would do.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the leader announced. ‘We have a guest singer. A big hand, folks, for this brave … person.’

  There was a polite round of applause.

  Brian took centre stage, beaming, and began to sing.

  Dying a death from embarrassment would have been almost welcome. My senses were paralyzed with shocked disbelief. His sharp, high, belted feminine notes pierced a musical ear; lack of rhythm, wordless nonsense in cadences that did not exist. I wished I was stone
deaf. The ground did not open.

  The chronic amplification made it worse. There was no escape. I clung to the side of the stage like a limpet, hoping it would hold me up till the end. At least DI James would also be suffering, along with his dishy date. That was some slight consolation. Love would not bloom through this catastrophic racket. It was even difficult to breath.

  Brian belted out ‘Shiny Stockings’, even attempting the catchy trumpet notes at the end; then wailed through ‘Embraceable You’, one of my favourites. Billie Holiday, Nat King Cole, Ella FitzGerald … they must have turned.

  When the agony ended, I could not look towards the stage. There was a random slow handclap after an eerie silence, more from stunned relief that it had ended. A slight wave of giggling rustled the air. Brian was bowing and beaming, sweat in half-circles under his puffed armpits, the wig askew. The mascara had run. His forehead was a rivulet of perspiration. It dripped off his nose, taking the Max Factor pancake along with the salt.

  I heard a woman call out, ‘Sing it again, darling.’

  My legs began moving. They wanted to go somewhere, anywhere to get away from the man’s humiliation. It was a wonder that the muscles still functioned. How could I put this into my report? Would Gill enjoy reading an account of her husband’s personal and public disaster? Maybe this experience would cure him of his showbiz ambitions.

  ‘Enjoy that, didya, ducks?’ some beer-swigger jeered, grinning, can in hand. ‘Should have been shot! Poofter. Needs his head testing.’

  ‘Needed more rehearsal,’ I said kindly.

  ‘Rehearsal! You mean referral.’

  I saw no one I knew. Both Ben and James seemed to have disappeared. Perhaps the gang of yobs had been frightened off by Brian’s debut as a jazz singer. The seat of my jeans were damp. It was time to go home and change. Perhaps to open my shop and start selling a few souvenirs to the first of the holidaymakers. I had not sold anything for days.