Hide and Die (Jordan Lacey Series Book 4)

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘This is voluntary,’ I whispered.

  ‘There’s always a job for you at Guilbert’s,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘But I was only temporary seasonal help.’

  ‘When are you coming round to see me?’ he asked. ‘You never come to see me now. You know my house has an open door as far as you are concerned.’

  The longing in his voice hit me hard. But how could I encourage him, give him ideas? We were decades apart. Yet I was fond of him. If only it could stay that way. But I knew that he would try to move things on into a different relationship. Like Miguel, like Jack. Dear me, I was getting quite a list. I hoped I wasn’t getting a reputation, too.

  ‘I’ll see you in the interval,’ I went on. ‘Enjoy the film. It’s a long one but very exciting.’

  ‘As long as you promise to explain the plot,’ said Francis. But he looked better already, a sort of lifting of the spirit. Did I really have that effect on some men?

  But never the right man.

  The right man was pacing outside the theatre. As soon as he saw me in the foyer, he came in. He was fuming but in control. As always. If only he would lose control one day. Sweep me off my feet, make mad, passionate love to me in a patrol car, on the beach, mind the seat belts or the pebbles.

  ‘You went to see Mrs Frazer,’ he said coldly.

  ‘That’s right. She was my client, remember?’

  ‘Uniformed police inform a homicide’s next of kin. You had no right. You were totally out of form. And as a former WPC you should have known that.’

  ‘That’s exactly the point. I am a former WPC. None of the rules apply to me now. So I went round to see her. My case had involved following Brian Frazer and that’s what I had been doing, following her husband. That he got murdered this afternoon in Falmer Gardens was not connected to my surveillance but certainly an event I should report.’

  DI James was cooling down. He’d stopped pacing and took in the long skirt, the pristine white shirt, the hair piled up in a tawny top knot. He had never seen me with this classy look. The mascara went unnoticed.

  ‘How do you know he was murdered?’

  ‘No one sticks a mike down their own throats. Of course, he was murdered. Anyone could see that. It doesn’t take rank to spot that one.’

  He swallowed the rank jibe and he deserved it. ‘So what can you tell me, Jordan?’

  ‘Brian Frazer was leading some sort of double life. I think he really wanted to be a woman, inside himself. You know, one of those people locked in the wrong body. And he wanted to be a jazz singer. His wife had noticed her clothes disappearing. They were about the same size. I spotted him, several times, in women’s clothes, in charity shops, buying feminine things, image building. And I think that lately he had been looking for something glamorous in which to make his debut as a singer.’

  ‘The pink creation?’

  ‘Not a brilliant choice but it was expensive. But then he had no one to advise him.’

  DI James sighed. ‘Thank you. I’m sorry to have interrupted your new theatrical career.’

  ‘It’s voluntary,’ I said again for that evening.

  ‘Will you come round to the station later and make a statement?’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’ I waited for the word that my mother had taught me.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, ‘but not tonight. I have a date after the film.’

  ‘Enjoy your date.’ He turned on his heel. I dare not watch him go for fear of disintegrating. I had almost told the truth. It was only a guess about the date.

  When the film finished, Francis did ask me to go back to his Edwardian villa where we downed a bottle of good red Merlot and some Stilton, slices of apple and grapes. It made a very pleasant change and the conversation was stimulating. I liked his house and his company. We talked about everything except work.

  ‘Thank you, Francis. Lovely late supper.’

  ‘Don’t leave it so long before you come again,’ he said.

  I kissed his cheek a soft goodnight and went back to my two bedsits.

  How could I be so devious? I don’t know. It came natural.

  Nine

  Nesta Simons knew something was up even if she was not sure what was up. She came storming out of her house the moment I appeared with Jasper and marched straight over to me. I knew trouble was coming.

  ‘’Ere you. What do you think you’re doing? I’ve seen you, day after day, walking that stupid dog, talking to my son. Are you one of those queer people? After children and the likes. I’ll get the police on to you, I will. They’ll put your photo up to warn people off.’

  ‘Heavens, no,’ I said, trying to sound like a normal dog lover. ‘I’m not doing anything to be alarmed about. No need to call the police. I’m only trying to train Jasper for a friend of mine. She’s hopeless with dogs.’

  The untrainable Jasper leaped about as if to back up my point. He successfully put muddy pawprints on Nesta’s white jeans. She backed off.

  ‘Down! Sit!’ I ordered. Jasper looked at me with tongue lolling adoration. He loved being ordered about. He loved disobeying. It was all such fun.

  ‘Why do you keep talking to my boy, then? I’ve seen you,’ said Nesta dubiously. She took a packet of cigarettes out of her pocket, shook one out and lit up. She blew the smoke straight into my face.

  ‘He’s a friendly sort of boy,’ I coughed. ‘He likes throwing a ball for Jasper to fetch.’ Slight exaggeration of circumstances.

  She scowled at me. Nesta was older than I had first thought. There were frown lines under her blonde fringe and the first fan of wrinkles were framing her heavily made-up eyes. Her nails were red talons, several broken, two fingers nicotine-stained. Her body was wiry but not fit, no strength in her scrawny arms. Bangles jangled.

  ‘Well, you mind it. I’ll be watching you, just you remember.’

  ‘Perhaps I could speak to your son’s father, just to reassure you,’ I said. It was a random thought. ‘That ought to put your mind at rest.’

  ‘He’s not around at the moment,’ she said, inhaling deeply. ‘Working abroad. Better dosh.’

  ‘How interesting,’ I said. ‘Whereabouts is he? Somewhere nice and warm, I hope. One of the oil fields? We haven’t had much summer yet, have we?’

  Working abroad, was he? Well, Phil Cannon still worked in the UK. He’d offered to fix something at the shop. Exactly what escaped me … nothing much worked. Oh yes, the bell.

  ‘No,’ she said, almost sulkily. ‘He ain’t in that class. He’s cooking at some holiday camp, one of those club things in the Med.’

  Oh dear, then she had plenty to worry about. Those club things in the Med were friendly places, very friendly. Lots of free booze and warm, sultry nights and unattached females on the make for a good time.

  ‘You must be lonely without him,’ I said, remembering the stream of visitors to her house. ‘Perhaps you’d like to come out for a drink one evening. My treat. Crack a few jokes. I expect you’ve got a favourite pub.’

  She looked at me with suspicion but the thought of being treated to drinks began working. A muscle relaxed. She stubbed out the cigarette on a gate post.

  ‘I’d rather go to your favourite pub,’ she said, sensing fresh ground and fresh conquests.

  ‘Oh, I don’t have one,’ I laughed merrily. ‘They are all my favourites. Show me a pub and I’m in it.’

  I groaned inwardly. I was behaving like the idiot I could be at times. She was not coming to my Bear and Bait. That was strictly off limits. The last place I’d take her. She could flutter her falsies at some other watering joint.

  ‘How about tonight?’ I rattled on, caution thrown. ‘Nine o’clock at The Cyprus Tree in the old high street?’

  The Cyprus Tree was spanking new and flashy. I had not been there but had noticed the burly bouncers in black on the door and the flock of mini-skirted girlies that streamed in late at night. It was laid out in areas for drinking, eating, dancing to disco, playing
the fruit machines. A few double vodkas and Nesta might tell me more about Dwain’s daddy.

  ‘Yeah, I’d like that,’ she capitulated, zipping through her wardrobe. ‘A bit fancy, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, why not?’ I said, leaning against the tug of Jasper on the lead. ‘Enjoy ourselves while we can, eh?’

  She was mine already. We were mates.

  ‘See yer, then. Nine o’clock.’

  She flounced back to her house, already planning hair-do. Was there time for highlights? She might meet someone. What gear? Black and silver shimmer? Backless white halter and jeans? Shorts and string top?

  I staggered round the pond with Jasper. The ducks flew off in desperation. The conversation had exhausted me but I felt I was earning my pay. Phil would certainly be charged for all the drinks.

  I was trying to put Brian Frazer out of my mind. I knew nothing yet. No one did. It was a mystery how he got the mike slammed down his throat.

  Oddly I had heard something at the gardens, soon after he sang ‘Embraceable You’. Like the wind carried it. A voice saying seductively, ‘Sing it again, darling.’ I’d got Casablanca on the brain.

  Jasper only got half a walk. He’d played his part admirably. I returned him to doting owner.

  ‘Don’t ask me what we’ve achieved,’ I said to Mavis. ‘But I may tell you tomorrow if I’m still standing.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ She was worried.

  ‘The Cyprus Tree.’

  ‘Heaven help you, girl. Wear your bulletproof vest.’

  *

  Anyone would have thought I had a date with DI James. The bath foam, the shampoo, the nail varnish (blue glitter). I had no fab girly clothes. I wore my oldest threadbare jeans, a bit torn and tore them some more, and a faded red shirt that was too tight, half unbuttoned, and I tied the front ends into a waist-high knot. Pretty cool.

  Hair. What could I do with this mass of tawny stuff? Bunches. I tied each bunch with several coloured ribbons. I looked about fifteen. Perhaps they would not let me in. I added heavy lash-building mascara. That put on a few years.

  There was just time to eat. A quick salad and tuna sandwich. I needed the fish oil for my joints. I wrote up detailed notes at the same time as eating. The page got spotted with mayonnaise.

  Nine was a late start. I filled in an hour with a seafront walk. It was still light. Four youths whistled at me. It was the gear, the bare waist, the swanky sway, the fluttering ribbons. Perhaps I had been following the wrong track all along.

  ‘Where are you going, darling?’ they shouted.

  ‘None of your business,’ I swaggered.

  ‘Give us a call if he doesn’t turn up.’

  ‘He’ll turn up,’ I said.

  ‘We got better equipment,’ one of them shouted back.

  I did not reply.

  I went into the amusement arcade on the pier. Jack was in his booth, counting the money, wearing his usual jeans and once white T-shirt. He put the packets of coins into buckets. He had buckets of money. It was unbelievable. He was rolling in the stuff.

  ‘Strewth, Jordan,’ he said, his look steaming through the window of his booth. I could read his lips. ‘What are you dressed up like that for? Is it a vicars and tarts party?’

  I swallowed my hurt and knocked on the window. He keyed the code to open the door. He was protected from the world by every gadget invented.

  ‘I’m working,’ I said. ‘This is work gear.’

  ‘Well, you’d better be damned careful, my girl. You don’t look safe. I’m coming with you,’ he decided immediately. ‘Where are you going? I’ll shut the arcade.’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ I said firmly. ‘Don’t be stupid. You’ve hours of custom yet. I’m only having a drink at some new trendy place and I’ve got to look the part.’

  ‘And I’m looking at your waist. I ain’t seen your waist before. It looks a treat. Nice bit of skin. Can I touch? Or is it out of bounds?’

  The sea air had gone to his head. I recoiled instinctively which was sad because Jack was a good man. Mental but nice.

  ‘Strictly out of bounds,’ I said lightly.

  ‘I’d marry you.’

  Heavens, this was going from bad to worse.

  ‘Nobody marries me,’ I said, trying to make it into a joke.

  He got up and took my arms quite roughly. I was stunned by the swiftness of his action, unable to move. Jack was his usual slob self, but the hold was strong and forceful. His nails were stained, bitten.

  ‘Anybody touch you and I’ll kill them,’ he said.

  Somehow I got myself out of his grip, not wanting to hurt his feelings. He was so vulnerable.

  ‘I’ll be all right. I can take care of myself. It’s only a drink and perhaps some information. Nothing dangerous.’

  He calmed down. ‘You got your mobile?’

  ‘Er … no. My last one was stolen from the shop.’

  He handed me one straightaway, as if he had a drawer full of spares. ‘Use this,’ he growled, ‘if you get into trouble. Anything, any time. I’ll be down there like a shot, to sort them out. And I mean it.’

  ‘I don’t know your number.’

  ‘Ring zero, zero, one, zero. That’s me fast emergency number. I’ll keep it open all night. Don’t you know how much I could go for you? If they touch you, I’ll kill them.’

  I was humbled by his passion. He’d never stood a chance with me and yet he would do anything. It was sobering. Jack had always waved a banner for me since I floored a robber in his arcade. It was a year back now but nothing had changed. I liked him immensely but it could never be anything else. His flashy blue metallic Jaguar would not change my mind. I even drank his awful coffee.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, smiling. ‘I’ll ring you to say everything’s fine. Then you can go home.’

  ‘Promise?’

  I had no idea where his home was. It was probably as chaotic as his booth. A bedsit somewhere, full of unwashed mugs and fast food boxes. Jack was not convinced. His stubborn bristles were bristling.

  ‘Look, Jack, I’m going now. This was just a courtesy call. Now I have to work. I will call you. Thank you for the loan of a phone.’

  ‘Keep it.’

  ‘I’ll bring it back tomorrow.’

  But I didn’t. I forgot.

  The Cyprus Tree was full to bursting point and the noise was deafening. There was hardly room to buy a drink. The pub was far more spacious than I had thought from outside but each area was full of seething bodies. The decor was modern, airy, wood and brass, posters and adverts, what you could see of it. There were even a couple of sofas, already occupied by coupling couples. The disco was blaring out dance music, competing with the staccato ringing of the fruit machines working at top speed. Not your normal Latching country pub.

  I wondered how long I would last.

  But Nesta was there, no drink in hand yet, waiting for me. I gave her a big smile. It took courage to come in here on her own but it was the kind of thing she could do without thinking.

  ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘You look gorgeous. What would you like to drink, if I ever get near the bar. Grab those two seats quick. I’ll be back. What do you want?’

  ‘Vodka and passion fruit,’ she said. ‘A double.’

  It took me ten minutes of pushing and waving to get the order through to the barman. I was drinking orange juice. I had to keep my head on straight.

  I weaved my way back to the two seats Nesta was keeping. I put the long drink down in front of her. It was lethal looking, turquoise in colour, served straight in a bottle. At least I hoped it was lethal. My own modest juice would have to last. That body jungle, three-deep at the bar, was intimidating.

  ‘You look great,’ I said, at last taking in what there was of her outfit. It was an economical lurex front. Her back was bare with narrow crossed straps. Her shoulder bones jutted out like wings. They were tanned but the tanning was fake and streaked. Her legs were encased in skintight black trousers. Her feet were in heels
so high, I would have fallen over.

  ‘This is fun,’ she said, flashing a smile. Her eyelids were sparkling with more glitter stuff. I was learning a lot.

  ‘Love the place,’ I said. ‘Seriously classy.’

  ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘And look at those hunky men.’

  I had not noticed them but now that Nesta pointed them out, they were rugged with a capital ‘R’. Rugby players? Was this where the talent of Latching went at nights? I’d been missing out.

  ‘Cool Jacks,’ I said.

  Not that any of the men came up to my standard. The DI James standard. But they were young, well built, had gleaming teeth and I could only guess at their virility. They seemed to please Nesta. She was glowing with anticipation. My hand closed round Jack’s mobile, just in case.

  ‘Happy days,’ she said, raising the rim of the bottle to her mouth. My juice was in a glass.

  ‘Happy days.’ I would second that.

  ‘What are you drinking?’ She looked scornfully at my juice.

  ‘Orange juice with a brandy chaser,’ I lied. ‘A double.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right then. I thought perhaps you were a teetotal git. Brandy’ll rot your guts fast enough.’

  We talked about men, Dwain, men, Dwain, in that order. She was obsessed by her son. He was a born angel in her eyes. He did nothing wrong. The complaining neighbours were all senile and should be put away in homes. Mavis was a stuck-up fish fryer. I tried to get the conversation round to his father.

  ‘But what does his father think of all these complaints? Surely he’s concerned?’

  ‘He’s never around. He never gets the flack like what I do. Sometimes I say to him, look, buddy, if you didn’t keep flying off, we might get something sorted out.’ She was on her third turquoise vodka, looking flushed but not turquoise.

  ‘Buddy? Is that his name?’

  ‘No, his name is Tone. Tony, Anthony, y’know.’ Her face fell for a moment as if remembering a decade of the wandering Tone that had become too much to bear.