‘Never mind,’ I soothed. ‘He’ll be back soon.’
‘Will he?’ she gulped. ‘Will he? I never know where he is, the bastard. I’d like to get rid of him.’
I pushed a fourth vodka in her direction. I was into bulk buying at the bar. My skin was taking on an orange tinge. I was overdosing on vitamin C.
‘If he’s got any sense he’ll be back,’ I said. ‘Lovely home, lovely woman, wonderful son.’ I was a creep.
‘Lovely home, that’s what he’s got. He left me once before,’ she wept. ‘Walked out on me and I was pregnant. But he came back, like I knew he would.’
‘When was that?’
She was past being able to give me an exact date. But it was almost what I wanted to know. Tony had gone off during the early months of her pregnancy. Of course, thinking herself abandoned, she began clutching at straws, and Phil Cannon had been the most available straw.
There was some kind of brawl going on round the bar. I wanted nothing to do with it but Nesta was craning her neck, eyes alight.
‘Hey, what’s going on?’ She stood up to get a better view. ‘Jeepers, it’s a fight. Look, a real fight. Blimey, what a punch-up. Bottles and all.’
The noise was rising. It was alarming. I wanted to get out but how? The exit route was blocked. I would have left Nesta to fend for herself but I felt responsible. She’d have to come with me but she was enjoying herself, reluctant to leave.
‘We ought to go,’ I said. ‘This could get nasty.’
‘Don’t be an old spoilsport. Cor, look at that! It’s terrific. Go on, beat him up!’ she yelled.
My fingers curled round the phone. I did not want to call Jack but I would, if the situation worsened. Someone jerked back and knocked against us. My juice spilled on the table.
‘’Ere mind out,’ Nesta shouted. ‘Mind yer manners, you louts! Wotcha think you’re doing?’
I tried to keep her quiet but she was determined to speak her mind. I couldn’t leave her but I could shut her up.
‘Don’t say anything to irritate them, Nesta,’ I said in a low, cool voice. ‘If you don’t shut up, I’ll knock you out cold. Now shut up and keep quiet.’
She looked at me with astonishment.
‘Blimey,’ she said, sitting down.
The bouncers, those burly men in black, were pushing their way in, getting hold of the struggling men, heaving them out by their shirts without putting a hand on them. People sued these days. I kept my head down. It was more difficult to restrain Nesta. She was excited with vodka and the rising temperature in the pub. It was unbearably hot. Sweat was running down my back. Nesta’s make-up was streaked and smudged.
‘I think we ought to go,’ I said. ‘We could get out now.’
‘But it’s still early!’
‘I’m going,’ I said. ‘If you stay, you stay on your own.’
Her face went into sulky mode. I didn’t care any more. It was out of here for me. I’d had enough of The Cyprus Tree. I pushed a fiver towards her.
‘Enjoy the rest of the evening,’ I said. ‘See yourself home. Take a taxi with this and that’s an order.’
I didn’t wait for any argument or protests. I just wanted to go. I struggled through the crowd out on to the street. There were so many people about. Where had they all come from? I was nearly pushed into the roadway, a bit frightened. Yet I’d coped with crowds, some worse than this, when I was a WPC. Where had my nerve gone or had the situations worsened?
I staggered out into the night air. It hit my bare waist like a cold hand. Which way was the way home?
‘Have you been drinking? Don’t you know it’s against the law to drive when you’ve been drinking?’
DI James pulled me to one side and pushed me against a wall, out of the way of the milling, chanting crowd. The bricks were rough against my skin and I arched away from it.
‘Smell my breath. Juice of the orange. Not a drop, I swear it, officer sir.’
He came close, almost to my mouth and it was unbearable. He was like a breath of mountain air even when he was tired and grim and not particularly affectionate. But he was pushing me against a wall and that was a start.
‘What are you doing here?’ he snapped.
‘Working.’
‘Jordan. What a load of cobblers. Tell me the truth.’
‘Cross my heart. This is work. I’ve been interrogating a possible lead. Took her for a couple of drinks to loosen her up. She loosened up all right.’
‘In that gear? I don’t believe this rubbish. You’re asking for trouble. And there is trouble inside. I’ve just sent in a couple of heavies.’
‘I didn’t get any. Not until now. And you’re pushing me against a stone wall. Does it mean something personal or could I sue for harassment?’
He relaxed his grip on my arms and I leaned forward, rubbing my sore back. It was time to unknot the knot and let the creased hem of the shirt hang down. It looked like a rag. I wanted to go home, wash the smell of cigarette smoke out of my hair.
‘I’ve a car here. We’ll take you home.’ He could read some of my thoughts. Briefly. Not the right thoughts.
He pushed me into a waiting patrol car. I fell into the passenger seat. But he was not coming with me. Someone else was driving. I stared into the windscreen, seeing a dim white face staring back. Mine.
‘Hello,’ said DS Ben Evans, turning in the glow from the street lights. His face was handsome and grinning, his glasses reflecting light. ‘I’ll take you home, Jordan. You look beat. Time for bed.’
But not with him.
Ten
Gill Frazer had to be sedated and was eventually taken to a nursing home where she could be looked after. She was screaming for hours. The neighbours called an ambulance. It would make visiting rather more difficult for me. Ben Evans told me that her mental breakdown was genuine but she would recover in time.
‘She’s completely devastated, utterly inconsolable. She simply fell apart. The doctors are concerned for her mental health.’
‘Oh dear.’ And I had thought Gill Frazer was suspect number one. The police must surely know about the manslaughter charge.
‘At least with Mrs Frazer safely in a nursing home, we know where she is,’ said Ben. He was telling me something without telling me. Did they think she might make a run for it?
‘Do you think she has something to do with Brian Frazer’s death?’
‘Jordan, we really cannot have this conversation.’
‘We are not. I am merely commenting. You can either agree or disagree.’
‘I shall do neither.’
‘Then I suggest you take me home and I can get my beauty sleep.’
‘You don’t need any,’ said Ben, giving my hand a squeeze.
My reaction was mixed. I was feeling relaxed now but it was a result of all that pushing by James against a wall, and his fresh breath fanning my hot face. Not Ben Evans or his expert driving. He was a smooth driver but he wasn’t coming down my street.
‘And you’ve got killer legs,’ he said, his hand moving to my knee. I froze. He flexed the flesh like he was kneading bread. I moved his hand back to the wheel.
‘One-handed driving is against the law,’ I reminded him. ‘Like mobile phones.’
‘Who’s watching?’
‘There are speed cameras everywhere.’
He was looking confident, humming under his breath. I suppose he thought it was invite in for cosy coffee time, that I would have a big sofa, an even bigger bouncy bed. Little did he know of my spartan style of living. But I was feeling lonely. Perhaps a dose of seduction was what I needed.
‘I hear you make excellent coffee,’ he said, drawing up to the kerb near my bedsits and putting on the brake. ‘You have a reputation.’
‘But only for making coffee. I’m not an empty vessel.’ It was a good line. I was not sure what it meant or where it came from, but the words sounded enigmatic.
‘Come on, Jordan. Take pity on a weary Detective Sergeant. Two murder
s to be solved, villains everywhere. I’m worn out. And it’s not even the holiday season.’
‘You’re saying that the fisherman diver was murdered?’
‘Maybe. The neck of his suit was cut. The water rushed in, filling the suit and he drowned. The suits have tight neckbands, wristbands and anklebands. At some point or place, the neckband had been ripped open.’
‘That’s awful. Who could have done that underwater?’
He didn’t answer straightaway. ‘An awful way to die, choking underwater, being dragged down and knowing what was happening.’
‘What does forensic say?’
‘You know better than to ask me that.’ Ben got out of the car, came round and opened the door for me. He was expecting an invitation. He would wait a long time, I decided. He pulled me roughly to him. I hoped no one was watching.
‘You’re lovely,’ he said huskily, his face against my hair. ‘You’re beautiful.’
His mouth came down on mine. His lips were soft and moist and seeking. It was a pleasant feeling but did nothing for me. My body was still. I tried to respond but it was not real. It was pretending, being friendly and trying to make something out of nothing. What a fraud.
‘Shall I come in?’ he asked.
‘Not this time,’ I said, stalling. ‘It’s been a long day. But thank you for bringing me home.’
I let him kiss me again. A pressing session. It was the least I could do.
Once safely indoors, I phoned Jack on zero, zero, one, zero.
‘I’m home,’ I said.
‘About time,’ he growled.
*
A nursing home is hardly the place to send an invoice for services rendered. It looked like I would not get paid again. I thought of Francis Guilbert’s generous payments with fondness. Thank goodness I had a small nest egg. Quail size. It was a tempting thought to take up his offer of regular employment but I did not see myself as a nine-to-five shop assistant.
And drinking wine with the boss would not go down well with the rest of the staff. I rather liked the au pair evenings and suppers with Francis. He was almost like a father to me although I’m sure that was not how he saw himself.
I typed out an invoice for Phil Cannon and another report. He owed me. He had not paid a penny yet and it was time. I could not work on air. I added up the expenses for The Cyprus Tree. He might argue with me over the high consumption of vodkas but they were legitimate. I did not charge for my juice. I’d got approximate dates and a name. Tone, Tony. I couldn’t charge expenses for walking Jasper or muddied jeans. Shopping list: biological washing powder and floral-scented rinse.
Four hours of walking Jasper. I owe him a new lead.
The jigsaw puzzle bank statements were of little use to me now that Brian Frazer was dead. But one bank page was different, nothing to do with my client. It was addressed to Mrs Lydia Fontane, who lived in the big house next to the Frazers. The family who had sold off a sliver of their garden as a building site. Perhaps the postman delivered it to the wrong house.
I should not really have read it but I have this uncontrollable curiosity. Like we all read cornflakes packets at the breakfast table. The eyes need something to do. I read any piece of paper put in front of me. And Mrs Fontane had been careless enough to lose it in the first place. I mean, who puts bank statements in the dustbin?
She had quite a tidy sum in the bank, several thousands, and it was a current account. No second mortgage needed here. It was a elegant villa and the family had several. businesses around the town. I was not sure what they were but the name was synonymous with Latching and old money. She was a generous woman with several standing orders to charities.
Then I spotted a standing order that had nothing to do with charity, or did it? Mrs Fontane was paying £250 a month to a Mrs G. Frazer. Gill Frazer? Possibly the woman who lived next door and who was at present supine in a nursing home under sedation?
It was so extraordinary. I was not imagining it. There it was, in cold print. She paid £250 on the first of each month to a Mrs G. Frazer. Surely it was not just a coincidence?
I was on to the bank immediately. I turned on a Mrs Fontane-type voice, Mrs Lydia Fontane if you please, quoted the account number correctly. The cashier suspected nothing.
‘And how can I help you, Mrs Fontane?’ she said.
‘It’s nothing special. Just this silly brain of mine,’ I apologized in a slightly senile way. ‘I’ll forget my own name next. I simply cannot remember how long I’ve been paying this monthly standing order to Mrs Frazer.’ I quoted the standing order reference number. I was impressed by my efficiency.
‘I’ll go through your records,’ said the cashier. ‘If you wouldn’t mind waiting a few moments, Mrs Fontane.’
‘Of course. Not at all.’
I heard computer keys clicking. My hearing is exceptional. The cashier came back on the phone, clearing her throat.
‘It’s over ten years now, Mrs Fontane. You began the standing order payments in March 1992.’
‘Is it as long as that?’ I fluttered on. ‘My, my, how time flies. Thank you so much for looking it up. Is there any current address for Mrs Frazer?’
‘No, just her account number at a different bank.’ The obliging girl quoted it to me.
‘Thank you so much,’ I said, aligning the numbers with the other jigsaw bank statements I’d put together. They were the same. The same Mrs G. Frazer. Gill of the mud-coloured clothes.
‘Not at all, Mrs Fontane. Any time.’
My maths are not top of the class but even I could work out that a payment of more than £30,000 in total had been payed to Mrs Fontane. Not exactly over-the-hedge pocket money. And she had been paying it long before the Frazers moved to next door.
Someone was rapping on the counter of my shop. I really ought to get the bell fixed.
‘Anybody there?’ a voice called out. ‘I warn you, I might start shoplifting any moment now.’
I hurried out. I’d been so engrossed in the bank statement I had forgotten that I’d opened up the shop. A man was standing nonchalantly against the counter. He had a rucksack on his back, but a smart one with lots of pockets and zips. He turned and smiled at me. It was devastating. He had those mature, what’s-his-name film star looks, the whiter than white teeth, blonde hair streaked with grey, tanned skin … and an American accent.
‘I hope I didn’t call you away from something special, ma’am,’ he said, his eyes sweeping over me. I love the way Americans call you ‘ma’am’.
‘Just some bookkeeping,’ I said, hoping I’d got my own voice back. This was not the time for early senility. ‘Can I help you?’
‘You sure can. Those two old maps of Sussex. Are they for sale?’
I could have said something witty, like yes, this is a shop. But I did not want to frighten him away. He was just too gorgeous. I hoped Doris was watching.
‘Yes,’ I said. Brilliant response.
‘I’m on a touring holiday of Sussex and these maps look so interesting. All the ancient names of farms and paths and woodland. Very historic.’
‘You’d get lost if you followed them.’
He obviously thought this was really bright, because he laughed, showing a lot of teeth. All perfectly aligned. He’d got a good dentist.
‘That’s for sure, ma’am. I don’t intend to use them. Just get them framed and hang them on the wall when I get home. A really nice souvenir of my visit to the south of England, don’t you think?’
I nodded. Any moment now, a super-slim blonde would walk through the door, matching rucksack, designer jeans, tuck her arm through his and say, ‘Come on, honey, haven’t you finished looking at those old maps yet?’
‘Ideal,’ I croaked.
‘How much are they?’
I would have given them to him, but sanity returned in time. ‘Six pounds each.’
‘Worth every penny,’ he said. ‘I’ll take both of them. Could you roll them and wrap them for me? I’m going to mail them on ahead
.’ I had one of those postal tube things. He was impressed, so was I. I dug out my cleanest wrapping paper and Sellotape. I even gave him a label.
‘This is very kind, ma’am,’ he said, printing out his address on the label. I couldn’t read it upside down.
‘Are you walking around Latching?’ I asked. It was the best I could do. Where had the fluent conversationalist gone?
‘No, ma’am, I’ve done Latching. I’m planning to move on to Shoreham tonight. Didn’t Prince Charles escape from Shoreham port after the Battle ofWorcester?’
‘Prince Charles?’ I was confused.
‘In 1651. He eluded the Parliamentarians and escaped to France. He was disguised as a servant of a Colonel Gunter, leading his horse. I love your history.’
Offer the man some coffee. Be polite, hands across the pond stuff, talk more history. He was taking the money out of his wallet, handling the notes carefully like a foreigner. He added two coins and put them on the counter. They were both bright, golden new from the bank.
‘Twelve pounds,’ he said.
‘Thank you. Do you need a receipt?’ I added. Had I gone completely mad? He looked at me curiously.
‘For customs, or anything.’
‘Oh no, I don’t think it’s necessary, ma’am. I believe I only have to declare the value of the contents on the outside of the package.’ He was leaving. The shop already seemed darker and empty. He flashed me a smile from the doorway. Robert Redford, that was the name I was looking for.
‘Goodbye, ma’am, and thank you.’
‘Goodbye. Enjoy the rest of your holiday.’ I stood with the money in my hand. I felt I ought to frame the two golden coins as a remembrance of bright magical moments.
Doris appeared in the doorway, slightly out of breath. She grinned.
‘I sent him round to you,’ she said, all chirpy. ‘Do I get a commission?’
It took a while to get my head screwed back on. Mrs Lydia Fontane. I decided to pay her a visit. No one had asked for my assistance. But I felt I owed Brian Frazer something extra. A decent departure perhaps.
Lucy Locket was due for an airing. Her appearance and occupation might change but I was getting used to the name. I found some interesting clothes in my charity box. A multi-flowered skirt, green shirt, clumpy shoes, and faded denim jacket. Ms Locket was about to become a social worker.
Hide and Die (Jordan Lacey Series Book 4) Page 10