I lifted the polished brass knocker of the front door of the big house. It was called The Limes although I could not see a lime in sight. Perhaps they had been cut down to make way for building the new house.
Mrs Lydia Fontane opened the door. She was tall and skinny, all sparrow bones, a limp mauve chiffon dress wrapped round her body, feet in narrow leather shoes. I’d seen her several times at mayoral functions in my days as a WPC. She would not recognize me now.
‘Mrs Fontane? It is Mrs Fontane, isn’t it? I’m Lucy Locket with West Sussex Social Services,’ I said in a soft Irish drawl. ‘May I ask you a few questions in connection with the illness of Mrs Frazer who lives next door?’ I had rehearsed the lines a few times.
‘Yes, of course. Poor soul. She’s very upset and not surprising considering what has happened to her husband. How can I help you?’
‘It is a very sad situation but it’s her son that I am enquiring about. Max Frazer. No one seems to know where he is and I have to find that young man.’
‘Oh, Max. But he’s twenty-one,’ said Mrs Fontane. ‘Surely that’s old enough to look after himself?’
‘Er, yes,’ I floundered, thrown. ‘Social Services are involved indirectly. Do you know if he has a lot of friends?’
‘I’m sure he has the normal number of friends of any young man of that age.’
‘Do you know Mrs Frazer well?’
‘No, I’m afraid I hardly know her at all. She is not a sociable type of person.’
‘But she is your neighbour. Isn’t their house built in your garden?’
A fleeting smile crossed her thin face. ‘That doesn’t mean that I have to make her a bosom pal. It’s hardly obligatory with the transfer of land.’
‘Of course not, but neighbours usually talk.’
‘I’m not exactly the kind of person to waste time gossiping over a garden hedge,’ said Mrs Fontone, slightly ruffled. ‘Now, if you have any more questions, Miss Locket, I’m rather busy. I have several committee meetings scheduled today.’
Ah yes, a busy committee-type lady. It fitted.
‘No, of course not. I won’t take up any more of your time. It is just that I need to contact Max now that his father has died and his mother is ill.’
‘I expect he’s staying with friends.’
‘That’s probably the answer. But if you do see him …’
‘I’ll give you a ring. Please give me your number at work.’ Mrs Fontane produced a notebook and pencil.
Ah. ‘Unfortunately all our phones are down at the moment. Serious structural engineering work. I’ll give you a ring tomorrow if that’s OK with you.’
‘Perfectly. Goodbye, Miss Locket.’
We did the required nodding and shaking hands and I went down the drive, liking the airy feel of material swirling round my legs. It was a long time since I had worn a skirt like this. Quite different to the slim black number I wore at the theatre.
Something made me look back. It was that tingle one sometimes gets at the back of the neck. I looked up at the house, at the upstairs bay windows and gabled attic, and glimpsed a white face. A youth was peering from the top window, half in the shade, spiky hair. He drew back suddenly.
I went home along the shore. There was a brisk wind and the surfers were out on their boards, skimming the water like butterflies. Summer was definitely on its way. It was lazy days ahead, arranging pebbles to ease the bones, shedding tops, forgetting problems as the sun heated the skin. I love summer.
There were quite a few people strolling on the beach. They had also felt the stirring of good days ahead. I said hello to dogs. I always say hello so that they will not attack me. I don’t mind muddy paws but I object to teeth marks.
I saw him before he saw me. DI James was slithering down the shingle, scuffing his nice black loafers. He walked over the wet sand towards me.
‘Jordan,’ he said. It was more a command than a hello.
‘What have I done now?’
‘Neither the death of the diver nor the electrocution of Brian Frazer are anything to do with you.’
‘I know,’ I said, all innocence. ‘Nothing at all to do with me. And I have done nothing.’
‘So what’s this about a social worker visiting Mrs Fontane at The Limes?’
‘What a suspicious lady,’ I said, astonished.
The skirt was getting splashed. My legs looked pale and wintery.
‘She said some social worker came calling asking about young Max Frazer. Her description was a bit like you.’
‘Am I the only woman in Latching with reddish hair? It’s not even totally red. More mixed up rust and brown. And what about today’s dyed hair? Everybody wears a colourant. It’s deep plum and mahogany red this season.’
James looked confused. He had never strolled the hair dye counters of Superdrug.
‘I don’t know what you are talking about. She said the woman wore a flowered skirt.’
I jumped in immediately, totally defensive. ‘Since when is it against the law to wear a flowered skirt? Dozens of women are wearing long skirts today. Go on, count them. Perfectly acceptable on a warm day when the sun is coming out and summer’s on the way.’
‘You look like a kindergarten teacher,’ he said.
‘That’s a racist remark,’ I snapped back.
I did not want him to go. He’d taken off his jacket and flung it over a shoulder, the other hand in his pocket. No free hand to hold mine. Still, one could not have everything.
‘Your shoes are getting wet,’ I added.
‘So are yours,’ he said. ‘I have to talk to you.’
Eleven
Phil Cannon was not pleased. He was clutching my invoice in one hand and waving the other in a fist at me. His face was tight with fury.
‘And what do you mean by this?’ he demanded.
‘It means I would like to be paid for the work I have done, Mr Cannon,’ I said. ‘You will see by the enclosed report that my investigations have been pretty successful.’
‘Tone! Tony!’ He almost spat the name out. ‘I could have told you that.’
‘But you didn’t,’ I said. ‘Nor did you produce the photographs which I asked you to get.’
‘And what’s all this drink for? Sounds like a hen night out. I’m not paying for you going out drinking.’
‘It is itemised as entertaining Nesta Simons and it was my chance to get her to relax. As you know, she likes her vodka. She became very friendly and was quite happy to tell me a lot of things, including the name of her long-time boyfriend and various information about his times of working abroad.’
‘I told you he was abroad when we met and had this sordid weekend. That’s nothing new.’
The morning had not started well. It was becoming hot and sultry with a haze over the horizon. The sky stretched azure blue and a few fluffy white clouds hung about as if they had lost their way. I had too many clothes on. I still thought it was spring. Time to ban the vest. It was hard to trust this changeable weather.
Phil Cannon could not see or would not see what I had achieved. I thought I’d done well, considering the circumstances. I had not mentioned Nesta’s various charges held on the police computer. He’d not asked me for a moral report.
‘As I said before, there is a simple answer. A DNA test would settle paternity, once and for all.’
‘She’d never agree to it,’ he growled, starting to roll a cigarette. It was stick thin. He was mean with tobacco as well.
‘Have you asked her?’
‘I told you, I don’t speak to her, never have, never will.’
‘Would you like me to approach her on the subject? If she is so sure that you are the father of Dwain, then she won’t object. She’d be nailing you to the wall.’
He went white round the gills. For the first time, I wondered if indeed he was the father of the dear boy. I’d believed his innocence, given him room for doubt. But there was something about his face that I did not trust, a slender filament of caution.
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‘And the NHS won’t cough up for it?’
‘No, you have to pay privately. I can get the address of a clinic for you.’
‘I’m not paying,’ he said, his clenched fist coming down with a thud on my desk. ‘And no one is going to make me.’
‘Well, you either pay now for the DNA test or you go on paying support for Dwain for another six or eight years. You make a choice. It seems obvious to me which is the course to take.’
‘I don’t intend to pay for nothing.’
I sighed. The man was difficult and as tight as superglue. I wondered if Sergeant Rawlings could talk any sense into him. He was stubborn to the point of lunacy. And was he, or was he not, going to pay me?
‘I’d be glad if you would kindly pay my invoice. It is very modest for the number of hours I have put in. You wouldn’t like it if your customers didn’t pay their bills.’
He was shuffling in his pocket and brought out a wad of notes as thick as a triple hamburger. Business was obviously blooming. He peeled off a few grubby tenners, smoke spiralling from his ciggie. I wished I’d asked for more. You never can tell in this work.
‘I don’t think you’ve earned it,’ he said with his usual charm. He reluctantly put the notes on my desk. I put a glass paperweight on them immediately in case he changed his mind and whisked them back. I trusted him as far as I would trust worn out elastic.
‘Do you want me to continue working on this case?’ I asked, without much interest. He was my least favourite client.
‘Well … if it won’t take long. A couple more hours wouldn’t hurt. See what you can come up with.’
He was asking a lot. I’d found out everything that there was to know. What did he expect? A signed confession from Nesta that she was already pregnant before their wild weekend?
I made out a receipt. He took it without thanking me. I hoped he would go before I said something I would regret.
‘I’ll get another report, won’t I?’ he said.
‘Of course.’
He grunted as he went out of the door. It was a sort of repressed, obliged noise. The best he could do. He went out of the door but did not close it.
I put the money away and wondered what else I could do. No way was I going to pay for the tests. Perhaps Nesta might. She would have Dwain’s interests at heart. It was to her advantage to prove that Phil was the biological father, but she would lose out if he was not. But if I suggested it to her, then I’d have to admit my part in the investigation and that was not what I wanted. It was best that she did not know my role in the charade.
I knew who I wanted to talk to. Dr Williams. He was the retired doctor who collected old medicine bottles and was one of my best customers. I had an inkling he had something to do with the demolition of the bowling pavilion in the winter. He was not the obvious type to wear a baseball cap and drive a JCB over those precious greens, but I just had that feeling he might have been involved.
He did voluntary work down at the Salvation Army Centre. Cruising therapy of some sort, talking to the down-and-outs and the homeless who inhabited the seafront shelters in Latching, mostly drinking and sleeping. He could not practise now, but he gave good advice or pointed them in the right direction.
It was a lucky guess. He was sitting at a plain wooden table on a grey plastic chair, having a cup of tea with a very large woman. The chair looked hard and the tea strong. The woman was wearing a dozen layers of coats and jumpers despite the sunny day. No one could relieve her of them. They were her insurance against cold nights.
‘Hello, Miss Lacey,’ he said, rising. ‘Have you found me any more medicine bottles?’
‘No, I’m sorry, I haven’t. But I do have some interesting glass in at the moment. It’s a mixed bunch but they have funny stems.’
‘Twist, spirals or corkscrew?’
‘Heavens, I’m not sure. But something like that. Perhaps you’d like to take a look at them sometime?’
‘My pleasure. I know a bit about glass.’ He nodded towards the mountain of rags sitting opposite and nodded politely. ‘Have you met Gracie? She is one of Latching’s well known seafront inhabitants.’
Yes, I knew Gracie. I had once attempted to help her cross the shore road in the pouring rain. She had to be helped because she was trying to ferry five laden supermarket trolleys to the other side. As soon as one trolley was safely across, she went back for the next one. A bit like a mother cat and her kittens. It was a hazardous business as Gracie took no notice of the traffic. All the trolleys were piled high with carrier bags and bin bags, stuffed to bursting point. Her moving household.
Gracie apparently thought I had cunning designs on her precious possessions that day, for she brushed me aside and quite pointedly told me where to go. I went, but not to the place she suggested.
‘Hello, Gracie,’ I said.
She grunted and took a noisy gulp of her tea. Her hair hung in grease-locked corkscrews. The skin of her face was grimed with weeks of unwashing. It was one way to get a tan.
‘Dr Williams,’ I said, turning away from the smell. It was making me feel sick. ‘I wonder if I could ask you something privately.’
‘Of course. Would you excuse us for a moment, Gracie?’
Gracie grunted again and helped herself to a ginger biscuit, dunked it in the tea. His manners were perfect. Dr Williams was a such a gentleman.
‘How can I help you?’ he went on, from the other side of the crowded refreshment room. ‘You’re not ill, are you?’
‘Oh no, nothing like that. I need information on DNA tests. Are you able to tell me anything?’
‘Well, I may be a little out of date. They are constantly researching DNA profiling. It’s a highly complicated procedure as there are something like three million bases in a DNA molecule. And it seems there are no two people exactly alike. They look like a bit like barcodes.’
‘My query is about establishing parentage.’
‘Yes, half come from the mother and half from the father.’
‘And do you have to get a blood sample?’
‘No, that’s a fallacy. Blood, semen, saliva, a fragment of rooted hair or bone. A lot of different samples can be used. You can get a sample off a cigarette end. It’s an intelligent tool.’
My brain went on red alert. Both Nesta and Phil Cannon smoked. But Dwain did not. Or did he? Kids tried everything these days. Or could his sample be something different?
‘Interesting,’ I said. ‘And a DNA test has to be paid for?’
‘Privately, yes, but not when it’s a police procedure. The police have set up a national DNA register. It’s a matter of routine now. Every crime leaves a signature of the criminal. Did you know that identical twins share the same DNA but have different fingerprints?’
‘That’s fascinating. Thank you, Dr Williams. You’ve been a great help.’
‘I’ll go back to Gracie. I’m trying to get her to see a dentist before her teeth fall out. Heaven help the dentist.’
I hurried back to my shop. Phil Cannon had left a cigarette, stubbed out in an ashtray that was on a shelf for sale. I hoped I had not thrown it away in a moment of distracted housekeeping.
But it was still there, like a thin brown worm. I tipped it into a specimen bag and sealed the top, labelling it. Very methodical. DI James would have been impressed.
It’s amazing how often DI James appears when I am thinking of him, or is it that I am always thinking of him? He came into the shop and filled the doorway with his presence. He was wearing an open-necked, short-sleeved shirt and black jeans. It was one of those ex-RAF pilot’s shirts with tabs on the shoulders. I was not sure if I liked the gear, but it suited him. The vee of the open neck revealed a crinkle of dark hair. My craving to touch became a pain, clenching my muscles to my side.
‘Would you like some coffee?’ I fell back on my old stand-by.
‘I thought you’d never ask. I’m sorry about the other day on the beach. I wanted to talk but there wasn’t time. A mobile is like a
damned chain and manacle.’
He followed me through into my office. I made the coffee fresh from fresh beans. The aroma immediately filled the room. He always got the best.
James slumped on to the edge of my desk, hands clasped between his knees. He was watching me closely.
‘Been out drinking recently?’ he asked.
‘What a thing to ask,’ I said coolly. ‘I suppose your spies have been out in case I repeated my binge at The Cyprus Tree.’
‘Something like that. Your friend had to be thrown out for causing a fight at the bar.’
‘Nothing to do with me. She’s not my friend and I’d already left that night. I went home to my solitary bed. DS Evans gave me a lift, remember?’
He did not comment on the solitary bed. ‘She had an argument with someone and it ended up in a fight. The other woman got a black eye and some hair torn out.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘How come you were out with Nesta Simons? She is not one of Latching’s angels. You say she’s not a friend.’
‘I was working on a case. And you know better than to ask me who, what, why and when. My client information is private, like a doctor.’
‘Is Nesta your client?’
‘No.’
‘Her boy, Dwight, is always in trouble.’
‘Dwain.’ Ouch. He’d caught me. It was too late to bite the word back.
‘So you know her son as well?’
‘Is this an interrogation? I thought you came in for a coffee.’
‘The best in Latching,’ he said rewarding me with the merest glimmer of a smile. ‘I’d tell everyone except I want to keep you to myself.’
I could have taken that remark the wrong way, basked and lazed in happiness for several days, but I knew James did not mean it. It was the Columbian beans. Still, I could dream. I could suggest a picnic on the beach, tuna and salad sandwiches, Pringles sour cream and chives flavour, home-made sausage rolls (surely I could buy some somewhere), cold beer or yogurt smoothie. I’d bring a rug to soften the pebbles and we’d lay in the sun, not too close but close enough for skin breathing, eyes closed to the brightness of the sky, both dreaming our own dreams.
Hide and Die (Jordan Lacey Series Book 4) Page 11