‘Wake up, Jordan. I’ve just asked you if you’ll be seeing Nesta again.’
I jolted myself back to Mother Earth. ‘I guess so. The case isn’t finished, though I wish it was. My client is the most difficult man.’
‘Most men are difficult.’
‘You’re telling me. Find me a group of single, straight, emotionally-stable, money-wise, intelligent men and it’ll be an empty room.’
‘Jordan, that sounds bitter.’ He shot me a fast look. ‘Has someone hurt you?’
This, coming from James? Hurt me? I did not know how to answer. I was not exactly ready to open my heart to him. Maybe, one day. But he would have to make the first move. My pulse was racing. I took a few deep breaths to steady it. There was a nasty lump in my throat, like a swallow that has gone wrong.
‘Me? Never. I’m much too independent. Sure, I hope to meet the right man, one day, someone devastating, but in the meantime, life is for living, not for washing up and ironing.’ The light voice was right. I’d not been cast in school plays for nothing.
‘I agree with you. No commitments. No involvements. Keep one’s freedom to the last. Wait until Calista Flockhart is heart free.’
‘To freedom,’ I said, raising the mug in a toast.
James raised his and the rims touched briefly. It was awkward and contrived. ‘Agreed.’
He took a sip of coffee and went on as if nothing had happened. ‘We’d like to know more about Nesta Simons’ activities and I wondered if you could tell us anything of interest.’
‘It’ll cost you a lunch or a supper.’
‘I think that could be arranged,’ he said smoothly.
It was too easy. For a second I did not trust him. He’d said that it could be arranged, not that he would be taking me himself. He’d send Ben Evans as a standin or slip me a fiver. No, thank you.
‘You tell me about Nesta and I’ll tell you what we’ve found out about the dead fisherman, Roy Dinglewell.’
There had to be a catch. I was being baited. He knew that Mavis and I were friends, that I would do almost anything for her since she got beaten up.
‘Tell me.’
James was not sure about me either, I could see that, but he decided to risk it. He poured himself out a second cup of coffee and helped himself to a chocolate chip cookie. He’d forgotten breakfast, if he ever had any.
‘At first we thought it was a tragic accident, that something had gone wrong underwater. His diving suit had got ripped round the neck. They were diving round a wreck and he could have got caught on some sharp bit of machinery.’
I said nothing about the bloodied shirt which I had found, the shirt that I thought had smelt strongly of fish. The smell could have come from adjacent fish pieces and it could have belonged to anyone. Although the fishing fleet from Latching had diminished over the years, they did still exist and sell their fish daily from the beach.
‘Yes.’ I nodded.
‘But forensic have come up with something else. It will appeal to you, with all your healthy food and herbal stuff.’
‘Appeal to me?’
‘At first, they were somewhat confused. After all, they are trained to find the normal poisonous substances but this was something different.’
‘He was poisoned?’
‘Don’t interrupt. They found traces of a narcotic drug called hyoscine, which was once used medically, but today morphine and codeine are prescribed.’
‘It’s a plant called Henbane,’ I said. ‘It’s a very poisonous and coarse-looking plant with sticky, hairy leaves and white flowers. It has a foul smell.’
‘Ah, you know …?’
‘And I know that it grows around here near Latching, in the south, near the sea. You’ll find it on sandy soil, on the cliffs, in farmyards. Anyone could pick it, if you know what it is.’
‘Go on.’ For once I had caught his attention. His ocean-bright eyes were willing me to continue. ‘Please …’
‘It disturbs the nervous system, stops the brain from functioning properly. A kind of mania sets in. You need to find out how Roy was behaving before the dive … if he was agitated or quarrelsome or nervous. The bladder gets paralyzed.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘Books. I buy books, read books. I’ve got a shop full of them. I’ve got a reference book on plants. Do you want to buy it?’
James got up, stretched, looking long and tall and lean. I melted. He’d forgotten about Nesta. The dead fisherman was more important and rightly so.
‘We’ll follow it up. Nothing is straightforward with this one.’
‘And Brian Frazer?’
‘Going nowhere.’
‘Pity. He did not deserve to die. Dreadful singing is not a motive.’
‘My mother thought he was brave to get up and even try. She gave him two out of ten for the songs. Ten out of ten for courage.’
‘Your mother?’
‘Making one of her rare visits. Thank you for the coffee. Just what I needed. And the sane conversation. I owe you a lunch, Jordan. And soon, I won’t forget.’
He went out, closing the door. My office was bereft. His mother. He had taken his mother to the trad jazz in Falmer Gardens.
Shopping list: buy trendy clinging skimpy top, cleavage revealing, tiny straps. On second thoughts, shopping list: new snow-white T-shirt, small sleeves, best quality.
Twelve
It was like going round and round in circles. I needed a new case and a paying one. Phil Cannon was only good for a couple more hours. Mrs Gill Frazer was in a nursing home and the investigation into her husband’s strange habits had come to a halt. A definite demise. DI James was not paying me, only with a meal. But I had to support various habits, like eating regularly. At this rate I would be signing on for unemployment.
I was busy making my shop look nice. It had been neglected of late. Takings were down. Stock was low, no medals or top quality stuff. People did not shop so much in the summer. They were on holiday, sunning themselves on the beach, eating Italian ice cream in twenty flavours.
Holiday? I couldn’t remember when I had last had a holiday. What did people do on holiday? Eat, drink, make love, get sunburned. I would scour the beach for fossils or crabs that needed up-ending.
A woman came into the shop. I recognized her but did not say anything. This time she was wearing a natural linen dress down to her ankles. Leather sandals and a gold ankle chain. Interesting effect.
‘Miss Lacey?’ she said. ‘The private investigator?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have we met before?’
She was thinking of Lucy Locket, erstwhile social worker, a recent caller at her house. I tried to sound older and look different with a firm stance, clipped voice. ‘No, I don’t think so. Can I help you?’
‘Is there somewhere we can talk privately?’
‘Of course, would you like to come through into my office?’
The Victorian button-back and the Persian rug worked their invisible magic. She sat down and crossed her legs, relaxed. On went the coffee.
‘How can I help you?’
‘My name is Lydia Fontane. I live at The Limes in St Michael’s Road. I want you to find out who murdered my two children.’ The words hung in the air in a block. As blunt as that. I was stunned. It was like a stab in the heart. I did not have children but that did not mean I could not feel some emotion. I took out a clean sheet of paper, tried to look detached, efficient. It was not easy.
‘I know this must be difficult for you, Mrs Fontane,’ I said slowly, picking my words. ‘But I shall need to know all the circumstances. Are you able to tell me everything?’
‘Not everything, but as much as you need to know.’
‘Please, go ahead. Begin in your own time.’ I was shattered. There was within me some dormant maternal feeling for children, like that girl on the beach, toddlers exploring pools, plump babies asleep in buggies. I could imagine, almost, the complete devastation of losing children, and much worse, to
murder. The blood drained from my face. I felt sick.
‘It was ten years ago but sometimes it seems like yesterday. I had two children, Ben aged two and Izzy aged three. Izzy was short for Isidore. I know it sounds lame now, but I was busy, helping my husband with his various businesses. He had a lot of interests in the area and was overworked. We employed a nanny. She was good and reliable, we thought. We trusted her. She came with good references and the boys liked her.’
‘And her name?’
‘Gill. She was an unmarried mother with a son called Max. We took Max into the family. He was a nice boy and the right age to be a help with my children — about eight years older. We all got on really well. It seemed an ideal arrangement.’
She was beginning to look pale. It was painful for her. I did not know what to do. Double child slaughter was not something I came across every day. I wanted another lost tortoise.
‘And your husband?’
‘He died a year ago. A heart attack. I’m a widow.’
‘I’m sorry. Please go on.’ I did not know that. I didn’t remember Mr Fontane dying or reading about it in the papers. ‘And the children?’
‘My husband and I went out one evening to the Mayor’s Charity Ball. It was a white tie affair and the tickets were expensive. You know the kind of thing. I had a lovely dress, I remember, a heavy antique lace in a champagne colour.’
I murmured, not knowing that kind of thing at all.
‘It was held at the Pier Pavilion and everyone who was anyone in Latching was there. All the councillors, the aldermen, the mayor and his wife, the town clerk, our local MP and his wife. It was a glittering evening. Buffet supper and dancing to a good band. It raised a lot of money for charity.’
She paused. It was obviously hard for her to go on.
‘And you left the children with their nanny,’ I said, carefully leading her back. ‘She would give them their supper and put them to bed.’
‘Yes, that’s what she did, then she watched television and went to bed herself at some time, I suppose.’
I waited, not wanting to watch her.
‘I thought it was strange the next morning that the children did not come running in to me. That’s what they always did. They usually came into my bedroom, making lots of noise, not too old to climb into bed with me. They always used to do that, climb in beside me for a story.’
Lydia Fontane was making huge demands on herself. I could see her throat tightening, her hands clenched against her knees to stop them from trembling.
‘When I went into their bedroom, they were still in their beds. They looked so quiet. I thought at first they were ill. There was a meningitis scare about at the time, but then I realized it was worse than that. It was awful. They were both dead, quite dead. They had been suffocated.’
What could I say? Sorry was inadequate. I ought to learn some more words. I said nothing but gave Mrs Fontane time to recover. No wonder she was thin. I guess she lived on air and grief.
‘Gill, the nanny, was charged and stood trial. But she insisted on her innocence all along. She said someone must have broken in and murdered the boys. But there was no trace of a breakin. They reduced the charge to manslaughter. Then the case got thrown out of court for insufficient evidence. The police have never come up with another suspect.’
I was even more confused now. The same Gill, now Mrs Gill Frazer, was living next door to her. And the same Gill Frazer had been receiving monthly payments from Mrs Fontane for years. How could she bear to have Gill Frazer anywhere near her? It did not make any sense.
‘And you want me to find out who really killed your sons?’ I asked. ‘It’s a pretty cold trail.’
Hardly a tactful remark but it had to be said. Mrs Fontane wore a lot of rings, mostly emeralds in gold settings. The stones winked at me, semaphoring their collective value. They helped me to make up my mind. I was not proud of myself.
‘I want you to try. The police closed the case, of course. It’s no use going to them. But I can’t rest until I know what really happened to Ben and Izzy. My boys …’
Shopping list: more tissues. I’d run out, but Lydia had a beautiful lawn handkerchief, edged with fragile French lace, perfectly white. I waited until she had dried her tears. There was nothing I could do except give it my best.
I leaned forward and took her hand. Her skin felt like paper. ‘I will try, Mrs Fontane, but I can’t promise any results. It’s so long ago.’
She smiled. ‘Thank you, Miss Lacey. I feel better now, knowing that I am doing something for them. I understand that you are quite successful.’
I did not tell her it was mostly luck. I got out a client form. ‘There are a few formalities,’ I said, smoothing a page. ‘Sorry to be so businesslike.’
‘I understand. My husband was a businessman and I know everything has to be written down and signed for. Even detective work.’
I looked at my notes when Mrs Fontane left leaving a heady whiff of Joy perfume behind. I’d written reams. A visit to Mrs Gill Frazer was number one on my list, even if I was not quite sure what it would achieve. Her mind might still be unbalanced. But a breakin … it seemed unlikely and the police had found no trace.
Would DI James let me look at the police records? After all it was a long time ago. Hardly breaking any law, surely? Number two on my list was the local newspaper office. I had to read everything in print. And see Sergeant Rawlings. Now, he might remember something. My favourite sergeant might let slip a few nuggets of information.
But there was a lot more to this. Why was Gill Frazer living next door? Why was she receiving monthly payments from Lydia Fontane? There was an iceberg somewhere beneath all this information. Mrs Fontane was not telling me the whole story. But that was nothing unusual. Clients rarely told me everything. They always kept some truth close to themselves.
The local office of the Sussex Record did not have copies of newspapers going back ten years. Not surprising. They’d need far bigger premises than their present cramped accomodation. Hardly room to put in a small ad.
‘Our head office in Brighton will have them,’ said the girl at the counter. ‘If you make an appointment, they’ll let you see them.’
‘Thanks. It looks as if I’ll be making a visit to the big B in the very near future.’
Or sooner. I got into my ladybird, glad to be behind the wheel of her again. She had not been used of late. She sprang to life at a touch and I wheeled her out on to the A27 towards the great fantasy seaport of the south. I put my foot down carefully, not too fast. There were speed cameras everywhere. The speed-hogs overtook everything, mostly BMWs and Mercedes. Let them get caught and fined.
The problems began in Brighton. Where to park? I wasted fuel circling and circling, trying to save money by finding a vacant slot in a side street. Waste of time. I gave up and put her in a multistorey. I could tell she did not like it. All those strange cars around her, bigger and flashier. Still, she had spots.
I cheered up when I realized that Mrs Fontane would pay the exorbitant charge for parking. The Sussex Record office was in a new tower block. It was almost impossible to find a way into the building. It even had an escalator to the first floor and trees planted in the foyer. There was a big area given over to public searches. You gave the year and edition you wanted to the girl behind the desk and she came back with heavy wads of paper pinned to a wooden slat. She could hardly carry them.
‘These ought to be on microfilm,’ I said. ‘That’s what they do these days.’
‘In your dreams,’ she said. ‘Trees in the foyer first priority. Never mind, I’m getting muscles.’
The Fontane story made the headlines for weeks. There were photos of the boys, fresh-faced and innocent-eyed. Another photo was of a younger Gill Norton, as she was named then. Her hair was frizzed and home permed and she wore glasses. She was not looking at the camera, but looking down at the ground as if she could not face the world.
Those were not the days of TV interviews of the bereave
d parents or rows of wrapped flowers in sympathy. It was more private, more low-key but just as shocking. There were a lot of photos of the parents taken at earlier events, but not too close, nothing intrusive. A greenfly was crawling over the page. I brushed him off, gave him a chance to find his way home. Perhaps he lived on an indoor tree.
The court case made columns. The court reporter was paid on lineage. Gill Norton protested her innocence. She had been asleep all night. She knew nothing of the boys’ death until she awoke in the morning. Her story of intruders breaking-in was discounted by the police evidence. There was no sign of any breakin.
SUSSEX nanny, Gill Norton, 27, today denied in court that she had suffocated her two charges, Benjamin (two) and Isidore (three).
Her employers, Mr and Mrs Edgar Fontane, had been at the Mayor’s Charity Ball that evening, and returned late. It was morning before Mrs Lydia Fontane found her sons dead. “I am innocent,” Miss Norton protested. “I was asleep all night. No way would I hurt those two little boys.” Police evidence ruled out any possibility of a breakin. Detective Sergeant Spring said there was no sign of any breaking and entering. It was an inside job.
And then the case was thrown out of court and Gill was never proved guilty. It happens all the time.
The photocopying machine in the corner was humming. I had plenty of loose change so could copy as many pages as I wanted at ten pence a copy. It saved making notes.
I took the heavy newspapers back to the girl. ‘The Fontane murders,’ I said. ‘An awful case.’
She nodded though she was too young to have remembered it. ‘Are you writing a book?’ she went on.
‘No.’
‘We get dozens of people in here every day. Half of them are writing books. God help the libraries. Do you want anything else?’
‘No, thank you. You’ve been most helpful,’ I murmured on my way out. I said hello to the trees. Not much fun for them either.
I walked the pier, the famous Brighton pier. It was so different to our home-grown Latching pier, bigger, longer, brighter, brasher. The far end was being rebuilt after the fire. Funfairs, sideshows, jumpy castles, food and drink, fortune telling, candyfloss and rock … It was Blackpool on legs, scaled down. Not a bit like Latching pier. We had only Jack’s amusement arcade and the anglers. They were a bundle of fun on a windy day.
Hide and Die (Jordan Lacey Series Book 4) Page 12