Hide and Die (Jordan Lacey Series Book 4)

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘I’m surprised that you say you hardly know her. I thought you worked for her some years ago, as a nanny for her two children, two little boys.’

  There was the slightest movement as if a nerve jerked. But she made no sound. It was uncanny. I wondered if she had heard me.

  ‘You were their nanny, weren’t you?’

  The nod was so slight, I nearly missed it. ‘Yes, for several years. It was a long time ago. Then I left to get married.’ She heaved a big sigh as if to say she was glad to get shift of the job. ‘They were difficult children. Very spoilt. But then, Mrs Fontane was never at home. She was always out. That’s why I said I hardly knew her.’

  ‘Busy helping her husband with all his businesses.’

  ‘You could call it that.’

  I got up, straightened my T-shirt, in leaving mode. ‘Anyway, lovely to see you, Gill. You’ll soon be home.’

  ‘Where’s Max, my son?’ she said suddenly. ‘Is he at home? He hasn’t been to see me.’

  ‘Max? I don’t know. Do you want me to find out? I could call in on my way back.’

  ‘Would you, please? I’m worried. I know he’s old enough to look after himself, but not to hear anything …’ It was the first time I had seen any genuine emotion on her face.

  I could hear footsteps coming along the corridor, relentless and determined. I had about twenty seconds left and I had not got round to the monthly payments.

  ‘This place must be pretty expensive,’ I said.

  ‘It is. Fortunately my health insurance covers it.’ I walked home slowly. The ladybird needed a carwash and a repair job after her last traumatic experience. Mrs Fontane would not be paying for the spray carnations, even though I could call them expenses. I was no nearer the truth but at least Gill Frazer was recovering and might soon be home.

  Did Mrs Fontane really want to know who had killed her children? The coroner, according to the newspaper reports, ruled that both children had been smothered and the forensic evidence found pillow debris in their nostrils.

  But if it was the nanny, then why had Mrs Fontane been paying out £250 a month for the last ten years to Gill Frazer? This was giving me a headache.

  A striped green and yellow car slowed down beside me. The driver leaned over and opened the passenger door.

  ‘Want a lift anywhere, Jordan?’

  ‘I don’t want my friends to see me getting into a patrol car again,’ I said.

  ‘Stop arguing and get in.’

  It was DS Ben Evans. He smiled his usual grin, his glasses steaming up slightly. It was a hot evening. I liked the look of his profile as he drove, keeping his eyes on the road. It was definitely Clark Kent with longer hair and not quite so tall. Well, the nose and the glasses were the same.

  ‘Working on a case, Jordan?’

  ‘A double murder, only it’s ten years old.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ he said. ‘Trail gone cold.’ ‘Don’t I know it.’

  ‘Isn’t this a bit out of your usual remit? I thought you were into lost tortoises and vandalized WI stands?’

  ‘Thank you for the vote of confidence,’ I said, watching the coming speed camera. I wasn’t going to warn him. ‘My experience has broadened. I get all sorts of cases now.’

  ‘Sorry. Have I upset you? I detect a slight frostiness.’ He slowed down at the camera site.

  ‘I don’t expect the West Sussex Police Force to be trained in tact and conciliation. Catch the muggers and sling ’em in a cell. Leave me to deal with the really emotional cases.’

  ‘Now, that isn’t fair, Jordan. How much time do we have to tread softly, softly? I rarely have time to shower.’

  ‘You smell all right,’ I assured him.

  ‘And you smell wonderful,’ he said, suddenly stopping the car and unfastening his seatbelt with the speed of light. His arms were round me and he kissed me with what I can only describe as the wildest of unleashed passion. I was riveted to the seat.

  ‘You are beautiful, darling,’ he said, all husky and masculine, the slightest of new bristles brushing my chin. No one had ever said that to me before. I wanted it in writing.

  ‘I must get back to work,’ I said, coming up for air.

  ‘My shift has just finished.’

  ‘Lucky you. I don’t work shifts. My life is one long shift.’

  ‘I could change all that for you,’ he said vaguely.

  I had no idea what he meant.

  Fourteen

  This was the first time that anyone had actively cleared my mind of thoughts of DI James. Not completely cleared, but momentarily. Ben’s kisses were nice, competent, acceptable in these days of famine.

  ‘Hey,’ I said. ‘What’s all this about?’ I managed to extract myself from his arms.

  ‘Jordan,’ he groaned. ‘When were you born? In the Middle Ages? I’m crazy about you, don’t you know that?’

  I looked passed the lamp lights in the empty street and gazed, bemused, at the moon. He was crazy about me. And he was normal, straight, unmarried, unattached and completely on line. It was almost too good to be true. Doris would be over same moon, dancing a jig.

  ‘I’m very flattered,’ I murmured like some Austen heroine. ‘But you hardly know me.’

  ‘I know all I want to know,’ he said huskily. ‘You’re sweet, funny, clever, honest and above all you have the most delicious nose.’ Ben then kissed delicious nose and sent his glasses askew. He took them off impatiently and put them some place on top of the dashboard. This was obviously a sign for the kissing to begin in earnest and he gathered me into his arms as easily as if he had been doing it all his life.

  I somehow lost track of what was happening. Reality got mixed up with that beach dream I once had. ‘Can you see Venus?’ James had asked then. Nor was I sure who I was kissing. Ben was so like James in many ways, without the weariness. I closed my eyes and let the comfort wash over me. Comfort kissing. The phrase could have come from a television ad.

  His hands were not wandering, which was reassuring. Gold star, Ben. They stayed firmly round my back, occasionally massaging a shoulder or easing down my spine. My hands crept round his neck, my fingers went deep into his hair. It was crisp and wiry, feeling good to the touch.

  It was awkward, kissing in a car, especially a striped patrol car. Any moment now someone might tap on the window and say, ‘Excuse me, officer …’

  Our knees were clashing. That damned gear lever was in the way. His way. My way. Car designers have a lot to answer for. I was getting a nasty crick in the neck. My surge of passion was dwindling and all I wanted was to get indoors to a quiet life and a cup of cocoa.

  ‘I must go,’ I said weakly.

  ‘Can I come in for a few moments?’ Ben asked.

  I shook my head. ‘No … not this time.’ Then I added by way of consolation. ‘Another time.’

  He kissed me again with a fierceness that was quite alarming. Again I could feel the stubble prickles under his lower lip. ‘I can’t wait that long,’ he said.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to,’ I said, without a clue what I meant. I was saying words plucked from the air, trying to get out of the car, out of his arms, hoping not to be too brusque or unkind. I liked him and did not want to hurt him.

  The extraction complete, I wished Ben farewell in a meaningful way and escaped to my bedsits. The car sat outside in the street for a while. Perhaps he thought I might change my mind and come rushing out to drag him indoors.

  Eventually the car started up and I heard him drive away. I leaned against the door, thankful that I had got away, my body intact if not my brain. Whatever had I been doing? Kissing the man like the world was due for imminent extinction. Supposing James had seen me?

  I went cold at the thought. My blood almost froze over. It would have been the end. James would have flung up the drawbridge, armour clanging, visor down, never again to eat chips with me in Maeve’s cafe.

  I looked at my face in the mirror. It was the same face. Nothing had changed. Cheeks a bi
t flushed, eyes twinkling. I couldn’t think why he liked my nose.

  *

  Next morning I resolved to put the lapse firmly behind me. It had not been a one-night stand. More a one-evening sit. The non-kissing DI James had no right to impose restrictions on me. I am free and kissable with a delicious nose.

  Well, Ben said it was.

  My visit to Gill Frazer had not been all that helpful but there was definitely more to this mystery. I went through all the newspaper cuttings that I had photocopied from the Brighton office. Again and again the police evidence was that there had been no sign of a breakin. Gill Frazer had said that she thought she heard something, but she did not investigate. Why not? She was supposed to be looking after the two boys. She should have got up.

  No breakin, so if someone had come into the house in the night, that person had a key. And how many people had had keys? Both Mr and Mrs Fontane, obviously. Gill maybe — but she was already in the house, half asleep.

  I phoned Mrs Fontane. ‘Hello, Mrs Fontane. This is Jordan Lacey, First Class Investigations.’

  ‘Hello, Miss Lacey. Have you any news for me?’

  ‘It’s beginning to come together,’ I said with more conviction than I felt. ‘But one more little thing. Can you remember how many people had keys to The Limes in those days? I know it may be difficult to remember.’

  ‘I have an excellent memory. We had four sets. One for my husband, one for myself, one for the nanny and a spare set which was hidden in the garden, for emergencies.’

  ‘And is the key in the garden still hidden there?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ she said sharply. ‘I’ve never bothered to look. Is that all? I’m on my way out to an appointment.’

  ‘No, that’s all. Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.’

  She put the phone down.

  I got out my trusty mountain bike and cycled round towards her house at the speed of light, parking the bike in a nearby twitten, remembering to secure the chain. Bikes can be stolen even from the fisherman’s ancient twittens. I was in time.

  Mrs Fontane was indeed going out, glasses on, and she was late. Her car shot out of the garage as I arrived. It was a glossy black BMW. I ducked back. I did not want to be caught snooping.

  After her car disappeared down the road, I went up to the door and rang the bell. She might have left a cleaner indoors, some trustworthy pensioner in a flowered pinny looking for specks of dust.

  But there was no answer. I rang again to make sure. The old dear might be deaf. I wandered round the side of the house as if inspecting the damp course.

  ‘Council business,’ I would say, flashing defunct inspection card appropriated some years ago from careless council worker.

  The Fontane side of the fence was still a big garden, neatly laid out with lawns and matching flowerbeds. A stone bird table stood in the middle of the lawn, empty. No water for the sparrows to splash about in. Not such a good memory after all.

  I went round the garden lifting rockery rocks, the smaller ones first, flower pots, watering can, brushing earth off my fingers. Nothing. The garden shed was tidy, two lawn mowers parked side by side, clean tools hanging from hooks. Not a cobweb in sight. Nor any keys hanging under eaves. Closing my eyes, I tried to think myself into this woman’s mind. Where might a fastidious Fontane-type woman hide a key? She would not want to get dirt on her fingers.

  Somewhere in full sight of everyone. I looked up at the back of the house, at big bay windows with draped damask curtains. Such a substantial house, weathering the years with grace. I thought I saw a shadow move but maybe it was my imagination. The walls were hung with creeper, frail blue wisteria and a white clematis with showy waxen flowers.

  My gaze went to the bird table in the middle of the lawn. I wandered over, peering round it for a crevice, feeling under the edges of the base. I thought I felt a movement, a slight rocking. Gripping the edges of the bowl, I lifted it an inch. The stone was a ton weight. I was near to dropping the damn thing on my feet.

  A rusty old Yale key was buried in a moss covered indent. Very clever hiding place. I put the bowl down on the grass, whipped out the key, and lifted the bowl back on top of the pedestal. Then I thought I heard a car returning and fled. In a second I had scrambled over the dividing fence, a feat of dexterity beyond my normal ability.

  I was not sure why I had taken the key. It seemed useful. I was not planning to do a walkabout in Mrs Fontane’s home. Anything of interest would have been removed in the intervening years. There had been time to obliterate every trace of whatever I might be looking for. And that was vague enough.

  Now I was in the Frazer’s garden. It was as bare as the house. No one had taken any trouble with the ground. There were a few tomatoes in growbags, some geraniums in pots, sad-looking herbs. Brian or Gill? The grass was raggedly cut, the edges ignored.

  I wondered if Max was at home. I went up to the front door and set the chimes chiming and knocked on everything in sight. I shouted his name through the letterbox. There was silence. And I could see a scattering of unopened post. Nobody at home. He had probably gone to stay over with friends. Young men did that kind of thing.

  But something was wrong. The day seemed the wrong shape. It was unnerving me.

  I went slowly back to unchain my bike and cycle home. I was missing James, feeling guilty, wanting to see him to explain or not to explain. He meant nothing to me and yet he was everything. I was in a muddle. Time to eat.

  Maeve’s Cafe was full of chomping families. It was the height of the season. Lots of holidaymakers and day tourists were discovering the pleasures of the Sussex coast. Coaches were parked in orderly lines along the front. Many carried flotillas of wheelchair visitors for their annual sight of the sea.

  My favourite window seat had gone. Mavis ought to put a reserved notice on it. After all, we ate there all year round. I was a regular. We were regulars.

  James waved me over. There was room for me to eat on the end of his table. ‘Bring a chair,’ he ordered, moving his plate up.

  I carried over a spare chair. Men’s manners these days were appalling. I put it down with a clatter, not looking at him, not wanting to see why I loved him.

  ‘Look at all that fat,’ I said. ‘Sausages, eggs and chips. Swimming in fat. You’ll die young.’

  ‘Join me in an early death?’ he asked, offering a glistening sausage on his fork.

  ‘No, thank you,’ I said, squeezing myself into the space available. ‘I’d like to live to a good old age.’

  ‘You’re getting there,’ he said, dipping the sausage into a pool of tomato sauce. ‘Watch the high life, though. Several more wrinkles are threatening to appear.’

  ‘I haven’t seen you for ages,’ I commented. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘I had a day off. And I took it.’ My head went into a spin. Cells surfaced and jetted into the heart of chaos, splitting the storm into several systems.

  He had a day off. Another day off. This was unheard of laxity. There’d been that jazz afternoon off with his mother. But you didn’t phone me, I almost said. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I walked from Cissbury Ring to Chanctonbury, along the top ridge of the Downs. All the old paths. It was very peaceful and beautiful. A few other walkers around, even a guided llama walk. The animals were carrying the rucksacks. I took some sandwiches and had a picnic in a quiet spot with wonderful views. All on my own.’

  ‘I once found a flint axehead on that path,’ I said. ‘Probably Iron Age.’ I was aching with envy and disappointment. I would have liked to walk with him, would have contributed fruit and wholemeal rolls filled with three cheeses, Stilton, Brie and Cheddar, topped with honey and mustard dressing. Delicious.

  ‘Do you think my nose is delicious?’ I went on.

  James looked at me with incredulity, his blue eyes glinting like sapphires. A chip was halfway to his mouth. His teeth were strong and even. Not a filling in sight. Egg yolk dripped off the chip, back on to the plate. He did not notice
.

  ‘I know it’s getting warm, Jordan. Are you feeling the heat? Shall I get you a glass of water?’

  ‘I’m perfectly all right. It was a joke question. But it woke you up, didn’t it? Ha, ha.’

  ‘I was unaware that I was asleep,’ he said, eating the chip, then another. They were disappearing. ‘I was certainly awake a few moments ago when I came into the cafe. Of course, I may have fallen asleep since. I need stimulating company. That’s why I called you over. It could have been a mistake.’

  ‘How’s work?’

  ‘Stalemate. Can’t get anywhere. It’s frustrating. Nothing is happening about the diver, Roy Dinglewell, or the electrocuted singer. Caught the muggers, though. Couple of local baby bullies. Under age.’ Every sentence was punctuated with a chip. ‘Aren’t you eating?’

  ‘I think Mavis is too busy to serve me. Perhaps I ought to go and help her.’

  ‘Can you cook?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then keep out of the way. She knows what she’s doing. Have one of my chips to keep you going.’

  I took a succulent chip and chewed it slowly. Yes, I was hungry. Surveillance and searching gardens is exhausting. I was also emotionally exhausted. The hormones had been shaken up. And I was not used to it.

  ‘I’m trying to solve a ten-year-old mystery.’

  ‘Ah, the babes in bed murder.’

  The man knew everything. I wondered if he knew about DS Ben Evans and me in the patrol car. Maybe the good sergeant had gone into the station bragging about a new conquest. I’d skin him alive if he had. I was not gossip fodder.

  ‘They never found out who did it,’ James went on. ‘Weird case. Not a sign of anything. Not a clue. Nothing. The house was as clean as a pin. Even the carpets had been vacuumed.’

  ‘You don’t think the nanny did it then?’

  ‘No, too convenient. I think she was asleep when it happened. She said she was and stuck to her story.’

  It seemed a good moment to tell him. ‘That nanny you’re talking about, the nanny to the Fontane children … Do you know where she is now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I do. She’s a patient in The Laurels Nursing Home. She’s Mrs Gill Frazer, wife of the electrocuted Brian Frazer, he of the talented singing fame. Now that’s woken you up, hasn’t it?’