Hide and Die (Jordan Lacey Series Book 4)

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘You’re looking much better,’ he said. ‘Do you feel well enough to cope with a move?’

  ‘You mean you want the bed?’

  ‘We are short of beds. I’ll give you a course of antibiotics to take. Remember to finish the course. The results of your blood tests will be back tomorrow.’

  ‘I think I’ll get better quicker out of here. I don’t want to catch any germs.’

  The doctor detached the drip. ‘Drink plenty of water,’ he said cheerfully.

  It took twenty minutes to find my clothes. They were in a different locker. Jack was getting hot under the collar but still in charge. He was like a volcano about to explode.

  ‘You ought to have private health care,’ he growled. ‘Ain’t you in BUPA?’

  ‘On what I earn?’ I said, pulling my clothes over the paper hospital nightgown. ‘I can barely afford a packet of aspirins.’

  ‘You’d have everything you want if you’d marry me,’ he went on, holding my good arm at the elbow. I actually needed his support. It was fine getting out of hospital, but I realized I was not well. It was easier to pretend I had not heard him.

  His blue Jaguar was parked in the visitors’ bay. It unlocked automatically. Jack opened the passenger door and lowered me into the seat. Then he leaned over, too near for comfort, and did up the belt.

  ‘We’ll get you looked after,’ he said, sliding in the other side of me. He drove carefully, not too fast for once. He was probably worried that I might be sick all over his beautiful car.

  ‘I’ll be all right at home,’ I said, closing my eyes, wishing the world wasn’t spinning.

  The car stopped and I opened my eyes. We were in a road that had big houses and trees. ‘I don’t live here,’ I said.

  ‘Right on the ball. Jordan, now I don’t want no arguing,’ said Jack. ‘You’re going to stay here and be looked after properly. I’m paying. Then if you’re all right temorrer, OK, you can go home.’

  For a blind moment of panic, I thought he had brought me to his home, that he lived in one of these expensive houses and had satin sheets on a king-sized bed. Nothing would have surprised me about Jack. But then I recognized one of the houses and the beech trees. This was Lansfold Avenue and we had stopped outside the newly converted nursing home called The Laurels. He’d brought me to the nursing home where Gill Frazer was recuperating in room six. We were going to be under the same roof.

  It was the same reception nurse. She did not seem to recognize me, pale and wan model. I was taken to a small comfortable bedroom overlooking the back lawn, similar to Gill’s. In no time, they had filled in a chart, made notes, taken my prescription for antibiotics off me, and tucked me into bed. They tut-tutted at the hospital regulation paper gown and found me a pretty cotton one covered in forget-me-nots.

  ‘I have a friend staying here,’ I said, sinking back on to the pillow. ‘Gill Frazer.’

  ‘Mrs Frazer isn’t allowed any visitors,’ said the nurse. ‘You have a good sleep. I’ll look in with a tray of tea in about an hour.’

  ‘How lovely,’ I said. Tea served on a tray. What luxury.

  ‘There you are, my girl,’ said Jack, putting his head round the door. ‘I’m off now. Business to look after. Are you all right? You look really comfortable.’

  ‘I am. Thank you for everything.’

  ‘I might slip in and join you after dark,’ he said cheekily.

  ‘I’m not allowed visitors,’ I said. I meant to thank him again but he had already gone. I could always pop round to the arcade when I was better. I did owe him now.

  When I awoke I really did feel a lot better. It was such a luxury, waiting in bed for my tray of tea. Might as well enjoy being pampered. But I decided that I would not recover too soon. I needed to see Gill Frazer again before I signed myself out. The dressing on my wound did not feel so hot. Perhaps the antibiotics were kicking in. Would DI James charge the Gibsons with owning a dangerous dog? Was he checking the electric toothbrushes? And I needed to see Phil Cannon again.

  Hey, slow down … I told myself. You are ill. Enjoy this rare moment of being cosseted.

  The door opened and the nurse came in with a tray. She smiled cheerfully. ‘How are you feeling, Miss Lacey?’

  I pretended to have just woken up, did a yawn and stretch. ‘Lovely sleep,’ I said.

  ‘You sound better. Here’s some tea and I’ve brought scones and jam. You may not have had any lunch.’

  ‘No lunch. No breakfast either.’ I managed to sit up and she helped me, plumping pillows. No one had ever plumped pillows for me before. I could get used to this treatment.

  ‘The doctor will be along to see you soon,’ she said. ‘I’ll bring you some fresh water. You need to drink a lot.’

  She poured out the tea. The cup and saucer were rose patterned. She added milk from a small jug. It was so civilized. I nearly swooned with enjoyment. Is this what marrying Jack would mean? Milk in a jug? But I doubted it. Jack was one of the roughest characters in Latching. He might drive a big flashy car but I bet he poured milk straight from the bottle.

  She left me to snack on scones and tea. I was ravenous and the light-headed feeling had gone. My mind felt normal and in thinking mode. This was a good time to re-think my cases.

  1. Following Brian Frazer was over. Invoice on hold. Who electrocuted this poor man/Shirley Bassey clone was not my business. Yet I felt I ought to know. No one could stop me digging deeper.

  2. Phil Cannon had to get a move on with a DNA test. Nesta had hinted that she and Dwain’s father were still an item, but I’d never seen him visiting their home, coming and going as if he lived there.

  3. Lydia Fontane’s trail was ancient dry. Although I felt immensely sorry for her, what could I do? Her two sons were murdered ten years ago and the police had closed the case. Or had they? DI James might still be working on it. He would not tell me.

  He’d never tell me anything. He had left home without taking any possessions, had to start from scratch. He had encased his feelings in cement. Something much worse must have happened.

  The bedroom was en suite so there was no excuse for wandering along the corridor, seeking a bathroom. I could pretend to be looking for a book. We blue-stockinged academics, never happy without the written word.

  I did a little light-headed walking along the corridor, noting that Gill Frazer’s room was two doors down. Did she still eat in her room or was she promoted to the dining room? They had built a glass conservatory on to the back of the house and I could see it was furnished with small tables and each was laid for a meal.

  On hearing footsteps I scuttled back to my room and flung myself into bed. Only just in time. They were coming into my room.

  ‘Here’s Dr Marshall,’ said the nurse.

  ‘I’ve seen you before,’ I said.

  It was the same young doctor from the hospital, the one who had so swiftly signed me out. He was moonlighting. Two jobs, one in the private sector and one in the NHS.

  ‘Ah, yes, maybe,’ he said.

  ‘Perhaps I’m mistaken,’ I fluttered feverishly, a little confusion does no harm.

  ‘And how are you feeling, Miss Lacey,’ he said, looking at my chart. Then he took my pulse, felt my forehead, sat down and looked at me. ‘You’re looking a lot better.’

  How did he know if he had not seen me before? No problem, doc. I went along with the charade.

  ‘I’m still feeling hot,’ I said. ‘And this is hot.’ I touched the dressing.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he repeated. ‘Too soon yet for a complete recovery. I think another twenty-four hours should see a big improvement. Just rest and drink plenty.’

  ‘I will,’ I said. ‘Could you send up some wine? Red, Chilean or Australian Shiraz. You could phone Miguel’s Mexican. They do an excellent Chilean.’

  He laughed. The nurse laughed. Red wine in a nursing home. ‘We’ll see what we can do,’ he said on his way out.

  Another twenty-four hours and a big bill for Jack. No way, I was out of h
ere tomorrow morning, straight after breakfast. This was more than five-star treatment. It was twenty-five star, shut your eyes when you pay the bill treatment.

  Things quietened down in the nursing home after the doctor’s round. I could feel the settling. Some people slept early after supper in their rooms. Supper came to me on a tray with pretty china. Salmon quiche and a green salad. Sliced banana and yogurt. A cup of Horlicks. But it was way too early for me.

  About nine o’clock, I started to creep around. Gill Frazer was not in her room. It felt strange to be standing there in her empty bedroom. Her personality was not there either. She was passing through in some different state, in or out of her mind.

  Then I saw the photos by her bedside. I went over and looked at them. Two photos, but in one frame, were of three children. Three? Then it dawned on me who they were. The oldest boy was Max, her own son, who was at present on walkabout somewhere in Latching. The other two were very small boys.

  Of course I knew. They were Lydia Fontane’s two sons. The sons that they said she had murdered. Gill Frazer had their photos beside her bed.

  The door opened. Gill came in, wrapped in her camel dressing gown, her hair awry. She did not seem surprised.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she said.

  ‘I’m looking at your photographs,’ I said. ‘These are Mrs Fontane’s two sons, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘You were charged with killing them.’

  ‘I didn’t kill them,’ said Gill. She went over to the flask and poured herself a glass of iced water.

  ‘Why are their photos beside your bed?’

  She looked at me, kind of astonished.

  ‘Because I knew them,’ she said. ‘Leave me alone. It’s none of your business. Get out, please. You’re not allowed in here. I’ll ring for the nurse if you don’t go.’

  Seventeen

  I could get nothing more out of Gill Frazer. She went into a clam-like state. Shutters came down over her eyes like the prize-winning arc bridge over the Tyne. It was difficult to understand but then she was disturbed and ill.

  ‘So who did kill them?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ she said. She suddenly becoming intent in wiping thick night cream over her face.

  ‘The two boys. Lydia Fontane’s children. Don’t you remember? You were their nanny and they were suffocated. You were asleep in the house at the time.’

  ‘I don’t remember anything about it,’ she said. ‘Would you mind leaving? I should like to go to bed. I’m very tired.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry to have kept you up. Sleep well, Mrs Frazer, with your dreams … or are they nightmares?’

  She shot me a look that was pure sanity itself. In a flash I knew that she knew what she was doing. This current disability was another façade. There was nothing wrong with her.

  I meandered back to my room, via an empty TV room, finished up what was left of my salad supper and pondered on the Fontane case. Gill Frazer was not that ill. It was first-class acting on her part. I wondered how long she could keep up the role. She was some actress. She even knew her words.

  A nurse came in with my antibiotic. I’d not seen her before. All their staff seemed to be part-time. She was new, dewy-eyed, fresh-faced and straight from a decent night’s sleep.

  ‘Hello, Miss Lacey,’ she said brightly.

  ‘Hi, there.’ I was feeling with it, streetwise, fever receding. The nasty dog wound was starting to heal even though my legs were aching. Bonzo’s germs could not withstand modern medication.

  ‘Please take your antibiotic.’

  ‘Of course.’

  I took the pill with some water, settled into bed, pulled up the duvet. There was not much else I remembered. It was as if I cut all ties to the world. A sort of instant letting go.

  I was not aware of when DI James came into my room. He was sitting by my beside when I surfaced from a washed web of mixed-up clogging dreams. I tried to hang on to them but they went, fragmented and elusive. It was so strange, finding him there. He was dark and concerned, yet the lines on his face were not of my making. Something else had etched a new concern.

  And the room looked strange, different somehow. There were blinds at the windows instead of curtains. I could swear there had been summery flowered curtains before, blowing in the summer breeze from an open window. I tried to absorb the sense of the room but it escaped me.

  ‘I was wondering when you were going to wake up,’ he said. ‘Jordan, Jordan, wake up. Come on, girl.’

  I tried to put words into my mouth but they would not form. My tongue was swollen and coated. Puzzlement came into my eyes. I could not speak properly. A sudden panic swept through my body as though I could not feel anything. I could be sweating but I was not really sure. It was a different bed, narrower. Where was I? What had happened?

  James was holding my hand and slapping the back of it, quite smartly. I could hear the slap. ‘Don’t go away again, Jordan. Hey, hey, Jordan, wake up. Stay with me. Hold on.’

  There was an urgency in his voice. That much got through to me. But the rest was frightening. I tried to curl my fingers round his but they would not respond. My hand was in his and I could do nothing more about it. I could not seem to move anything with ease. I tried my hands, my feet. It was terrifying. At least I was breathing but for how much longer? There was nothing wrong with my mind. The thoughts were razor sharp.

  I was on a saline drip again. That much I could see clearly.

  ‘Listen to me, Jordan. Can you hear me? Can you nod? No, not into nodding. Now, don’t worry, don’t panic. Jordan, can you blink? That’s it, girl. Blink at me. Lots of blinks. Terrific with blinking.’

  I could blink. I was blinking like mad. It seemed to be the only thing I could do. And cry. Tears were filling my eyes and one trickled down my cheek. James leaned forward and wiped it away.

  ‘Don’t cry, Jordan. We’ll get you better. You are back in Latching hospital. I brought you back here last night. Did they give you any medication at the nursing home? Blink once for yes, twice for no.’

  I blinked once. The nurse had given me an antibiotic. But I could not tell him that. What was the matter with me? Last night? My eyes pleaded with James for some sort of explanation.

  ‘Was it a pill?’

  Blink.

  ‘How many pills?’

  How many? I couldn’t remember. Did the doctor give me one when he came to see me? How could I signal: I don’t know. I blinked once, paused and then blinked again.

  ‘Maybe two … is that what you are saying, Jordan?’

  Blink.

  ‘You’ve been given some kind of drug or poison, Jordan. We are not sure what it is yet but the results of the blood test will be back soon. Then we’ll know.’

  Drug? What kind of drug? A street drug? Ecstasy? Could I have died? Was Jack involved in this? No, no way, Jack would never harm me. If he was involved then he had been duped into it. I knew Jack was innocent.

  ‘I want to find out who moved you from the hospital to the nursing home. Did you know the person?’

  Blink.

  ‘A man?’

  Blink. I sensed James settling back with resignation. This was going to be a slow business. A dark stubble was already growing. He was patting my hand casually now. The slapping had stopped.

  ‘How am I going to scale down your male checklist to one name, Jordan? Impossible. You probably have a dozen boyfriends that I know nothing about. I don’t know where to start. There must be a short cut. I can hardly go through the Latching phone directory.’

  I tried to help him but I did not know how. I started to blink rapidly, hoping to get my meaning over to James.

  ‘Right, I think I’ve got it, Jordan. You are going to blink the alphabet, yes?’

  Blink. Thank goodness he understood.

  ‘OK, take it slowly. It’s a long time since I was at school.’

  I blinked ten times. I could still coun
t.

  ‘J.’

  Blink.

  ‘A.’

  Three blinks.

  ‘C. JAC. Is it Jack? Is he called Jack?’

  Blink.

  ‘Well done, Jordan. You’re a star. Jack, whoever he is, moved you to the nursing home. Am I right? And is this Jack a boyfriend?’

  Was he a boyfriend? I didn’t know what to call him. Jack thought he was, hoped he was, but he wasn’t. I shook my head.

  I was sure I did it, a sort of off-balance sideways movement. Had James seen me? Yes, he had and his response was electrifying.

  James leaped up and grabbed me. ‘You shook your head! She’s moving. Jordan’s moving. Hold on, I’ve got to go and get the doctor. Keep moving, baby.’

  He was out of the door. Now I realized I was in a private side room at Latching hospital. It was all a mystery to me how I got there but I was moving my head. It was sheer pleasure. We take everything for granted and now I knew how precious something as simple as movement can be. I prayed that it was all coming back to me. I wanted to walk the pier, walk the beach, feel the wind and the rain, get back to being a human being.

  I lay in the hospital bed, reliving the utter terror of the last hour. And James had been there, holding my hand, something to remember but I was not sure if it was the kind of embrace I’d want to remember. I did not like being left alone in the room. I was scared and tried to call out.

  ‘James,’ I murmured. There was some foreign voice coming from deep down inside of me. My vocal chords were returning but reluctantly.

  The fear in me was more than I had ever known in a physical situation. This was me, in a bed, with little control over my body, except the tiniest movement of my head. I could not wash my face, brush my hair, clean my teeth. I was inside a white shell. Trapped.

  James came back with a doctor, another doctor. Not the young one who had let me leave Latching hospital, only to turn up later at the nursing home. The moonlighting doctor, augmenting his NHS salaries. What was his name? Dr Marshall.

  ‘This is good news,’ said the doctor, taking my pulse, turning up my eyelids. He was a heavyweight type of doctor, buttons straining on his jacket. ‘The sight seems good. Can you see me, Miss Lacey? Can you nod?’