Hide and Die (Jordan Lacey Series Book 4)

by Stella Whitelaw

  Twin beds. I could move some piece of furniture and put it between the beds. Like the wardrobe.

  ‘Have you got a passport? Is it up to date?’

  Here was my chance to lie my way out of the situation. No passport, out of date, mislaid, confiscated by the police, eaten by the dog. Except I don’t have a dog. Could I blame it on the bull mastiff?

  ‘Yes, I have a valid passport.’ I’d had to get a passport in a hurry when my parents were killed in France. The Passport Office had pulled out all the stops and issued one in hours. It was one of the many kind things people did for me then. I had not used it since.

  ‘Shall I book the Cyprus holiday when I get back to the station?’

  I remembered James’ face that morning and the stark disapproval on it. But I could not understand why. I had done nothing wrong.

  ‘Why not? Go ahead, Ben. Book it.’

  ‘Wonderful, Jordan.’ He was beaming, ear to ear. How could I hurt this nice, trusting man? It was only for ten days. I’d survive.

  *

  A tall, gangling youth opened the door of Lydia Fontane’s house. He had a round, amiable face and pale gingerish hair gelled into spikes. He was wearing the uniform of youth — baggy trousers and even baggier sloganed T-shirt. It was a rock band shirt.

  ‘Hi,’ he said.

  ‘Hello. Is Mrs Fontane at home?’

  ‘Nope. She’s gone out.’

  ‘Do you know when she’ll be back?

  ‘Nope. Do you want to come in and wait?’ He smiled at me and I smiled back. ‘I’m Max.’

  This was a young, trusting ten-year-old living inside a twenty-one-year-old body. Nothing visible, just the feeling of innocence and unworldliness. He shuffled backwards, his trousers in folds over his unlaced trainers.

  ‘Come in. You can wait in the kitchen. Would you like some tea? I can make tea.’

  He seemed eager to show off his skill. He was already filling the kettle.

  ‘That would be nice,’ I said, sitting on a chrome high stool at a formica counter. It was an Ideal Home kitchen; everything carefully planned and coordinated. A dream in cream and ceramics.

  Max got out two mugs and a tin of biscuits.

  ‘I’m going to have a biscuit. ‘I’m allowed to,’ he said. ‘Do you want one?’

  ‘Lovely, thank you.’ I took a ginger crunch and I don’t like ginger biscuits. Perhaps he would not mind if I dunked.

  ‘This is my favourite,’ said Max, taking a chocolate finger and sucking the chocolate off. ‘You can have one if you like.’

  ‘This is fine,’ I said, nibbling.

  He made the tea competently although it was too strong for my liking. I added some extra milk.

  ‘Are you at college or working?’ I asked.

  ‘I go to a special crafts college,’ he said happily. ‘Because I’m a bit slow at learning. The teachers are nice.’

  It was easy to get Max talking about his college. It was nearby and he could walk there. He prattled on about what he was learning. He had been making clown faces to go on Tshirts. He liked doing that and the teacher gave him a highly commended mark.

  ‘That’s very good,’ I said.

  ‘Do you want to see one?’ he asked eagerly.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Max rushed out of the kitchen, almost tripping over his laces. I took the opportunity of a quick survey of the kitchen, looking at the engagements calendar hanging on the wall, looking in the letters rack, opening a few drawers and rifling through the contents.

  The perfect guest.

  A clutch of unpaid bills were in my hand when Max returned but he did not seem to notice. He was wearing his clown T-shirt. The clown was bold and brassy with a big red nose and arched eyebrows. It could sell well in souvenir shops. Perhaps he had a career ahead of him as a designer.

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ I said, meaning it.

  ‘Would you like one? I can print them off at school.’

  ‘No, really. But thank you, Max. That’s a kind thought but perhaps I’m too old to wear a clown T-shirt.’

  He stared at me and then grinned, twisting the hem. ‘You’re not too old at all. You’re just the right age. I’ll print one for you.’

  This child-boy did not know what he had said or what it did to me. I could have kissed him except that I did not want to kiss a boy. There were lots of other people, mostly men, I would rather have kissed. But he had stirred something frail inside of me that had been badly hurt. Of course I was just the right age. I was the right age for anything. There were years ahead of me and I was going to use every one of them.

  ‘Max, thank you,’ I said. ‘I’ve had a lovely time talking to you. Thank you for the tea and biscuit. But I must go now. I’ve got lots to do.’

  ‘I’ve got lots to do, too. I do lots of things for Mrs Fontane. You will come again, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll come again.’

  ‘It’s been nice having someone to talk to. I like you.’

  ‘I’ll see you soon.’

  He was pushing up his sleeves, intending to wash up the mugs. His upper arms were covered in cuts, half healed, but some of them were still raw and weeping. They were self-inflicted. Max was a boy who mutilated himself. That bloodied shirt in the bin had belonged to him.

  I walked down the leafy driveway, out on to the street, quickening my step, deeply distressed by what I had discovered about Max. Nor did I want to be caught near the house. The bills were still clutched in my hand. I hoped they would bear fruit. Pineapple or melon. It was immaterial.

  The son, Max, was a revelation. His parents had not been able to cope with him, I suppose. Brian had gone off into some feminine dreamland. Gill had denied everything. Only Mrs Fontane had seemed to be able to accept him for the child that he was. And she had given him a home.

  The air hung like a viperous cloud. It was difficult to breath. Something was going wrong with the climate in West Sussex. But no one had any idea or even noticed. The beach was crowded with people, sunbathing, picnicking, paddling, building sandcastles, fishing, canoeing, surfing and windsurfing. A normal summer’s day at Latching when the tide is out.

  I took off my trainers, tied the laces together and began to walk along the beach, far out towards the shallows. The water was cool and refreshing to my feet. The stones had to be avoided. The small, sharp ones could be painful. Some patches needed careful negotiation. Little wavelets are so pretty and gentle. They wash around your feet in baby ripples, kissing your toes, stroking your ankles. It’s easy to get carried away.

  Something made me look up. A sudden absence of birds. The seagulls are usually everywhere, squabbling on the sand over the dead fish heads. But not now. There was not a bird to be seen. They had vanished.

  Far out to sea, on the horizon, was a thin dark line. It seemed to be moving, coming towards Latching. I watched it for some moments. It was definitely moving nearer. Odd.

  The weather was changing. The sky had gone a peculiar pewter colour and it was starting to rain. I did not know what was coming or what to do. But some primeval sense told me to get away as fast as I could.

  So I ran across the sand towards the shore, but not nearly fast enough.

  As I ran, the sharp stones cutting my feet, I suddenly knew why James had been in such a bad mood this morning. He had been jealous. My James had been stricken by the green-eyed monster called Jealousy.

  But even this knowledge was washed to the corners of my mind. Something ominous was happening. Out at sea. And I did not like it.

  Twenty

  The tidal wave hit Latching at 2.31 p.m. in the afternoon. A gale of wind whipped up sand and paper. People ran screaming from the beach. Swimmers tried to get out of the sea but were engulfed by the huge wave that towered over the sloping shingle.

  The sky had gone a peculiar dark colour and it began to rain, droplets as big as coins fell from the clouds. The sunbathers were running in all directions, leaving their clothes and possessions on the beach. The wal
l of water was rushing past the high tide mark and surging across the promenade and on to the road.

  ‘It’s a freak,’ I gasped, stopping at the top to stare.

  Tidal waves don’t happen in Latching. But this was happening. And I was going to be submerged if I didn’t run too.

  The force of the wave had swept swimmers out to sea, overturning canoes and windsurfers. Some were floundering, helplessly. Others, the experienced surfers, were clinging to their boards waiting for the atrocious weather to subside.

  It surged over everything in its path: deckchairs, bikes, pushchairs, litter bins, even threatening the palm trees that the council had newly planted along the front. It spread down roads, going inland, flooding shops and offices.

  I was knee-deep in water, flung against a wall, holding on to a railing so that I would not fall over. It was too much like the watermill for comfort. I could hear crashing glass as the wave hit the windows of shops and cars. A car slewed across the road, narrowly missing people who were running. Other cars had stopped, their engines flooded, passengers staring in fright out of the windows.

  Then I saw the canoe. It was upturned and someone was clinging to the hull. It was being washed out to sea in the deep trough behind the wave. I heard a faint cry for help, hardly audible in the noise of the wave smashing into the town.

  I waded through the water and was soon out of my depth. I struck out towards the canoe. There was no way I could let the man drown in front of me. I’d been swimming before I could walk, an inherited trait. The trick was not to get tired and not to swallow water. A steady crawl took me near the canoe, but already I could feel a downwards sucking pressure from the wave’s energy.

  Now I could see why the man was in trouble. He had a gash on his head which was bleeding profusely. He was too weak to either right the canoe or climb in. His limpet hold on the hull was a mechanical reflex.

  And, dammit, in spite of the bloodied hair and face screwed up in pain, I knew the man.

  A plank of tarred wood floated past. A fisherman’s runner. I grabbed it and steered it towards the canoeist.

  ‘Grab this,’ I yelled. ‘Hold on.’

  He was conscious enough to understand and took hold of the other end unsteadily. In that second I leaned over the canoe, pulling on the far edge so that it righted in the sea. Water cascaded out nearly drowning the canoeist again. He had the sense to grasp on to the near side but was unable to heave himself into the canoe.

  I swam round to the other side so his weight would steady the canoe as I climbed in. I practically fell into the vessel. It had a lot of water in the bottom and would sink with my weight if I didn’t bail and fast. But what with?

  My trainers. Useful again. I remembered when I had burned a pair in the cinema to attract attention. I go through trainers and mobiles so fast I ought to get a discount.

  Two-handed, or was it two-footed, bailing got rid of a lot of the water. But I could see the man would soon be slipping away from sheer exhaustion. I had to haul him into the canoe. I chose a moment when a following ridge of water lifted him high enough.

  The canoe shook with the impact and threatened to capsize again but I managed to steady it with frantic side to side weight replacement.

  We were quite far from the shore. No one would see one small canoe in the rainy mist. It was still chucking it down but beginning to ease off. The tidal wave had disappeared inland, causing thousands of pounds worth of damage to the town.

  Then the rain stopped, just as suddenly, and the sun came out. It was as if nothing had happened. The sky was a pale washed-out blue, exhausted by its own turbulence. Sparkles danced on the water, hopping about like mischievous water elves.

  The man stirred in the light.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ he groaned.

  ‘A tidal wave,’ I said. ‘A freak wave. I read somewhere that they are caused by one wave sucking in energy from its neighbours and mutating into a monstrous rogue wave.’

  ‘Ouch, some mutation … My head hurts.’

  ‘You got hit by something. It’s bleeding.’ I took off my T-shirt and ripped off a wide bit of hem. It made a reasonable length of bandage and I practised my first-aid skills on his head, the blonde hair sticky with blood.

  Then I put what was left of the T-shirt back on. I could hardly paddle back to shore in just a size 34B bra.

  Paddle. It would have to be my trainers again. But his were bigger. I took his size tens off the unprotesting man and started to polish up my paddling technique. I was pretty rusty. We were making no headway at all. The pier looked even further away. Had we somehow entered a parallel universe?

  ‘Do you feel strong enough to help me with the paddling?’ I asked hopefully. ‘We’ve got to get you to the shore.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ he said, struggling to sit up. We took one side each and tried to get some coordination going. Even injured, he was stronger than I was. But we were still being washed further and further out to sea. It was frightening.

  ‘Do I know you?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But I certainly know you. You’re Roy Dinglewell and you are supposed to be dead.’

  He managed a smile. ‘Yes, I’m Roy Dinglewell.’

  ‘There were a lot out to get that boy, mark my words.’ Mavis had said when the diver’s body had been found. But here he was now, bloodied but alive, looking better by the minute despite the circumstances.

  His hair had been roughly bleached and he’d grown a wispy moustache and beard.

  Otherwise he was the same strapping Roy Dinglewell I had glimpsed on the beach, hauling in his fishing boat, Bluebell.

  ‘So I’m not dead,’ he said. ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘People have been grieving.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mavis, for one.’

  ‘Mavis who?’

  I left that one to simmer. ‘Your family for instance.’

  ‘They knew. It’s no secret from them. I suppose I owe you some sort of explanation since you’ve saved my life.’ He stopped and looked at the stretch of sea between us and the shore. He both wanted to talk about it and not talk about it. ‘You are saving my life, aren’t you?’

  ‘Keep paddling,’ I said. ‘There’s been a freak tidal wave. I know no more than that. The sea has got to settle down soon. Latching is not an unnatural phenomenon zone.’

  ‘But can I trust you?’

  ‘You’ve no option, Roy. Now tell me why there’s a diver in the morgue wearing a toe tag that says Roy Dinglewell.’

  It was easy to feel sorry for him. He wanted a drink desperately. I wanted a drink. No water bottles floated by.

  Roy cleared his throat, searching for saliva. ‘You know I fish. You know I dive. Diving in wrecks is my hobby.’

  ‘Keep paddling.’

  ‘I was wreck diving. There are so many wrecks in the English channel, it’s like a car dump under all that water. I got suspicious about what was going on. It wasn’t natural what I saw. Then it dawned on me that some foreign lot were smuggling drugs into the country, using the wrecks as a halfway point. They were leaving bags of the stuff tied to wrecks, to be picked up later, by another lot, when it was quiet and clear.’

  ‘Then they found out that you had found out?’ I was streets ahead of him.

  ‘Yeah. I got threats. Lots of threats, nasty ones from this drugs ring. Like being carved up if I interfered. No one threatens a Dinglewell.’

  The sea was misty now, a haze on the horizon. There was no sign of any other vessel. Everything had disappeared. No colour in the sky, only this washed-out blue, drained of all energy. I wondered if this was actually me, in a canoe, paddling with a trainer. I could have missed myself on the way.

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘I was out diving and I found this poor chap who’d been caught in some dredging machinery. It might have been an accident or something more sinister. I don’t know. I saw a chance to disappear, for a while, anyways. I ripped the name tag off his wetsu
it and exchanged neck tag chains. He’s wearing mine now. I threw his in a bin. It was some foreign name.’

  ‘He’d been in the water a while?’

  ‘Not that long but I know what water does to a face, bloats it out, doesn’t it? In twenty-four hours he would be unrecognizable. What do they call it?’

  ‘Adipocere. It’s because the body reacts with the water, developing a waxy substance. The fatty tissues of the body become a sort of soap. Do you mind if we don’t talk about it? I am still getting over an enforced stay in hospital.’

  ‘So they fished the body out. My name tag on a chain round his neck. Same height, weight, similar age group. They thought it was me. My family identified the body as me. They shut their eyes and said yes, sir, that’s poor Roy, though I’d managed to get word to them first. So everyone got happy. I was happy because I was not dead. My family were happy because I was not dead. The druggy lot were happy because they thought I was dead.’

  ‘And what next?’

  ‘I’m gonna lie low for a while, keep out of sight. Then when everyone has forgotten all about it, I’ll resurface, say it was all a mistake, my DNA clone. Been loafing around the good life in South America or somewhere. By that time, the drug ring may have got caught by Interpol or whoever and I’ll be safe.’

  I did not tell him what DI James had hinted about a cross-Channel drugs connection. It was not much anyway. But it seemed that West Sussex were not stupid and knew what was going on and were on their track.

  Roy suddenly looked straight at me, despite all the blood over his face and the sodden bandage. ‘You won’t say anything, will you?’

  ‘Cross my heart. I’m more concerned about getting back to shore. Your private life is your private life. I have already forgotten what you told me. Never heard a word. The waves are far too noisy.’

  ‘There’s a strong south-pulling current,’ he said, seawise.

  ‘What are we going to do? I don’t feel in the mood for tax-free shopping in a French supermarket. We need help.’

  I was sitting on something hard. It stuck into my bottom. It was Jack’s mobile. The one he had thrust on me in case of an emergency. But water cascaded out of it.

  ‘Mine is in the locker,’ said Roy. ‘It’s in a waterproof Aquapac.’