Hide and Die (Jordan Lacey Series Book 4)

by Stella Whitelaw

  *

  My packing took all of ten minutes. I put my plants in the bath with three inches of water, locked up my bedsits, locked up my shop and said goodbye to Doris.

  ‘Cheer up, Jordan,’ she said. ‘It’s only a holiday, not till death do us part. Go and enjoy yourself. Have fun while you’re young.’

  ‘Yes, Doris,’ I said dutifully. ‘I’ve got a good book.’ I tapped Tolstoy’s War and Peace on the cover. ‘It’s about time I read it.’

  ‘You won’t have time to read,’ she warned cheerfully.

  ‘Be back next week,’ I said. ‘Bye.’

  ‘Got your burn lotion?’

  I nodded. ‘Got my burn lotion.’

  I drove the ladybird towards Gatwick on the A24; circled the long-stay car park to find out what I had to do that night in the semi-dark. I hoped she wouldn’t mind being left with all those strange cars. At least the airport had an international flavour and there were dense trees on the fringe. Not too alarming.

  The Watermill Jazz Club was held in a local social club. Upholstered armchairs were set out in rows. Very civilized. I usually sat on the floor or on stairs. The band were setting up their equipment, the sound man busy with mikes and amplification. Three rows of seats and stands were placed for the musicians. It was going to be a big band. A tremor of excitement hit me for the first time that evening.

  Don Weller was wandering about in a pink shirt, checking everything, his black beret firmly on his head. Did he ever take it off?

  Four trumpets, five saxes, four trombones, piano, double bass, drums and Don Weller himself. My trumpeter was standing in the back row. He spotted me, sitting in a comfortable chair, nursing an orange juice.

  There was the merest wink. Perhaps he liked my baker’s boy cap and off-the shoulder cotton peasant blouse. Weird with jeans but it worked on some fashion level. No one else would have seen the wink. But he knew I was there and that was enough. The hall began to fill up.

  It was a hot evening and all the windows were open. The music would pulverize the air for miles. They began to play and the sudden surge of sound was electrifying. I almost shot out of my seat. My spine shivered in expectation.

  This was improvised jazz of the highest quality. The soloists were seamless and impassioned. My trumpeter was producing a cacophony of sounds that I had never heard before, spurred on by the brilliance of the other musicians. Alan Barnes was superb.

  A pale-faced woman was standing near the back. She looked fragile but obviously loved modern jazz so much, she was prepared to stand for the whole show. During the clapping, I beckoned her over and gave her my seat. She shot me a smile of pure gratitude.

  I went and stood at the side of the hall, my bottom hitched up on the windowsill, keeping the brass row at the back in view. I didn’t have a seat now but at least I had shelf space for my glass. That I kept slipping off the sill was a minor disadvantage.

  But the titles of the pieces were new to me.

  ‘Fruit’? ‘Bongate Song’? ‘Bearded Gravy’? ‘It’? Yes, it was a title. I didn’t know these numbers. ‘High Force’ was named after a waterfall in Cumbria; the sound was almost out of control, going faster than the beat. It was great and powerful.

  Because the music was hard to follow, I had to concentrate. It was not like the standards and classics in which it is easy to get floated away. The kind of music that he always played at the Bear and Bait. Then the trumpeter began to play ‘The Man with The Horn’, and I melted with pleasure. My mind went off into the land of cerebral processing where the magical sounds of that piece were retrieved from my memory and I relived the first time I had ever heard him play.

  The Bear and Bait.

  Latching!

  Ben … DS Ben Evans.

  I came down to earth with a dynamic shock and the shock wasn’t the music. I was supposed to be at Gatwick airport. Now. The clock on the wall behind me was very bad news. It was 9.25. I had about an hour in which to drive to Gatwick, park in the long stay, bus in, find Ben, check in and board the plane to Cyprus. They would be boarding soon. I’d never make it in an hour without breaking my neck in several places.

  I did not want to break my neck.

  I slipped out of the hall and stood in the grounds to think calmly. It was still light and the sky was a glorious colour but I had no time to admire it. There was a phone number on the ticket for enquiries. I keyed in the number. I was praying for a serious flight delay. But the flight was on time, the operator told me, and would be boarding in about 30 minutes.

  I was in bad trouble. I’d left it far too late.

  Ben would be at Gatwick, waiting, searching the crowds for my face. I cringed at the awful hurt he would feel when I did not turn up. He would think that I had ditched him, cottoned out at the last moment. He’d never believe that I had simply forgotten the time, listening to jazz.

  My feet took me slowly back into the hall. The music could not cheer me but it numbed the pain while I thought of what I would have to do. As soon as I got my head together I would phone Ben. I’d have to tell him the truth.

  But the truth was, I was relieved. And I couldn’t tell him that.

  Music stole the minutes, confirming my cowardly delaying tactics. I had almost forgotten the trumpeter, blowing his heart out. If he looked my way, then I wasn’t looking at him and that would be a new experience for him.

  The band were taking a break, the sweat pouring off them. They needed a beer or whatever. I fled outside. This was the moment. I switched on my mobile and it immediately began ringing.

  ‘Jordan, Jordan, I’ve been trying and trying to get hold of you.’ It was Ben. His voice sounded taut and urgent. ‘Your phone’s been off. Then it was engaged. What’s been going on?’

  ‘Sorry …’ I began.

  ‘Listen, Jordan. I really hate this. I know you must have been wondering where on earth I’d got to. There was nothing I could do about it. I just hoped you hadn’t already boarded the plane, though I couldn’t blame you if you had.’

  ‘Got on the plane?’ I repeated. This was one crazy conversation.

  ‘I can’t make it, sweetheart. All leave has been cancelled. Some terrorist alert in London. Cyprus is off. But you go ahead if you want to. Have a good time.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of going without you,’ I said faintly.

  ‘It’s orders. All leave is cancelled.’

  ‘I understand,’ said the brave little woman, sinking back on her heels.

  ‘You’re wonderful,’ said Ben.

  ‘I know I am,’ I said, thanking the guardian angel of reluctant holidaymakers. Later on, the music sounded so cool. I stayed for the whole programme, talked some jazz with the band, then drove back to Latching through the countryside in the dark, my heart singing, thinking of a certain Detective Inspector who might, might possibly, be glad to see me.

  At least for one lucid moment.

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