Ring and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 6)

by Stella Whitelaw

  Bruno was a hunk, even more gorgeous than Miguel, the owner of the Mexican restaurant near my shop. His teeth flashed against a weather-beaten skin. He had dancing eyes and masses of dark curly hair streaked with silver. His sexual attraction was dominant. He was clearly taken with Mavis, touching her, pulling her close. There was nothing detached or distant about those two.

  Mavis was another long-time friend. She owned the best fish and chip cafe on the south coast and we were especially close since the time she was beaten up. She had never forgotten my help, little as it was. Mavis was one of those ageless women. She could be thirty, she could be fifty. And she was addicted to fishermen.

  “Mavis,” I said, making no attempt to conceal my admiration of her escort. “Please introduce me to Bruno.”

  “He doesn’t like detectives.” she said.

  “Then you’re safe from any competition.” I said. “I only want to ask a few questions.” I turned to Bruno, trying to look less like a detective. This was stretching my acting ability and needed a plain face. “Hi, are you having a good time? It’s great music for dancing to.”

  “Jordan?” He inclined his head towards me. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Mavis told me.”

  “Don’t believe everything that Mavis tells you. She thinks I’m a heroine.”

  “You are occasionally very brave, often foolish and always a nosey-parker,” he said.

  His statement took my breath away. I gasped. It was pretty accurate but I did not want to hear it. The dancing had gone out of his eyes and had been replaced by a coolness and hint of hostility. I had never crossed swords with any of Mavis’s beach lovers and I did not want to start now. Even Mavis looked disconcerted.

  “Hey, Bruno,” she said, stroking his arm. “Jordan is a very good friend.”

  “That doesn’t mean she has to be mine, too,” he said curtly.

  “It’s okay,” I said, retreating. “Mavis means more to me than asking a few questions that you might or might not be inclined to answer. Keep checking those cod stomachs.”

  He blinked, puzzled. Mavis flashed me a look. It said sorry. I’ll explain later, come and see me soon.

  I headed straight across the floor, oblivious to the couples swirling round me. The skirt was flapping and annoying my ankles and I was tired of it. The DJ announced The Last Waltz to a buzz of disappointment from the dancers. I looked around the ballroom for DI James. He owed that much to me.

  But he had gone, disappeared without a word. I found myself dancing with a green fleece sweater and listening to tall fishy tails about bass, bream, huss, Dover sole… I wondered if I would ever eat fish again.

  Three

  Nobody walked me home. I was left to cope with the muggers and drunks and flashers. Happily, there were none about and the windy walk back to my bedsits in the dim yellowed lamplight was incident free, although I clutched the cut-in-half credit card in my hand, ready to thrust it up against any nose. Guaranteed to draw blood.

  The encounter with Bruno was disturbing. Why did he dislike me? The detective label had been like a red rag. But why? I had never met him before. I did not have an international reputation. That wasn’t in dispute.

  I needed my sleep. I curled up under the rose-patterned duvet and thought of dancing with James. My guardian angel had been watching out for me for once. Then thoughts of fishing rods and little dogs invaded my dreams and James vanished, pushed away by other problems. I had vulnerable four-legged creatures to find. Pass me a pair of binoculars.

  My shop opened to a flurry of activity. I sold three glass cats in half an hour. I ought to join the Cats Protection League. The window display looked empty. I added a couple of frogs. It was not a bad move since one went before coffee time.

  “Those comics,” said a customer who had been browsing the book shelves. “How much for the lot? I can pay cash.” There were a lot of comics in the window. The man was thin, balding, wiry and intense. He smoked continuously, his scrawny fingers stained with nicotine. I did not like to point out the No Smoking sign. Stock had to be kept moving even to an unpleasant customer. I couldn’t choose who came into my shop.

  “Thirty pounds the lot,” I said, picking a number out of the air.

  “Done.”

  I’d obviously underpriced them. He counted out new notes at speed in case I changed my mind.

  “Does that include the annuals?” he said, confident that he was dealing with a dimwit.

  “No way,” I said. “You asked about the comics. There was no mention of the annuals. They are priced separately.”

  “How much?”

  “Six pounds… each. They are collector’s items.”

  He shook his head and watched me take the piles of comics out of the window. I wrapped them carefully. They were old but in good condition. One careful owner. A schoolboy who had treasured them, read them and reread them until time had plucked him to university and adulthood. I could not clearly remember how I had acquired the collection. Some job lot at a house clearance.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I might come back for the annuals.” Now he had got the comics, he seemed to be itching to get away.

  “Annuals are for the reader who has put away the comic books but is not yet ready for the editorials,” I said, slightly altering the quote.

  “Oh yeah? Who said that?” He’d opened the door.

  “A critic called Gloria Steinem. She was reviewing the book Valley of the Dolls, I think.”

  “She wasn’t referring to annuals,” he said from the step, already half out.

  “No, she wasn’t,” I said. “I was rearranging her words.”

  “You can’t do that,” he persisted.

  “Probably not. But I’m sure Miss Steinem would be pleased that I remember half of her one-liner. Hope you enjoy the comics. Do come back anytime and browse.” But I hoped he wouldn’t.

  He and his cigarette left. I opened the door wider, waving it on its hinges to dispel the smoke. A cold draught blew in looking for somewhere warm to hide out. It had been a good morning’s work. I could begin orchestrating my hunt for four little dogs. Start with the local dealers.

  I thumbed through the Yellow Pages, marking Dog Breeders, Dog Trainers and Dog Grooming from all over the county. It took the rest of the morning phoning the owners and managers, assuming the role of keen dog owner wanting to buy several chihuahua puppies.

  “Have you got a long-haired female?” I said. “I’d really like a long-haired female. They are so pretty.”

  I was offered puppies of all ages and varied pedigrees. Detailed notes filled several pages. None of the puppies exactly matched Mrs Gregson’s lost puppies but then they would not have the correct documentation. Prices were mixed.

  “Oh lovely, a long-haired female. How old? Are you sure? When can I come and look at her? Tomorrow, fine. Ten o’clock. And you’ll have all the documentation ready?”

  Mrs Gregson had warned me that an unscrupulous breeder would produce false pedigree papers. How would I know whether they were false or not? I doubt if they had a watermark or official seal.

  “Rowland Kennels, Potters Lane. Yes, I’ll be able to find it. Tomorrow morning. Look forward to seeing you.”

  Puppies and fish. I was fast becoming caught up in a web of veterinary cases. Not that I was knocking the seriousness of the crimes. The puppies were valuable and Mrs Gregson was upset at losing her babies. The rods were also valuable and their disappearance was theft.

  Before I left the shop, I had the side window to dress. It looked forlorn without the garish piles of comics. I combed through my boxes out the back, looking for a theme, any theme.

  “Pub jugs,” I said triumphantly. There were six pub jugs, a bit chipped and stained but still interesting pieces of brewer’s advertising: Bell’s Whisky, Grant’s. Buchanan’s and a really battered one picturing Kenco Old Blended, which apparently sold for two and six per bottle in those days and in your dreams. I had a feeling that I ought to sell that last one on to a special dealer
but the effort required was beyond my resources.

  *

  The pier felt as if it was wobbling. Gusts shook its sturdy iron girders. The anglers were out in force, clustered in companionable groups with their canvas seats, thermoses, and boxes of unmentionable bits of squirmy bait. I was unrecognizable in layers of sweaters, scarves and knitted hat. But still the wind found its way up untucked layers and into neck gaps.

  “Hi there, Jordan,” they called, banging gloved hands and stamping feet. Their assorted hats were pulled down low over eyebrows, scarves hoisted ear-high, as they patrolled the row of rods, lines streaming out to sea.

  “Caught anything?” Stock phrase. I was invited to inspect a motley selection of fish, some still gasping. It was not pleasant watching the last thrashes even of a creature as unattractive as a wet-eyed fish.

  “Isn’t that one a bit small?” I said.

  “She wants you to throw it back,” someone sniggered.

  “Anything to oblige a lady,” said Dick Mann, tossing it back into the waves. I hoped it was in time and leaned over the rail to watch its descent. But the fish had disappeared beneath the churning water in a second.

  “I’ve brought some sandwiches,” he went on. “Hope you like cheese and pickle.”

  “My favorite,” I said. I was glad he hadn’t brought fish.

  He looked pleased and continued baiting the hook. I stepped out of the way of his cast. It looked as practised as a golfer’s swing.

  “Any action?” I asked Arnie. He was easy to find, being a big lad. Arnie Rudge was the original complainant, who had come to me seeking help. He seemed to think it was dead easy and I would solve the mystery in a couple of hours.

  “You wait around and watch. You’ll catch them, I know that. Piece of cake for someone like you used to catching criminals,” he’d said, signing my contract for the hourly rate. “We’ll stand you a pint in the pub afterwards.”

  “I’ll deserve it,” I said.

  I deserved it already and I had only been on the pier ten minutes. The fish were quite clever. The bait was repeatedly yanked off the hooks and had to be replaced. The anglers discussed types of bait, merits and demerits. I didn’t want to know about lugworms and sliced mackerel.

  “Have you tried bread?”

  “Falls off. Too soggy.”

  “I think I’ll take a wander round,” I said, tired of the inactivity. “Maybe keep an eye on anything happening under the pier.”

  “Good thinking.”

  I would never make an angler. It required hours of patience. Yet I’ve spent hours on surveillance, up a tree, in a car, pacing a pavement. It was possible that I was not looking at this case in a positive way. Another kind of surveillance, plus fish. It was the smell that was difficult to accept. Surveillance up a tree was an essay in leaf and mold, bark and essence of sap.

  It amazed me that Mavis was never put off by the smell of fish. Perhaps they spent a lot of time in the bath.

  The tide was nearly on the turn. It was a very high tide, 6.4, helped by the ferocious wind. The wind was good for my asthma, blew through the sticky pipes in my lungs. A few people were out strolling the pier and the seafront, the ones who enjoyed battling with the elements. It helped if you had an arm to cling on to. An extra ten stone alongside promoted stability.

  The white cliffs of the Seven Sisters were lost in a distant mist. Even Brighton’s monstrous architectural skyline was mercifully blotted out. Rain was on its way. Dark pewter clouds were scurrying across the Channel from France hung with a touch of garlic.

  It was not easy trudging over the wet shingle. I slid and slipped, pebbles rolling away from under my feet. I took up a position with my back propped against a wooden groyne, where I could watch the anglers on the pier. I counted the rods, six in all. Shopping list: better binoculars, waterproof hat. Rain was dripping down my neck and I was starting to feel sick. Had I eaten or was it the prevailing smell of fish?

  My current state of cases did not cheer me. I suppose that depression had set in with the death of DS Ben Evans and it was not something one could shake off. I am not registered with a doctor. My frequent visits to Latching Hospital and other Sussex hospitals have been due to my own foolishness in getting injured, one way or another.

  I did not know all the names of the anglers but Dick Mann was positioned furthest from the shore and the bulky Arnie was the nearest. I just kept counting the row of rods, nodding off… Six… six… five.

  Five! Nothing had happened. No giant Jaws thrashing the water or slithering twenty-foot black thing emerging from the depths out at sea. I told myself to calm down. One of the anglers had packed up and gone home to watch Emmerdale.

  I tracked back to the seafront. The rain clouds were gathering darkly over Latching, biting into the wind. Surveillance in a car was a lot drier. Latching’s permanent bag lady, Gracie, was huddled into one of the beach shelters, surrounded by her laden shopping trollies like a Wild West corral. She was in for a miserable night.

  “Hi, Gracie!” I shouted.

  She never answered.

  I hurried on, skirting the palatial Pavilion, home of last night’s dance, amateur musicals, touring comedians, pop groups, jazz bands, antique fairs, bridal shows, computer exhibitions. The curtains were drawn against the sea-facing windows as staff put the theater seats back in rows for tonight’s performance of Songs from Sinatra.

  Arnie was crouched down, trying to light a cigarette in a pocket of calm. Judging by the oily papers around him, he’d finished off a big portion of fish and chips and a take-away coffee and was now on his last course. He’d caught some fish for his supper. Huss by the look of it, a long shark-like fish with a center bone but firm white flesh when cooked.

  “A bit wet now, isn’t it?” I asked, rain dripping off my face. I wanted to go home, dry out.

  “No way,” he said. “Only a bit of drizzle. Fish are running. We’re doing well.”

  “Well, someone has gone home. A rod has gone.”

  He stood up and groaned. “Hell’s bells. Not another one. Jordan says a rod has gone.” He rushed up to other crouching figures and there was a general melee as they counted rods. The new decking had darkened with the rain.

  “Mine is here.”

  “And mine.”

  “Who’s gone?”

  “It’s Dick’s.”

  The furthest from the shore had gone and that had been Dick Mann’s. It had gone from right under my nose. I had not seen a thing. It was uncanny. No small boys larking about under the pier, although the tide was going out now and the first girder legs were straddling pools of whipped water.

  I strode the length of the pier and round the double-tiered jetty end where occasionally paddle steamers tied up. The wind at the far end was almost impossible to breach. Head down, I battled round, gulping for breath.

  No sign of Dick Mann.

  “He’s gone home,” I said, surprised at his departure. “He’s not on the pier. He’s not anywhere.”

  “He hasn’t gone home,” said Arnie, agitated. “He’s left all his gear.”

  It was neatly piled on one of the bench seats. A sodden newspaper, waterproofs, bait boxes, a pint thermos and an Iceland carrier bag. I peered into the plastic bag. Wrapped cheese and pickle sandwiches. They had not been opened. Untouched. He’d brought one for me and now he had gone.

  “He’s gone to the Gents loo,” I said, inspired.

  They looked at me and each other, unconvinced. No angler would reel in his rod for a call of nature. But one of them went off to check just the same.

  “No, he’s not there.”

  I went into Jack’s amusement arcade to see if Dick Mann was also addicted to the machines. But a quick reconnaissance drew a blank. Jack was busy changing money from inside his booth, bagging up coins. He looked up and saw me, shook his head vigorously. Not the usual welcome and no sign of Dick Mann in the arcade. He slid open a window.

  “Get out, Jordan,” he shouted. “It’s not sale.”


  I was starting to panic, unusual for me. I do not panic even in dire circumstances. Ask DI James. I ran back to the anglers. They were peering over the rails as if expecting to see Dick dangling from the iron girders. What was not safe? The pier? Or was Jack warning me about something else?

  “Has he done this before, gone off without a word?”

  “Never.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Don’t know. Wasn’t looking, really.”

  “No idea.”

  “We were standing about talking. I thought Dick was with us as usual. We don’t take much notice of anything when we’re fishing.” said Arnie.

  “Well, he’s gone,” I said. “And so has the rod. But he has left his gear.”

  The group went silent. Dick Mann had vanished. Like the rods. Not a sign. Not a clue, not a trace. He had vanished off the pier in broad daylight. Perhaps the police would take some notice now.

  “I’ll report the circumstances,” I said, anxious to set foot on dry fish-less land, except it was wet and puddled land.

  “Let’s wait and see if he turns up,” said Arnie. “It might be something personal. Perhap’s he won the lottery. lads, and has gone off to collect his winnings.”

  “Bet he’s in the pub, right now, opening the champers,” someone laughed.

  I was not so sure. No true fisherman would leave his bait.

  Four

  The new police station at Latching was clean, open and airy, with automatic doors and as yet without any character. They had closed the old building, dismantled the offices and cells, moved everything and everyone to a custom-built gray-bricked structure in the center of town.

  In order to clear a site for the new police station, some old shops were bulldozed. They were not Georgian or historically worth preserving but they were part of old Latching.

  Sergeant Rawlings was no longer accessible behind a big desk with a mug of tea. He came forward to a glass-screened counter and nodded to me.

  “Hello, Jordan. Come to watch feeding time?”

  He looked unhappy. The office behind him was spacious and newly painted, well equipped with desktop computers and telephones. Several rows of desks, tops bare, were unoccupied. The area was well heated and there were seats in the foyer for the public.