Ring and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 6)

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Ring and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 6) Page 6

by Stella Whitelaw


  “Delayed. I had to go to court. You know what it’s like.”

  “No, I don’t know what it’s like. I make every effort to arrive on time. Those villains have gone off in an ambulance. You could catch them at Latching hospital.”

  “Gone off in an ambulance? So what’s this vehicle coming along the road now? Or did you ring twice?”

  An ambulance was slowing down round the roundabout, lights flashing. They drew up just ahead of the Vauxhall and the doors opened. Two paramedics in green got out, bags in hand, took in the two cars, bumper to bumper.

  “Hello,” they said with professional efficiency. “Are you all right, miss? What’s your name?”

  I swallowed. “Idiot, I think.”

  But that was not the end of the indignity. I had to be breathalysed. DI James insisted.

  “It’s for your own good,” he said. “And it’s routine these days for any accident.”

  “I might have an asthma attack, breathing into that bag.” I was still glaring.

  “Okay. The paramedics are here. They’ll deal with any problem. But you won’t have an asthma attack because you haven’t been drinking, have you, Jordan?”

  “No, I haven’t. Not for ages.”

  “So why the sour grapes?”

  *

  DI James wanted a full statement. He drove me back to the new police station, to his new office, and I sat down on a new chair. He gave me a cup of tea because I had started to shake. It was strong and laced with sugar. Not my favorite brew but this was no time to be choosy.

  “His brake lights were not on,” I said.

  “I know. They were broken.”

  “I didn’t break them.”

  “I know. There was no broken glass on the roadway.”

  “Who’s a clever detective then?”

  “I am.” DI James was not smiling.

  It is no fun being made a fool of. James said it had the marks of a scam, right down to the first, fake, ambulance. They did not want an official ambulance making on-the-spot clever observations. Their injuries, if any, would emerge later when they had seen their own doctor, and a lengthy medical report went to the insurers. And the fake ambulance would never be traced.

  “So what happens next?”

  “They make an insurance claim.”

  “What about my claim?”

  “You’ll probably find that they are not insured. Sorry. Jordan. I know someone who can straighten that bumper.”

  “Thank you,” I said in a humble voice. “That’s very kind.” I wanted to get back to my ladybird now. I didn’t like the idea of her being left by a roundabout, people swearing at her. They could swear at the Vauxhall. That was their business.

  “I’ll need a statement.”

  “That’s okay. You’ll get one.”

  His phone rang. DI James was called away to the hinterland of West Sussex. No wonder he was so lean and tense. He did not have a minute to himself. A WPC came in and took my statement. She looked about eighteen, was stick thin, and could not spell. She did not know the difference between their and there. But we managed a statement between us and I signed it. I would have signed the pledge. I wanted to get away.

  I knew I looked a mess when I left the police station. No time to tidy up or wash. I stopped and took a deep breath of fresh air. A flash blue Jaguar cruised by but I hoped the driver had not seen me. Jack thought I was sophisticated and beautiful, not the current wreck. I did not want him to see me.

  But it was too late. He reversed with a screech of gears.

  He opened the passenger door. “What’ya doing, Jordan? Get in,” he said. “I’m your knight on a white charger.”

  “It’s blue,” I said.

  Jack always looks unwashed, unshaven and a sartorial disaster. Today was no exception. But I was easily his equal. I wanted a shower and clean clothes and some decent coffee. I also needed some sleep. Sleep is the best antidote for shock.

  “What’sa matter, Jordan?” he asked as he lent over to fasten the seat belt. It was the nearest he ever got to touching me. “You look as done in as a pig’s dinner.”

  “I’ve been in an accident near the North Mill Lane roundabout. My car is still there. I’ve got to get her back. I can’t leave her there all night. She’ll get stolen.”

  “Is your car still roadworthy or written off?”

  “No. no.” I almost didn’t have the strength to answer. “She’s got a bent bumper, that’s all.”

  I found myself telling Jack about the insurance scam. He kept nodding his head, all the time driving towards North Mill Lane. He was right on my wavelength. Funny how we had this mental affinity and yet no way did I fancy him, not in the way he fancied me.

  “I’ll gel it fixed.” he said, getting on his mobile. “Bert? Jack here. Look, we got a Morris Minor, classic, on the North Mill Lane roundabout. Do me a favor. Get there, needs a bumper facelift. Ten minutes? Okay.”

  “You’re not supposed to use your mobile while driving,” I said. “It’s an offence. You could get fined.”

  “Worth it. I’d do anything for you.”

  He would, too. I thanked him by briefly putting my hand on his sharp knee. Not a lot of thanks but it seemed to be enough.

  The ladybird was still slewed halfway off the roundabout. The Vauxhall had already been removed. Quick work but then they were organized professionals. Pity. I wanted to know if the Vauxhall was a write-off or if they had driven it away. We waited for Bert. Jack produced a flask of vodka from a pocket in the door and insisted I took a swig. I’m not used to vodka. It tasted of nothing but lifted my wavering spirits to some degree.

  “Are you feeling belter, Jack? You seem more like your old self.”

  “Yerse. It’s all blown over. I thought I was in trouble.”

  “So where are you going to now?” I asked him.

  “A nice meal first, somewhere classy,” he said. “I don’t cook, ever. I eat out all the time and I fancy a decent steak. Then to the midnight barn boot. It’s started up again. That raid was all bluff. Remember, you came with me once? They’ve got some good stuff tonight, so I hear.”

  “Dogs,” I said. “Fishing rods? Do they sell them at the barn? I’m trying to find some stolen dogs and some disappearing fishing rods.”

  “Dogs, no. Fishing rods, maybe. They can cost from hundreds to thousands, y’know. Hardy’s is the best make. I heard about the stuff disappearing off the pier. You involved in that? Hopeless, Jordan. You won’t find out anything.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it don’t make no sense. How can a rod disappear off a pier with everybody watching like hawks for the slightest twitch from a flounder? What are they paying you? I’ll give you double to give it up.”

  “Jack, you know I don’t work like that so stop offering me silly money. The anglers are concerned and it’s a viable ease.”

  “That’s Bert, in the van with a trailer. Soon get your ladybird sorted. He likes old cars.”

  Bert was short, bearded, tubby, in a yellow sweater that had seen better days. It needed washing, mending and still putting in the bin. But he had twinkly eyes under bushy eyebrows and I took to him. He looked like a teddy bear I once had. And then I recognized him.

  “Cor,” he said, walking round the ladybird with a bit of a swagger. “What do you want for her?”

  “She’s not for sale,” I said.

  “Classy. They don’t make them like this anymore.”

  “That’s why I’m keeping her.”

  “Let me know if you change your mind.” Bert was inspecting the damage. “Couple of hours’ work should fix this. I’ll have it done by tomorrer morning.”

  “Bill me,” said Jack.

  I was past arguing. I’d repay him somehow but not in the way he wanted. A meal, perhaps. He grinned at me, reading my thoughts. I often thought Jack was probably a millionaire with a six-bedroomed house on Kingsdown Gorse. I didn’t want to know.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Have you got a dog c
alled Maggie?”

  “Strewth, girl,” he grinned. “You’ve got second sight.” He hadn’t identified me as the woman in the pub.

  “Relax.” Jack said as Bert took my ladybird away on his trailer. “I’m going to buy you a decent meal and then take you on to the barn boot. You need lightening up. Fishing and dogs? You want a proper case, a bit of murder or arson. There’s some right criminals at the barn boot. You’d better be careful.”

  The decent meal was at a roadhouse called The Lantern, which I had never been to before. The long, red-bricked restaurant looked horrendously expensive but then Jack never ceased to surprise me. He parked his car alongside a line of Rolls and Bentleys and BMWs. The Jaguar did not look a smudge out of place.

  It was like something out of a dream. Jack escorted me into The Lantern looking like a tramp, but arranged for me to have a shower somewhere upstairs before the meal. It was an everyday type of thing.

  “Please look after this young lady,” he said to a female member of staff. “Shower gel, shampoo, hairdryer, wash and dry her t-shirt. Then we’ll order. I’ll wait for you in the bar, Jordan.”

  “You’re a sweetheart,” I said.

  “I know I am,” he said with a wink.

  *

  Half an hour later and I felt better, looked better, was very clean, hair shiningly tawny, T-shirt surprisingly washed and pressed. I was ready for a good meal. Jack was drinking a shandy. He looked relaxed and happy. He had me all to himself for several hours. Apparently that was enough to make his day.

  “Come on, Jordan, I’m starving and I bet you are too.”

  “Wonderful,” I said as we were ushered into a long, low dining room. It was seductively lit with red lamps on every table, sparkling glass and silver, white linen. Even the spray carnations in slender vases were real. I felt their moist petals. “Nice place.”

  A waiter put a huge parchment menu in front of me. It was almost too dark to read and the italic print rather small. I don’t need laminated orange-tinged photographs of dishes but it docs help to be able to read the words.

  “Home-made soup,” I said. Good bet that soup was on the menu somewhere. “Then pasta with tuna, mushrooms and cheese.”

  “Perfect,” said Jack, waving over a waiter. “And I’ll have a prawn cocktail followed by steak, rare, peas and chips.”

  It was a good meal. The food delicious and well presented. I was hungry and every mouthful hit the spot. Jack was expanding with another shandy. I don’t remember what we talked about, stayed with orange juice. The conversation was good, almost funny.

  “This is a lovely meal, Jack,” I said. “I appreciate the shower and the clean shirt. But why take me to the barn boot? I think I ought to go home and sleep off the shock.”

  “Do me a favor. It does my image good to be seen with dishy arm candy. It keeps the piranhas at bay. You’ve no idea what some women will do to line their handbags. I work hard for my dosh and I’m not intending to freeload some dame with a shoe addiction. There’s only one person in this world that I would spend my money on and you know who that is.”

  It was nearly a blush. Jack knew how to embarrass me. And he was grinning again. He waved over the waiter.

  “Two cappuccinos,” he said. “And the bill.”

  It was nearly midnight when we strolled out of The Lantern and Jack drove the Jaguar into the heart of the tangled Sussex lanes where tonight’s barn boot was being held. I had been there once before, working on a case. It had been an eye-opener.

  “Take a sleep, baby,” he said as we drove through the lanes. “A nap will perk you up.”

  I tried not to sleep on his shoulder, but the bucket seats in the front of the Jaguar were close. I was past caring or arguing. I needed the sleep and I did drift off, lulled by the hum of the powerful engine and the scent of the night air.

  I guessed we had arrived when the sound of the engine stopped. Jack parked in his favorite place, ready for a quick getaway. He let me surface from dreams and come back to the world.

  “We’re here, baby. No police cars. It’s going to be a good night.”

  It was like clawing through cotton wool. “We won’t stay too late, will we? I’m so tired.”

  “Home soon, I promise.” But Jack was already halfway through the barn doors with me on his arm. I had no idea why I was there or what I was supposed to be doing. The old barn was crowded as it had been before, the walls lit with spotlights. Stalls were pitched around the sides with a center lane piled with goods. Jack stopped to talk to a mate and looked set for a long conversation. I might as well look for fishing rods. I put on my tinted glasses. No point in being recognized.

  “Any fishing rods?” I asked as I strolled round various stalls. “No particular make.”

  “No, miss. Want a nice leather jacket?”

  “I’ve got a leather jacket.”

  “What kind of fishing rod do you want?” asked another stallholder, lighting a cigarette, ignoring the No Smoking signs in the wooden barn, the smoke curling from his light.

  “MasterRod? SuperCatch?” I said, producing names out of the air. “Any make really. I’d like to buy one for my boyfriend.”

  “I’ll ask my mates.” He was a fishy looking character, eyes too close together, puckered mouth. I looked around for Jack but he had disappeared.

  Then Jack wandered back through the crowd, hands in his pockets. He looked pleased. “I’ve bought two new games. Kill the Giant Claw-Toothed Tiger and Space Man’s Nightmare. Should be great. Got to keep giving them something new. The kids, these days, they get too good at the games. They win too many prizes.”

  “Can we go now, then?”

  “Just another little bit of business, darlin’, then I promise, home.”

  I began a trawl of the side stalls. I was not into shopping for anything, but the goods were tempting. Stuff going for half shop price and I did need some new trainers.

  Trainers, leather goods, batteries, mobiles, umbrellas, jeans all shapes and sizes, denim jackets, window frames, mirrors, garden furniture and gnomes. Was there a market in dodgy gnomes? I began to wake up, my sleepiness slewing off me like an old coat. DI James would have been proud of me, but then DI James never took me to The Lantern.

  Then I saw them.

  They were standing close together, haggling over the price of a new car battery. No sign of a neck brace. In fact they both looked amazingly lively and composed for a couple who had been in an accident earlier in the day.

  It was Derek Brook and his woman passenger. She was wearing different clothes, make-up and hair immaculate. No sign of shock. I edged closer.

  “Come on, you can do better than that,” Derek was saying. “I’m a good customer. I ought to get a whacking discount.

  And what about our little deals? I’ve got a nice Vauxhall coming your way. Been in a slight accident. A few extra touches and they’ll write it off. Then you can do what you like with it.”

  Seven

  My disposable camera was sitting on my desk at home, somewhat out of reach. But I was not deterred. I backed off, crabwise, without drawing attention to myself. I’d seen a couple of cameras for sale on a mobile-phone stall.

  “Do they work?” I asked.

  “Of course, miss.”

  “Have they got a film in?”

  “No.”

  “How much?”

  “Ten pounds and I’ll throw in a film.”

  “Eight.”

  “Nine and I’ll give you two films.”

  “Has it got a flash?”

  “Hold on, miss, what do you think you’re up to? Bleeding Movietone News? Gonna be film stars, are we? You’d better be careful. We don’t like people snooping around here and taking our pictures.”

  “Me, snooping? Heavens, no,” I smiled, going all winsome and fluttery. “I just want to take a few snaps of my mates tomorrow. We’re going on a girly picnic to Patcham Hill. All those lovely views of the South Downs.”

  “A picnic in this weather? I should
coco. You’re a right one. Wear your thermals.”

  It was lucky I had nine pounds on me. I slipped behind a group of rails hanging with sheepskin coats and denim jackets and put a film in a camera. I still remembered how to do it. Disposable cameras make sloths of us all.

  No flash. But a flash might have alerted more than the couple I intended to photograph. I didn’t want to be bundled out or get Jack into trouble. It was a dark and daunting barn, big and gloomy, so the definition would be poor. A high percentage of the traders present were illegal on a small scale, dodgy transactions and dubious goods. I had to tread carefully.

  I wrapped my scarf round the camera, leaving the lens clear, and held it to my chest as if clutching a purse close for safety. Derek Brook and partner might not be in focus and I might take a lot of dud pictures but if I got one good shot of the couple, it would be worth it.

  My finger was on the button, click, click, click, very David Bailey. I kept my distance, eyes down, circling the group. I did not want them to notice my maneuvers. My hair, freshly washed, was loose and falling over my face in a curtain. A lot different to the old woolly hat I’d been wearing for warmth at the time of the accident.

  The woman actually glanced at me for a second but without a flicker of recognition. She was smiling to herself. They had obviously won a bargain and were well pleased. The couple linked arms and were walking away. It was a very good shot. Click, click. No sign of pain or neck injury, no limping. I needed to date the photo.

  “Ready to go, Jordan?”

  “Yes, please, Jack. But first, could you hold that newspaper up so I can see the front page?”

  “You want to take a photograph of a newspaper?” He was incredulous.

  “It’s cool.”

  “I always knew you were barmy.”

  “Thanks…” The two figures were in the background and the front page dominated. The photo could be dated.

  “Finished? Come along, then. Bought anything?”

  “Odds and ends.”

  “I knew you’d enjoy yourself.”

  *

  The next morning, I finished up the film on the seagulls. They were reluctant to sit on the rail that ran along the pier. They squabbled among themselves, complaining that I hadn’t brought any food, so why should they pose for pictures?

 

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