“I agree that it’s pretty low. But they swear that their daughter, Miranda, was with them. And there is evidence that she has recently been seen by a doctor. A painful injury to her neck and arm.”
“Poppycock,” I said firmly. “It’s an old injury. She probably hurt herself at school in the playground. It happens all the time. I’ll prove it.”
Taking on another case, Jordan?” James’s voice assumed a more serious tone. “You be careful. These people might not be above faking a second and more lethal accident.”
“They wouldn’t dare.”
“You stay with puppies and fishing rods.”
“And look what’s happened to Dick Mann. He’s dead. And he died in a horrid way. What was he doing in the church? Was he learning to do a grandsire or a plain bob?”
“Pardon?”
“Patterns. They are bell-ringing terms. Want a lesson? I do private tuition for several large glasses of Shiraz. Oh, it’s starting to rain, James. I have to go.”
“Left the washing out?”
“No, I don’t do washing. Just throw everything away and buy new.”
“That’s my Jordan.”
“Not your Jordan, sorry.”
But I wished I was his Jordan. I put the phone down. It wasn’t raining in my patch of Latching but he would not know. I had to sort out my brains and see if they were still working. Photographs: they needed picking up. I’d paid for the fast service. Where had the time gone? I put on a clean tracksuit, trainers, anorak, and went to pick up the photographs. It was paying for fifty per cent blank paper, a couple of vaguely dim groups, one recognizable close-up of Derek Brook and partner laughing, good shot of front page of newspaper, and three excellent David-Bailey-class snaps of supercilious seagulls perched on pier rails. Maybe they’d make next year’s calendar. Calendar Gulls.
Perhaps I should consider a career move. Would they pay expenses?
Arnie. I had to talk to Arnie Rudge. He was on the pier, wrapped up in waterproofs, munching a burger, a line of rods leaning across the rail. I wondered how he got so much time off work. He probably never went home until the kids had gone to bed. He looked at me, remembering my involvement.
“I heard about Dick Mann,” he said.
“How do you know? It hasn’t been announced.”
“It was all the talk in the pub. I haven’t seen him around. It must be Dick Mann. Poor sod.”
A flash of silver disturbed my vision. It was odd. It had happened before. Was it a reflection?
“What did you hear?” I asked.
“That a body had been found in a church. Hung himself. I heard. Don’t ask me why. He didn’t seem depressed, enjoyed himself most of the time. A bit of work, fishing, dancing, the pub. Like the rest of us, made the best of it. We aren’t all millionaires. Have to do what we can.”
“How long had he been your neighbor?”
“A couple of years.”
“Did he tell you anything about where he lived before he came to Latching?”
“Can’t say he did. Wasn’t much for saying anything. Bit on the quiet side. Nice enough chap. Could mend things. Did a few repairs for the missus and me. Wouldn’t take anything for it. Said I would buy him a beer, which I did, of course."
Of course.” I wasn’t getting anywhere.
Hang on, something’s happening.” Arnie went over to a rod that was trembling. He began to reel in the line, his impassive face not showing any excitement. The hook appeared, dripping green weed. “The b— got the bait. They do that all the time.”
“Clever, for a fish.”
“They bite it off, like something on a cocktail stick. It’s amazing. You’ve got to hand it to them.”
Arnie was fingering around in his bait box. I didn’t look. The contents were too revolting for words. No wonder there were few women anglers. Royal anglers probably have a bait boy, someone to do the messy part for them.
“Can you remember anything about Dick Mann’s life? Did he have any other friends? Did he have a woman friend, for instance, at the dances?”
“Dunno. Dunno anything really about Dick. He kept himself to himself. Only saw him here on the pier or in the pub. Didn’t know he was into bell-ringing. They ring the bells on Sundays, don’t they? Well, he was here every Sunday, with the tide. Never missed. So he wasn’t ringing bells. The only bell he ever rang was Bell’s Whisky.”
Arnie nearly doubled up with laughter at his own joke. It was the first time I’d seen him laugh and it was explosive. The rod shook in his hands.
“Thanks, Arnie.” I said. “Do you want me to continue with the disappearing rods enquiry?”
“Couple more days should see it out,” he choked. “None have gone missing recently. Funny that.”
A thought slithered by before I could catch it. I scrambled my brain trying to bring the thread back but it had gone.
“Don’t forget to give me an invoice,” said Arnie. “Me and the boys have got some money in the kitty.”
“Okay.”
*
I went to Springfield Close. It was a dead end. The man with puppies for sale was selling King Charles spaniels. I suppose they had big eyes.
“Nice little chaps,” he said. “Make good pets.”
“No, thank you. Sorry to have troubled you.”
There were no more answers to my puppy advertisement. I put in a second, altering the wording. I had no idea what else I could do about the stolen puppies. Mrs Gregson was not going to be pleased.
I spent the afternoon phoning local schools to find out where Miranda Brook was a pupil. No one had heard of her. Private schools next. The Brooks could afford a private school if their scams were paying off. My phone bill was rising and this was not a case I could charge to anyone. I could hardly charge myself.
The 1799 chemise dress was hung on an old dressmaker’s model that had come my way and stood in a corner, the train pinned to the Boor. It looked beautiful, so delicate that I was afraid a sudden gust from the door would blow it away. Many of my customers commented on the dress. Several wanted to buy it.
“It’s not for sale,” I said.
They don’t make clothes like that these days,” a woman said. “A skill long gone.”
“They do, if you have the money for hand-stitching. But not in that style. It’s all glitz and glitter at todays fashion shows. Weird-cut outfits on skinny models that no one would think of wearing.”
There was something about the dress. It made customers linger and eventually buy something, as if in token payment of being in the presence of an exquisite garment from another era. I still had no idea who had left it on my doorstep.
It was a magnet. I could not count the number of small purchases that had been made while the dress graced a corner of my shop. My personal talisman. I had the feeling that I would never let it go, even to a woman on her bended knees, dripping twenties like confetti.
Miguel was expecting me for a meal this evening. It seemed aeons ago that it had been arranged. I almost thought I’d missed a few days out and that the date was long gone. I wrote up my notes and planned what to wear. I only had one dress, the black one from my days as a shop assistant at the town’s department store, Guilberts. It would have to have another outing.
It was an action replay, although I hoped not in every aspect. The last time I had eaten, or not eaten, at Miguel’s restaurant had been the evening that DI James came through the door, ashen-faced, with news of the road accident. I did not want that kind of replay.
Francis Guilbert had given me some expensive Floris bath gels and foams and lotions for Christmas. I poured half a bottle into the bath. It frothed and foamed like Niagara Falls. I sank in up to my chin and wondered what I was doing wrong in my life.
Francis was a handsome and charming man, but, at sixty, a little over the hill for me. Miguel was a darling, but too ardent. I had got rid of the two spongers, the malicious one and the hungry Joshua. That left my jazz trumpeter who I rarely see, whose music I adore an
d who is happily married. There was James. And Ben, who had died.
It was quite a list. And I wasn’t even thirty yet. Men were largely reponsible for things that happened to women, and I was a cold flame in their lives. I felt stretched out by their manipulations.
I made up my face carefully. That meant both eye shadow and mascara. As I stared back into the mirror, wand in hand, I glimpsed my mother’s face and that was unnerving. I was nothing like my mother. She and my father had been besotted with each other. I was merely an afterthought. They died together, which was alright for them.
I did my hair in a long plait in case any loose ends fell into my food. Hair dipped in spicy Mexican sauce was not worldly enough for tonight’s image. The black dress looked good and I dusted off the low-heeled pumps that completed the outfit. The silk scarf would be a perfect touch, but it had been sent to me by a murderer. It had never been worn since I discovered that unsavory fact. Either I accepted it for what it was, a beautiful piece of material, or I put it in a charity shop.
A pair of long earrings won the day, or evening. I went early, tempted by a glass of Miguel’s best wine while sitting at a corner table, watching him work. He was a brilliant cook, moving at speed between tables and kitchen, with a word for everyone. His restaurant was besieged by Latching’s divorced women and widows, all hoping for personal service.
“Jordan, querido. Bueno to see you. Elegancia… as my eyes pleasure,” said Miguel, beaming, his words in a twist as usual. He was seeing me to the corner table, a single rose in a vase, the red wine ready to pour into a mega-sized goblet.
“Tonight I will eat with you. Last time was not good, no. Tonight you will be happy. I will make it happen. I am cooking the prawn for you, with asparagus and rice. The sauce is secreto.”
Wow, a whole prawn to myself. I smiled at him, wondering if I could manage a whole prawn. “Lovely,” I murmured.
He brought a dish of nibbles to keep me going. I nibbled at ease, relaxing into the atmosphere of good food and wine, the sparkling glassware, good linen, real flowers. Miguel ran a classy joint. He wouldn’t wait for me forever. One of these well-dressed, immaculate, flaxen-haired women, flashing their diamonds over the rim of a wine glass, would snare him. It was my own fault.
But it was a lovely meal, cooked to perfection. Miguel was a charming host. He told me about his family in South America. He had children but he did not mention a wife. He described his home, his hacienda.
“You will come with me, one day, yes? For a holiday. You would like, Jordan. No more rain. No more the wild winds. Always such sunshine. And I would look after you, bring back the sparkle into your eyes. It’s not good, this work you do. Always particular danger.”
“There’s not much danger about stolen puppies and missing fishing rods,” I said. I didn’t tell him about the Sow’s Head. “Very tame.”
“Not if you find these thieves. They could become mucho apretado, dangerous.”
Miguel’s velvety brown eyes were full of concern. He really seemed to care what happened to me. I couldn’t understand why, because I have never given him any encouragement. I openly sponge on him when I need a civilized meal with civilized company. Once, I had served in the restaurant over the Christmas period. It was hardly a seduction technique.
“You’re so kind,” I said. “My favorite neighbor.”
“After the Doris?”
I laughed. “Doris, too, but she’s in a different category. Her packets of cuppa soup are hardly gourmet food.”
“Doris worry about you. She tells me to look after you. She says you will be in bad trouble one day.”
Miguel’s English actually improves the more he talks to me. The Spanish disappears and he thinks in English. It would be so easy to go along with whatever he suggested and let him look after me. A hacienda sounded fun. Rolling space and eternal sunshine. He hadn’t mentioned any ponies.
“Bad trouble, never,” I said. “Maybe some small trouble now and again but nothing to worry about.”
I took another sip of my wine, enjoying the fruity flavor. His gaze was so fervent that I had to unlock our eyes. Instead, I shifted direction and looked over his shoulder. The wine almost froze in my mouth.
Sitting together at a small table on the far side of the restaurant were two people that I knew. But I did not know that they knew each other or were on expensive dining terms.
It was Derek Brook, he of jump, bump and claim fame. The woman sitting opposite him was Nina Deodar, the less than helpful, witch-like personnel officer at Latching Hospital. They were engrossed in animated conversation, ignoring the menu, the candlelight illuminating their faces.
Real wife, lover, mistress, girlfriend, accomplice? The permutations ran through my mind.
I rose carefully, shielding my face with the edge of a linen napkin. “Excuse me, Miguel. I need the ladies’ room. Be back soon.”
Eleven
I stayed in the ladies’ room as long as I dared, washing my hands like a compulsive, listening to the busy clatter of the kitchen. Miguel’s kitchen was out of bounds to me of my own making. I did not want to catch him opening a packet of frozen beans. But I had to find another way out or stay in the ladies’ until Brook and Deodar had finished their meal and left.
I came out and leaned flat against the door, holding in my stomach. Miguel passed, opening a bottle of wine. He took a quick look at my face and it all registered.
“This is some little bad trouble?” he asked.
“Sorry, I have to go. It was a lovely, lovely evening but I can’t stay any longer.”
“You wish the back door?” he guessed.
“You can read my mind.” I reached up and kissed his cheek. He smelled so nice. Some sexy Latin aftershave and a whiff of a good wine. If only I went for older men.
He showed me to a door that lead into a yard, similar to the one behind my shop. He opened it and cool night air blew in with a touch of salt and sea.
“We could have walked along the beach,” I said. “It would have been perfect.”
“I only wish we could,” he said sadly.
I might have said: “One day, perhaps…” but it didn’t seem fair to him when I didn’t know if I meant it. I legged it round to the new police station at the fastest trot these pumps would allow me. It was so cold. The automatic doors wafted open at first sign of my human warmth and presence. I wondered if they opened for dogs.
A smart young WPC was at the desk, behind the protective glass shield. She smiled a lot of lip gloss. “Can I help you?” she asked nicely. She’d been on one of those customer service courses.
“Is Detective Inspector James still here?” I asked, hugging my arms for warmth.
“I’ll find out for you.”
She went into button-pressing mode and eventually found a human voice to speak to. “Who shall I say it is?”
“Jordan Lacey. With information on a certain case.”
It was some minutes before I heard his footsteps coming down the concrete stairs. He never used the lift. He was shrugging into a dark coat. He took a longer than usual look at the black dress and earrings but did not comment.
“Aren’t you cold?”
“I left my wrap behind. No time, it was a quick getaway. It was urgent.”
He took my arm and moved me out of the station into the crisp dark air. The temperature hit me again. “Have you eaten? I haven’t. Food first, information later.”
“Let’s eat then,” I said. Anywhere to keep warm.
“Chinese or Indian?”
On top of Mexican? My stomach cringed at the thought of more food. Maybe I could pick. A prawn here, a grain of rice there. Perhaps they’d give me a doggy bag.
“Chinese.”
He frog-marched me round to a popular Chinese restuarant near the gardens. They stayed open to all hours, till the last diner had gone home. I applauded their fortitude, let James order a set menu, only sipped the indifferent pinkish wine, alcohol content of about four. Straight out of a
box. James ordered a Chinese beer for himself, which he drank from the bottle. That showed a degree of desperation. One of my social skills is chopsticks. I was glad to see that he knew how to handle them.
“So what’s this information?” he said, stuffing a spring roll into his mouth. I don’t think he had eaten a normal meal for weeks. I have no control over his life.
“I’ve discovered that Derek Brook has a friend at Latching Hospital. Nina Deodar, who works in personnel. A very hard, pushy sort of woman. It could be an interesting link. They were there tonight, eating at Miguel’s at a table for two. It’s an expensive restaurant. I saw them together. A funny sort of coincidence, don’t you think, after the accident?”
“How very cozy,” said James with a mouthful of green seaweed bits. This selection was the starter course.
“I’ve checked all the schools around here. Miranda Brook doesn’t seem to be a pupil anywhere. Unless it’s a private school right out of the area. Could be, of course.”
“Out of the area,” said James, tackling a spare rib.
I picked at a shred of seaweed. It glistened with sugar and fat and calories, melting like honeycomb in my mouth. “I’ve acquired a photograph, not a very good one, I admit. But they are both in it, Derek Brook and his passenger or partner, whoever she is, the woman in the accident – having a good time, laughing, no sign of a neck brace, the same evening as the accident. And he wasn’t limping anymore.”
“Is there any way of authenticating the time and date this photograph was taken? Was it at a scheduled event, something I can check on?” His teeth were white against the bone of the spare rib.
No way. I thought, and I wasn’t going to say where I took it. It had been an illegal barn boot, nothing James could cheek on. He’d be more likely to close the place down, sending a posse of police cars, sirens screaming. Another friendship up the spout. Jack would be hurt and suspicious.
“It’s rather more difficult than that.” I hesitated. “I’m not sure I should tell you where it was. Sort of top secret.”
Ring and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 6) Page 10