Maeve’s Cafe was on the way home. It was empty at that time of the morning. I went in, bedraggled, dripping and still shivering. Mavis took one look and pushed me into a seat, whipping off my wet anorak and hat. She went into the kitchen and returned with a towel quickly heated in a microwave and started towelling my hair and my face.
“Did Bruno pick you up?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, teeth chattering. “I’m very grateful.”
“But then he dumped you on the beach?”
“Well, he had to think about b-beaching his b-boat. The sea was pretty rough. I was all r-right by then.”
Mavis pursed her lips. “I’ll have a word with him. His manners are gross. I’ve nothing dry for you to put on. Keep toweling and I’ll bring you a hot drink. Then I’ll phone for a taxi to take you home. You need a hot bath straight away, my girl.”
It was a mug of hot chocolate with foam on top and sprinkled with grated chocolate. Chocolate has a hidden pick-me-up. It triggers the release of endorphins in the brain, which give a feeling of relaxation and goodwill. I let goodwill drift into my veins, the heat curling into crevices that were frozen, my tongue detecting flavors that brought my senses back to life.
“Can you provide someone to scrub my back…?” I murmured, overflowing with goodwill.
“I’m not lending you Bruno.”
“I wasn’t thinking of him.”
Mavis knew who I was thinking of but said nothing. For a second, her eyes twinkled. She was busy getting ready for today’s onslaught of hungry tourists. How she did it all on her own was a wonder. Would she take me on as an assistant, chopping chips? It might be more rewarding.
A coachload of disabled men and women, some in wheelchairs, suddenly arrived. Mavis was rushing around, serving everyone at once. I left a pound coin on the table and disappeared. I was sufficiently warmed up now to get home under my own steam. Huddled in the next beach shelter was the homeless bundle who was Gracie, surrounded by her loaded shopping trolleys and bin liners. It was beyond me to say more than “Hi”. I looked worse than she did.
My two bedsits were a haven. It seemed as if I had been away years. I had to recognize the rooms as mine all over again. I stripped off and lowered myself into a Lavandula officinalis bath. Lavender for healing. And I needed healing. They say that halfway through the woods and you are still grieving. Was I grieving for Ben? Or was I grieving equally for James whom I could never have?
Amazing the power of a deep, warm bath. More people should take them. Showers don’t have that power. They are merely a temporary sprinkle. I climbed out, invigorated, toweled, talced, sprayed with deodorant, creamed with moisturizer. Clean clothes and I was ready for a day’s work. But not in my shop. She was closed for redecoration. Maybe for the duration.
I drove the ladybird along the lanes to Dick Mann’s cottage, hoping a heave would open the back door as it had before. But I had my pick keys with me, just in case. DI James and I had missed something. It was up to me to find it.
But I was not sure why or what. I felt I was still involved even if Dick Mann was dead. No one seemed to be bothering about his death. It was not fair. He was… had been a person. Someone should care. Someone from this life, or his previous life.
The police had been along and secured his cottage with tape and a new padlock on the door. Suspicious lot.
I wandered around, looking at the small windows. They were doll’s house windows, barely big enough for me to climb in, even if I could reach upstairs. The garage would be the place to find a ladder.
The police had padlocked the front doors of the wooden garage, but forgotten the small back door. It was half hidden by an overgrown shrub. It opened squeakily to my touch. I climbed over a lawnmower and several garden brooms. There was no car, only a motorbike and a rusty bicycle. And his angling gear. I have never seen so much stuff. Do lines break easily? Does each prize catch carry its own health warning and the rod is officially retired?
I counted over forty rods. It seemed excessive for a hobby. I started to make a list of the makes. Grays, Catehmaster, Daiwa. WPP must have paid him well. Arnie would have taken his rods away when the police secured the garage.
The inside of the garage was dusty and dark. The one small window at the back was festooned with cobwebs. Even the cobwebs had cobwebs. Tools were hanging from nails hammered into the walls, drills and hammers and screwdrivers. Nails and screws were stored in old coffee jars. Folded bills and receipts were tucked behind struts of wood. I cannot resist bills and receipts. They are like a personal history book, the minutiae of life.
I collected a pile of bits of paper and put them into a supermarket carrier bag. I saw a corner of something that had been well tucked behind a strut, and pulled it out carefully. It seemed brown and fragile but it came away without tearing. It was an old photograph.
I held it to the light, peering at the dim figures. It was a photo of three young men in open-necked sports shirts, arms entwined, grinning, holding up pints of beer. I looked carefully into their faces and the front page of a dozen tabloid newspapers swam back into my memory.
I knew who he was now. I knew who he had once been. And I could guess who had strung him up. A chill of fear took me by surprise. I got out fast. No way was I going to get mixed up with that lot. But I was already involved and I hadn’t known it.
*
First Class Junk needed a dust. I did my vigorous magneticbrush disco dance before changing the window displays. If the tourists were starting to return to Latching, then I needed to attract them with goods that were eye-catching.
This spurt of earnest shopkeeping was in order to take my mind off Dick Mann. The shop felt safe. I did not want to be mixed up in his past life. I liked a quiet time. Nothing more violent than rough handling by a disgruntled fisherman in full view of people walking their dogs.
I did a final invoice for the anglers’ syndicate. This case was finished. I could guess where the rods had gone to but not how or why. And I would never know why. Mrs Gregson’s invoice could wait until I had some work to show for it. The bills and receipts were laid out on the floor of my back office. I thought I might as well have a look at them before passing them on to James. He ought to show some gratitude… but he would probably ask how I got hold of them. Life was so complicated at times.
There was an itemized phone bill which might be worth looking into. Not many local numbers. The bills and receipts were mostly for small items used in the repair of the lawn-mower, the washing machine, the motorbike and an electric saw. One receipt was more puzzling. He’d been to Guilberts department store and paid forty pounds for a bottle of Chanel No 5… Was there a woman in his life? I decided to keep quiet about this one.
James’s answerphone clicked on. I left a brief message, resisting the temptation to listen to his voice over and over again. One day, I will burst an artery in an unexpected surge of love.
A woman came into the shop and bought two glass birds. They were not worth six pounds each, so I said it was my special bargain day and she could have the two for six pounds. She was well pleased. It paid for a passable supper.
Then my doctor friend wandered in. “Any more glass bottles?” he asked. He was an avid collector of old bottles.
“Sorry,” I said. “But I’m keeping an eye open for you.”
“Gracie has refused the free dental,” he added as he went out. He never lingered or talked. Something left over from his busy practice days. Five minutes per patient.
“I’m not surprised,” I said. “I don’t think she has opened her mouth for years.”
This was when one counted lucky stars. Own teeth, own hair, health, roof, friends. I had a galaxy of lucky stars. Sirius, Aldebaran, Phosphor, Hesperus. Life was a luminosity.
The phone rang. I could tell from the strident ring that it was an official call. DI James, perhaps, calling to find out how I felt after my perilous rescue from under the pier. Mavis might have mentioned it to him casually over his lunch.
“Hello,” I said.
“What were you doing at Dick Mann’s cottage? You were caught on the CCTV camera.” It was James, only slightly amused.
“You fixed a camera there? Why? It’s not the scene of the crime. Anyway, I didn’t go into the cottage, only the garage, and Dick Mann was killed in church.”
“Not necessarily so,” he said vaguely. “We are interested in recording his visitors. Any visitors. Might give us a lead. You’ve been recorded.”
“Intrusion of privacy,” I said. “Especially when I’ve been doing your work for you. Have you got his latest itemized phone bill?”
There was a pause. He was checking the list of items removed from Tan Cottage. He cleared his throat. “No, we don’t have one. Do you have it?”
“Yes. It was in the garage along with numerous bills and receipts.”
“And you removed them?” He was going to bite my head half off.
“On your behalf. I know you are short of manpower.”
There’s no answer to that. I heard a swift intake of breath as he searched for a suitable retort.
“A spoonful of honey will catch more flies than a gallon of vinegar,” I said helpfully. “Benjamin Franklin.”
There was a low chuckle. “I suppose that’s out of a book in your shop. An unsold book of quotations. I’ll be round for the receipts in ten minutes. And save me the book.”
“I’m glad you are grateful,” I said.
“Gratitude goes barefooted on a wet day.”
I took it on board, puzzled. It rang some sort of distant bell. “Who said that?”
“I did.”
He put the phone down. I sank back in my chair and wondered if, at long last, DI James was developing a sense of humor. The thought was electrifying. One human gene could lead to another.
I rushed round with the air freshener, put on fresh coffee, bought a packet of digestive biscuits from Doris.
“What’s the celebration?” she asked shrewdly. “Won the lottery?”
“Didn’t even buy a ticket.”
“Why the big grin?”
“James cracked a joke. A genuine, original joke.”
“Have two packets of biscuits. It might not happen again.”
His idea often minutes was several hours out. Who decided how long a minute should be anyway? Who invented seconds and said that sixty of them made a minute? Why not fifty-nine or sixty-six? I was about to put up the CLOSED sign when he arrived outside in a flashy yellow and blue patrol car. He heaved himself out and put his hand on the shop door as I was closing it.
“Sorry,” he said. “Got held up.”
“Hope you were quicker on the draw.”
“Delayed.”
“I know what you mean. Come in. There are two biscuits left. I could make some fresh coffee.”
“Thank you, Jordan. I’d like some coffee. You know what the station brew is like.”
I installed him in my office on the Victorian button-backed chair. He stretched out his legs and looked as if he was about to fall asleep, so I put the sheaf of bills and receipts in his hand. He brought himself back to reality and leafed through them as I made coffee. It was the phone bill that drew his attention.
“Some odd calls,” he said.
“Do you monitor calls as a matter of course?”
“No. We try not to have any contact at all once the new identity is established. It’s better if they are untraceable.”
“Something went wrong here, then, didn’t it’?”
“Obviously, and I wish I knew what it was. The system is usually foolproof.”
“Perhaps he went fishing once too often,” I said. “That’s my theory anyway.”
This was a fraction too profound for James. He looked at me with narrowed eyes over the top of the coffee mug. “What’s fishing got to do with it?”
“It was his hobby. He was down on the pier in all weathers. He was quiet but everyone knew him. Maybe he fished in his other life. When the WPS gave him a new identity, they probably didn’t say that he’d got to have a new hobby as well. They never said take up bowls or tiddlywinks.”
He finished his coffee and stood up, stretching. There was no way of making him sit down with a promise of homemade soup or supper. I could rustle up a decent supper with six pounds but I needed time to shred and marinate and whisk. Two biscuits were not a substitute.
As he left my office, James came face on with the 1799 chemise dress on the stand. He stopped, then walked round it, being careful not to tread on the skirt. It was as if he had never seen such a beautiful dress before.
“Where did you get this dress?” he asked.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I said. “It was made in the eighteenth century. I don’t know the date exactly but I found a similiar one in a fashion reference book. It’s admired by everyone who comes into the shop. It’s becoming my mascot.”
“And how did you come by it?”
“Why the third degree? Why do you want to know?” I didn’t like the tone of his voice. He was on his mobile, talking to someone in the office, asking for a list to be read to him. He clicked off the connection and shook his head.
“Sorry, Jordan. This valuable dress was stolen from an exhibition of antique clothes that was on show at Broom Water House recently. I’ll need you to come to the station and make a statement.”
“This is ridiculous. I don’t have to make a statement. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I’m afraid you do. You’re ex-job. You know the score. The dress is on display in your shop so you’re in possession of stolen property. Mascot or no mascot, that’s a crime.”
Thirteen
This was the first time I had been charged with receiving stolen property. I could see the headlines in the local newspaper, along with a grainy photograph:
LOCAL PI DENIES SEIZED
STOLEN GOODS
DI James had not exactly charged me but he wanted a statement about how I got the dress. My story sounded tame. So I found it on the shop doorstep in a carrier bag. Someone had left it there. He looked at me with derision.
“Can’t you think of anything better than that? Did you see anyone leave it? Where were you beforehand? Did they know you were going to be out?”
“I can’t remember anything when you throw so many questions at me all at the same time. Can you remember what you were doing every minute of the day?”
He shook his head. “No, some days I can barely remember my name, but that’s no excuse. You are a private investigator. You are trained to use your powers of observation.”
I did not know whether to hit him or kiss him.
“If I was fabricating a story, I’d make up something really complicated, wouldn’t I? Men with beards and dark glasses hovering on the corner. A speeding getaway car, throwing bags out of the back window. Thugs with coshes, threatening me not to say where I got the dress. Fancy any of those? Take your pick and I’ll tell you a whopper.”
Sergeant Rawlings brought me a cup of station brew. He did not look well. He was a poor color. “Sorry, no biscuits, Jordan. Biscuits are banned in this new building in case we encourage the mice.” He went out and closed the door.
“What’s the matter with Sergeant Rawlings?” I asked. “Is he ill?”
James raised his eyebrows. “Sarge? I don’t know. He hasn’t said anything.”
“Well, he doesn’t look well. Perhaps you ought to find out. Show the caring boss side of you.”
“There isn’t time for TLC in a police station. We have to get on with our job. Keeping the good people of Latching safe in their beds at night. But I will ask him.”
I nodded. “Any leads on stolen puppies?”
His face almost found a grin to wear and I rephrased my question. Sometimes, he made me feel so insecure. Innocence is a slippery path.
“Have you any underground info on stolen puppies? Small dogs, chihuahuas in particular.”
“Have you lo
oked on the website for missing pets?”
“Didn’t know there was one.”
“You’d be surprised what you can find these days. We caught a local burglar recently who had advertised stolen property on the Internet. There was a list of goods for sale.”
“Pretty stupid.”
“He thought he was being clever. We got him. He was up in court last week.”
“Can I go now? I’ve got work to do. Or are you going to give me an update on Dick Mann?”
“Nothing to tell you, Jordan. Anyhow, it’s out of our hands now. The Met have taken over. It’s more their scene.”
“He must have been someone pretty important then,” I said casually. “Great train robber? Bullion bank snitch?”
“I’ve no idea. I’ll get your statement written up and you can sign it before you go.” James was leaving the room with the single page of my statement. I’d had nothing to say beyond the bare fact of finding the dress in a carrier bag.
“This is costing me money.”
“Nonsense. You were just going to close your shop. Any luck with your Brook investigation?”
I shook my head. I could hardly scour the entire country for a pupil called Miranda Brook. “I guess there’s nothing I can do,” I said. “Especially if the hospital records are being doctored.”
“Try the insurance companies. See if Derek Brook has made any other claims, or his wife. Of course, they may be using a variety of names and addresses. It’s not much to be going on.”
“Are you going to take the dress away? I’m looking after it with great care. You’ll only stuff it in a box, store it in a room with the wrong temperature and it could easily get damaged. If it does belong to Broom Water House and they can identify it, then, of course, they are entitled to have it back. But, in the meantime, it would make more sense to leave it in the shop.”
I had given the good Detective Inspector a problem. He knew the way stolen goods were sometimes handled and this was a valuable and delicate item. He would get into trouble if it was damaged in transit.
Ring and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 6) Page 12