Jordan Lacey Mystery 01 Pray and Die

by Stella Whitelaw

  “Do slow down, Jordan. It makes me tired just listening to you.”

  “And among the bits and pieces I found from her bedside cabinet at The Beeches…”

  “The what? There was no bedside cabinet.”

  “Sure, there was no cabinet - it had been cleared with the rest of the house contents. But the drawer had been tipped out on the floor. You as a man would not have recognized what a woman thinks is essential to keep close at hand at night. You know, survival kit. Rick Weston is the secondhand dealer who cleared the house. He could have come across some of the currency in an old piece of furniture. He might have seen her trying to burn the stuff in the grate. There was a Hilton Hotel book of matches on the floor and then I saw Rick using a similar freebie. But he has dozens of them. He gives them away.”

  “Slow down. I’m still not following you.”

  “Then there’s Ted Burrows, Ursula Carling’s first husband and Cleo’s real father. He disappeared in suspicious circumstances and Oliver Swantry—Ellen’s husband—has no death certificate. He would be over a 100 now if he’s still alive.”

  “Not exactly robust enough to strangle his wife and string her up. Or pour rubble down Mrs. Carling’s chimney.”

  “Unless he’s into aerobics.”

  “I’ll send forensic round to collect this stuff. They might get something off the pillow and the bedspread.” I noticed he didn’t touch anything. “It does look as if they were trying to get information out of Ellen. I wonder if any of those Bank of England notes are circulating, the ones which should have been pulped in 1948.”

  “There’s that collector’s shop on the corner of Stone Yard that’s always closed,” I began, but he was ahead of me, striding out of the hotel.

  For once the shop was open. It was packed from floor to ceiling with shelves and boxes of postcards, cigarette cards, comics, magazines, old and yellowing and collectable; stacked boxes of coins and medals and war memorabilia, old ration books, petrol coupons, clothing coupons, identity cards.

  A large Labrador heaved himself off the floor and inspected our ankles. Mr. Arkbright was small enough to fit into his shop, alert enough to have a mental record of every transaction.

  “DI James, West Sussex Police,” said James, showing his identification. “This is Miss Lacey, an associate.” I put on my associate face. “I’m hoping you can help with my enquiries.” He produced a clear plastic wallet in which was one of the burnt fragments from Ellen’s grate.

  Mr. Arkbright’s face lit up as he took the wallet from James. “Another one! Excellent. But what a pity it’s nearly destroyed.” He put a jeweller’s glass in his right eye and peered at it.

  “You know what this is?”

  “Currency of the Realm. Printed by the Bank of England in the last war as a war time measure. Never issued.”

  “You’ve seen another? Recently, you said?”

  “A few weeks ago. A half-crown note. I gave the young man £10 for it.”

  “Ten pounds for one note?” I said numbly.

  “If you brought in a £1,000 note issued in 1928, it would be worth £28,000 now. Work it out for yourself. The currency note I bought is coming up for auction next week. It’ll probably fetch ten times what I paid for it. Just tell me where I can get some more.”

  “Do you know this young man? Did you get a name? Would you recognize him?”

  “No, sorry. Never seen him before. Not one of my regulars.”

  “Can you describe him?” I asked impatiently.

  “He looked like any other young man of today that you might see around Latching. I was far too interested in the note to look at him.”

  “Unshaven, beard, glasses, tattoos? Clothes?”

  “They all wear the same clothes these days. It’s a uniform. Jeans, T-shirt, trainers.”

  “Did he say anything about where he got the note? Or whether he had any more?”

  “No. I asked him the same questions. But he wouldn’t say definite. He seemed pleased with the cash. I had a feeling he would be coming back.”

  “And has he?”

  “Not yet.”

  James handed him a card. “If he does come back, please give me a ring. Nice shop you’ve got.”

  “Anything you want to sell, someone else will buy.”

  I pulled James out of the shop and a few yards along the pavement. He glared down at me. My breath caught on a sharp easterly wind and made me cough.

  “Dust?”

  “A hundred years of it,” I gasped.

  “Is that why you dragged me out in that ridiculous manner?”

  I shook my head. “No…. it’s the orange satin bedspread at Trenchers. I’ve just remembered where I’d seen it before. Ages ago, on the pavement in front of his shop. He was unloading his van.”

  “Rick Weston?”

  “And the description. Jeans, T-shirt. Fits him to a T. I’ll go and see him.”

  “You won’t go anywhere near him. Do you hear me? That’s an order.”

  When did I ever obey orders?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  James took me home, declined a coffee, drove off without a backward glance. I consoled myself that he had taken me along as his associate. It could be called a statutory kind of progress.

  I could not remember when I had last eaten so I pulled out all the stops and made a fast cheese omelet with three eggs, puffy and golden and dripping with melted mature Cheddar, and ate it with a hunk of buttered granary bread. My stomach received the offering with gratitude; my salivary glands rejoiced that all was not lost; my taste buds celebrated with hysterical fervour.

  The two doorbells rang in the midst of my culinary revelry. I peered from behind the curtains like a neighbour. I was not risking another confrontation with the possessive Derek.

  It was Rick Weston standing on the pavement with a large rectangular painting, his cowboy hat tipped back. The nerves round my spine chilled, my goose-pimples pimpled. I was not sure about Rick anymore. Yet he was so solitary. One of the jeans and T-shirt brigade; only those hooded eyes betraying something different.

  I suddenly realized that too many people knew where I lived.

  I flung up the window and put my head out. “Hello,” I said. “Can’t come down. Running a bath.”

  “Do you want this picture? Can’t sell it. You could put it in your shop or on the wall in your flat.”

  He held it up. It was a hack painting of a Scottish Loch in a traditional whisky mist. “How much?” I asked. I didn’t want it. But I was ready to pay out good money to get rid of him.

  “Two pounds. A bargain. You’ll make double.”

  “All right.” I was pathetic. “Can you deliver it to the shop? It’s too big for me to carry.”

  “Are you going to the Air Show at Shoreham?” he asked.

  “I didn’t know there was one.”

  “On Sunday. I’m saving up for a plane. I’m having flying lessons. I’m not always going to be a secondhand dealer. Pleasure trips, that’s what I’m going to run for the trippers. Sussex Sunspots, I’ll call my plane.”

  It was the longest speech I’d ever heard from him. The ambition in his voice was unmistakable. Rick did not want to spend his life heaving crates of battered saucepans out of damp and derelict houses. The sky beckoned.

  “Do’ya want to come with me?”

  I wondered if I had heard properly. Had I suddenly developed glue ear? I tried not to feel snobbish. My social status was nil.

  “The Air Show,” he repeated. “Do you want to come with me? Aerobatic stunts, First World War aircraft, Spitfires, jet Harriers. Great day, crowds of people, stands, stalls.”

  I hovered on the thought. “Well…”

  “You deserve a day off. All the hours you put in.”

  How did he know what hours I worked? Was he just guessing or had he followed me home late one night?

  “OK.” I was sorry I did not sound more enthusiastic but I was up to here, somewhere vaguely mid-chest, with men. There was only on
e man I wanted and DI James hardly knew I existed.

  “I’ll pick you up at 9.30, Sunday morning.”

  “No need. I’ll go in my own car. Simpler.” I thought of the buckets and shovels and ladders in the back of his van and cringed. We didn’t know the truth but I knew why I was going. It was to see if I could learn something; snooping, spying, ask a few artless questions. Also it provided a lesson in humility. The Hospice had rubbed off.

  DI James phoned later in the week, left a terse message on my new answer phone. I couldn’t phone back because I was coping with Ursula. I’d sent Ursula her account and she promptly had hysterics on my doorstep. It was Brookside and Eastenders rolled into one. The language was hardly the millinery department of a Knightsbridge store, more a coster barrow out Mile End way.

  When I told her that Arthur was still alive, she went pale and almost fainted into my arms (an awesome experience). I had to revive her with a glass of my expensive Napoleon brandy but since her account was a hefty one and I had charged every genuine expense, I would look upon the brandy as client discount.

  “Alive? Alive? But he can’t be! I buried his ashes in a graveyard. I saw the box. Get him dug up. The DNA records will prove he’s dead enough.” She had spun way out of control.

  I ignored the agricultural suggestion . He’d been cremated. “No, the records, if he ever had any, belong to a homeless man. I’ve seen Arthur Carling in the flesh, spoken to him, given him cups of tea and buns and he’s very much alive, Mrs. Carling.”

  “I hope you didn’t put the tea and cakes on my bill,” she wept. “I’m not paying a penny for him.”

  I hadn’t. “Surely the important fact is that the hate mail will now stop? I’ve discovered that Arthur has been sending it and it’s finished. He’s promised to stop. Aren’t you pleased? Does it matter whether he’s alive or dead? You don’t love him. And he’s not coming back to you. He could be stone dead as far as you are concerned.”

  “I’ll lose my widow’s pension,” she wailed, screwing up a damp handkerchief. It smelt faintly of lavender. Perhaps she wept lavender tears.

  “You’ll have to sort that out yourself,” I said, not offering any help. “I could recommend a good solicitor to help you.” In Chichester, I nearly added.

  She was not grateful, her face closed with disapproval, and I wondered if she had any idea of the effort that had gone into solving her case. I knew my investigative talent needed honing but I had certainly used up a lot of energy on her behalf. It took more time to calm her down but her cheque was now safely locked away in my filing cabinet. It was when she had gone that DI James phoned again.

  “I have several new facts you should know,” he said in a voice like ice.

  “Shoot.” Mentally I was sending Ursula’s cheque to deserving causes - the rent, electricity, insurance, phone bill. “What have I done to merit these confidences?”

  “Kept out of my way for three days. It’s been like a Bermudian holiday; peace and quiet.”

  “Watch your tan, buster,” I said, slamming the phone down. He phoned right back.

  “Hey, Jordan, what have I done to make you mad at me?”

  It was what he hadn’t done. Like taste my lips, stroke my wrist, ease the worry lines from my brow with his warm breath. Enough to make any woman tear up her Wonderbra and send him the bits in the post.

  “Not a good day,” I sighed into the marshy air. “Ursula Carling has bitten my head off for solving her case, like I’d resurrected husband Arthur on purpose.”

  “She doesn’t like the result?”

  “No way. Not what she wanted at all. She’ll probably sue me for loss of her widow’s pension.”

  I thought I heard a deep chuckle. “This’ll take your mind of such trivialities,” James went on. “Remember the sandwich carton and crisp bags found in the front bedroom at Trenchers? A couple of decent dabs. One set belonged to the deceased lady. And minute fibres found on her clothes matched the orange bedspread. Hairs on the pillow also belonged to her. Your theory was right. Ellen Swantry was kept prisoner there. Fragments of floor debris found near the hair roots during the PM matched a sample taken from Weston’s white van during a routine brake test recently carried out by my vigilant officers.”

  “Oh dear,” I said on a long breath. I was shaken. “So she was taken in the van.” I thought of the looming Air Show.

  “And we have evidence of when his white van was parked only a road away from Trenchers.”

  “Latchings is a small place. It could have been there for any reason.” I tried to erase the catch in my voice.

  “On the same night that someone shut you into Trenchers and hoped you’d break your neck falling through a gaping hole in the floorboards?”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because Weston was careless enough to get a parking ticket. Left the van on a double yellow from 4.30 p.m. till whenever he drove off after hammering those planks across the basement door. There was an RTA early that evening in the same road and the van was reported still there and unattended.”

  “I’m going out with him on Sunday,” I said in a voice I did not recognize. “To the Shoreham Air Show.”

  “Cancel it.” He used the kind of barking command that made criminals shake. “Don’t go.”

  “That’ll only make him suspicious. I might find out something.”

  “You might find yourself strung up in a hanger. Be sensible. Wait till I tell you that he’s in the clear before you go gallivanting round the countryside with him.”

  “Since when have you had the right to tell me what to do?” I wanted to slam the phone down again but I didn’t. There were things I wanted to know. Teeth-gritting time. “So, what else do you know, DI James?”

  “Nothing I’m going to tell you. Just keep away from the Westons. Let the professionals do their job. You chase up lost tortoises and roll-a-penny thieves.”

  “That’s not very nice.”

  “I’m not a very nice person.”

  How could I say that he was wonderful, that I adored every short hair on his head, that his voice sent shivers up and down my spine? No, I couldn’t. I had that certain thing called pride. A useless commodity, especially to a woman who needed the man who didn’t need her.

  I also needed a sauna, a steam and a swim like I was dehydrating. My fear of the place had receded in direct relation to the need. I wasn’t going to let some fool murderer stop me from soothing my twitchy airways with steam. There was a clean towel in my sports bag, swimsuit, body lotion, talc, money. What more could a girl want?

  “Thank you for telling me what you have.”

  “That sounds ominous. You’re not usually so polite.”

  “I’m developing politeness.”

  As the reception clerk at the Health Club checked my name on screen and got me to sign the attendance book, I was following a lead.

  “Do you mind?” I asked, leaning over the counter with a winsome smile. “I want to check if a friend of mine has been in recently.”

  I flicked the pages back to the day of the steam room trauma and ran my fingers down the list of names.

  It was a horrible, spidery feeling, ice chilling my spine. About half way down was something I did not want to see. It was part of a name, ‘Bet’… which was crossed out. Then she’d written in Elizabeth West. Was this Betty Weston, Rick’s adoring single mother? She’d checked in at 8.30 and left again at 8.55. It fitted.

  “Do you check everyone who checks in?” I couldn’t think of alternative words. “I mean, do you know everyone?”

  “No way. How could we?” said the receptionist. “We have a membership of over five hundred. It’s impossible to know everyone. We can’t remember everyone’s names.”

  “But you remembered that I’m Betty Weston just now, when I signed in.”

  “Oh yes, you’re a regular member. We know you.”

  Full marks for memory and observation, lady.

  The Sunday of the Shoreham Air Show was cool and trea
cherous. Rain clouds gathered in the sky, planning their own show. The field next to the airfield was full of parked cars churning up the earth in furrows, disgorging flying fans with rugs, thermoses and folding chairs. I wore my best jeans, high-necked sweater, boots and my good leather jacket. It was supposed to be a date.

  Rick was waiting for me. He wore jeans, a cream polo neck jersey and a flying jacket. It was obviously a date. We nearly matched. I wondered if he had a white silk scarf tucked in a pocket.

  “Let me show you around.”

  He was a good guide, brimming with near adoration of winged machines. He knew a lot about aircraft and their flying performance. We watched the Diamond Nine vintage biplane team take to the air in perfect formation. They were stunning.

  “These planes have no wheel brakes. I’ll fly ‘em one day.”

  We inspected the giant Catalina on the ground. “This baby saw reconnaissance, bomber and anti-submarine service, air-sea rescue, won two VCs in the war,” he said admiringly. “And she’s still airborne. You’ll see her take off later. She’s the largest aircraft to use this short runway.”

  Into the air sailed a frail First World War tri-plane, then an old green-camouflaged Spitfire spluttered overhead; the Team 50 flying YAK 50’s began synchronized aerobatics. I nearly broke my neck watching their aerial choreography, gasped at the timed cut-offs, spins and dynamic dives. It was life and soul to Rick.

  “Wait till you see the RAF Harrier jets! Got your ear-plugs? They take off right here on the runaway … Straight up! These are the Crazy Stunt planes—wing-walking. Need their heads tested.”

  Girls waved and gave away free chocolate bars as we walked past the parked yellow-painted stunt planes. The wing-walking biplanes were covered in gaudy adverts for a brand of chocolate. “I don’t know how they do it,” I shuddered. “I’d die of fright.”

  “Takes nerve.”

  We watched the Pegasus team drop six parachutists with high performance chutes. The free-fall manoeuvres used smoke generators to create sky trails. It was like a silent fairyland.