“Have you got any old newspapers?” I asked.
Doris looked bemused. “You all right, girl? You aren’t going to sleep out in one of the beach shelters, are you? Why not go home and make a nice cup of tea, watch some telly?”
“I’m not sleeping rough, Doris; I want to read up on the news that I’ve missed. Catch up on the world. Something important might have happened while I was in hospital.”
“Like the price of coffee went up or Tony Blair missed a vote. I’ll see what I’ve got. I was going to take them to the recycling bin but never got round to it.”
“I’ll read them, then take them to the bins for you.”
“Okay.”
I was leaving the shop with a stack of newspapers under my arm when Doris stopped me. “You’ll have to pay for that satsuma,” she said. “Hygiene regulations. Health and Safety. Can’t sell it to anyone else, not after it’s been fingered.”
“Good Lord. Things have changed while I’ve been incarcerated in hospital.”
I paid for the fruit and put it in my pocket. It would probably gather dust and I’d find it shriveled to billiard-ball size in a month’s time.
I walked along the front, clutching the newspapers, not sure yet where I was going, the wind clutching at my unruly hair. Latching is a seaside town full of interesting Georgian buildings and varied, complex people. But the sea is its prime attraction, the vast expanse of strong water that surges and retreats, fathoms deep for trawlers and passing cruise liners then shallow enough for toddlers paddling. Its color changes by the minute and I love watching its moods, mesmerized by endless waves. I’m a July person, a mood person. I long for the coming summer.
But I knew where I was going now. I was allowed to drive, no longer a danger with risky eyesight. I got the ladybird out, enjoying the feel of the wheel. She was a unique vintage car, small, reliable, fun, with those black spots painted on her red bodywork.
It was quite a long drive and the traffic was horrendous. I’d chosen the wrong time, everyone was coming home from work, and the jams were mega. For a moment, I glazed over and then I remembered where I was going and why. The Royal Sussex Hospital, Brighton.
He was the man I had always hungered for, but he saw me as nothing more than a nuisance, someone who needed information, who needed rescuing, who was a pain in the lower regions.
I was going to visit Detective Inspector James.
Two
The Royal Sussex Hospital at Brighton was a huge rambling building, endless corridors and bleak hallways spilling out to adjacent wards. But I knew my way round now. I had been coming for weeks. Some of the nurses recognized my scars.
DI James had a side room, as I’d originally had, because of the complexity of his injuries and his rank. He hated my visiting him. He was helpless and I was the last person he wanted at his bedside. His mother had come to see him and we’d talked outside. She was a sweet woman with a soft Highland accent and we liked each other.
He was lying in bed under yards of white sheet and an insipid-green woven coverlet. He glared at me with those ocean-blue eyes that sent shivers up and down my spine. His hair was growing, so dark but flecked with gray over the ears. His crew cut had lost its crispness.
“Go away,” he said.
“I’m your regulation visitor. Health and Safety. It’s a new regulation that says you have to have one visitor a week.”
“I’ve had my one visitor.” His voice was still deep, gravelly, dominating.
“Bonus week. If you had come to visit me, I would not have been so rude and turned you away.”
“Want to bet?” he groaned.
I knew all about his injuries, having pinned some doctor to the wall. James could not move and could not be moved. He was paralyzed but not necessarily for ever. James had broken his back when the suit of armor perched over the bar had crashed down on him. Two compressed fractures in the lower back had caused a sharp fragment of bone to come loose from the vertebrae and lodge itself two millimetres from his spinal cord.
Someone had insisted that he lie still on the floor of the pub until help arrived. That someone had been me. I had known that he must not be moved, not at any cost.
“No, don’t move him,” I’d cried, my nose bleeding like a fountain. I was bleeding all over the carpet, face an aching, tender, splodgy mess. I had wanted to hold him in my arms, but knew I must not lift him. If he had been moved, the sliver of bone might have gone straight back and sliced his spinal cord. I had not known that at the time, but instinct told me not to move him. At least the pub carpet was already a Turkish red.
“Have you come to read me a bedtime story, Jordan?” said James with heavy sarcasm. “A cyber-fairy story. Something out of space, from that dizzy brain of yours.”
He did not know that I had saved his life. Who was going to tell him? Not me.
“Why don’t I tell you the story of a beautiful woman called Holly Broughton, who loves her husband but has been accused of hiring someone to kill him.”
“Different.”
“She and her husband, Richard Broughton, live at Faunstone Hall, one of the best properties on the outskirts of Latching. At least, they did live there together, but now Richard is not around so much. He stays most of the week in London. Holly has been cleared by the courts of having him sliced up, but the accusation has irrevocably damaged their marriage.”
“Faunstone Hall,” said James. “There was a burglary some weeks back. A minor break-in.” He was remembering, his face occupied, indexing work.
“Did you go there?”
I wanted to stroke his hand but I did not dare touch him. His hands lay immobile on the top of the sheet. The noise of the ward was starting to intrude, clattering, banging, footsteps. He might not feel a touch. I didn’t know the state of his skin or nerve ends.
“Yes, I followed it up. A beautiful house – God, so perfect, Jordan. White-walled, big and small windows, low granite roof, small sort of tower at one end, idyllic gardens, grounds with stables, tennis court, pool. It’s a dream come true. They are a lucky couple. So some burglars lifted a few things. What did it matter? Probably well insured. The Broughtons live in a rural paradise.”
I had never heard James speak so movingly of a house or home. He had lost his somewhere in the past, when he’d lost his children. He had no real home, rented Marchmont Tower, a local landowner’s folly. These were times he would not talk about.
“Check on the burglary again,” said James, his face pale with the effort. He was tiring. “It may not be what it seems. It could be a setup connected to this Holly Broughton business.”
“So who is going to tell me anything? Not your mob.”
“Say you are from the insurance company. Phone the station and say I want the name. They’ll give it to you.”
He was so long, his feet almost poking out of the end of the NHS bed. Why couldn’t we have fallen in love together? I am a clown, skating on the edge, but I can’t cast away anything to make life easier. James is the only man I want. But I shall always be on the fringe of his life. Several years on and he still does not want me.
Even though I saved his life. But he didn’t know that. I remembered an arm coming up, an arm clad in long-sleeved denim, an arm that took the brunt of the falling armor and turned its projection. It could have killed both of us. The arm was not James’. He was not wearing denim.
My guardian angel? I liked to think so – everyone has one; but I couldn’t see for the blood. And when I was at last capable of looking around, nose staunched with bloodied napkins, he had gone. The denim-clad man was nowhere. I wondered if I would ever see him again, perhaps once. At that last moment, whenever it is, he will come back and take me with him.
“Do you know anything about Holly Broughton or her husband, Richard Broughton?” I asked.
“He’s a rich banker. She drives a fancy sports car, keeps getting parking tickets. But she pays up.”
James closed his eyes. It was a signal. What could I do but g
o? Maybe next week he would like a visitor.
I stood up, dizzy for a second. Nothing much. I soon recovered, searched around for my bag.
“I’ve brought you a satsuma,” I said, searching my pocket. “Shall I peel it for you?”
His eyes dared me. “No, thank you. But there is something you can do for me, Jordan.”
“Maybe.”
“Go back to the Medieval Hall pub. Get a good look at the canopy over the bar. Check why the suit of armor fell, look for tampering. You might spot something.”
A shudder ran through me. I didn’t want to go back to that pub, to relive the scene again. I didn’t want to spot anything. It would freak me out. He was asking too much.
“Don’t count on it.”
*
I couldn’t drive back to Latching without a cup of coffee. I needed a shot of caffeine. They’d be sending me to dry out in a clinic any day now. I found a trendy cappuccino cafe where you paid over the top to sit on a lumpy brown-leather sofa. It was a big cup. I could hardly get my hands round it. But the warmth and the aroma were good. I began to calm down. But not even a gallon of good coffee would persuade me to go back to that so-called Medieval Hall pub. Accident or no accident, it was the last place on earth I ever wanted to go to again.
The drive home was uncomplicated. The traffic had thinned. No one cut in on me, no one drove on their horn, gave me a rude-fingers sign. The road-rage thugs were all at home watching football on telly or already in the pubs.
My two adjacent bedsits were my refuge. They were warm and my special things said hello. Not much furniture, one high-backed moral two-seater sofa, one futon and duvet, one television set. Lots of books, pieces of cut glass, old items of bone china. It made housework easy. Flick a fiber brush and the dust retreated to Shoreham. Watering my plants took longer.
The kitchen area was in one corner, dining area in another, leisure area in the third corner. I knew where I was and what I was supposed to be doing all the time. I made a cuppa soup (mushroom) although I did not want it. Nor did I drink it. It grew cold and eventually I threw it down the sink. Seeing James, so helpless, unable to move, nothing like the hard-working, dedicated detective inspector, up all hours, working all night, that I knew and admired. Wanted, adored, needed.
He wanted me to go back to the pub. But I doubted if I could do that, even for him.
*
I phoned the police station next morning, said that DI James wanted the name of the insurance company in connection with the Faunstone Hall burglary. Some nice WPO gave it to me without a protest. His name opened doors. They were more interested in his progress, his frame of mind. There was nothing much I could say, small talk, mouthing the usual inane cliches. Looking on the bright side, etc.
It was the Avenis Insurance Company. I went into the arcade and printed myself some business cards with their name and a new name, Ruth Grimm, no relation to the brothers. It cost three pounds for twenty-five. A bargain really. No one would make up a name like that.
I phoned Faunstone Hall to make an appointment, running through times when hopefully Holly Broughton would not be there.
“Mrs Broughton will not be here this afternoon,” said the Thai housekeeper in near-perfect English. “She is at hairdressers, all afternoon.”
“There’s no need to bother her,” I said. “I only want to check some details of the insurance claim. Would three o’clock be a good time for you?”
“Certainly, Miss Grimm.”
It was a good morning for First Class Junk. I sold two Victorian cordial glasses, six inches high, like little lamp posts. It was a shame to see them go. My “£6” label was on the low side, but they were going to a good home, I could see that. A silk fan went without a murmur and a gross toby jug, which I was glad to see the back of.
A nose-ringed girl came in, searching round stuff in a hurry. I distrusted her. She had a big bag slung over her shoulder and big bags are always suspect. Although I was serving another customer, I made sure that I kept her in sight. She was fingering a netsuke – that’s Japanese for toggle. It was not a genuine one, as they are made in epoxy resin these days, not ivory or ebony as in their great period.
“Do you know what this was used for?” I said, strolling over to her. “It’s a netski.” Correction pronunciation.
“Nawh.”
“It’s a toggle. They were used to secure waist cords, when the Japanese men wore robes. See the little holes where the cord went through. Now they all wear suits.”
“So it’s valuable, eh?”
“Not really. It’s modern copy. But a signed netski would be very valuable. Let me know if you find one.”
She moved on to thumb through the books. “Got any Barbara Cartland?”
“There may be a few. People do collect them.”
Wrapping the toby jug took a few moments. He deserved careful transport even though not a favorite of mine, and by the time I’d sellotaped his stomach, the girl and the netsuke had gone. I wished her luck round the dealers. The signature on the base was mine and scratched on with a pair of scissors.
An insurance agent should look smart, no jeans or anorak. I hunted round my charity box of clothes and found a gray pin-striped suit, double-breasted with very short skirt. I was not averse to wearing a skirt that short, but it meant finding shoes. Shoes are always a problem. I only have two day pairs, trainers and boots. These women who have hundreds of pairs are beyond my understanding. Maybe it’s a childhood thing, like having to wear pink bootees with bobbles on till they go to kindergarten.
A pair of black court shoes emerged from the bottom of the box. A previous wearing vaguely rang a warning bell. They might hurt. A wipe round with the inside of a banana skin and they looked almost presentable. No need to put them on till I got to Faunstone Hall. A dark wig covered my growing hair and I penciled in some eyebrows. Extra make-up added a few years and Ms Grimm was ready for the competitive world of insurance.
The security gate opened to my new name and I drove in.
But Jordan Lacey was not ready for Faunstone Hall. It was stunning. A long, low, beautiful white-walled house, covered in wisteria and climbing roses. When they were in bloom, it would be a picture. The old windows glinted with fading sunlight and the carved-oak door was already open as I drove round the circular driveway.
The Thai housekeeper was waiting in the porch, smiling, one of these wafer-thin women in a long, narrow black skirt and embroidered jacket, her black hair pulled back into a tight, high bun. Her face was worn but the cheekbones were still beautiful.
“I am Mrs Malee,” she said. “Please to come in. Mrs Broughton regrets not to welcome you and sends apologies. Would you like some tea?”
“Yes, please. Thank you.” I gave her one of the three-pound business cards from my clipboard. “That’s very kind of you.”
“I will serve it in the conservatory,” she said, showing me the way. I glimpsed cool and elegantly furnished rooms either side of the paneled hall. “Please ask if there is anything you wish to be shown.”
I tapped my notes and a pad of blank paper also attached to the clipboard. Clipboards are essential to all undercover work. “I have all the details I need here,” I said. “But I may need your help later, thank you.”
“Please to ask,” she said with a slight bow, disappearing silently to brew oriental tea. Or perhaps it would be Earl Gray.
The burglars had apparently forced open French doors, which faced the garden, sometime in the late afternoon before the house alarms were switched on for the night. They had stolen the weirdest collection of things: an old ivory letter-knife from the desk and a paperweight made from a World War One bullet case, some ornamental brass horseshoes, several pewter tankards from behind the bar (ignoring the alcohol), CDs and DVDs from the television room, and a quantity of cash, foreign currency and postage stamps from the top desk drawer in Richard Broughton’s study.
“Postage stamps,” I murmured, going down three steps to his study. “Were
they going to send a thank-you letter?” There was every kind of expensive computer and printing equipment in this home office, but they hadn’t touched it.
It struck me straight away that everything they’d taken was small, portable and unbreakable. But as I wandered from room to room, I saw Georgian silverware, Dresden porcelain and valuable pictures which had not been touched. The rooms were long and cool and graceful with Holly’s good taste in furnishing and curtains, beautiful Chinese carpets on polished floors and vases of flowers everywhere. Here and there were fairy-tale touches, Venetian-style mirrors, tall glass candlesticks, a four-paneled gold-leaf oriental screen.
“I have served the tea,” said Mrs Malee.
The conservatory at the back was delightful, Victorian style, lots of white paint, deep basket chairs with floral cushions and tall plants growing in earthenware pots. Tea was served in a silver teapot on a silver tray, and there was a plate of small sandwiches and cakes. The cup and saucer were gilded Spode bone china. My appetite stirred at the aroma of salmon and cucumber.
“It looks lovely,” I said, sitting down. I wanted to take off the court shoes. They were pinching. And the wig itched. Perhaps I could scratch my scalp with the spoon. “Thank you.”
Mrs Malee lit incense burners on the sills and soon the air was filled with orange blossom, tiger lily and wild fig. I knew what they were because I could read the names on the Jo Malone pots. Nothing wrong with my eyesight. The housekeeper poured tea into the cup. The pale liquid aroma was very Earl Gray. She left me to add a slice of lemon.
“They didn’t steal this silver then,” I said. “Is it Paul Storr?”
“It is kept in the kitchen,” she said, leaving with a slight bow. “Mrs Broughton uses it every day.”
The tiny sandwich suited my wrecked taste buds. It tossed my reticence aside and persuaded me to take a second one. The tea washed them down and they stayed down.
The thinking part of my brain had not been used for some weeks and it was having difficulty in assessing what I had seen. It was an odd burglary. If it had been kids, they would have taken the alcohol for sure. If it had been antique thieves, they’d have taken the Georgian silverware and more. If it had been drunken thugs on a bender, they’d have smashed up the place.
Turn and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 7) Page 2