Turn and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 7)

by Stella Whitelaw

  This was a calculated guess on my part. It was possible. Rich men gather women like honey. And he was handsome in a ruthless way. Holly looked stunned. It was obviously news to her.

  “Someone else? Is this true? I never knew,” Holly faltered. “But then he’s always surrounded by beautiful women, throwing themselves at him. And he flies all over the world with perfect freedom. It’s not surprising, although I thought we were so happy. Yes, we’ve always been so happy…”

  “Perhaps you were happy, but did you ever ask him if he was happy?”

  “No, he always acted as if he was happy.”

  “And I bet he was. He had the best of both worlds: loving wife in the country, model number two tucked tidily away in London. Who could ask for anything more?”

  Line from song. I had been playing Gershwin a lot.

  “Are you sure you didn’t know?” I went on. “It makes a very strong motive for murder.”

  Holly was shaking her head. “So do you want me to carry on?” I said, as if I was about to throw in the bath towel and the soap and the loofah.

  “Yes,” she said, grimly, but not drinking at all. “I want you to find out how he set me up. And find out who she is. If there is someone else, it gives him a motive for putting me behind bars. Convicted prisoners wouldn’t get alimony, even in an open prison, would they? Do you think I would have got an open prison?”

  I invented a smile. “They’d have fixed an ankle tag on you and put you up at Claridges.”

  That made her smile too. She ate a grape. Was that lunch?

  “There’s one thing I would like to know, Jordan,” she said, taking a second grape. Dessert? “Why were you following me in Brighton? Why was I under surveillance? That wasn’t very nice of you. Rather dented my confidence in your services.”

  Ah. No point in lying. She had spotted me.

  “It was accidental. I was not following you then, though I was later.” Clear as mud, as usual. “I went into the cafe for a coffee. I’d been visiting a friend in hospital.”

  “But then you did start following me.”

  “Yes, when I saw you handing over a jewelery box to the man you were talking to. It was a flat leather box, the kind they use for necklaces.”

  “I know what kind of box it was,” she said tartly. “It was my box and what I was doing with it is none of your business.”

  “Everything you do is my business,” I said with remarkable control. “That is, if you want me to find out the truth.”

  “And you decided to follow me?” So the Islamic scarf hadn’t fooled her. Not a competent disguise.

  “Yes. Until you disappeared down the pub trapdoor.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I lost you. We were outside a bank that used to be a pub. Did you go down the chute into the barrel-delivery area?”

  “In these clothes? You think I would go down a chute, voluntarily? You’re joking.” Holly looked amused. “I appreciate your diligence, Jordan, but I did go into the bank quite normally. I was withdrawing quite a lot of cash from my account. And the jewelery box was a diamond-and-sapphire necklace, a gift from the devoted Richard, worth a lot of money. I was trying to raise money on it. My companion was a jewelery broker. He asks no questions.”

  I drew a long, deep breath. How was I going to talk my way out of this one? Surprisingly, I was feeling quite odd. The room was swaying. I decided to go home. It seemed very desirable to find a cocoon where I could hide.

  “You need money?” My voice sounded a long way away.

  “I need a substantial amount. It’s a business deal.”

  “That’s very s-strange…”

  Holly’s face seemed to waver before me as if caught in a broken mirror. She was still saying something but I didn’t catch the words. Mrs Malee came to take away the tray and her face turned into a small, bruised moon. I tried to remember her name. I made to lift my mouth into a word but it didn’t work. It was an uneasy moment, and as I slid back into the chair, my last thought was what on earth was happening?

  Something like an elephant was plodding through my head. It was a jungle and I had been ambushed. Now the mayor would never give me tea in his parlor.

  Eight

  Pebbles are hard, round objects and several hundred were prodding my soft places. They are even harder on bones. I was too stiff to move. I opened one eye and a small, wrinkled, black creature was about to attack my nose. It was a scorpion. A gust of panic sprayed sand over me.

  I was on a deserted shore, miles from any beach hut, cafe, car park, litter sign. Where was this place? I didn’t recognize the stretch and I had once walked all the way from Latching to Littlehampton for a cup of hot chocolate at the swimming pool.

  The other eye opened and I focused on the frond of dried seaweed near my face. Not quite so predatory, on second thoughts. For a moment, I wondered if I was still me, but the hot-chocolate memory proved that I was.

  The sun was warming my face, the sky a washed blue, and clouds drifted like migrating flamingoes. They were flamingoes, flying through the sky. I could have watched them for hours, but some sense told me it was not sensible. Tides come in and tides go out and it occurred to me that my feet were getting wet.

  I sat up abruptly without finding my elbow. My left elbow had disappeared in a curtain of skin. A rush of tiny waves were swirling round the crater my heels had made in the pebbles. These were my second-best trainers. A bigger wave chased me further up the slope, slithering on my bottom as the pebbles slid away from under me. How on earth had I got here?

  It was coming back to me. What a morning… my solo trip to the pub, the hold-up on the bus, and my slightly frosty meeting with Holly Broughton. She had not been as friendly as before. Perhaps she hadn’t liked being spotted in Brighton. Why had she been trying to raise some money by selling a necklace? Was she paying someone to keep quiet? It had a different kind of smell.

  But how had I got here? I climbed up the slope to the top of the beach with knees that did not work, starting to feel sick. It was empty, not a fishing boat in sight, sparse windward bushes along the edge, withered by the salt air. There had to be some way back to civilization.

  I stumbled on for some hundreds of yards or metres, according to your taste, peering through tangled scrub for some long-lost smugglers’ path. These beaches had seen some smuggling in the past – brandy, cloth, spices, even gold. Heaving boats and lines of men humping the casks ashore at the dead of night.

  The lowering sun reminded me of the time, that soon night would fall with a suddenness, but not until the sky had been shot with red and gold and a stream of silver shimmered along the sea.

  An unexpected gust of wind separated some branches and I saw the makings of a path. The shrubs were singing, birds swaying. No, I mean the other way round. It had definitely once been a path, trodden earth, nettles growing each side, sweeping down branches of sad bushes. I shot off the beach, taking a chance.

  Evening. Where had I been all afternoon – or which day was it? I remembered going to Faunstone Hall but not much else now. It felt as if I had been drugged, because this was not a normal-feeling ill feeling. I wasn’t ill. I was getting better. The bulge in my pocket assured me that I had not lost the camera. I had lost something else but I couldn’t remember what it was. Pity the camera was not automated to take candid shots every other minute. Then I might have known where I had been and what had happened.

  Head down, brambles tearing at my hair, my feet slipping on muddy patches. Rain drifted in drapes and scallops and festoons.

  It was a trek to the unknown. I prayed that I was not going round in circles and would find myself back on the beach. I was in a fantod state, word gleaned from Countdown, watched while in hospital. What hospital?

  My feet squelched, a smell rising like stale eggs. It was unpleasant, as if the ground was contaminated. It might be refuse or something worse. I didn’t wait to find out.

  Light loomed ahead and I hurried forward, nearly tripping, clu
tching at branches which scratched my hands. I came out on a narrow road which also seemed deserted. But it was some sort of civilization and I walked quickly in the direction of Latching, taking the setting sun as my west. West was Cornwall, east was Brighton. I hadn’t been a Girl Guide for nothing.

  The road stopped abruptly. It was a cul-de-sac. Posts stood across the tarmac, chained, with notices warning trespassers. The posts might stop cars or horses, but they weren’t intended to prevent pedestrians. And certainly not pedestrians who were becoming desperate to get home, somehow, anyhow. I started to run and walk, on a sward of grass now, hoping to get my legs working again.

  This was part of a big private estate with gardens sweeping down to the sea, towering hedges so that no one could peep and spoil privacy. Wind-blown shrubs bore the onslaught of gale force 8 and 9 gusts, the ferocity that the Sussex coast had to endure. The houses were big, sprawling mansions, 1930s era, gabled or thatched, flat-roofed, Georgian. The styles were all different, architects let loose with blank cheques. No sign of people, but I bet there were plenty of very noisy dogs ready to pounce on intruders.

  My mind had slipped into neutral. I still couldn’t find my elbow. The flamingoes had turned into white witches, broomsticks pointing east to Lapland. Physical cramp was slowing me down but I couldn’t remember what to do about it. I was a walking fruit salad.

  To the left was a five-barred gate that led to a wide grass avenue between houses. It was left-over land that no one had bought and was not large enough to sell as a plot. My fingers fumbled with the bolt and I opened the gate but forgot to close it.

  It wasn’t walking now, or running; it was crawling. The grass was damp and smelled of lawn mowers. No one was around. This was no man’s land. Perhaps no one lived here any more and all the houses were empty. Everyone had run away to the moon.

  Dusk was descending in folds and I could see the crescent edge of a new moon. Luck says turn your money over when you see a new moon. I didn’t have any money, not even that ten-pence piece.

  I heard footsteps, or was it the pattering of rats? Rats come out at night and it was almost night.

  “Hello, is anyone there? Do you need help?”

  The voice washed over me like an uneasy buckle of noise. It grated on raw edges. I had not heard a voice for hours and hours. There was a void of voices.

  “Hello, this is security. Who’s there? Answer me, please. Do you need help?”

  I nodded. I needed help.

  I heard crunching feet. They were breaking the grass. Splinters of grass spattered across my face. I saw boots stamping in front of me, several of them, toecaps laced with strands of grass, bits bitten off by the rats.

  “Is that Miss Lacey, Jordan Lacey?”

  The name seemed familiar. Yes, that was someone I knew.

  “I don’t know. I’m not s-sure,” I said, dredging sound from somewhere within my throat.

  I felt myself being lifted up by a pair of arms. There was nothing I could do about it. I was seeing a man, quite ordinary but tall and well built, wearing dark clothes. He wore glasses and light from a lamp somewhere reflected off them. There was someone else in a uniform but I could not see him properly.

  “Miss Lacey. We’ve been looking for you. Don’t be afraid. I’m going to take you home. You are quite safe now.”

  “Do you have some water?” I said, mouth very dry. Yes, I wanted water. That was it. I needed water.

  “Of course. There’s a bottle of water in the car. Come along, I’ll help you walk. Your legs are a bit unsteady.”

  “I don’t have any knees,” I said.

  “Yes, you do. Your knees are quite all right. Perhaps you can’t feel them but they are there.”

  “And I’ve lost my elbow.”

  “Your elbow is okay. Both elbows present. Perfectly okay.”

  “Thank goodness,” I said. “I thought I had lost them.”

  It dawned on me that I was talking nonsense. This was complete rubbish. What was making me say it?

  “Where is this?”

  “It’s near Climping. Quite a way from Latching. We’ve been searching for you.”

  “Why?”

  “Detective Inspector James was worried. You weren’t answering your phone. There had been nothing from you for hours. He knew something must have happened. You are usually pretty good at reporting back.”

  “Am I?”

  “Can’t you remember anything?”

  I was being put into a car in the front passenger seat. The man with glasses fastened the seat belt and gave me a bottle of mineral water, twisting the cap off. I drank and drank. I love water. The taste was cool. It spread through me, trickling along all the little veins and channels.

  “Try, Miss Lacey. Try to remember what happened.”

  I dredged through my mind. It was like a sponge sodden with slime. If only I could tap the fluid and grab at a few nuggets of information.

  “I went somewhere this morning,” I began, struggling. The man was driving the car slowly along a road, the other policeman sitting in the back. I didn’t really care. It was warm in the car. “I was doing something.”

  “Good. Well done. Then what happened?”

  “Something about a bus.”

  “A bus. You were on a bus? What can you tell me about it?”

  The bus. It was crowded. “I was looking into people’s gardens. I put my camera under the seat.”

  “Excellent. Why did you put your camera under the seat?”

  “Because, because…” It escaped me. We were driving along leafy lanes, lined with identical retirement bungalows. Neat front gardens, tidily parked cars. They looked so normal. I had to trust this person. He said he was taking me home.

  “Try to think, Miss Lacey. It could be important.”

  “Coffee, I remember coffee in a silver pot. Lovely china. And little rolls of bread filled with smoked salmon.”

  “They don’t serve those on buses. Was it somewhere else?”

  “Yes, I was somewhere else.”

  “Then you found yourself at Climping?”

  “On a beach with scorpions and flamingoes and white witches. It was awful. I couldn’t move. My elbow had gone.”

  “Miss Lacey, please don’t be alarmed. Although I said I would take you home, actually I think I should take you to hospital. I think you have been drugged, probably with the date-rape drug, Rohypnol – or roofies, as they call it. It suppresses the central nervous system and respiratory system. It’s tasteless and odorless and ten times stronger than Valium.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said vaguely. I didn’t understand anything, but some sort of world was swimming back. “I wasn’t on a date.”

  “I have to get you to hospital. All traces of this drug disappear after twenty-four hours. You need to be tested. Please trust me. I was taking you home but now I’m taking you to hospital.”

  A dark velvet curtain seemed to draw apart. I saw a flash of light.

  “Are you taking me to the hospital where DI James is? The same one in Brighton?”

  “It’s the nearest big hospital with the equipment.”

  “That’s all right then,” I sighed.

  I seemed to switch off into sleep as we sped along some fast road, under bridges and through underpasses. The oncoming traffic was all lights, headlights flashing in the dark. I let myself drift into slumber, trusting this man with the pleasant voice and glasses. He wasn’t hurting me. His voice was full of concern. He sat beside me, a comforting bulk, knowing what to do with driving a car.

  “Do I know you?” I asked, remembering something.

  “I drove you home once before.”

  “Luke?”The name came out of some abyss.

  “It’s Duke, actually. Duke Morton. Detective Sergeant Duke Morton. I’m new. I was recently transferred from Newcastle. Perhaps they thought I needed a break.”

  “I think I’ve got your coat.”

  *

  I don’t exactly remember the tests. I
fell asleep on the trolley and was out for what seemed hours. Hospitals are not my favorite places. I have been in more hospitals than most people have had hot takeaways. It’s a wonder that I am not banned, forbidden entrance, no more drips, transfusions, X-rays. I’m a drain on the NHS.

  DI James was pretending to be asleep when I was allowed up and went into his room, although the television was flickering in a corner. It was distressing to see him so still and immobile after being such an active man. His toes came almost to the end of the bed. He was a six-footer but it looked as if he had stretched a few more inches.

  “Come in,” he said. “Stop dithering in the doorway. I’m sick of television. Anyone will do.”

  “This anyone is also a patient, so speak to me nicely,” I said. I still had my own clothes on, even though they were filthy. I pulled up a chair and sat on it gingerly.

  “I heard from Duke Morton. So they found you. What had you been up to? Why didn’t you keep in touch?”

  “Because I couldn’t and I can’t remember why I couldn’t. That’s it – I didn’t have my phone with me. It needed recharging.”

  “Always charge your phone overnight.”

  “Thank you, O Guru of Mobile Wisdom.”

  “What’s been happening to you? Duke tells me he found you crawling about in Climping looking for a lost elbow.” James hid a smile. But it was not funny.

  “I don’t really know what happened. I think I was drugged with something, somewhere. Surely not by Holly or Mrs Malee? They are such nice people. It doesn’t seem possible. I wish I could remember what happened. There were flamingoes in the sky and then they turned into witches…”

  “Confusion, Jordan, one of the side effects of Rohypnol. It suppresses the central nervous system and respiratory system. But all traces disappear after twenty-four hours so Duke did right to bring you straight to hospital. Have you been tested?”

  I nodded, thanks to the bottle of water I drank in the car.