Turn and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 7)

by Stella Whitelaw

  “I’m not a generous man.”

  “I don’t believe it. You have nice eyes.” I do lie outrageously sometimes, but he was not easily taken in.

  “What have you got for me? It had better be good,” he said, looking as if he was about to order me out.

  “Holly was into buying antiques, real antiques, not my kind of small junk. One of her purchases was a full set of armor from the English Civil War which she recently sold on. It sounds a lot like one I’ve seen recently in the boiler room of the pub called the Medieval Hall, which DI James and I have personal interest in. It could be the same one that has put DI James out of action.”

  “That’s interesting.” Duke Morton was not committing himself. “But you have no proof. And I can’t see any connection.”

  “I’m going to find a connection,” I said grimly.

  “Come back to me when you have.”

  “So how did Mrs Broughton die?”

  “Not yet known. Anything else?”

  “There’s pages of expensive antiques that she has bought. But I’m wondering where they are now.”

  “I suggest that since you have finished what you call ‘canceling her engagements’, you should switch off and leave our experts to unravel the rest of her computer files.”

  “Very well, officer,” I said demurely, going through the logging-off procedure. He seemed satisfied and walked away, dipping his head to go under the low doorway.

  I’d already downloaded a copy of this personal file on a CD. I always think in advance.

  Eleven

  Find a connection, he’d said. And I was determined to do it. I’d come to a spectacularly dead end with the rabbits. None of them matched Arthur Spiddock’s descriptions, but maybe the unscrupulous would paint a white ear black. He was coming in to see the photographs that afternoon. I wondered if he would bring Nutty.

  He brought Nutty.

  I had a bag of dog biscuits from the Easy Weigh shop and Nutty was delighted and grateful. He was my slave for life, slobbering all over my ankles.

  “He likes you,” said Arthur.

  “What I’ve always wanted, a genuine canine friend,” I said. “Please sit down. Would you like to look at these photos of rabbits currently for sale in the Latching area?”

  He put on his glasses. The lenses were so smeared with sweat and dirt it was a wonder he could see the chair to sit on.

  “Ah… rhum,” he said, turning them over. “Nope, nope, nope. None of them rabbits are mine. How much are they asking for them?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t make a note. You see, I wasn’t actually buying them so the price was immaterial.”

  “Right. Understand. Well done, missy. You are really trying, aren’t you? I’m impressed. How about the hens?”

  “Rather more difficult,” I said. “I don’t wish to upset you but they are probably in someone’s deep freeze by now or in the pot.” He looked downcast for a few moments and then perked up. “Well, I’m supposing that were their fate anyways. Only it should have been my pot and not some other bugger. Except the bantams. I’d still like to catch who stole them.”

  “So would I.”

  “How much do I owe you so far?” he asked, patting his back pocket.

  “I’ll send you an invoice when the case is finished,” I said. “I noticed that you didn’t put an address when you filled in my contract form. Only a phone number.”

  “I’m between addresses at the moment,” he said.

  I knew the answer instantly. He was living on the allotment. There was a shed at the back with a curtained window. It was against the law but I wasn’t going to tell anyone. I gave Nutty some more biscuits and made a mug of instant for Arthur. I was full of goodwill. One of the photos had unexpectedly turned into pure gold. A spotty-faced youth of about sixteen was holding a couple of the rabbits. Nothing remarkable… but on his arm was a tattoo of a serpent entwined round a dagger. His address could be confirmed.

  When Arthur and Nutty eventually left after more coffee and more biscuits, I went straight to the police station and handed the bunny photograph to Sergeant Rawlings. He was impressed again.

  “So you’re not just a pretty face,” he said. “He won’t give us his name. Got the name?”

  “Not a name, but I do have the address.” I checked my notes and wrote it down for him. “I went there to buy a rabbit.”

  “There’s no accounting for tastes,” he said. “Or were you going to make a pie?”

  “I see your sense of humor has returned intact.”

  “It’s a gift. Thanks for the address. I think the officer in charge will be making a house call.”

  I wondered if I had a gift. If I did, it had not materialized into a recognizable form. Then I thought of the dozens of different roles I had played in various surveillance scenarios. Perhaps that was my gift, being able to hide myself behind different characters.

  A sort of plan was forming in my mind. I felt sure it was the same suit of armor as Holly Broughton had bought that I had seen hurtling towards me, lethal toes pointing at my throat. It was those five small dents, finger-width apart. But what was her connection with the Medieval Hall pub? I doubted if she would have given the time of any day to the surly owner.

  Yet DI James thought the accident had not been an accident. His professional thought process would not rule out foul play. Maybe it would help with his recovery if I could put his agitated mind at rest.

  I sat in Maeve’s Cafe having an early lunch, or was it a late breakfast? She was cooking me grilled plaice and chips. Mavis knew how to cook fish, not a minute too long. And her chips were golden perfection, the best in Sussex. She always served a side salad of iceberg lettuce, rocket, red onion and bits of tomato.

  She sat me at my usual table. “Don’t look so glum,” she said. “The dishy DI will soon be back. Not long now from what I hear.”

  “Dishy DI? I can’t think who you can mean,” I said, straight-faced.

  “Okay, play dumb. Read the paper,” she said. “Get yourself a proper job.” She put the Argus in front of me. I leafed through the pages reading all the local news. Latching was bursting with news. I doubted if the BBC or ITV could cope with such an onslaught of high-profile news items, and all far more interesting than the Commons or people walking in and out of number 10.

  I moved on to Situations Vacant, more out of a sense of duty than anything else. If Mavis had served up my plaice and chips then, I would never have seen the ad.

  BARMAID WANTED

  Evenings only

  Medieval Hall pub temporary position no experience necessary

  01997 518437

  No experience necessary, temporary position. So they were still planning to move the Hall. But it was business as usual till the day it closed. Time to give thanks to whoever invented mobile phones. I don’t think it was Bill Gates.

  “I’d like to apply for the job of barmaid,” I said, adopting a lovely Sussex accent. “I don’t mind temporary. I’m a student, between universities.”

  “Can you come for an interview?” said the man who was answering the phone. The accent didn’t sound like the owner’s. It was someone much younger and slightly foreign.

  “Sure.”

  “Two o’clock today?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you know where we are?”

  “I’ll find you.”

  “And what’s your name?”

  Quick think. New name required. “Polly Baker,” I said, taking the lead name from the Gershwin show Crazy for You, which I love. She’s a feisty cowgirl from Deadrock, Nevada, who sings show-stopping songs.

  Mavis arrived with my succulent plaice and chips on an oval plate. I couldn’t get up and leave now – too cruel to the cook. Another twenty minutes wouldn’t hurt.

  “Smashing,” I said, spearing a chip.

  As I ate, I was mentally going through my box of tricks. This was going to be IUC; don’t try to pronounce that: investigator under cover. There wasn’t time to dye
my hair and it would be a sin to cut it off. But it had to change. I didn’t stop to think if this was a sensible move. DI James would be annoyed, but then he wasn’t going to know, if I could help it.

  Car or bike? Car today but parked at a discreet distance, like half a mile away. I rushed back to my shop and hung up the “CLOSED” sign immediately. I didn’t want any customers. Tight hipster jeans, skinny pink top scattered with sequins, bare belly. Short anorak with fur-edged hood. All very current modish girly look. I added long earrings and bangles galore till I tinkled like a cash machine. The hair was still a problem. It would have to be my own baker-boy cap, but that was back at the flat and I was already cutting it fine. Those damned speed cameras would catch me if I put my foot down.

  Then I found a gaudy scarf in Persian blues and reds. I wound it round and round my head like a 1930s turban and tucked the ends in, fixing it all securely with pins, and set a cheap necklace tiara-style on it. Not a scrap of hair showed. Perhaps he would think it was some religious thing.

  I really like the Medieval Hall pub. I’d liked it the moment I walked in with James, all those months ago, the strains of jazz greeting my ears, the ancient bricks vibrating with the sound. Of course, being with James might have colored the moment. It could have been a McDonalds and I’d have fallen for the golden arches. As long as the man by my side was James.

  Nothing much had changed except it looked different in the daylight. Empty and dusty and faded. No casual drinkers. No soft lighting. No music. A pub in the glaring mean light of day was not an inviting place. It smelt of stale beer and sweat, not just from last night but from centuries back.

  My eyes went to the canopy over the bar. No suit of armor on his perch above the drinkers. The bar was in good shape, optics sparkling, clean glasses in neat rows, mats freshly laundered, taps gleaming. No sign of sawdust these days.

  A slight, olive-skinned young man came through a door behind the bar carrying a cardboard box full of packets of crisps. He was in his thirties, neat in black trousers, white shirt and red bow tie, spikey black hair on top. He nodded towards me.

  “Come for the job?” he said.

  “Right. Polly Baker. I phoned earlier.”

  “Sit down. I’ll bring over some coffee. Sugar?”

  “No sugar, thank you.”

  He must be some sort of assistant manager, a level down from the owner that I had met the other day. At least he was reasonably pleasant. He came over with two cups of filter coffee which looked good.

  “Thanks,” I said. “It smells nice coffee.”

  “I’m Carlo, undermanager,” he said, sitting down.

  “Hi.”

  “Worked in a bar before, have you?” he asked.

  “No, only student bars at uni. We served beer, lager, fizzy drinks and a few tons of crisps.”

  “We serve coffee as well at the bar. Could you learn how to use the machine? It’s fairly simple.”

  “Just show me how and I’ll learn it.”

  “The till is easy. It’s all computerized these days. You feed code numbers and how many and it does the sums. Tells you how much change to give, just like a supermarket till.” I grinned. “Piece of cake.”

  “Then you’ve got to collect dirty glasses, ashtrays, wipe tables, fill the dishwasher. It’s an endless circle of work.”

  “Sounds all right to me. But the advert said it was only temporary.”Si, we don’t know how long the Med will still be here. There’s much talk of us closing down. It could be any time, a week, a month…”

  “Suits me,” I said. “I’ve got to earn some money. Can’t go on with my studies until I can pay my way. I’m studying astrophysics.” I thought celestial bodies was sufficiently vague to protect me from scrutiny. Carlo did not ask me what it was.

  “It’s only the minimum,” he coughed, saying the dreaded words. The minimum was the lowest hourly rate any employer could get away with paying. “But you get free bar gear to wear and coffee. No alcohol unless a customer pays for it.”

  That would save a lot of worry. “What gear?”

  “White shirt and tie. Provide your own black trousers. No jeans. Boss doesn’t like them. But your hair is all right, tied up like that. Looks hygienic. Could you find a black scarf?”

  “Yes. When shall I start?”

  “Six o’clock tonight till half an hour after we’ve closed.”

  “And when’s that?”

  “About half eleven.”

  It would have to be the ladybird all right, parked at a prudent distance. I was not cycling home in a sea mist at that time of night. Too much activity from the younger generation at a loose end.

  “Ciao, see you this evening, Pollee.” Carlo pronounced it with a long vowel sound at the end. I liked it.

  “Ciao,” I said cheerfully. It would not be difficult to work alongside Carlo. I realized that not once had the accident come into my mind in the last twenty minutes. Perhaps it was because I was being Polly, not Jordan. And Polly was a dreamy astrophysics student… why did I chose that subject?

  Carlo picked up the cups and saucers and disappeared behind the bar. “See yourself out, Pollee.”

  Funny how I lost my way, but only for ten vital seconds. The suit of armor was still in the boiler room, sprawled on the floor. I wanted to check those five finger-width dents in the armor. No one saw me slide in and slide out. The five dents fitted the fingers of my left hand. It was Holly’s suit of armor. Individual sounds separated themselves as I glided through the old hall, suddenly reminding me of those moments of terror. The dripping of a tap, distant voices, creaking of a stair tread, a door swinging on a rusty hinge. I had to get out fast. I needed air and space. The day was changing from gray to charcoal. Shopping: batteries for torch, black scarf, disposable camera, paracetamol.

  The ladybird was parked behind some shops, several of which were shuttered and locked up, forced out of business by the supermarkets. It was an ideal place to hide her and was only a five-minute walk from the pub. Once in the car, I pulled on a dark fur hat and tipped it down over my eyes. Not a full disguise but looking different from Polly, the new barmaid.

  I still wasn’t sure if this was a good move or if James would fully approve, but I couldn’t hang around hoping someone else would find out the truth. Holly Broughton’s death was not for me to solve, but as I had been working for her, her case was still on file.

  The scene-of-crime area on the beach was deserted but the yellow tape still fluttered in the wind. The tent had been dismantled; so had the stake on which Holly had been found. It had gone to the forensic laboratory to be examined closely. But it was possible to walk round the rest of the beach. I changed into old trainers and tramped over the slippery pebbles.

  This wooden beach garden was the inspiration of some modern artist. He’d got a generous grant from the Arts Council. Lumps of wood and rocks and palm trees making some sort of exotic experience for people who were bored by the expanse of sand and sea. There were twisting paths and groups of visual shapes, rocks or sculptured tree trunks, to distract the jaded eye if the changing shapes of the sky and moving sea were not enough.

  The wood was smooth to the touch, the patina a rich mellow shine with the rings of time. My feet scuffled the dust and gravel. Something glinted and I bent down to pick it up. It was cold in my hand but I knew instantly what it was and to whom it belonged. Something that the police officers had missed, bless their squad-issue thermal socks.

  Twelve

  The turn-round time was tight. Carlos wanted me back by six o’clock and I had things to buy, clothes to find, people to phone.

  The phoning bit was tricky. DI James had to know what I was doing, just in case. I did not like to think about the just-in-case aspect, just in case.

  I rang his number.

  “DI James,” he answered.

  I could not tell from his voice if he was still prone or into the next stage of his recovery. I had lost track of time.

  “Jordan,” I said.

&
nbsp; “I know who it is.”

  “Wow, what it is to have instantly recognizable breathing. What’s it like? Breathy, voluptuous, fearful, timid?” There was no answer. “How are you?”

  “The same. Slight delay in treatment but I am not going into that. What have you found out?”

  “The Hall is still going to be moved, apparently. They are only taking on temporary staff. What did forensic say about the broken support?”

  “They said it had been sawn through at a crucial point, but they thought the suit could have been held in place by strong nylon fishing line. Then someone had only to slash the line to make the suit topple.”

  “Nasty. Any clues?”

  “You can buy the line at any anglers’ store. A saw is a saw, although these technical wizards can match up teeth marks. It has probably been disposed of long ago.”

  “What about the slashing?”

  “Find me a man to go up a ladder, check the canopy for shreds. However carefully disposed of, there’s always bits left behind.”

  “Bit of a blank there. But I’ll make discreet enquiries. It should be a lot easier now I’ve got a job at the Medieval Hall.”

  “You’ve got what? A job at the pub? Jordan, you must be raving mad.” James’s voice rose.

  “It’s the one way that I can find out what really happened and what’s going on.”

  “It’s too dangerous. I forbid you to go.”

  “Forbid? Do I recognize that word? Excuse me, but when did I last work for you? Never, buster. This is Jordan Lacey, Private Investigator speaking, self-employed and I can do what I like.”

  “They tried to kill me, have you forgotten that?”

  “And I got in the way. That’s no reason to try and kill me again. I’m not a threat.”

  “They won’t look at it like that when they find out who you are. They will link you to me and then you’re in trouble.”

  No one had ever linked me to him – James. It was a heady thought, like I might be a real person at last. Someone that he would look at, decide to have as a friend, perhaps as more than a friend. Like a dream, a fantasy, some woman who drifted in and out of his sleep in diaphanous robes. Surely James had dreams?