“Of course. Would you like to take her for a drive?”
They were trusting. She drove like a dream, rather refined like the classy lady she was. We would get to know each other slowly. As long as she did not pine for racing at breakneck speeds, through the country lanes, at midnight after a wild teenage party.
We exchanged phone numbers and they took the notice off the windscreen. I would be getting in touch.
The bank manager agreed the next morning that it was rather a lot for a second-hand car but also agreed that a high-powered PI needed something fast. He offered me half.
I could scrape up some myself. How many rich friends did I have? Jack, amassing money as swiftly as the punters rolled the coin-slot machines. Miguel, doing well with his posh Mexican restaurant; but since I kept him and his adoration at a distance, it would not be tactful. Francis Guilbert, owner of the best store in town… he would not even ask what the money was for.
His office at Guilbert’s was still on the top floor with a panoramic view of Latching. The view had changed a little but Francis had not. He came straight over to me, arms outstretched.
“Jordan, dear girl, what a wonderful surprise. Where have you been? Tve missed our little suppers together.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, hugging him back. “I’ve kept away on purpose. I thought you were getting too fond of me.”
He understood. “You are quite right. I was beginning to have wonderful dreams of us taking a Caribbean cruise together, but I would still like to see you occasionally. So why have you come to see me now? You must want a favor. I sincerely hope so.”
I was ashamed. We had once been close, drawn together by the death of his son, but since then I had neglected him. Francis Guilbert was almost sixty, still handsome, silver-haired, stocky. I couldn’t raise his hopes.
“I want to borrow some money.”
“Easily done. How much do you want?”
“Pay you back, of course.”
“I know. I said, how much?”
I could not take it so easily. “Do you remember my little car?” He nodded. “The one with the black spots on it?The ladybird. She was blown up. Someone was trying to kill me.”
“How truly awful. You must take more care and you must have another car. Perhaps one that’s not so conspicuous. I would hate to have you blown up. It would be too awful to lose two special people in a lifetime.” Francis Guilbert was such a nice man, but a couple of decades too old.
“I’ve raised half the money with a loan from the bank but I need the other half,” I said. I felt so awful, sinking into Guilbert’s best-quality-carpeted floor.
“Consider it done.” He was getting out a cheque book. He dated a cheque and signed it. “How much?”
“Three thousand pounds.”
“Is that all? I was hoping for a lot more, then I could twist your arm into a supper together.”
He was such a dear. Our suppers had always been at his house, something simple. Cheese and pate, a good wine. Those evenings had been pleasant and I had needed them. James had been more than distant then and a man’s admiration had been such a tonic to my diminishing confidence. We had become good friends. Then I had let the friendship slip. I have a mercurial streak.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Just say yes, and agree you’ll come for supper one evening soon. I won’t tie you down to when, knowing you must be on some horrid case. Why were they trying to blow you up?” Francis shuddered. “I do wish you would come and work for me again. Flexible hours, excellent pay, staff discount. Can’t I tempt you?”
I had to laugh. It was tempting. He wanted someone to step into his shoes now that he had lost his only son. He wanted to groom me, train me up, adopt me. I wondered if I could fit in a little retail therapy. Could I run a store like Guilbert’s? Running First Class Junk was hardly in the same category. I didn’t tell him about the drugging and the air gun.
I took the cheque and kissed him on the cheek. “Supper, yes, I promise, soon. Job – well, I’ll think about it and maybe we could talk some more. But really, I’m not good enough or clever enough. When I did work for you, I made a lot of mistakes.”
“We all make mistakes. It’s part of life’s learning curve. It’s admitting the mistakes that’s important.”
“I have a friend, a young Italian, Carlo, who needs a job in a restaurant. He’s just been made redundant.”
“Send him along to me.”
He looked so sad when I left that I almost ran back and agreed to do everything that he wanted. But it’s not possible to fulfil everyone’s dreams. He had to find someone else.
Viola was almost within my grasp, her steering wheel under my hands. But I still felt it was too soon since the ladybird had been blown up. What a way to go. No collapsing with the weight of rust, no major engine failure, no serious brake problems. I wanted a fitting end for her. Crushed and reduced to a small wedge of metal was out of the question.
I phoned Duke Morton. “Look,” I said, “You won’t have her taken to the knacker’s yard and crushed into a small metal block, will you?”
“Are you talking about your car?” He didn’t know me very well.
“Yes, you’ve taken her away for forensic. I know they can still find fingerprints and blood even after a fire. But I want her back, all the bits, for a proper farewell.”
“James said you were mad.”
“And you’ve said that twice.”
This was beginning to annoy me. He had adopted a patronizing tone, which I had not noticed before. DS Morton had seemed nice enough; now he was showing that masculine side which I detested.
“Just give me back the bits in a very large cardboard box,” I said in an icy voice. “And I will dispose of them. Never you mind how. Nothing illegal.”
“You’re not allowed to dump them in the sea,” he snapped.
“As if I would,” I said. He was obviously tired, not enough sleep. “All that rust.”
That afternoon, I laid out the cards on my office floor. The shop was dusty. Every index card had some aspect of the Holly Broughton case on it and everything that had happened. It was an old trick of mine. Moving the cards around into different patterns and arrangements sometimes sparked off a new idea, a new line of enquiry.
But my brain wasn’t working properly. I could only see my car burning and the flames licking at her frame. As well as being sad, I was starting to get very angry at the senseless destruction.
I stormed back to my flat, barely looking where I was going. All this up-and-down of emotions was no good for my stress levels. I might go gray overnight. My mother went gray very early.
Since my body needed some sort of sustenance, I made myself a sandwich from stale granary bread, runny Brie cheese, a shriveled tomato, limp lettuce, walnuts and dried-up home-made horseradish relish. It was revolting, reminding me that I had not shopped for days. I sat on the floor, watching wallpaper television, chewing gunge.
Notes: Who killed Holly Broughton?
Who stuck her on a stake?
Who fed me hallucinatory digitalis?
Who shot at me with an air gun?
Who blew up the ladybird?
Who stole the hens and rabbits?
What about the Medieval Hall?
In that order. It was quite a list. And I had no answers whatsoever. But I had a gut feeling that the first five questions all had the same answer, the same name. But what name? James might know but then he was not on this case.
I couldn’t sleep yet. I was still hungry but Mother Hubbard had nothing, not even a past-sell-by-date yoghurt. I prowled the streets wondering what I could buy from a takeaway that wasn’t junk. Maeve’s Cafe was closed. My steps took me back towards my shop in the hope that it had a left-over packet of cashew nuts or digestive biscuits.
“Oh no you don’t,” said Miguel, stepping out on to the darkening pavement. “You don’t pass my door without saying hello, or coming inside to taste my latest dish.”
I was ridicul
ously pleased, liking him a lot. I had missed him, this fortyish, darkish Mexican chef who thought I was special. I followed him in, knowing I would be pampered and fed and escorted home all in one piece. It sounded good.
“Hello,” I said. “How are you?”
“Feeling better now to see you.”
The restaurant was half empty. This was unusual as it was usually full to the brim with a waiting list for cancellations, particularly divorced women on their own, driving in from a large surrounding area.
“There is international soccer match on television, some final cup,” he wailed as he took me to my usual corner table, two chairs, a single rose in a vase. “They eat takeaways and watch a ball running round a field. I cannot believe it.”
He poured out a red wine without even asking. The glass was a deep goblet. “I will choose dish,” he said. “You have not eaten properly for days, I can see that. No color. Maybe you are still ill. Please wait, Jordan. Do not fly away. Stay.”
“I had a mouldy sandwich.”
“A sandwich? Is that food?”
No thought of flight when sitting in Miguel’s candle-lit restaurant, sipping a full-bodied red wine, nothing out of a box. He was cooking for me. Tossing things about in the kitchen, adding garlic. All I had to do was wait and mellow. Again, another good man, waiting for me to make up my mind.
It was a big oval dish of lobster and other seafood, steaming and aromatic, with rice and a side salad. He called it Langosta Con Arroz. Miguel placed it between us and we ate together, enjoying the tastes and the pleasure of good company. Miguel drank mineral water. He was still cooking, had a restaurant to run. But I had a glass of potent red to finish. It went straight to my head.
“So,” said Miguel, his dark brown eyes full of concern, “what is happening? Why have you kept away from me?”
I did not know what to say. He had helped me out so many times and cared about me. And I had the softest of spots for him, but he kept disappearing back to his home in the hills outside Acapulco. Maybe he had a family out there with dozens of bambinos. James was the only man in my life. It was complicated enough already.
“I am being targeted by some villain,” I said. “Dose of drugs first, then shot at with an air gun, now my car has been blown up. My ladybird. There’s no way I want any of my friends involved in this kind of mayhem. It’s too dangerous.”
He looked shocked, a succulent morsel of langouste perched on his fork. He was poised to whisk me out of the country to his hacienda. I could see him mentally buying air tickets on the Internet, checking his passport, packing a shirt without once leaving my side.
“No,” I said firmly before he could say a word. “I’m not going away anywhere, so put that right out of your mind. I’m staying here to see it through. I’ve survived three threatening experiences so nothing more can happen.”
“But it is too dangerous. I not believe this. You are in dangerous place. Please, Jordan, let me take you to safe house. I know where. They will not find you again. You will be invisible to the world.”
“That’s not my style. I don’t run away. I want to find out who blew up my car. I’m really serious about this, Miguel. They are not going to get away with it.” The wine was making me feel incredibly brave and capable.
“You must let me do something. If you won’t let me take you out of the country, at least stay in my flat where I can keep both of my eyes on you. Your little flat could be booby-trapped up to ceiling,” he said. His words were getting pretty mixed up.
Miguel had lost his appetite and pushed the dish away. Some customers came in and he got up immediately to greet them. His smile was warm and genuine as he showed them to a table and brought a dish of complimentary croutes to nibble while they read the menu. He hid his concern like the professional he was. I bet he won prizes cooking in Mexico.
I didn’t want to move. I felt safe sitting at this table with Miguel around. Like James, he would take care of me. It seemed sensible to stay at his flat. He would be the perfect gentleman and sleep on the sofa. No, I would sleep on the sofa. There was no way I could go home and collect some stuff. My flat might be wired. Making a sandwich had been safe enough but flushing the loo might set off an explosion. I hoped Miguel had a spare toothbrush.
I was getting the strangest feeling of deja vu.This had happened before. I was seeing a couple sitting together across the room, talking in low voices, already sipping white wine. The man had his back to me but the immaculate suiting seemed familiar. The woman with him was in her late forties with short-cropped blonde hair curling over her ears. I caught a glimpse of diamond earrings and a gold brooch shaped like a clef of music on her black-silk blouse.
I turned my head away quickly and concentrated on chasing the last grains of rice on my plate, my thoughts racing. They had not seen me. Somehow, I had to slip out the back way, through the kitchen. The man had a name but not the woman. And I’d seen that brooch before. Holly had been wearing it. It was too much of a coincidence.
Seventeen
It was strange going home with Miguel when the restaurant closed, to his sea-front flat in a prestigious new Georgian-style block towards East Latching. It was so exclusive each tenant had coded entry through the main entrance, a code for the lift, another code for his own front door. It would take MI5 to get in.
The interior walls were painted a silvery white; all the doors were silvery white, subdued lights were concealed in the ceiling, the floor highly polished. I felt I ought to tip-toe. Miguel was out of place in these cool surroundings but he seemed happy enough, whistling under his breath.
“It is because you are with me,” he said. “Always my dream to show you my home.”
But once inside his flat, all Mexico was let loose. An explosion of color and warmth met me. Handwoven rugs and wall tapestries and vibrant pictures; comfortable armchairs, rosy lamps and a huge plasma television set in the wall. Exotic plants grew rampant in big terracotta pots; more pots and window boxes full of flowers filled the iron-railed balcony facing the sea. Books and magazines lay strewn on the floor.
He began picking them up, returning them to low bookcases along the side of the big window. He collected glasses and took them through to the kitchen. I caught a glimpse of a tangled rope of garlic hanging from a hook.
“This is absolutely lovely, a beautiful flat,” I said, bemused. “So big and colorful. Fancy living here.”
“You could live here any time you like, Jordan, if you fancy. I don’t have to tell you that.”
He was grinning, obviously unable to believe that he had finally captured me. But I was scared, not of Miguel, but because suddenly I realized I should be looking over my shoulder all the time. Someone was out to get me and a fourth time was not out of the question. I no longer had James looking out for me. Duke did not have the same commitment to my welfare.
“Thank you for letting me come here,” I said. “You’re quite right. My flat isn’t safe, nor my shop, I suppose. But I don’t have anything with me, only what I’m wearing.”
“I can find you a new toothbrush. And if you don’t mind, a clean T-shirt of mine for the sleeping?”
I nodded. “Sounds good. Thank you.”
There was no need for anyone to take a pillow to the sofa. Miguel showed me through to a second bedroom. The furniture was all fitted. It was mostly white wood but the fabric touches were yellow and orange. It looked like a sunlit room in Mexico on a hot day. A small bathroom was decorated in the same colors, several thick yellow towels waiting for me to mess up. I was going to be so comfortable. I couldn’t wait to roll into that bed and pull up the fluffy butter-yellow duvet. Waves of tiredness rolled over me. It was probably the wine at last, and all that had happened.
“I’m sorry but I can hardly keep my eyes open,” I said.
“I know. I can see. Go to your sleep time. Goodnight, Jordan.” Miguel sounded disappointed and I’m sure he was, but there was nothing I could do about it. I had promised him nothing.
�
��Goodnight, dear Miguel, dearest friend,” I said, kissing his cheek. The curve of his cheek felt bristly. He was a two-shaves-a-day man. “And thank you again.”
I don’t remember washing or cleaning my teeth or falling asleep. I was a walking zombie, suddenly exhausted by all the trauma of the last few days. The T-shirt was extra-large and brightly colored. It went round me twice, folding me into his dreams. For once, I didn’t remember my dreams.
Sun streamed through the window, pooling sunlight and waking me up. I blinked up at the white ceiling, wondering where I was. This was not my flat. It was too big, too clean. A hotel? The hot colors reminded me of Miguel and I remembered he was in the next room. Fast asleep, I hoped.
I peeked in. And he was, worn out by working long hours in a restaurant. I tiptoed past to the kitchen and made myself a cup of tea. He had lovely blue-striped pottery and copper cooking utensils. I poked around his collection of spices and extra-virgin oils. His chopping board was well grooved with knife scars. Herbs grew in pots on the window sill in cluttered array.
If I took him some tea, it might be misconstrued as an overture. I did not want to orchestrate a situation. I took my tea out on to the balcony despite a light breeze blowing off the sea. I sat well back from the road but still in sunshine. No one could see me. I was not there.
It was bliss. I have always wanted a balcony. An unfulfilled dream. To be able to sit and watch the sea at any time, undisturbed, no one falling over you, no kids screaming. My idea of heaven. A book and a glass of wine.
Miguel staggered into the kitchen wearing a toweling bathrobe. He was rubbing his eyes and face, rasping his shadowed chin. He took in the table I had laid with fruit and cereal, rolls ready to warm.
“Hi,” I said. “Do you have breakfast? If so, coffee’s on the way.”
“I’ll make the coffee,” he insisted. “Sorry, I only like the way I make it. But the table looks most nice.”
“Up to your usual standard?”
“Roads ahead.”
It was a low-key breakfast. Miguel did not talk much. If I had known him better, I would have told him to go back to bed and get some more sleep. He was a bit grumpy. I began stacking the breakfast things in the dishwasher and said I was going out.
Turn and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 7) Page 16