Turn and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 7)

by Stella Whitelaw

  “No way, Jordan.” Miguel wouldn’t let me go out, even when I promised not to go far. He refused adamantly, got up and locked the front door.

  “You are not going out. That is my finality word.”

  “You can’t keep me in,” I said, alarmed. I hated being locked in, memories of the hermit’s cell. “I can disguise myself. No one will recognize me. It’s my trade mark.” Detective work is an art. It was a case of sorting out the clues into some sort of sense. Everything was attached to something else. It was my job to unwrap the past. And I had more clues now.

  “I won’t allow it.”

  “How can I find out who did all these things if I’m shut up in your flat?”

  “Let the police do it. That’s their job.”

  I shook my head. “They might be following the wrong track.”

  “All the more reason for you to stay here.”

  This was interesting. Miguel was grumpy in the mornings and a bit bossy although perhaps it was because I had not shared his bed. That would remain an enigma. I would not put it to the test.

  He worked on his accounts at a desk and computer, while I tidied the kitchen and put everything away. I’d done this before – cleared up breakfast at James’ folly home, Marchmont Tower. But James had not been there and I’d escaped out of a window.

  I felt a gust of sorrow sweep through me like an east wind from Portsmouth. Where was I going? What was going to happen to me? My present life was a mess. Temporarily, I hoped.

  “That couple in your restaurant last night,” I said, watering the plants on the balcony. My longing for a balcony near the sea swept over me again. I could see myself again sitting on a cushioned cane sofa, with a good book and a glass of red by my side, warming my skin in the late-evening sunshine. But not today and the price was too high. The sun had disappeared and a chalky sky was already hurrying rain clouds.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you know them?”

  “I don’t know them but they come in quite regularly. At least once a month.”

  “Do you know their name?”

  “Broughton,” he said, turning back to his screen. “They don’t ever book and they pay with a credit card. No problem.”

  Richard Broughton had not caught sight of me, so that was a relief. The woman with him seemed familiar, but I could not place her. I’d seen her face somewhere before.

  Miguel dressed to go out, casual slacks and a fleece sweater to his neck. He felt the cold. He came over and kissed me, smelling of aftershave.

  “I’m sorry I have not talked much but I always do paperwork in the morning. Now I have to go to Brighton, to the fish markets and to buy fresh fruit and vegetables, and then to the bank, for banking the money.”

  “Can I come with you? I’d like that. I love markets.”

  “No, you stay here.”

  “May I use your computer?”

  He looked relieved. “Of course. It is connected to the Internet. You can do what you like, Jordan. Check your emails, do the Google. Play a game of Solitaire cards.”

  “I’d like to check my emails.”

  “Don’t tell anyone you are here. People hack into emails for information.” He looked alarmed, hesitated.

  “I’ll be careful,” I smiled. I looked a picture of innocent reliability, not a wrinkle in the blanket. He went out, locking the front door behind him. I immediately went round checking the locks. The windows were double-glazed against the noise of the seafront traffic, and the flat was on the third floor. No easy way down. There was a rubbish chute in the kitchen to some basement incinerator. Not for the faint-hearted or persons of five foot eight.

  I went straight on to Internet Explorer and through to Google. I typed in the name of the Holly Broughton court case for a second time and immediately several columns of items came up. Nothing was sacred these days. There were newspaper reports, reports on reports, comments and four pages of photos in the Sales Point. Who would want to buy photos of a criminal court case? Only a weirdo.

  I read everything written about the case this time, and there was a lot of it. Richard Broughton was quoted in a statement after the verdict as saying he was glad the case was all over and that they could get on with their lives again. He thanked detectives and also a family friend, Adrienne Russell, whose concern for him had initiated the original police investigation which had led to today’s trial.

  Adrienne Russell.

  A woman called Adrienne had called Holly when I was at Faunstone Hall. Perhaps she was not quite such a family friend. I clicked on Photo Sales and up came four pages of newspaper shots from all angles of the main contenders coming down the steps of the Old Bailey. Strong stuff.

  I flicked through them. Holly looked wan and distraught despite wearing an elegant trouser suit and silk pashmina across her shoulders. The scarf was fastened with a brooch, a musical clef. Now I was sure where I had seen it before. Holly had been wearing it when I had gone to Faunstone Hall, pinned to the lapel of her shirt.

  The same brooch that Richard’s female companion was wearing last night. Correction: a similar brooch. He might have given both women the same brooch. Men often did that. It saved time and thought to buy in bulk.

  I scanned the crowds in the newspaper photos carefully, though I was not sure why. The scenes were unpleasant. People were throwing tomatoes and eggs at Holly and Richard was trying to shield her, his back to the camera most of the time. But maybe there was a nice, kind, friendly family face lurking somewhere.

  It was a bit blurred, but that blonde was in the crowd, the older blonde. She was standing behind several people. It was difficult to see clearly but I thought it was her. Time to find out who she was.

  I used Miguel’s telephone in his study. I didn’t want the call traced back to my mobile. But I didn’t have my mobile. I asked one of the new firms of directory enquiries for Broughton Bank. Then I phoned through to the head of the personnel department. It was a wild chance. I had nowhere else to start.

  “Hi,” I said, silkily. “Melissa Jones, Barclays Bank group here, head office, personnel department. I’m checking a reference from a former employee of Broughton Bank. She says she worked for you for several years.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Adrienne Russell.”

  I heard a sort of suppressed giggly gasp. “Adrienne Russell? Are you sure you’ve got the name right?”

  “Yes,” I said. I spelt it out. “It’s quite clear here on the application form.”

  “How extraordinary. I’ve no idea why she should be looking for a job with another bank. We believe she had a very generous alimony payment.”

  “Sorry?” I said. “I don’t quite follow…”

  “Adrienne Russell was married to the owner of Broughton Bank, Richard Broughton, some years ago. Then they were divorced and I’m sure Mr Broughton gave her adequate provision. A million or so, which was a lot in those days.”

  “There must be some mistake,” I said, continuing in the same smooth voice. “I’ll go back to the applicant. Sorry to have troubled you.”

  “No problem. That’s really weird. Hope you get it sorted out.”

  Wow. Adrienne Russell was the first Mrs Broughton. They’d been divorced either before or after Richard met Holly. Whenever the point of divorce, it didn’t mean she had to like Holly. This could be one mean lady. No one liked being the vintage model.

  There was no way I could stay any longer in Miguel’s flat. I had too much to do. I had to find a way out and I had to find a disguise.

  I went into my email server and sent a brief message to James. He had to know where I was and what I was doing without actually spelling it out.

  “James,” I typed. “Cooking up favorite hot dish. No worries. Safe recipe. You can bank on it. The result could please you. JL’

  I clicked on to Send and sent the email. I never cease to wonder at this miracle of communication. No licking stamps or walking to a pillar box. No running out of envelopes or a pen that won’
t work. Of course, a computer is needed on hand, and one that is working.

  Miguel’s flat was on the third floor and there was no way I could climb down. I searched around in case there was a way up on to the roof directly from his flat. If I could get on to the roof, then surely I could find another route down? There must be some service stairs or lift. But I had no code for any lift.

  Meanwhile, I had found a few items which might work as alternative clothing. I was loath to leave my classy new outfit behind but needs must. I hung it on hangers in an empty wardrobe. As I was changing, a reply came from James on the screen. It was brief.

  “JL. Don’t. I mean it, don’t do anything.”

  I deleted it and logged off. No more emailing until this was all over. James would have to wait and wonder.

  I still had my shoulder bag so had a lipstick and a hairbrush. Nothing much else. Miguel’s bathroom had deodorant and aftershave. My skin would have to starve and shrivel.

  There was a small pot of coins on the kitchen window sill. I helped myself and put in an IOU note. I had reached the depths. I was stealing from my friends now.

  I couldn’t go down and I couldn’t go up but I could go sideways. I went out on to the balcony and straddled the wall, trying not to disturb the plants. The adjacent balcony was exactly the same curve in design and not too far away. I lifted the bamboo sofa and laid it across from Miguel’s balcony to the next one. Two of the legs hooked over the wall. It did not look too safe but it was my only chance. No way was I going to walk across or jump any distance, but I might just crawl… slowly, holding my breath.

  There was no one in. The next-door flat was empty. They had gone to work or to walk the sea front or take coffee at Nero’s. I guessed they ran a boutique. The decoration was minimilistic, hardly any furniture, a few stark wood pieces, several sofas in white leather. No flowers. No books. No personality.

  The front door was locked, of course. But I found a key safe on the kitchen wall and a key that was hanging under the helpful label “Spare, front door”. I opened the front door, closed it and posted the key back through the letter box. They would certainly be puzzled by that.

  I sauntered down the unused stairs, hoping not to meet anyone. The tenants had lift codes and used the lifts. I doubted if anyone would recognize me. My hair had disappeared under one of Miguel’s old cotton hats. I was wearing baggy shorts and the T-shirt I’d slept in all night, sunglasses. Not exactly designer wear. More like foreign day-tripper. I bought an ice-cream cone from Marconi’s.

  “Pleeze, an ice crime, the punk,” I said, offering a handful of coins.

  “Strawberry mint, miss?”

  I walked along licking it. A sneaky sun was trying to pierce the clouds. I could have been on holiday.

  Sure, I looked on holiday. I lifted my head and smiled at the sun and anyone walking along the front. Not exactly paddling time, but near. I had a lot to do and I had a feeling time was running short. It was not mortal fear but a sudden shiver of dread encasing me that cooled the sun’s rays.

  I couldn’t go back to my flat or my shop. There might be an incendiary device fixed to the door. I couldn’t go anywhere. I couldn’t be myself. Also I couldn’t do anything without a source of money. I only had a few pounds on me. I dared not use a credit card in case it was traced to the machine.

  If I called on Arcade Jack or Francis Guilbert, it might draw bad vibes from whoever was out to harm me. And I wouldn’t want anything to happen to either of them, or Miguel.

  The Anchorage, of course. All that blue-and-white chinaware adorning her breakfast room. Time to call on Mrs Holborn and hope she would keep her word. They would not find me there. I’d even sleep on a kitchen chair if they were swinging the No Vacancies sign.

  And the password was “Ladybird”. Gee, rhyming again.

  Eighteen

  I needed to see the CCTV footage that had been used in the trial and any documentation of the money withdrawn from Holly’s bank. DI James was not the man to ask. DS Duke Morton could hardly have his arm twisted on such slight acquaintance. I must know someone who would help me.

  It was a surprising decision. Call me irresponsible.

  “Two-ways ticket to Londres, pleeze,” I said at the railway ticket office producing my cheque book and card.

  “Two ways? There’s only one way to London, via Haywards Heath and East Croydon.”

  “The goings ways and the comings-back ways,” I explained.

  I sat in the train making a list of the things I wanted to check and anything else that might help. Fields and trees and housing estates rushed by.

  I was walking into the lion’s den. No weapons, just charm and guile and a lorryload of luck. Richard Broughton’s flat was a ten-minute walk away from Victoria station. I was praying that he was not in.

  His flat was on the top floor of a tall brick town house in a side street not far from Buckingham Palace. A desirable district. Brownstone bachelor pad, once an elegant home of a professional, maybe a doctor, a lawyer, theologian. Worn steps led down to a basement flat, windows level with the pavement and people’s feet. Not my idea of home, sweet home. But it might present a way in. Some people were slack about windows.

  I went down the steps, rehearsing a doleful story about not knowing which was Richard Broughton’s flat.

  “Pleeze, I am looking for Mr Broughton, the bunker.” But there was no one in. I knocked on the door, rang the bell, peered in the window. Typical lost foreign visitor. But I was doing more than being lost. I was wondering if I could get my hand in the small top window that was ajar and reach down to the catch. The window swung open inwards, which was odd, maybe some sort of ancient bye-law, and I climbed in. No one had seen me so far.

  The flat was a mess. Two men living together. A single man couldn’t get through so many cans of beer on his own. He’d be legless and armless. I closed the window, hurried through and unlocked the front door, slipped outside and shut the door behind me. They would probably blame each other for not locking up.

  The hall and stairway was wide and well decorated and climbed up for ever. Each landing was converted to two flats, numbers and names by the door. Richard Broughton had the whole of the top floor to himself. The views over London must be stunning. I wondered if he had a roof garden.

  I didn’t know what I was going to say to Richard Broughton. Try to get myself on his side, appeal to his better nature, pretend I knew something that he didn’t know? The last option suited me and would be easier to carry off.

  “Mr Broughton, I have evidence about Holly’s death that incriminates a certain friend of yours,” I practised in a low voice, and rang the bell. There was no answer. Did no one live in this house? Did everyone go out to work? What a hardworking lot. But then the rent must be astronomical.

  There was no doormat to look under, no fern pot, no ledge along the top of the door. My fingers crept round the fire extinguisher fixed to the wall. I felt the round end of a key balanced on the black handle mechanism and eased it out of its hiding place. People are so trusting.

  I was inside Richard Broughton’s flat in seconds, closing the door carefully and silently, locking it from the inside. If he returned unexpectedly, it would give me some time to escape or hide.

  It was a beautiful flat.

  Every inch of decoration and furnishing spelt good taste backed by limitless credit cards. I was careful about breathing on anything. Using tissues from the pristine bathroom (was the man a saint?) I protected handles and knobs from fingerprints. In my baggy tourist gear, I felt like a clown who had walked on to the wrong stage.

  The desk and drawers were as tidy inside as outside. His wardrobe and chest of drawers were immaculate. Not even a hair in his hairbrush. And not a single ashtray anywhere. Was there a butler? I went cold at the thought of Jeeves arriving, being confrontational.

  No one had had breakfast in the kitchen. The waste bin was empty, so was the refrigerator. Only a tray of ice cubes. Richard was not at home, that was clear.
Perhaps he was at Faunstone Hall. I took my first normal breath without sitting down.

  I stood in the center of the sitting room trying to sense if anything was out of place. There had to be something wrong in this perfect setting. I swiveled round slowly on my heels. The TV was switched off but a tiny red light was winking. The video recorder was still on. I pressed the Play button and sat on the floor expecting to see a film, something classic. The Sound of Music?

  A haze of fuzziness flickered on to the screen then steadied and a picture came into focus.

  It was Holly Broughton, alive and lovely, talking to a dark-haired, older woman in a coffee shop. It was a pleasant place with pink-check tablecloths and sprigged carnations on each table, large pink china cups and saucers. A fly was buzzing against a netted window. There was no sound but Holly’s face was concerned and anxious. She touched the other woman’s hand in consolation or sympathy then handed over a small packet. It looked like money, maybe a wad of fifty-pound notes in an envelope. Then the screen went blank. I thought it was all over and sat back.

  After a pause, the video continued to play. It was Holly again sitting in the same coffee shop, same flowers, expression looking concerned and anxious. Same fly trying to get out. But this time her companion was a man, someone I thought I had seen before. She handed him the same packet, a wad of notes. The action looked automatic and false. I replayed both scenes. They were identical in every single aspect except that in the first Holly handed the cash to a woman and in the second it was to a man.

  The video had been doctored. They can do anything these days. They had brushed out the dark woman and superimposed the man and it was the second version that had been shown in court. This was the damning evidence that had been shown to the jury in court. No one except an expert could have seen the joins. But the jury had thrown it out.

  I let the video run on. Now there was CCTV footage of Holly inside a bank at a counter drawing out a considerable amount of money. But why shouldn’t she, if it was her own money?