Had these scenes also been shown in court? They meant nothing. But a sharp lawyer could imply anything about the amount of money being withdrawn. An even sharper one might have noticed the man standing back in line was reading a copy of the Daily Mail that had a front page of disaster. Zoom in and enlarge the date and the newspaper might have been published around the time of the Boxing Day tsunami.
That shot of a crooked and broken armchair askew on a mound of wet rubble had been flashed round the world. The footage was old. I had what I had come for. The court evidence had been doctored.
This could be a motive for murdering Holly, if somehow she had found out about the videos. She could have used it to blackmail her husband, but that seemed unlikely.
She would have been more likely to take him to court for falsifying evidence. A conviction would ruin him. And Broughton Bank. No one would ever trust him again.
I slipped out of Richard Broughton’s flat and locked the door behind me. I put the key back on the fire-extinguisher handle. What could I do with this information? Give it to James or Luke Morton? The case was over. Holly was dead. It was only me who wanted to clear her name. It was up to the police to track down who murdered her, but a motive might help.
The coastal train left Victoria Station on time. There was a strong police presence patrolling the crowded station concourse, which was not good, but necessary. My tourist gear, crumpled and sweaty, looked worse than ever. It had been hot in London and car fumes clung to my clothes with obnoxious poison. I huddled into the seat and closed my eyes as the train gathered speed out of London, over the Thames, the vista of scenic new river apartments such a contrast to the high-rise council flats built behind in the sixties.
As I thought about what to do with the video, my WPO training took over: 1. Have a copy made. 2. Put each copy in a secure place. 3. Make a hard-copy transcription.
The day was cooling down as the train drew in to Latching station. I left a message on Miguel’s answerphone: “Cannot involve you in all this, but thanks. It’s too dangerous. Will return the T-shirt and hat soon.”
I couldn’t think of any way of apologizing for my behaviour. Miguel had a generous heart. He might forgive me.
The Anchorage only had a narrow slip of an attic room vacant, barely space for a single bed and bedside table. “I don’t really let this room,” Mrs Holborn said. She didn’t ask for the password. I suppose it had been unnecessary. “It hasn’t got a shower. My son uses it when he comes home. Sorry about the boxes. He leaves his stuff here. No breakfast, you said?”
“Right, no breakfast,” I agreed. I was hungry but I had lifted an apple from Miguel’s fruit bowl. Stealing again. It would have to stop.
“You can make a cup of tea. I’ll give you a hospitality tray.”
I drank two cups of tea sitting on the edge of the single bed. I wanted to sleep and sleep I did despite the narrow bed, the T-shirt acting as a nightshirt for the second night running.
In the morning, I thanked Mrs Holborn for her kindness. She was rushing around making full English breakfasts for her guests.
“I may be back, if that’s all right with you? A quick errand to do first.”
She nodded, her mind occupied with orders of sausages, no baked beans, hash browns, no mushrooms, brown toast, scrambled eggs. My stomach was scrambled before I even closed the front door.
I found a shop willing to copy the video for me without asking questions.
“It’s for my sister,” I gushed. “A surprise.”
“Into surprises, is she?” the assistant asked as he wrote down the name Holly Broughton on the sales ticket. “Ready in half an hour, Miss Broughton.”
While I was waiting, I phoned DI James from one of the few callboxes that had not been vandalized, using my last few coins. “I’ve gone into hiding,” I said. “No need to worry about me.”
“I never worry about you.”
“I’ve found somewhere to stay.”
“You were at Miguel’s flat the night before last. All night.”
“Are you having me followed?” I said indignantly.
“Sort of shadowed. And now we’ve lost you. You’re not moving. Where are you? I have to know.” DI James sounded so near I could almost touch his voice. And he was annoyed.
“You bugged me, that’s what you did,” I raged. “What a nerve. Fixed a tracking bug on my new clothes. I’m hanging in a wardrobe, that’s where I am. How mean can you get? Well, I’ve changed my clothes again and I’m staying at that really posh hotel along the coast, the one with a private beach, taking the penthouse suite.”
“Liar. We don’t have any hotels with private beaches. And I’m having this call traced right now.”
“Pity, I’ve run right out of money. By the way, those videos of Holly at the trial were fakes, doctored. And I’ve got the evidence. It’s a clear-cut motive.”
“Jordan—” he began, but I rang off.
I went back to the shop and collected the copy. The assistant looked at me strangely.
“Some surprise,” he said. He’d obviously taken a look, hoping for salacious viewing, sister of sister in compromising situation. Nasty mind. I realized that I was not going to be able to pay the bill. Nasty predicament.
“Will you take a cheque?”
“Don’t take cheques.”
“My boyfriend has some cash. He’s waiting outside. I’ll get it from him.”
“Okay.”
I picked up the videos. He’d put them into a plastic carrier bag. I walked casually to the shop door, swinging the bag. He was one dim assistant. I would never let anyone leave my shop with the goods before paying.
“Hey, big guy,” I called to an empty corner of the road. A stray cat looked at me. “I need some money. Dish it out, buster.”
Once outside the shop, I doubled down and ran. I know the twittens by heart. I raced down the narrow alleyway, took a sharp left and buckled sideways along another twitten. It led to the rear of a street of terraced houses, tall narrow Georgian houses with damp basements and fronted with bay windows and iron balconies. They were once elegant but now mostly divided into flats.
I ran along the back gates and found one low enough to climb over. I almost fell over and landed awkwardly on a small concrete patio, colliding with two earthenware pots, plants tangled and dried out. I would have to take cover here for a while and hope the occupants didn’t come back to water their plants.
I tried to stand up and winced with pain. My ankle was starting to swell. This was not good. Injured private investigators don’t stand much chance of getting out of tight corners fast. I didn’t have a phone. I didn’t have any money and no water. A chill was settling in the air and I didn’t fancy staying there all day. I sat down on a hard concrete step and waited for inspiration.
It was a long time coming.
Nineteen
The backyard was a bleak and barren place, strewn with mouldy takeaway boxes and dumped Coke cans. Had it ever been any different? The original owners had promenaded for fresh air, spent their leisure in the small private libraries that abounded around then, drinking coffee and playing cards. Libraries in those days were social centers as well as being shelved with the latest books and magazines.
Here was where the maid hung out the washing and removed the household rubbish for collection. I couldn’t stay much longer. It was halfway to nowhere and I wasn’t feeling too good. My ankle was hurting.
It needed binding firmly and immediately while I could still put my weight on my foot. Derelict backyards don’t normally have first-aid boxes with elastic bandages. I took off the colorful T-shirt and tore the lower half into strips, using my teeth to start it off. Miguel would understand. One day his understanding would run out.
It was not a tidy bandage and Miguel’s T-shirt was now a ragged cropped version. Very mod but no navel ring. I’d joined the current craze for a draughty midriff.
It was an awkward climb, trying not to use the twisted ankle. A sort of spra
wling, crawling roll over the top, dragging myself, using my weight to tip the body. The gate scratched my stomach and nearly tore the carrier bag. Finally I hopped away, grabbing at the sides of the twitten to help my progress along. A handy stick was protruding from a pile of smelly black bin bags at the end. It became mine instantly, retrieved from oblivion.
As I hobbled out on the main road, head down, a flash of blue metal went by with two cones of yellow light piercing a drizzly rain. The car stopped, and reversed noisily. A window wound down and Jack put his head out.
“Jordan, what’s up? Whatcha doing?”
“I’m in disguise. You not supposed to recognize me.”
“The limp looks pretty genuine, but I’d recognize you if you were wearing a rhinoceros skin.”
“That’s a terrific compliment, thank you.” I suddenly thought of the irate shopkeeper looking for me and wanting his money. “Are you going anywhere interesting?”
“That sounds desperate.”
“It is.”
“Hop in,” he said, reaching over to open the passenger door. “I’m going to watch the moving of history. Right ol’ history buff, I am. Didn’t yer know?”
Jack threw the gears and sped off, accelerating as fast as he could without breaking the speed limit. He didn’t have many points left on his licence. The cameras were always catching him. They were on red alert for his blue Jaguar.
“You look a wreck,” he said, not taking his eyes off the road.
“I am a wreck,” I said, miserably. “I’ve twisted my ankle and it hurts. I can’t go home or to my shop because it’s too dangerous. They might have wired them to blow up. I’ve no money and I haven’t had any breakfast.”
There were weak tears glimmering in my voice. Not like me at all. Private eyes don’t cry.
“Who’s they?” Jack said.
“We don’t know. Nobody knows.”
I swear he was grinning. He was wearing his usual gear, grubby T-shirt and torn jeans. “There’s a Kit-Kat in the glove compartment,” he said. “Help yourself.”
I ate it as slowly as I could. No four-course meal in the offing. Jack was tired of trying to seduce me and failing. All I deserved was a Kit-Kat. I didn’t blame him. Anyway, who takes a lame wreck out to lunch?
“So who the hell’s trying to scare the pants off you this time?”
“I don’t know. It’s something to do with Holly Broughton’s death, I think. I’m not sure how it’s all connected. I’m not sure about anything any more. It’s all a terrible muddle and I’m in the middle of it.”
“Tissues in the glove compartment. Help yourself.”
“You’re very kind.”
“You’ve said it. I am kind, Jordan. I could be kinder but I’ve realized that you don’t care a hoot for me. So I’ve gotta get over being this wacky guy crazy for you and find some nice piece of skirt who’ll go for good looks and a healthy bank balance. It would be nice to have my breakfast cooked for me.”
The silence could have been cut with a knife. Jack had never spoken to me like this before. I didn’t know what to say. His testosterone level was racing high.
“I’m so sorry,” I mumbled, crumpling the silver paper. “I’m not very good at relationships. The worst in the world. You’d better let me out at the next corner, anywhere that’s convenient for stopping. There’s nothing I can say to make things better. Thank you for the Kit-Kat.”
Jack leaned over and put his hand on mine. I didn’t flinch though the skin was grimed and the nails pitted and black. He bit them to the quick.
“I didn’t say nuffin’ about us not being friends,” he said, driving on. “I know you’ve still got the hots for your detective inspector but he’s way out of line when it comes to the romance stuff. His Scottish blood, I reckon. All that cold weather numbing the vitals. But you and me, we could go a long way, being best pals. Don’t turn me down on that, baby.”
I could have cried. I turned and put my arms round him and kissed his stubbly cheek. It was the first time I’d kissed him, I think, not totally sure about the distant past. But he needed kissing to heal some of the hurt I had caused.
He coughed to cover his embarrassment and switched on a CD cassette. “That’s enough mush, gal. This is Rod Stewart,” he said. “You’ll like this one. So why are you limping? Wot you busted now?”
As the gravelly voice of Rod Stewart went to my head like a glass of champagne, I told Jack about my criminal activities of the day. It was an impressive list. Breaking out and breaking in, stealing, shoplifting.
“I don’t think I want to be associated with you, gal,” said Jack in his new confident voice. “You’ve got a criminal record a yard long.”
“Then I was climbing over this rickety gate. It was a bit high and I fell the other side, twisting my ankle. Masai warriors can walk miles on a broken leg, but I can’t.”
“You ain’t no warrior, walking nowhere. You’re coming with me,” said Jack. “You might change your mind about me if I’m nice to yer.”
“I might,” I said, with a big sigh of relief. I was beyond arguing with him. I wanted to feel safe and looked-after but without strings. “So where are we going?”
“I suppose it ain’t too clever to remind you of your accident – y’know, where it all happened? But they are moving the Hall today. It’s costing mega-bucks. Gonna be a great show, free. Move of the century. In all the papers.”
I was going to have to confront the place again, relive all those memories. So they were going to move the Hall after all, despite the local resistance and police opposition.
“I can cope,” I said. “I’ve been there before, worked in the bar, part-time job. James wanted me to go and check out how the suit of armor was fixed on the bar canopy. See if there was any monkey business.”
“You worked in the bar? Stone me.” Jack’s voice held admiration. “You never told me. And was there – signs of funny business?”
“Oh yes, the plinth was partly sawn through and it was fixed up with nylon fishing line. It only had to be slashed and then it would fall. It was meant to fall, to kill one of us. Probably James, because he had been the prime opposition to the move. He was against it from the start. But there are some very powerful people around and it was a lost cause.”
Jack had to park the car some distance from the Medieval Hall pub. The surrounding roads had been closed and there were police everywhere. My blood chilled. It had all been in vain. James had endured these days and nights of suffering for nothing. I could imagine the route that the Hall would take. It was a long way and what about that bridge? Had they pulled it down or had the journey been rerouted?
We went nearer the scene, me hobbling on my stick like an ancient beggar. Jack sauntered ahead, waving back to me. He said he had someone to see about something. One of his mysterious deals.
“Cheers. See ya, Jordan.”
A crowd had gathered, interested in watching the great removal, taking photographs and videoing the scene, but kept well back by a cordon of police in yellow jackets. I remembered I still had the videos but I’d left them in Jack’s car. I hoped he’d locked it. Moving the Hall was a monumental project and I could see the engineering brilliance behind the planning.
I wondered if the owner of the Medieval Hall pub, Pointer, was watching or if the Russian millionaire who had bought the Hall for his estate had come along. Money had talked and won. I spotted Carlo over the other side of the crowd looking glum. He was easing his weight from foot to foot, nervously.
I drifted forwards to the edge of the crowd, leaning on the stick. The sides of the wood were rough and I had several splinters in my hand. I could see that the Hall had been stabilized and already jacked up, inch by inch, on to a giant trailer. I counted ten pairs of huge wheels each side of the trailer.
It was a beautiful building, the beams weathered by centuries, the elaborate pattern of reddish bricks replaced and repointed over the years by successive owners. The steepled roof was covered in tarpaulin and s
ecurely strapped. The Hall was ready to go, but we still had a long wait while the site manager went around checking.
Even the sky was cloudless, motionless. I was forgetting the time I’d been there before. The whole scene was majestic, the Hall almost echoing and surrounded by its past. Some history society were dressed as medieval peasants, dancing folk dances to a piper. Morris dancers clacked and clapped to a different tune. There was a press photographer filming the event.
It was trying to be a festive occasion. I didn’t know whether to be pleased or sad. It was still sunny, but getting cooler. Breeze from the sea was wafting inland, taking away the day’s heat. Fingers of sea air were stroking my midriff. It wasn’t Jack. He had disappeared. Spotted the pal.
I was paying full attention, trying to remember the fine details. James would be interested when I saw him again. He would want to know exactly what happened, every detail, dissect it and file it away in that methodical mind of his.
The Hall was going to be pulled along by a pair of gigantic diesel Mammoet engines. But it seemed the building had to be rotated a few degrees before beginning the week-long snail-pace journey to its new home.
The inactivity was lingering, prolonged. Even slower than slow motion. My mind was drifting away, going back to that terrifying moment in the Hall when the suit of armor had crashed down towards James and I’d run to deflect its fall. And I remembered the denim sleeve, barely seen, but clearly in my vision for a second.
Somewhere in my brain, I sensed a sound. It was tiny but I heard it just the same. I looked round, wondering where the noise had come from. I couldn’t identify it.
The Hall was quite a distance away. It was majestic, serene, steeped in its own mysterious history that none of us knew much about. It stood there, surveying us all with benevolence, a crowd of midgets here only on this earth for a second of time.
I caught my breath. Somehow, I knew what was going to happen before it happened. I felt the merest shudder like an intake of wind. The Hall began sinking slowly with an air of regretful grace, going down on its knees in billowing clouds of red-and-yellow dust. There was barely a sound. It was dying with dignity. It had no intention of seeing out a few more centuries on a millionaire’s estate, miles away from its original site.
Turn and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 7) Page 18