The Hall sank before our eyes. One moment, it was standing there in all its glory and then it had gone. Dust was settling on a massive pile of rubble, quite tidily. A tide of broken bricks rolled into the roadway. The tarpaulin flailed like the gas going out of a hot-air balloon.
There was a shocked silence. A child began to cry. Hushed voices. The dancers faltered, the Morris men forgot to clap. Everyone stood and stared. There was red dust settling everywhere, on my T-shirt, on my arms, hat. It was probably in my hair. No one knew what to do or say.
I could hear raised voices, irate and shocked. It was probably the pub owner and the Russian millionaire arguing about who was responsible and who was going to pay for the removal of the debris. The site manager was white-faced. He took off his hard hat and scratched his head, shaking it slowly.
I remembered the cleaner who’d said he’d probably have to clean up the dust. He’d got a mountain to clean up now.
I love all things ancient and historic but I couldn’t mourn the collapse of the Medieval Hall. In a way, it had committed suicide and had every right to decide when to pull the plug. Or crack its foundation. Or whatever it did.
I turned away, not wanting to watch any more. A man was standing across in the crowds, looking towards me. He was leaning on something, but still tall and commanding. He was wearing a black shirt and trousers, a dusting of rust on his shoulders and cropped hair.
He walked over to me, limping, leaning heavily on a pair of crutches. “So how did you stage-manage that, Jordan?” he asked. “Pretty spectacular.”
“Single-handed remote control,” I said.
“I thought so. It has your signature all over it. I think we need a drink to wash down this dust. Fancy the Bear and Bait? There won’t be any jazz.”
He took in my baggy shorts, shorn T-shirt, cotton hat and badly bandaged ankle but did not move a muscle.
“Looking like this?” I said.
“Do you want to borrow a crutch?” he added.
Twenty
It was James. My Detective Inspector James. I made an instant decision. I was never going to let him go out of my sight again. He was all I wanted in life, standing there before me, breathing. I might stay on the edge of his life, but he had to be there somewhere.
“It’s okay. I’m not a ghost,” he said. “They’ve let me out. I’ve been allowed to go home as long as I don’t do anything. The convalescent home is full up. No beds. Stairs will be a bit tricky but I’ll get the hang of them.”
He had a spiral staircase in his three-storey folly tower on the outer edge of Latching. It gave me vertigo.
“You can’t do those stairs. I’ll move a bed down for you,” I said quickly. He was leaning on the crutches, hunched over them, not used to them yet.
He raised his dark eyebrows. “Down spiral stairs? Don’t be daft, girl. The station have lent me a camp bed. I’ll do fine.”
“You can’t sleep on a camp bed. You’re convalescing.”
“Get in my car. At least I can drive.”
“I came with Jack.”
“He’s over there, negotiating with the owners of the rubble. Probably offering them down payment for the bricks, then he’ll rebuild it somewhere and turn it into a theme park.”
“He’ll have some scheme. He’s full of ideas,” I said. “I’d better speak to him. Please wait.”
I wandered over to Jack. He had a don’t-interrupt expression on his face, this is serious business being negotiated.
“I’ve got a lift back,” I began.
“Okay, girl,” he nodded. “I’m busy. See ya some time.”
I knew when to retreat.
As we drove back towards Latching, I told James about the video I had found at Richard Broughton’s London flat and the copy I’d had made and not paid for. As usual, I sounded an idiot.
“You’re an idiot,” he agreed. “Didn’t you realize how dangerous it was to go to Richard Broughton’s flat? Someone is after you and it could well be him. But why did he have this video? It shows that the evidence was faked. This is a very complicated set-up.”
“I know but I had to do something. Someone killed Holly Broughton and this tampered-with video evidence could be the motive. If Holly found out about it and threatened Richard with opening up the case again, it would have ruined him.”
“Holly’s murder is not my case,” James said grimly. “But you can give me the videos and I’ll see that they get to the right branch. Where are they?”
“I’ve left them in Jack’s car,” I said.
“This doesn’t get any better,” he said, under his breath. He was driving with his usual competence. We were turning into the street where the video shop was. I ducked down below the glove compartment, pulling the hat over my face.
“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” I wailed. “This is the shop.”
“I know. I’m going in to pay your bill,” he said. “I don’t like to see local shopkeepers being cheated.”
James came back a few minutes later, stowing his crutches in the back of the car before he got in. He had a video in his hand.
“Interesting. He’d made a third copy for himself, hoping he’d have incriminating porno material of some sort, no doubt. I managed to persuade him to part with it. Well done, Jordan. Now we’d better get you spruced up before we have that drink. I’m not going into the Bear and Bait with you looking like a busker that’s seen better days.”
“I could get some clean clothes at my flat or the shop,” I offered meekly.
“No way, not till both premises have been cleared of bombs, bugs, incendiary devices. I’ve arranged for that to be done now, while I know exactly where you are. Meanwhile I’ll get you some jeans and a shirt. What size are you?”
This was too personal for words. I wasn’t telling DI James my size of anything. Our old antagonism was returning fast.
I mumbled something about any size would do.
He parked in the furthest corner of a supermarket car park and got out. “Keep your head down,” he said. “Don’t panic. I’m locking you in.”
This was too weird. James was buying me Tesco brand clothes, bossing me about as usual, locking me in his car. The accident was becoming dream-like, as if I had imagined it, as if all these months of trauma had never happened. I unwrapped the bandage on my ankle and bound it round again more securely. I leaned over and helped myself to a bottle of water. James always kept a bottle in the driver’s-door recess. The water cleared my throat. I could even taste the red dust in my mouth.
James came back with a carrier bag. “I never knew buying women’s clothes was so difficult. I didn’t know what sort of leg you wanted. There are so many different kinds. No wonder women spend hours shopping.”
“I don’t spend hours,” I said.
“Get into these. I’m dying for that drink. They wouldn’t let me drink in the hospital.”
“I smuggled in a few beers.”
“Could I open them, in my state?”
I didn’t ask where I was to do this clothes-changing stunt. In the front seat, I supposed. There was no way I could climb into the back. At least James had his eyes on the road.
He’d bought straight-legged black jeans, belted, size 12. Well done, good detective work. He’d bought a one-size red-striped cotton shirt, and, get this, a long skinny red silk knitted scarf with diamante bobbles sewn on each end, just the sort of thing teenagers tie round their necks. I could have kissed him. I wanted to kiss him. Of course.
“These are super,” I choked, struggling out of the torn T-shirt. I did lots of wriggling and pulling on. “Thank you. I love the scarf. This year’s mega fashion statement. How did you know?”
“Glad you like them. And put this on your ankle.”
He tossed over a packet. It was an elasticated ankle support. Not glamorous. Then he glanced at me. “You’re looking good now.”
The man had feelings. He had changed.
The Bear and Bait was full and noisy. The noise sounded lik
e home even though there was no jazz. The crowd at the bar parted when they saw DI James arriving on crutches. They recognized him and wanted to know how he was. He was surprised at their interest and genuine concern. I saw his face relaxing.
The blonde barmaid’s face was familiar, set in a false smile. I went over and leaned close to her.
“Have you mended your bra strap yet?” I asked before I went to sit on an upholstered bench seat. It made me feel a lot better. She didn’t recognize Polly.
James hadn’t asked what I was drinking but came back with my favorite Australian Shiraz in a big wine glass.
“Red to match the scarf,” he said.
I didn’t tell him that I’d had nothing to eat since breakfast except a stolen apple. (Stolen again. I was fast becoming a hardened criminal.) I felt like getting completely pie-eyed. Perhaps James was right, I should stick to shopkeeping.
“Cheers,” he said. He had a cold beer in front of him. He was looking at it with clear anticipation.
“Cheers,” I said, clinking glasses. No sentiment here.
“The move to the North is definitely out,” he said, coming straight to the point. “They couldn’t wait. Someone else has got the job.”
“Does that mean you’ll be staying on in Latching?”
“For the time being. I’ve a month off to get fully mobile, then they said something about a desk job. They can stuff that.”
“You’ve got to be careful,” I began.
“No lectures, please, Jordan. I’ve had enough of them. I know how my body feels. I’m not likely to run the marathon again, but then once is enough.”
“You’ve run the London Marathon?” More surprises.
“I was trying to run out grief. Remember? They say it works. It didn’t work.”
“What was your time?”
“Three hours, ten minutes and twenty-three seconds.”
“Not bad. I’ve never run any further than to the nearest bus stop.”
“Not true, but then I’m taking into consideration your prevalence for understatement.” He smiled right into my eyes, but he was smiling gravely. I blinked. “Jordan, I’ve seen the forensic report on your car. If the detonator had worked, you would certainly not be here now.”
For a second all the warmth of the wine disappeared. Even my feet were cold. But I was here, in the Bear and Bait. I had survived.
“What did they say?” I asked, gulping down more wine.
“Detonators are either chemical, mechanical or electrical. This was an electrical device, perhaps a mercury tilt switch, primed to go off when you opened the door.”
“But it didn’t.”
“Probably because it was poorly assembled by an amateur. The detonator had vibrated loose from the main charge and gave you those extra seconds to get away. If you had got into the car instead of turning away, then you wouldn’t have survived. It was a freak escape. You weren’t meant to escape. These things are usually instantaneous.”
He was very matter-of-fact about the whole business. No emotion. No “lucky you, Jordan”.
“Poor ladybird. It was really terrible and I feel awful about it. Yet I didn’t see anybody. Did they find any clues?”
“Nobody left their ID in the wreckage, or handy credit card. No DNA. Pity. DS Morton says what do you want to do with the car? It can’t stay in the backyard of Latching police station. It looks like a monument.”
“I want to do something special for her. I can’t bear the thought of her being crushed in a breaker’s yard and piled on top of loads of other wrecks.”
“I understand,” said James. “The ladybird was special to you. There must be a fitting end.”
We were actually getting on for once. I could hardly believe it. Perhaps one day, he would like me – maybe more than like, but I wouldn’t bet on it. I had to store up all these small memories. When I was very, very old, like sixty, enjoying my pension, I would get them out and dust them off. The wine was rich and fruity. It was going straight to an empty stomach. I think James noticed.
He ordered a plate of sandwiches, chicken for him and cheese for me. They came, some time later, with lashings of side salad.
“Like another glass of wine?”
The day was disappearing fast. I could hardly remember the beginning. It had begun in Miguel’s flat where I had left my smart new clothes and escaped, going to London, searching Richard Broughton’s flat, finding the video. No, I remembered, that was yesterday. Today was getting a copy made, twisting my ankle, being picked up by Jack, then seeing the Medieval Hall sink into oblivion. I was a little bit pickled.
Finding James again. Now I was drinking with him, sharing sandwiches, picking up the last of the cress and slices of red onion. We stayed talking till quite late. James was tiring. I could tell. No midnight hours for the Bear and Bait. We walked along the deserted promenade front to get some fresh air. Or rather, we both limped. A couple of limpers.
The night sky was brilliant with stars, twinkling millions of miles away. James actually knew which star conformation was which. Perhaps he had been a Boy Scout. The sea was far out, a faint line on the horizon, shivering with silver. The sand was cold, wet and glistening. A few fishing-boat lights dotted the sea. A few dogs were taking their owners for a walk.
I stopped outside the cream-stone-faced Boulevard Hotel. It had once been a terrace of big Victorian houses, now connected through and converted into a four-star hotel. A line of European flags was flapping gently outside the main entrance.
“Do you really want to sleep on a camp bed?” I asked. All that red wine had given me Dutch courage. His face was starting to look drawn and tired. And he didn’t know what to do with me. He did not want to deliver me to Miguel’s flat.
“Let’s go and see what they’ve got,” he said abruptly. “A twin would do.”
“We’ve only got a double,” said the receptionist, snooty at having to work late and people coming in without any luggage. She knew what they were up to.
“The crutches are for real,” I told her curtly.
“Sorry,” she said. “We get all sorts.”
“We’ll take it,” said James, producing a credit card. I couldn’t believe this. I was going to have to sleep on the floor, for sure. The man was nearly dead on his feet. He was going to fall into bed before his shoes were off.
We went up in the lift to the third floor. Room 301 was not hard to find. We went in and switched on the light. The room was facing the sea and the long cream curtains were blowing gently. A king-sized double bed dominated the room. I barely noticed any other furniture.
I whipped off the quilted bedspread and folded it neatly. I’d need it on the floor. I saw spare pillows stacked at the top of the wardrobe. James sat on the bed wearily, his crutches clattering to the floor. He began to ease off his shoes.
“I’ll take the floor,” I said. “Invalid first and all that.”
“Jordan…”
“I bet it’s got a lovely bathroom,” I said going through to the en suite. “Can I try all the freebies?”
“Sure. Take what you want. It’s paid for.”
I poured a glass of water for him and put it on the bedside table. I didn’t want him falling over me in the night.
The bathroom was my idea of heaven, pale-blue and cream tiles with gold taps. A basketful of toilet goodies on the vanity unit invited plunder, towels thick and comforting. I undressed and turned on the shower. It was bliss to get clean even though the water had a pinkish tinge as it washed the red dust off me. I washed my hair using their shampoo, toweled it dryish. It took a long time. I’ve no idea how long. I was in no hurry.
The first thing I noticed was his clothes. They were all over the floor – black shirt, black trousers, black socks, strewn anywhere, crumpled. He was sound asleep, the sheet barely pulled up to his waist, his head on the pillow, dark lashes flickering. I turned off the main light so that he could sleep soundly and folded up his clothes. Even in the pale light from the window, I could se
e his face and the big shoulders, still muscled and firm even after his weeks in hospital.
There was a hospitality tray and silentlym I made a cup of hot chocolate. I was so tired I could have slept in the armchair but I knew I’d get the cramp. He didn’t stir. I pulled the bath towel more firmly round under my armpits and tucked in the end. The floor awaited me.
I laid out all the spare pillows and the quilted bedspread. It would wrap over me nicely. But the floor still looked and was hard. I tried it for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling. It was rock-hard.
The alternative was beckoning. It was a big double bed, plenty of room for two if I clung to the far edge. No modesty bolster to put between us. I climbed in tentatively, carefully easing my weight on to the mattress, hoping I would not wake him; but James was exhausted, dead to the world. It would take an earthquake to wake him.
I slid under the sheet already feeling the heat from his body. It was temptation beyond belief. At first I lay there in the cool sheets, hair still slightly wet, letting the strange intimacy washed over me. I was with James and he was asleep. I turned slightly and looked at the back of his head on the pillow, so near. No way could I stop myself touching the cropped hair.
By then, it was too late. I shifted over until I was tucked into the curve of his back. He still did not move. My head lay against his shoulder and my tongue tasted his skin. He tasted of salt and sweat and probably that red dust. But the taste was sweet and I wanted more of it. My arm folded over his bare waist. I floated to my dreams.
Twenty-One
The waking up was hard to do, far harder than the falling asleep. James was still sound asleep, his breathing light and rhythmical, one of the lighter stages, no snoring. I had to get out of bed before he woke up.
I slid over to the far side and down on to the floor. I crouched on the carpet, waiting for him to stir, but he didn’t. I then crawled to the mound of pillows, wrapped myself in the quilt and hoped to dream on for a few more minutes. It had been the most perfect night.
Turn and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 7) Page 19