My eyes were closed, though I could see the morning light through the lids. I wondered if we would get breakfast. I must have drifted off again into some sort of doze where my thoughts floated like tiny white boats with sails.
“Jordan? Jordan, you slept on the floor? Oh my God, you idiot. Why didn’t you sleep in the bed? There was room for two.”
James was leaning over the side of the bed, looking fresh and rested. He was wearing black shorts, but his chest was bare. He was looking concerned, but amused at the same time.
“Is your back aching?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Shall I rub it for you?”
Do I want a million pounds? “Yes, please.”
He was kneeling beside me and I rolled over on to my stomach. His fingers were moving along my spine, kneeding and massaging. This was worth being shot at and half-drugged. I let out a sort of groan so that he wouldn’t stop.
His fingers were strong but gentle. I could not believe that this was happening. I must still be asleep. All I could see was his knees and the dark hair on his legs. I’d never seen his legs before. He’d never seen my back before. Two firsts. The towel was slipping down.
“Just here, or just here?” he was saying. “Does that feel better?”
“Mmn.”
I would never tell him.
James stopped and got up with difficulty. “Like some tea, Jordan?”
My plan for the day included DI James, apparently. He was supposed to be convalescing at home but he was itching to get back to work and no one would be checking up on him. I suggested Brighton instead. A leisurely drive into Brighton would not do him any harm.
“So why do you want to go to Brighton, Jordan? I would have thought you’d seen enough of Brighton to last several years.”
“I’d like to treat you to lunch. There are several very good Thai restaurants I’m told. I can’t go back to my shop until you lot have cleared it.”
“True. So is this business or pleasure? We could eat at Maeve’s Cafe.”
I shook my head. “I really fancy some Thai – you know, all that noodle stuff and seaweed.”
“I can see you know a lot about Thai food,” he said dryly.
It was business but with the bonus of a lot of pleasure. My friendly piece of plastic would pay for it. I doubted if every transaction was being traced. I’d made some enquiries at the Boulevard Hotel reception about Thai restaurants in Brighton and there were several. Then I made some phone calls and put them on James’s bill. Was there no end to my duplicity?
We could talk about the Medieval Hall more easily now that it was a pile of rubble. The Hall of that terrible happening no longer existed and with it had gone some of the pain. We tried to link Pointer to the accident, or the Russian millionaire, but without success or motive.
“But Pointer knew you were in opposition to the move.”
“You don’t try to kill someone because they oppose closing a few roads.”
“There was a lot of money involved. He probably sold the Hall for a cool million and a lot more for the supermarket site.”
“It still doesn’t make sense.”
“Then you have another enemy who wants you out of the way,” I said, suddenly hitting the spot. “One you have forgotten all about. Someone from the past.”
“Now that’s the first sensible thing you’ve said today,” said James, hunting for the impossibility of a parking space in Brighton. “It’ll have to be a multistorey. Dammit. Hate the places. Can hardly park behind the station when I’m supposed to be convalescing at home.”
He parked on the fourth floor and we took the lift down, neither able to face the stairs. Me hobbling, James on crutches. Brighton streets were packed with holidaymakers and residents shopping, its usual busy, bustling throng of traffic and pedestrians. A lot of gay men. It was the gay capital of the south.
I knew roughly where we were going. The restaurant was called the Lime Grass Thai Restaurant. Such a pretty name. It was painted a pale green outside with hanging baskets of flowers. It was pleasantly rural inside, lots of plants and cane furniture. Real flowers on the table. A smiling Thai girl, in long turquoise skirt and patterned jacket, showed us to a table and handed us long complicated menus. James parked his crutches against the wall.
“I don’t understand any of this,” I said after reading it through twice. I felt twice the size of the tiny Thai girl and should not have been eating a single bean sprout. “Can you order please?”
“I thought you knew all about Thai food.”
“I said I liked it, not that I could read a menu.”
“Would you like to order now, sir?” It was the tiny smiling girl again. I noticed she was wearing trainers beneath her long skirt. It made me feel a bit better.
“Menu A for two people,” he said.
I couldn’t help laughing. Then we were both laughing and sunshine streamed through the windows of the restaurant and I almost forgot why I was there.
He ordered a glass of white wine for me and mineral water for himself. “You had enough to drink last night,” he added. “Now tell me why we are really here. It’s not just for my scintillating company, I realize that.”
“You could be scintillating if you tried a bit harder.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.”
“Jordan—” he was exasperated. “—That’s not the correct reply.”
Time to hoist the white flag. “Holly Broughton had a Thai housekeeper, Mrs Melee.” I got out my notebook and checked. “Mrs Sanasajja Melee. And her sister has a restaurant in Brighton, this one. I’ve been wondering what has happened to Mrs Melee since Holly died and whether she could throw any light on Holly’s murder. I suppose she was interviewed by the police.”
“I’m sure she would have been, but I’ll check for you if you like.” He got on to his mobile and had a brief chat with someone, DS Duke Morton perhaps. “Yes, Mrs Melee made a statement, but it seems it was her day off and she was not at Faunstone Hall.”
“She was here, visiting her sister then. That’s what she always did on her day off.”
“Something for you to check. It’s not my case.”
The starters had arrived, an overflowing plate of succulent bits and pieces, and was set between us. It was enough for a whole meal. I poised my fork.
“Do you know what all this is?”
“Satay Gai is chicken in a peanut sauce,” James began. “Koong Horn Par are prawns in a blanket, that’s pastry. Poa Pia Thawt are spring rolls in a chilli sauce – be careful, could be very hot. Seekrong Moo Yang, that’s pork spare ribs. And these are my favorite: Khonom Bung Na Koong, which are minced prawn on crusty bread and deep fried.”
“Don’t you want some tomato sauce?” I asked. He usually had tomato sauce with everything. I wondered if I had gone too far, again, but there was a glint in his eyes.
“Eat,” he said. “And don’t talk.”
We were drinking coffee when I beckoned over the girl. “Could I speak to Mrs Melee, please?” It was a shot in the dark, or rather in broad daylight. Mrs Melee might be here, taking refuge. The girl was disturbed and looked over her shoulder towards the kitchen area.
“Please, I will see,” she said.
“Not too happy with that,” said James.
We waited some time; then I saw Mrs Melee peering round the kitchen door. She was wearing a cook’s striped tabard over her own plain, dark clothes. She caught my glance and her face went pale. I smiled encouragingly and waved to her. She hovered, hesitating.
“Go and get her. She’s about to escape.”
I got up quickly, before she could change her mind, and put my hand on her arm. “It’s Jordan Lacey, remember me? I was working for Holly Broughton and trying to help her. Please come over and talk to us. This is my friend, James.”
I didn’t introduce James professionally. I thought she would run a mile, several miles, all
the way to Beachy Head.
She sat down, still hesitant. She did look quite scared, as if expecting someone to jump out of the shadows and lay a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Miss Lacey. Yes, I remember you.”
I suppose she was remembering dragging me into the car and dumping me on the deserted beach. Not a pretty thought. Our thoughts collided.
“We thought they would kill you, if we left you in the conservatory. They were trying to kill you, Miss Lacey,” she said suddenly. “That day. That’s why we took you away.”
“Kill me?” I was taken aback by her outburst. “But that’s not what Holly told me. She said she’d thought I’d been taken ill, a stroke or something, and didn’t want any more publicity after the court case. That’s what she told me.”
“Not all true. We thought you were in danger, that they would kill you if they could. Because you were on the right track.”
That was news to me. What right track?
“Who?” said James. “Who was a danger to Jordan?”
“I don’t know. I cannot say.” Mrs Melee was very upset. “Mrs Broughton did not say. She said it was better if I did not know too much.” Her serene Thai face was screwed up with emotion.
“Would you like a drink, Mrs Melee?” James asked. “A cup of coffee?”
“Some water, please,” she whispered.
He leaned over and took a clean glass from the next table, poured her some mineral water. “Here you are. Take your time. You are safe with us. We are not going to hurt you. We only want to ask you some questions about Mrs Broughton’s death.”
She seemed reassured by James’s kind words and calm voice.
“This is a lovely meal,” I said. “Do you do the cooking here? It’s very good.”
“I work here now,” she said with some dignity. “Mr Broughton dispensed with my service. He said I was not needed. That Faunstone Hall would be closed up. I left immediately. He called me a taxi.”
“That’s sad. I’m sorry to ask you, but can you tell us anything about the day that Mrs Broughton died?”
She shook her head. “It was my day off. I know nothing. I was staying the night in Brighton as my sister was not well. Mrs Broughton said she could manage without me as Mr Broughton was not there. I did not know what happened till I returned the next morning and everywhere was police.”
“Did Holly seem well when you left Faunstone Hall?”
“Yes, she had her usual breakfast in the conservatory. Fruit and toast and coffee. She ate very little. She said to take some flowers from the garden for my sister. And I did.”
“Did you see anyone or anything unusual?”
“No, nothing. Tom cut some flowers for me and gave me a lift to Latching station. He was getting something repaired at a garage. Mrs Broughton was alone in the house.”
A shiver went through me. Holly had been alone. Totally defenceless and at the mercy of her killers. James knew what I was thinking. I could see it in his eyes.
“Thank you, Mrs Melee,” he said. “You have been very helpful and we’re sorry to have taken you back to those distressing days. It was very good of you to talk to us when you must be so busy in the kitchen. It’s an excellent restaurant.”
Mrs Melee stood up, regaining her composure. She smoothed down her tabard and looked straight at me. “I will always think kindly of Mrs Broughton. If it had not been for her kindness and generosity, Lime Grass Thai Restaurant would not be ours.”
“Sana. Sana.” Mrs Melee was being called from the kitchen. “Please to come…”
I looked past her and saw another woman peering from the doorway, an older, darker woman, her hair pulled up into a tight knot. She was also a cook, holding a big bowl in her arms, and she was stirring the contents as she called.
She was also the woman I’d seen in the first video. The woman in the coffee shop with Holly. Holly had given her a packet of money across the table. This had been the generosity.
“I must go,” said Mrs Melee, apologizing. “That is my sister.”
“I know,” I said.
*
We did not talk much on the drive back to Latching. James checked that my flat and my shop were clean. They were. Life could return to some normality. I could not wait to get working again.
“So now we know where Holly’s money was going,” said James.
“Yes, she was loaning money to Mrs Melee’s sister, or giving it, or investing it. Whatever or whichever, the cash was going towards the purchase of the restaurant. It sounds just like Holly. The sort of thing she would do, helping out.”
“And they already knew you were in danger.”
“Holly knew, but not Mrs Melee.”
“And we can’t ask Holly.”
“No, we can’t.” It was almost a whisper.
James dropped me at my shop. He was going back to his folly home to open a mountain of mail. First Class Junk looked like first-class dereliction. The “CLOSED” sign was still on the door. The two little windows were dusty and strewn with dead flies. I didn’t like the thought of the police going through my shop and my bedsits. How could I be sure that the shop was safe?
Mistakes could easily be made, something missed.
If I thought like that, I’d never get back to normality. There was a soft parcel and a box on the doorstep. I unlocked the door and pulled them inside. I could guess what was inside the parcel and I was right. Miguel had returned my new clothes. There was a note in his bold handwriting: “Jordan, you are so thoughtful thinking of your friends being blown up. My hacienda is outside Acapulco, waiting for you in safety. Miguel.”
I had to smile at the way he had put it. I’d known he would forgive me. He always did.
The box was all odds and ends. Books and old magazines, odd china and rather large chipped ornaments. There was very little I could sell. I wondered who had left it on my doorstep. Then I remembered the downsizing teddy-bear woman, moving from two rooms to one. Perhaps they were from her. In which case, I had to put something of hers on show in the window so that she would see it and be happy.
I washed two ornate figures, a shepherd and shepherdess, and placed them in the window so that the chips would not show. I priced them at £6 for the pair. Couldn’t separate them after all these years.
The old magazines were worthless and the books in poor condition. I picked up a stained paperback anthology of poems and flicked through it. The New Era Poets, it was called, whenever the new era was.
My glance caught the title of a poem: “Lady on a Stake”. I found myself compelled to start reading it:
I’ll pierce your heart
As you pierced mine.
You did not stop to think.
A flick of golden hair,
A sultry look
From traitor’s eyes that did not blink.
I stopped reading. There were several more verses in the same vitriolic tone but I did not want to read them. It was not good poetry but I could feel the emotion, the hurt, the desire to hurt back. That was vivid enough.
It was a funny sort of feeling, scanning down to the end of the poem for the poet’s name. I almost knew it before I read it.
It was signed Darrell.
Twenty-Two
I was trudging my bike up to the allotments. It was time to put the hens-and-rabbits case to rest and Arthur Spiddock out of his misery. I’d no doubt that his offer of a £100 reward was a genuine offer, but whether he could meet his word was another matter.
Summer was truly here, time for sleeveless T-shirts, stringy vests and cut-off jeans. I had a birthday coming soon. A big three-0 birthday. It would be great to celebrate with all my friends. A party on the beach, again. I could wear my special new outfit, the one that had dazzled DI James.
Arthur’s allotment was looking neglected. There were weeds everywhere and he was not picking anything. The runner beans were straggling up poles, needing water. His beetroot were like small footballs, falling over on the earth. A Primus is hardly a cooking utensil.
/> I knocked on the shed door and called out in a hearty voice. “Hi there, Mr Spiddock. It’s Jordan Lacey. I’ve come to take Nutty for a walk.”
Arthur Spiddock might have been slow opening the door but Nutty was fast on the draw. He was out the door in a second, jumping all over me, long-lost friend to lick. He was too big a dog to be kept indoors.
“Ah, Miss Lacey. Have you come with my bill?”
“Not yet,” I said cheerfully. “I don’t present a bill until I’ve solved a case.” Liar. “I’m going for a walk and thought Nutty might like to come along, keep me company. Have you got a lead?”
“Well, that would be real nice,” said Arthur Spiddock. “I’m not getting out too much these days – arthritis you know. Nutty’d like a long walk. Driving me crazy, he is. And I can’t let him out on his own, because he’d run away.”
“Can I do any shopping for you? A couple of cans of beer?”
His face broke into what passed for a smile. “Now, that would be right enough. And some baked beans. I’ve a passion for baked beans. You can eat them hot or cold, y’know.”
I was feeling buoyant cash-wise after having sold the chipped shepherding couple and the anthology of poems to an intellectual soul who apparently wrote poetry himself and was longing to get published.
“I feel very new-era,” he’d said, pushing up his specs.
I let him have the book cheap. There was one page missing, I told him.
Nutty allowed me to attach the lead to his collar. He was a friendly dog despite his size. I wondered how he had got on with the hens and the rabbits. I needed a long walk, so did Nutty. We crested Topham Hill, down the other side, along a shaded lane to the main road. He didn’t much like the traffic, but obeyed me by sitting till it was safe to cross.
“Good boy,” I said.
I went into a small village grocer’s and bought the baked beans and some beer. “Training a guide dog,” I explained. Nutty was tied up outside looking abandoned and forlorn.
Turn and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 7) Page 20