“And I bet it’s got pink-check tablecloths, pink flowers and big pink cups,” I added. “It was the cafe in the video.”
“You may well be right,” he said solemnly.
Twenty-Five
“So it worked,” I said eventually.
“What worked?”
“The bug. Wherever you put it on my jacket.”
“Of course it worked. It’s a highly sophisticated device. I’m sorry, but it was in the brooch that my mother gave you. She really did send you the brooch, but I had a bug inserted at the back of the thistle.”
“That was really mean, using your mother’s gift, but I suppose I have to be thankful now,” I said, touching the brooch on my jacket. I didn’t take it off. It had saved us. Memo: remember to write that note to his mother.
“But you were stupid to go to Faunstone Hall with Wilkes. You should have known it was dangerous.”
“But he said you were there.”
“Did I say I was there?”
“No.”
“Never believe what anyone tells you,” said James. “Always check. But at least you are all right now. We tracked the device to Faunstone Hall. And all this is going to come to an end now, be assured. Wilkes has a record. He’s ex-army, ex-SAS, served time for violence. Not exactly clean as a whistle. I’m surprised that Richard Broughton employed him, but then references can be whitewashed. And, of course, he does look good in uniform.”
“Did you notice that the bug was moving? I was crawling up and down, hoping you’d notice the movement.”
“Sorry, Jordan. That sort of movement is not easily detected. The signal moves on a map. Streets, places, not rooms or priest’s holes.”
I suppressed a sigh. All that effort… “Not even a wobble?”
“Maybe a wobble.”
We were driving somewhere. I didn’t care where. If James was taking me to Latching hospital then I could guarantee we would be out of it pretty quick. No way was I staying in overnight, even if I had to walk out wearing one of their blue-paper nighties.
“I’ve got a poem for you to read.”
“Sorry, Jordan,” he said again. “I’m not into poetry and never have been. I don’t understand it. All these odd-length lines and bits that rhyme and bits that don’t.”
“I’m not saying that it’s good poetry.” I was scrabbling around in my shoulder bag, looking for the torn-out page. “But it’s called ‘Lady on a Stake’ and I think you should read it.”
He slowed the car down, stopped and switched on the interior light. “‘Lady on a Stake’? Okay. I’ll read it.”
I tried to look out into the night, seeing silvery trees and the white silhouettes of birds flying as he read the poem. I could not read it again. It was too gruesome, the details too specific.
“And this was published when?”
“About five years ago, a little after Holly married Richard. But Holly gave up this poet boyfriend, this Darrell person, before she even met Richard. Yet it describes exactly how Holly died. Exactly what happened to her quite recently, all in a poem, written some years ago.”
“Darrell who?”
“It’s just signed Darrell. But it can’t be a coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences. This poem is the blueprint for her murder.”
He started up the car. “Do you mind if we go to the station first? I need to check on a couple of things.”
I sank back into the seat, putting my hand inside the seat belt. I couldn’t stand anything tight across my chest. It was sore. I’d lost the elastic ankle support in the priest’s hole and I was filthy again. My beautiful embroidered jeans were ruined. I wanted a long shower, a long drink and a long sleep. In any order. I wasn’t fussy.
We parked at the back of Latching police station. I followed James in. He stood at the interior doors, hesitating. I gave him the door code.
“You never cease to surprise me,” he said, keying the numbers. We went upstairs to office areas I had never seen before. He stacked his crutches, sat down at a computer and went to work. It’s not all patrolling the streets these days. I closed my eyes. I was beginning to feel very tired. When had I last slept?
“Jordan, wake up.”
I had a crick in my neck. I’d dozed off in an upright chair like an old lady in a care home. I hoped my mouth hadn’t fallen open.
“Want to see what I’ve found?”
I went over to the computer and the words on the screen danced before my eyes, then they settled down.
“I fed in’“Brian Wilkes’. Thought it would be a good idea to find out more about him. This is the family tree, mother, father, brothers and sisters. There’s a younger brother…”
“Darrell Wilkes. They are brothers. Oh my God, Brian and Darrell. The poet and the trained assassin. Now it’s coming together. Love, hate and revenge are very strong motives.” I had to sit down on the chair. This was not good. Everything had to be rethought and rejigged.
“So it really wasn’t the husband, Richard Broughton, trying to kill her off?”
“I don’t think so. I think it was Darrell Wilkes, stoking up years of revenge and hatred, but getting his brother to do the dirty work.”
“And what about me?” I asked.
“Perhaps Wilkes overheard Holly telling Richard that you were on the right track, that you were digging up new evidence, true or not, but she must have said something that alerted him. Something that really alarmed him. You were a danger and had to be got rid of, or warned off.”
“I did see Holly on the phone, talking animatedly to someone, soon after I’d been with her.”
“Wilkes could have been listening.”
“Then it must have been Darrell Wilkes who came to see me in the shop, who threatened me. He had the car, the chauffeur, the suit, the lot. How would I know the difference? I’d never met Richard.”
“Easily done. It wasn’t Richard Broughton at all. He’s quite a nice guy.”
“And Darrell smokes but Richard doesn’t. Not an ashtray in sight anywhere at Richard’s flat or Faunstone Hall. Oh dear, I’ve made a right mess of all this.”
“You have actually done brilliantly. I’m not quite sure how but it is all working out. Brighton CID tell me that the Pink Geranium had financial problems for a time, subsidence repairs eating up money, so perhaps Adrienne needed a loan to cover the cost of repairs. Richard probably lent her the money. That could explain her present attachment to him. Perhaps they have always been good friends despite the divorce.”
“But how did Adrienne get the video of Holly and Mrs Melee’s sister talking in her coffee shop?”
“She had CCTV installed in the coffee shop after some vandals caused a lot of damage. That’s when Brighton police gave her advice on the installation. Holly was captured on film having coffee there one day with Mrs Melee’s sister. Brian Wilkes must have been able to get hold of the CCTV by using one of his contacts in the security world. He had it doctored before he gave it to Richard. Digital wizardry.”
“But I found the video in Richard’s flat with both of the scenes on it.”
“I should imagine this was the start of some nasty blackmail. Wilkes was going to blackmail his employer, knowing that the publicity of faked evidence would ruin him. This may have been how he lured them both to Faunstone Hall, to confront them. But something went wrong.”
“And the knife attack in the street?”
“That was probably Brian Wilkes. The kind of activity he would enjoy. Black gear, hooded, back to the old SAS days. They’ll be going through the DNA evidence again to link it to him. There must be something, a fibre, a hair. And he had every opportunity to steal all the oddments that went missing, the shoes, the earrings, the ironing, and plant them elsewhere. The same with the fake burglary. We’ll probably find the CDs at Darrell’s place along with anything else he took a fancy to.”
“Darrell would have taken the ivory letter-knife. Because it would make him feel like Shelley or Byron.”
“Darrell. He probably walked about in them or took them to bed. It all points to crime passioned a crime of passion, doesn’t it?” I said.
“Not exactly. A crime of passion is done on the spur of the moment, in a moment of passion. This has been planned over years. Darrell wanted to damage the marriage, hoped Holly would be convicted of attempted murder. That didn’t work because she was acquitted. So he had to think of something else and then you arrived on the scene and you got in the way. First they tried to frighten you off and that didn’t work. Then they drugged you, although that coffee might have been intended for Holly too.”
“And it was Wilkes who took a pot shot at me?”
“He would be an expert on rooftop warfare. Have you still got the pellet?”
“Yes, I kept it as a souvenir.”
“We’ll probably find an armory at his place and we’ll match it up.”
“Then they blew up the ladybird,” I said, remembering the burning car. “I suppose Wilkes did that too.”
“His SAS training would have included making incendiary devices and their installation. Fortunately, he was a bit rusty.”
“I don’t want the ladybird to end up in a breaker’s yard. She deserves better than that.”
“You know that by law all the toxic fuel et cetera has to be removed.”
“I should think it got burnt up in the fire. There wasn’t much left. Can you find out what has happened to her?”
“I’ll do that,” James promised. “But she’ll be needed for evidence now. A kind of reprieve.”
“And Darrell Wilkes?”
“DS Morton is on his way now to Darrell Wilkes’s address. I talked to him while you were asleep in the chair. Holly’s ex-poet boyfriend will be in custody very soon and charged as soon as we have enough evidence. Brian Wilkes is already in custody, caught trying to fly out from Gatwick. The Daimler was spotted, abandoned at the airport, by an alert security guard.”
I took a deep breath.
“Now we have to find out who tried to assassinate you in the Medieval Hall and nearly succeeded,” I said, suppressing a shiver. “They could try again.”
“I must have put away dozens and dozens of villains in the last ten years. It could be any of them. I wouldn’t know where to start, Jordan.”
“Perhaps Pointer has a brother that you put away.”
“Or Rik Henderson, the site manager, or Sven Rusinsky, the Russian millionaire. Perhaps I deported his brother or sister back to Russia.”
“Heavens,” I exclaimed. “I’ve just thought of Carlo, the assistant manager. He’s Italian and…”
He patted my hand in a patronizing manner. “Not every Italian is related to the Mafia. But keep going, Jordan. Sometimes you get a good idea.”
*
We turned it into a party, one perfect late summer’s evening. It was Bruno’s suggestion and I thought it was pretty good. We waded through the waves at the water’s edge and climbed into Bruno’s fishing boat. Mavis and Doris, Francis, Jack, myself and James. The boat was decked out with fairy lights and black and red balloons. But it still smelled of fish.
We drank decent champagne in flower-patterned glasses, generosity of James. There were hot sausage rolls in some clever heat-retaining bag, thanks to Mavis. Doris provided enough crisps and nuts to feed an army. Francis brought along a stack of rainproof capes from the store, just in case. Jack had made half a dozen Thermos flasks of his dreadful coffee and remembered sugar sachets and polystyrene beakers.
Me? I brought me and a lot of memories.
Bruno motored out from Latching’s shelving beach, crossing the tossing waves, his weathered and handsome face implacable. The long line of lights of Latching began to dwindle. Brighton outshone the whole coast in all its glorious vulgarity. Littlehampton and Bognor Regis came into sight, and to the west was the glowering hulk of the Isle of Wight.
“About here, Jordan?” Bruno asked.
I nodded.
James refilled our glasses with champagne, going round solemnly, gravely.
We turned to the twisted remains of the ladybird, lying in the hull of the boat. That was all there was of her. She had at last been released by the police. She had been produced as evidence in court. Her moment of fame.
I thought I could see scorched remains of a black spot on the red.
“To the ladybird,” said James, raising his glass.
“To the ladybird!” said everyone in one voice.
It took all four men to lift her over the side. Me, too – I helped. The boat rocked violently. I was holding her as she slid into the sea. Sweet ladybird; goodbye, dearest friend. Gulls wheeled and squawked overhead, drowning my voice.
She went with barely a splash. Everytime I walk in the sea now, or watch the waves, she will come back to me. She will always be there.
Mavis went round with the champagne again, sniffing and wiping her eyes. Doris was opening the crisps with vigor. “Come on, everyone, this is supposed to be a party!” she said.
Bruno had a portable CD player on his fishing boat. Now that was a surprise. Who would have associated the dour fisherman with music? He played Jack’s current favorite disc. I would have preferred some jazz, to lighten my spirits. Rod Stewart’s gravelly voice wafted the old standards over the sea: “…these foolish things remind me of you…”
James came over to me where I was leaning, watching the dark night waves. “Have I thanked you yet for saving my life?” he asked.
“Well, I suppose you have, in a roundabout way,” I said, wondering what was coming next. It wasn’t like James to thank me for anything.
James took my hand and raised it to his lips, smiling. Then he placed my hand on his chest, drew me close, and kissed me gently on the mouth.
When I eventually opened my eyes, moonlight was streaming on the waves in a cascade of silver and he was still smiling.
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Author Acknowlegements
Grateful thanks to my exellent editor, Anna Telfer, and the staff of both Oxted and Worthing Libraries who are so supportive and helpful.
Also many thanks, again, to the retired Chief Superintendent Detective for his unfailing patience and who gives me such useful advice. My gratitude also to the incendiary expert who told me how these things work.
Turn and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 7) Page 23