Spin and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 3)

by Whitelaw, Stella

  He was only too willing. He was drinking bitter shandy. I nodded to the barman for another. The guard was sweating with all the attention and all the drink. His glasses were slipping off his nose. He did not look tough enough to guard a garden fork, let alone a massive JCB on a building site.

  I heard all this crashing noise and ran out outside and saw the lights.’

  ‘What lights?’

  ‘The JCB’s lights. This guy had switched them on and they were moving around like crazy in the dark.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I went back inside and called the police! They came in no time with sniffer dogs, but although they tracked the machine, he got away.’

  ‘He got away on a JCB?’ I had to laugh. No wonder DI James did not want to put any of his men on this one.

  ‘Apparently he drove through fencing and across a field before slicing up the bowling green. It was like a tank. I suppose I ought to have stopped him, being the guard and everything.’

  He sipped the fresh shandy reflectively. Perhaps his employers were cutting up a stink.

  ‘Well, I think you were very brave,’ I consoled. ‘After all, you could have got mown down, flattened. A JCB shouldn’t be argued with. Did you catch sight of the kids?’

  ‘It weren’t kids. This guy had a lean, older look. He was wearing a baseball cap, but that doesn’t mean anything these days.’

  ‘I wonder if I could have your autograph?’ I gushed, sliding a beer mat towards him. ‘You’re nearly famous, in the newspapers and all that.’

  It cheered him up to be asked. He scrawled Jeff Hopkins and added his phone number. Just what I wanted.

  ‘I know a Fred Hopkins,’ I said without thinking.

  ‘My brother,’ he said.

  It was time to move on before he discovered I was a PI. The greengrocer Hopkins knew what I did for a living and often slipped me a bargain of cut-price fruit or salad stuff.

  I folded myself into sleep that night, stomach gassed up with bitter lemon and hair full of cigarette smoke. I’d wash it in the morning before phoning Oliver Guilbert with my report. He’d be regretting his payments to me soon. I had to find something dubious about Sonia’s behaviour.

  *

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Oliver Guilbert the next morning after hearing my report. ‘I’m sure she’s being extra careful not to arouse suspicion. Maybe she’ll slip up. Just keep watching her, please. Miss Lacey. It’s early days.’

  I wondered how I was going to get through the day and thought darkly of escape. The brisk settlement of winter on Latching did not help. Me and my two vests were inseparable. My bones were cold. I’d forgotten summer. Had it ever existed? Had I ever walked the beach, barefooted and in shorts, splashing in the shallows, singing unrestrained choruses of songs with memorable words? Gershwin, Porter, Madonna.

  Damp air clambered up my ankles as I walked to my shop. The ladybird was parked in the backyard. I could only park near my bedsits at the weekends when the double yellow lines did not herald catastrophic fines. So much for my parking permit. £20 down the drain.

  I opened up the shop briefly. This was going to be a five minute wonder, just to reassure my friend Doris, of the next-door but one grocery shop, that I had not been abducted again. But in seconds the door swung open and a wino lurched in. I reached for the air freshner.

  ‘Do you buy things, missus?’ he croaked.

  He was half-past windward already at nine thirty in the morning. Poor soul. What was he drinking? Cleaning fluid? He smelled awful. My stomach contracted. Sometimes I thought I must be incubating an ulcer.

  ‘No, sorry,’ I said. ‘I don’t buy anything. I sell things instead.’

  ‘I’ve got this box,’ he went on, ignoring me. ‘I don’t want a box of stuff. Gotta sell it. I can’t carry a box around, not with all this glass stuff in it.’

  He was indeed carrying a cardboard box, supermarket size. It looked heavy. It tinkled, glass-like.

  I wanted him out of my shop. His presence might give me a bad name. The box was probably full of empty beer bottles.

  ‘Won’t the pubs give you a few pence for the empties?’ I suggested.

  ‘I need the money now,’ he said. His eyes were already clouded and dead. Strands of greasy hair were caught in his mouth.

  ‘OK,’ I said. Anything to get rid of him. I was feeling rich with my current daily pay rate. ‘I’ll give you a pound.’

  ‘God bless you, miss. God bless you …’ He shambled up to the counter, put the box on it and held out a grimy hand. I couldn’t even look at him as I dropped a pound coin into his palm. His face was etched with squalor and wretchedness and I didn’t want a print of it on my memory. He hovered, breathing beery fumes over me. I added fifty pence to hasten his exit.

  As soon as he was out of the door, I flew around with lavender air spray, opened windows and doors despite the outside air temperature. The box could go out in the bin for collection by the council. I could not even be bothered to take it to the bottle bank collection point.

  But then the badly fastened lid opened, all by itself. Dust rose. These weren’t beer bottles. They were old medicine bottles, blue, brown, green, all shapes and sizes, some rarities still with stoppers or corks. There was a bottle with a glass seal and family crest. Several old ginger beer and Codd bottles, scarce now because of time and breakages. Where had he got this lot?

  Some of the Codd bottles still had the marble stopper which returned to the top and kept the fizz in the drink. A wooden cap and plunger supplied with the bottle released the marble each time a drink was drunk. Hiram Codd had thought up this ingenious idea. No one remembered him now, 125 years on.

  I supposed I ought to run after the wino and give him a couple of tenners. But he’d only drink it all, probably kill himself in the process.

  So, where had the wino found these treasures? On a skip? Had they fallen off the back of a lorry? They’d probably come from a house clearance and had been dumped by the clearance men who didn’t recognise their worth. I didn’t want to know. I put the bottles away. No washing or cleaning. People paid more if the dust was intact.

  I was late for number eight Luton Road. And there was no parking space with unrestricted view. I put the ladybird in another slot, jammed on a hat and a tweed coat and ambled out with the video camera in a plastic Safeways carrier bag.

  At exactly the same moment, Sonia Spiller came out of her cottage swinging a squash bag. Ten seconds later and I would have missed her. I scrambled back into my car and did a racing exit. She drove straight to an out of town leisure centre where there were indoor courts. I had never been there before, being the kind of person who could not sec any point in bashing a ball around a confined space.

  It was an unlovely grey concrete building, planned on a bad day, built unimaginatively on corner wasteland that some farmer had given up on. It had acres of car parking space so I was able to put my ladybird out of sight of the while Toyota. The entrance was automatic glass doors so that the athletes did not tire themselves out having to open a heavy door. A colourless foyer processed members to courts, changing rooms, showers, the cafeteria. I had to buy a ticket to watch from the gallery.

  The cashier gave me a funny look. I suppose an ancient tweed coat and felt pork pie hat did not have the right sports ambience.

  ‘My niece,’ I explained. I’d like to watch her play.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  Such a syncopated conversationalist. I couldn’t get a word in edgeways. I left the girl pressing the till and wandered upstairs. By the time I spotted Sonia Spiller, she was thrashing a small rubber ball on court four, legs and arms flying. There was one other player in the enclosed court below. It seemed they had to hit the facing wall above the horizontal line. Fascinating. I got out the video camera and filmed her for several minutes. The dislocated shoulder was giving her no trouble.

  ‘My niece,’ I said again to the person standing next to me in the gallery. Perhaps it was not so unu
sual to film family these days.

  ‘She plays well. Nice returns.’

  Her shoulder seemed to be working normally, but then how could I judge? I knew nothing about shoulder injuries. An expert would have to look at the film. I was doing what I was paid for.

  But she did not play for long. She stopped abruptly, mopping her face with a towel. Something was wrong. She thanked her partner, left the court and disappeared into the depths of the concrete. I hung around but could not find her, gave up and went outside to my car. The Toyota had gone. I’d lost the woman.

  I cruised around, hoping to catch sight of her white car but that was doomed. It was nothing like a chase in the movies. There were white cars everywhere. I didn’t know which way to go and I had forgotten to note the number plate. Mega-size blot on A4 copybook. At least the log was going to be a few degrees more interesting than usual.

  Sonia Spiller had not gone home. The front yard was empty except for weeds in the paving cracks. I had lost track of her. She could be anywhere, doing anything and probably was.

  There was no point in hanging around now. I’d blown it.

  The shop was my haven, a place to hide and lick my wounds. How could I have forgotten something so basic and necessary as the number plate? I made myself clean and clean and clean as a punishment.

  Doris put her head round the door. ‘I could hear you doing that floor mopping two doors down,' she said. ‘What’s the matter? Got an infestation of bugs?’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing Health and Safety need know about,’ I said. ‘Self-inflicted discipline. Cleanliness is next to godliness.’

  ‘You a Methodist?’ Doris asked suspiciously.

  ‘Heavens, no. Why?’

  ‘John Wesley said that. Founder of Methodism.’

  ‘Doris, you amaze me.’

  Doris inspected her long crimson nails and grinned. ‘I amaze myself sometimes. Come and clean my place if you want some more discipline.’

  The collection of old medicine bottles looked good on my newly acquired Ikea shelf. They were not worth a £6 price ticket on each. I had a conscience and did not want to disturb the dust. Perhaps a collector would make me an offer.

  But the ginger beer and Codd bottles went in the front window with rural items of interest, a few dried flowers and a book on the Sussex countryside. It was easy to imagine those 1875 farm workers taking their lunch break under a shady hedge in a field, swigging ginger beer and getting their mouths round huge chunks of bread and cheese. No burgers or elitist smoked salmon and rocket sandwiches delivered by bike.

  I stood back to admire the arrangement at the same time as a familiar shape appeared in the shop doorway. DI James had arrived for the latest gossip on the JCB cock-up.

  ‘They think it was an old geyser wearing a baseball cap,’ I said without turning round from the window. I was denying myself that moment of yearning bliss when I could look at him, drink in his unsmiling face, drown in those brilliant blue eyes.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said a voice with a university edge. For a moment I was disorientated. Had DI James had a personality change? His own voice was deep, world-weary, a touch of accent from somewhere up north.

  ‘James?’ I said uncertainly without moving.

  ‘Sorry?’

  This was one ridiculous conversation. Time to remove misery, disappointment, fear. Fear? Fear that DI James had been revamped overnight and removed himself from my sphere.

  It was the same bulky shape with subtle differences. Less authority, more clothes sense, younger by about ten years. The hair was dark, but longer, eyes unfathomable behind Clark Kent heavy-rimmed specs, a face without lines, edges or jutting chin. Nice though, pleasant and approachable.

  ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘I thought you were someone else.’

  ‘This is my anonymous look,’ he said. ‘I can pass in any crowd. DS Ben Evans, local CID. Have you a minute to spare? I’m making enquiries about a hold-up at the Mexican restaurant, four doors down, sometime last night.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. That’s awful. What did they take? A ton of tortillas?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘No one has been flogging Mexican.’

  ‘Did you notice anything unusual yesterday, youths loitering, people not usually in this area?’

  In this area? This was a backwater of Latching, the last of the shops that petered out into a residential area where the Edwardian terraces were split into flats. But even so, DS Evans needn’t make it sound like downtown.

  ‘There was a wino in here this morning,’ I offered, upping my blinking average for the day. DS Evans obviously did not know I was a PI and I wasn’t going to tell him. ‘He wanted cash before making his daily purchases at Threshers.’

  ‘Cheaper at a supermarket.’

  ‘He’d have trouble getting into one. They’d smell him a mile off and escort him out.’

  ‘Can you remember anything else? A van parked nearby, or a group of youths hanging about?’

  ‘I’m really sorry but I can’t remember anything special about yesterday.’ Except that I’d been glued to Sonia Spider’s uneventful activities. ‘I’m not much help.’

  ‘Never mind. You obviously know what you’re selling,’ said DS Ben Evans, looking round at the meagre stock. ‘Selective and imaginative.’

  ‘Sure,’ I agreed. ‘No point in housing a load of rubbish. This is all first class stuff.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to your … er … window dressing.’ He did not seem to want to leave, it’s a nice shop.’

  ‘Thank you. Are you new here?’

  ‘Just arrived. Bit difficult settling in after the Metropolitan. Slower, quieter.’

  I nodded agreeably. ‘We still get a lot of crime.’

  ‘So it seems. Mexican etc …’

  ‘If I think of anything I’ll phone you,’ I said, feeding him his exit line. His eyes thanked me. He gave me his phone number, which I knew by heart. I could have dialled it in my sleep. Probably did.

  ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

  ‘I hope you’ll catch them. Nothing is safe these days. What actually happened?’ He was not supposed to tell me, but he had relaxed.

  ‘These two men came in, ordered a meal, ate it, stayed on, then they threatened the owner, and got away with the day’s takings just as he was closing. Nasty business. No one seems to have seen anything.’

  He was so like DI James and yet not like him at all. What was the matter with me? I was seeing DI James everywhere. I’d be embracing lamp posts next.

  I needed a sweet treat. I swanned into Superdrug and bought myself a strawberry-tasting lipstick. The colour was OK, too. I’m not into a lot of make-up, merely smearing my lower lip, pressing them together and hoping the result looked natural. Actually defining the top lip seems excessively vain.

  I decided that the Spiller surveillance was not progressing swiftly enough to justify the generous fee. I felt I should be producing the goods faster. Conscience pricking again. Perhaps I should give Oliver a discount on bad days. Or better still, he could give me a store discount in place of a percentage of the money and I could stock up on his fancy bags.

  My feet dragged me back to number eight. The house was empty, windows dark and hollow. No dog, no woman, no husband, in that order of interest. Somehow I had missed them. My confidence bruised easily. It was time to think seriously of a career change.

  Four

  The next day I stepped up the pace. I arrived at the health club car park, already in character gear, stonewashed jeans, navy jersey, anorak and careless scarf and earrings. Careless scarf and earrings being the cover.

  Trusty clipboard in hand, I pressed the polished brass bell of number eight. I had decided to throw caution to whatever force was gusting, and face the woman herself.

  Sonia Spiller opened the door. She was a little older than I had first thought. Approaching forty with coarsened skin and deep lines from nose to mouth. She needed to exfoliate. The mass of black hair hung lan
kly, straggling on her shoulders. Obviously not a shampoo day.

  ‘Mrs Spiller?’ I asked pleasantly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I wonder if I might have a few moments of your time?’

  ‘I don’t want to buy anything.’

  ‘Heavens no,’ I said, with a little nervous laugh. ‘And I'm not selling anything. I’m not one of those people. I’m a member of the Latching Historical Houses Association and we want to include number eight Luton Road in our examples of perfect fishermen’s cottages of the nineteenth-century.’

  I don’t know how I think up these things. It was all on the spur of the moment. But it worked. Sonia Spiller relaxed visibly.

  ‘Well, that’s very nice,’ she said. ‘Of course, number eight is one of the best in this row. Some of these people have really spoilt their houses, no imagination at all, and without the proper building consent half the time.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t go into the legality of individual alterations,’ I said primly. ‘But I would like to know what improvements you have done to preserve the authenticity and whether you did the work yourself.’

  ‘Come in then. It’s freezing on the doorstep. Would you like to have some coffee while you look around?’

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘You didn’t say your name.’

  ‘Lucy Locket.’ I was a quick thinker.

  ‘Come in, Miss Locket. What an unusual name. It’s nice and warm in the kitchen. We’ve just had a new Aga put in.’

  I could have swooned in the heat. Instead I was busy making notes about all the improvements and restoration work that she and husband Colin had done. I gathered that Sonia did most of the work herself. The solicitor’s letter had said she had had to give up teaching but she did not seem to have another job.

  ‘This pretty stencilled frieze around the ceiling, most attractive and in keeping with the period. When did you do all this?’ I asked, sipping my coffee. Instant, not bad. Cold milk.

  ‘The frieze is a new innovation. I did it about two weeks ago. I made the stencils myself, the grapes and trellis work, got the design from a book in the library. It took me a whole day to paint.’