‘My goodness. I couldn’t do that,’ I burbled on. ‘I’ve no head for heights. Can hardly change a light bulb.’ I know lots of jokes about changing light bulbs, like how many politicians does it take to change a light bulb? Six. One up the ladder and five to kick it away.
‘Oh, a step ladder doesn’t bother me. The trick is not using too much paint.’ Sonia rambled on about the technicalities of stencil work while I roughly calculated the height of the kitchen walls and the mileage of grapes hanging on the trellis.
‘I’ve done our bedroom as well,’ she added with enthusiasm. ‘Different design, roses and trailing clematis. It’s very effective. Would you like to see it?’
‘Lovely.’
The bedroom was feminine. Where did Colin fit into all this? A crowd of family photographs cluttered the top of a white chest of drawers. Her matching dressing table was a witness to her fight against time.
I thought I had got her now, in my mind. No woman with a dislocated shoulder could have wielded a paint brush on intricate work at that height, for several days, without getting severe rigor mortis. But there was no proof. If challenged, she would say her husband did the work; that I had misheard her. Time to leave while I was still ahead.
‘You’ve been very helpful,’ I said, putting the notebook away. ‘May I come back if I think of something else I need to ask you?’
‘Of course, Miss Locket. I’ve got to take my dog for a walk. I’ve got a new puppy and he’s a handful.’
I could hear Jasper barking and whining and scratching at a door. She had shut him into the utility room, and when she opened the door, he came rushing out, overjoyed at the scent of freedom.
I went down on one knee. ‘Hello, Jasper,’ I said, fondling his handsome head. He was ecstatic with all the new smells of my coat and my jeans. He tried licking my face. ‘No,’ I said firmly, pushing his head away. ‘Down. Sit.’
Jasper did nothing of the kind, not knowing the meaning of the words, bounded about, tail wagging dangerously.
‘Jasper. How did you know his name?’ She looked puzzled.
‘You called him Jasper,’ I said, face straight. Red card. ‘Surely I got it from you?’
‘Oh, did I? Well, I suppose I must have.’
Sonia Spillcr collected a coat, car keys and a lead. I don’t know why she didn’t walk down to the sea front. It was no distance.
‘I just hope that damned car doesn’t follow me today,’ she said, showing me out. The cold hit my face as well as her words.
‘What?’ I pretended indifference but my heart did a nasty jerk. I stared at the front door step, seeing the cracks, hoping for inspiration from some good angel.
‘I keep seeing this stupid red car with black spots,’ said Sonia, putting the dog’s collar on with unnecessary force. ‘I think it’s following me. Everywhere I go, this damned car goes, too.’
‘Heavens,’ I said. ‘How strange. Probably just a coincidence. After all Latching is a small place. I’m always meeting the same people.’
‘I can’t see the driver so I don’t know who the hell it is that’s following me. I’m only seeing the car. It was even parked at the leisure centre where I play squash the other day.’
‘Heavens, however do you find time to play squash?' I laughed, trying to distract her. ‘All this DIY work in the house …’
‘I like to keep fit. I’ve always been very fit.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Spiller. You’ve been very helpful. Bye, Jasper. Have a lovely walk.’
I had to walk away from where my car was parked, go in a northwards direction, abandon it. I’d retrieve it at a safer time. She’d spotted my car. Not funny. I wondered how I could get round still using the ladybird. I felt sick that she’d seen me. It was a blow. It had been too damned convenient. I couldn’t go back to the car park until it was dark.
There was no way I was going to creep around Latching till nightfall. Sonia Spiller might be keeping her own vigilance behind the curtains. Hell, hell. Still, the owner could be a health fanatic, pumping iron daily, flabby-arm syndrome. Better, surely, to let Sonia think that. If the car disappeared from the car park now, it would only confirm her suspicions and she might attach those suspicions to Lucy Locket.
Plan: continue parking car in health club till Sonia was reassured that ladybird was not following her. Whip into health club, heavily disguised, then follow Sonia on foot or on trusty bike.
*
The Latching Bowling Club had grounds at the back of the town, behind the gasometer. They were green and peaceful with designer flower beds and shrubbed hedges now lying in winter fallow. The flowers always looked spectacular in the summer, bedded out at great expense, colour co-ordinated and making intricate patterns. Last year, one flower bed had been a clock face and another an anchor riding the waves, Latching’s town emblem.
Now it looked as if an enraged dinosaur had gone on the rampage over the lawns; obviously the creature had been denied membership. The JCB was abandoned, wedged into the debris of the veranda and porch of the pavilion. I suppose if they removed it there was a danger that the whole building would collapse. I wandered around, hoping to spot something that CID had missed, i.e. a baseball cap with name and address inside.
The huge mud-caked yellow machine had certainly done a lot of damage. It was a gruesome sight, the caterpillar wheels halfway into the veranda, the scoop about to shovel down half a wall. Seriously, it might be the revenge of some middle-aged bowls fanatic who had been denied membership. Who else would want to wreck such havoc apart from mindless youths high on beer and vodka?
I ought to speak to Brenda Hamilton, the club secretary, but hey, hold on! I caught myself up sharp. This wasn’t my case. I wasn’t being paid money for this. DI James might treat me to an occasional plate of chips, but he’d never even taken me out for a meal.
This reminded me that I hadn’t eaten. My feet went on autopilot to Maeve’s Cafe, a slightly run-down place, one street back from the sea front. Mavis, the owner, cooked the best fish in Latching, caught overnight by one of her brown-faced fishermen. She was crazy about fishermen, their muscles, the danger they faced nightly, the taste of salt on their skin. I don’t know how they found time to woo our Mavis since they were out fishing all night and slept all day. Maybe they made up for it when the weather was bad.
She looked contented enough on her diet of fish and fishermen. It was impossible to put an age on her. She could have been fourteen or forty. The eyes were mature but the body girlish. She had got over her nasty dose of Not Talking to Jordan, relating to one of my past cases a while ago, and actually smiled at me across the counter.
‘Hi,’ I said, ‘I’ll have anything that’ll warm me up.’
‘Is this breakfast, lunch or supper?’
‘I can’t actually remember.’
‘You need someone to look after you,’ she clucked.
‘Have you got a spare fisherman?’
‘All taken, sorry.’
A big mug of tea appeared at my window table, as I liked it, very hot, weak and sweetened with honey.
‘That’ll keep you going. Where did you get that scarf? It’s pretty.’
‘I don’t remember, but you can have it, if you like it. Change of neck. It would suit you.’
‘Thanks, Jordan. Nice of you. I never have time to shop.’
Mavis grilled an enormous plaice for me. It hung over the edge of the plate like a ballerina’s skirts. With it came a side dish of mushrooms, peas and shallots. Not a scrap of crisp batter in sight.
‘Where’s my chips?’ I asked.
‘Not good for you,’ said Mavis, who served chips with everything, even chips with chips.
‘If you say so,’ I sighed.
Eating healthy was my lifestyle so I could hardly complain. Not so, DI James. I’d never seen a man put so much grease down his throat, yet his tanned skin was clear, frame lean and firm, eyes unclouded. I hadn’t measured his cholesterol count. I couldn’t get near enough to measure any
thing.
As I paid for the meal, I warned Mavis about the Mexican hold up. ‘Be careful, locking up, late at night,’ I added.
‘I’d like to see them try anything on me,’ she said. ‘That’s why I keep this under the counter.’ She produced a heavy old black frying pan, battered and corroded with rust, but as solid as hell.
I shuddered. ‘You need an alarm. A panic button fixed somewhere.’
‘I don’t panic, girl,' said Mavis complacently. ‘But thanks for the warning and the scarf. I’ll wear it now.’
The collection of medicine bottles were snapped up immediately I opened the shop that evening. A retired Latching doctor, taking a stroll, was jubilant. I vaguely remembered him from my WPC days, stitching up someone’s cracked head.
‘These are really excellent,’ he said, looking but not touching. He stooped a bit now, iron grey hair, pale blue eyes behind halfmoon specs. ‘What do you want for them? I collect old medical curios.’
‘To be honest,’ I said. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t put a price on them. They’re not going separately, only as a collection. There’s ten bottles, some still with stoppers, one is slightly chipped. Would you like to make me an offer?’
‘These are definitely Victorian. Forty pounds for the lot,’ he came back instantly.
‘Done,’ I said. So what. Maybe they were worth more but I liked to keep stock moving. ‘How would you like them packed? We don’t want to disturb the dust.’
‘Just put them in a box, laid flat.’
The old medicine bottles went out in the same box they’d arrived in. I hoped the good doctor was not fussy about germs.
‘Hey, what’s this? You’ve missed something at the bottom.’ His eyes were keen despite the specs. His long lingers groped around the newspaper packing.
It was a very small item of glass. A perfect mermaid, barely two inches long, her scaled tail shot with blue and silver dye. The doctor took it out and looked at it closely.
‘Venetian, I should say. You ought to take it to a dealer, though it would look nice in your window.’
The mermaid was enchanting, her face a vision of sweetness. I knew I’d have no trouble selling it if I could even bear to let it go. And I’d given the wino £1.50 for the lot to get rid of him.
Where had he got it all from? No clues on the cardboard box. Standard supermarket recycled.
The doctor carried the box carefully while I held open the door. I wondered if I should remind him of my beat days but thought not. The less people who knew the better.
‘Thank you. I never thought the hat suited you,’ he added with an attempt at an elderly wink.
‘Nor did I,’ I smiled. I might need a retired doctor one day.
‘Why did you leave?’
‘Ah. A long story. A disagreement with a superior over letting a rapist go scot-free.’
He shook his head. ‘One of life’s injustices?’
‘Something like that.’
‘I know all about injustice,’ he added.
*
But it wasn’t me who needed a doctor. It was Mavis. Doris came rushing in the next day, pale faced, clutching her chest and hardly able to speak.
‘The cafe’s been robbed … Maeve’s Cafe, late last night, and Mavis has been beaten up. They hit her … oh my God, with her own frying pan.’
‘Come in, come in. Slow down, Doris … tell me about it.’
‘She was just locking up when they came in and threatened her. They took all her takings, the whole lot and the float. It came to quite a tidy sum,’ she sobbed. ‘Just like the Mexican restaurant next door, the night before. Latching isn’t safe any more, not for the likes of us ordinary folk.’
I sat Doris down and gave her a glass of my medicinal brandy. ‘Is Mavis going to be all right? Is she in hospital?’
Doris coughed on the tire-water. ‘Her face is a bit of a mess, she says, bruised and cut up. She managed to stop the bleeding with a scarf before the ambulance people came. They kept her in overnight, but she’s gone back home now. I’m going to close my shop and spend the day with her, cheer her up a bit.’
‘You do that,’ I said soberly. ‘Give her my love. Tell her I’m so very sorry and I’ll see her soon.’
Doris finished the brandy valiantly, still talking, and hurried out to visit her best mate, her best friend. I think they’d been to the same school together. They’d known each other a long time.
Now I might not be getting paid a cent for it but this was, from this moment on, definitely my case. No one was going to bash up my friend and get away with it.
Five
Oliver Guilbert was pleased with my report. I phoned him as soon as Doris had gone. It had as many details as I could pile in without giving away the guise I had taken on.
‘This is really excellent news,’ he enthused. ‘Just what we want, playing squash and up ladders. Well done, Miss Lacey. But how can we prove all this home decorating?’
‘I don’t really know. It’s a tricky one. I can hardly set up CCTV.’
‘And she hasn’t spotted you?’
The phrase was unfortunate. It was beyond a joke now. ‘Not that I know. If her claim is fraudulent, then she will continue to be cautious. There’s enough in the newspapers about social security claimants in wheelchairs seen carrying wardrobes and going to disco parties. She’s being very careful. By the way, Mr Guilbert, I am going to reduce my daily charge to you as I am no longer able to do a complete twelve hours surveillance every day.’
‘Why is that?’
I didn’t tell him that the ladybird had been sighted by Mrs Spiller and my mobility curtailed. ‘I have taken on another case.’
‘Is that ethical?’
‘In this instance, yes. It’s for a friend. She’s been beaten up, rather badly. They held her up in her restaurant. I have to find the mindless thugs who did it.’
I had upgraded Maeve’s Cafe. He did not need to know everything.
‘You mean Mavis, don’t you? Yes, bad news travels fast. I’ve heard all about it. Nasty business.’
‘You know Mavis?’ I was surprised.
‘Of course, best chips in Latching. Except that I mustn’t be seen going in there. We have a restaurant on the top floor of Guilberts and it would look disloyal. Our chef would have an emotional breakdown.’
‘That’s sad,’ I grinned to myself. ‘To be denied one of life’s pleasures because of store loyalty.’
‘It’s the price of running a store with a well known name.’ I got the feeling he was laughing too. I hoped Leroy thought he was worth a late-night coffee. I might have cultivated him myself if my affections had not been totally engaged elsewhere.
I spent the rest of the morning starting files on Mavis and the Bowling Club. Mavis was my case from now onwards. Pay was not important although I did need to eat, occasionally.
*
Sonia Spiller was walking the seafront with Jasper on a lead. The tide was in, lashing the shingle with relentless surges of power. Yet the sea did not seem to have its heart in the exercise, acting more like a circus lion going through an old routine. It had grown tired of winter, yearned for frolicking summer visitors and sunlight on splashing waves. Even the seagulls were walking. They had given up aerial displays for Christmas, conserving their strength for Boxing Day largesse. Chunks of dry Christmas cake, cold roast potatoes, lumpy bread sauce and mince pies. They were not choosy.
I was wrapped up to my nose with a woolly scarf, hair crammed under a felt brimmed hat, thick glasses, anorak zipped to the neck. My mother would have had trouble recognizing me. Only my eyes showed.
Jasper was dejected. His tail hung down, brushing the promenade. Perhaps Sonia was breaking his spirit. He barely look any interest in his surroundings, ignoring doggy smells, not investigating any interesting bags of garbage piled against the bins.
There was nothing to video, nothing that was out of the ordinary. I hoped she’d shift a rock, drag driftwood out of the sea, help pull a laden fishing
boat up the shingle. But she only meandered, hands in pockets, thoughts locked away.
I kept my distance, consulting a street map occasionally like a lost tourist. The video camera stayed in a carrier bag, knocking against my hips. At least I was getting a walk, short but bracing. I reached out for the tip of the wind with my nose, but it had gone.
*
The object of my affections phoned after lunch, his voice cutting into my brain, activating neglected sex cells. My heart leaped and settled into a different pattern. I was adding up my shop takings: zero, nil, nought.
‘I’ve had a complaint,’ he said, coming straight to the point. ‘A woman phoned the station a while ago, very annoyed. She said she is being stalked. By a man in a woolly hat who drives a red and black spotted car.’
‘Is this a joke?’ I said.
‘You are the only person in Latching with a car that meets that description.’
‘So? I don’t look like a man or haven’t you noticed that much recently?’
‘Perhaps one of your many disguises?’
‘I am not completely stupid. I would not use my car to follow anyone. The ladybird’s too distinctive. Unique. Not made for surveillance.’
‘But this woman is convinced that she is being stalked by a spotted car. And you do admit you are following someone?’
‘Yes, I am on a surveillance operation for a client, but not in my car, and definitely not stalking. That’s a fabrication. Have you checked whether she is a trustworthy citizen of Latching?’
‘She?’
‘You said a woman phoned. Obvious gender connection.’
‘She has lots of evidence. Times, dates etc.’
‘Oh, come off it, DI James. Anyone can come up with times and dates. Fact and fiction. Anyway, who is this stalked person?’ I asked, putting righteous indignation into my voice.
‘Mrs Sonia Spiller, number eight Luton Road, opposite the health centre where you were locked into the steam room a few months ago.’
‘I’m touched that you remember.’
‘I remember the scalds on your skin.’
Spin and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 3) Page 4
