I went weak with the thought of DI James remembering anything about me. My new skin melted without being touched. My brain was seriously out of control.
‘OK, occasionally I still go to the health club, for my asthma. In fact, more frequently of late, as my courage is returning.’
‘So do you know anything about this stalking?’ he went on. ‘Mrs Spiller says she’s seen someone peering into a downstairs window of her house.’
‘There! That proves it’s not me. I never peer into windows. Not my style and you know that.’
Nor had I, at number eight, ever peered into a window. Far too risky. Perhaps Sonia did have a stalker or perhaps Oliver was employing two PIs. It was known in the profession. I didn’t like the idea of a back-up but it made sense.
‘She says this stalker was filming her when she was playing squash. She caught sight of the flash of a lens. She’s also getting a lot of dead phone calls, probably someone checking to see if she’s in. They can’t be traced as the caller dials 141.'
‘Husband checking if she’s taken a lover,’ I said flippantly. Caught sight of the lens … she was supposed to keep her eye on the ball. ‘What else has she dreamed up?’
‘This spotted car keeps driving past her house.’
‘Oh, come off it, James. If I’m going to the health club, then, of course I drive past her house. She lives opposite. The woman is paranoid.’
‘How do you know she lives opposite?’
Ah. Quick thinking required. ‘I can count. Hey now, bright idea! How about you employing me to keep tabs on this stalker? My rates are reasonable. I could slot it into my current case and reassure this lady that no one is going to bother her. I might even find out who it is.’
‘Ingenious idea,’ said DI James with more patience than he usually showed. ‘But you know I am not allowed to employ civilians.’
‘Are you going to give her protection?’ I hoped not.
‘I don’t have the resources. Nothing has actually happened, nothing threatening, that is. I don’t have the manpower and she hasn’t actually asked. So you can’t help me with this one?’
‘Sure, I’ll keep an eye open every time I drive past her house. If I do see a man in a woolly hat peering in a window, you’ll be the first to know. By the way, the driver of the runaway JCB was an old geyser wearing a baseball cap.’
‘An old geyser. How old? Is that the best you can do? I should have thought your beat days would have trained you for a more detailed description.’
‘This is a secondhand description. Remember, I wasn’t there and it wasn’t me that the JCB got away from. It was a couple of your flashy new patrol cars. And who thinks up those colour schemes? Red and yellow stripes, green and yellow squares, flashing blue lights … at least my car is colour co-ordinated.’
‘Let me know if you get any more information.’
‘Not if you accuse me of being a stalker.’
‘I didn’t accuse you.’
‘And give my regards to that new DS Evans,’ I said sweetly. ‘He has such lovely manners.’
The phone was replaced swiftly, but I had the satisfaction of knowing I had stumped him. It was not often I got the opportunity. But if Sonia Spiller did have a stalker, what on earth was going on? Did Oliver Guilbert know? I decided to keep my eyes wide open. Perhaps I was the one being followed. Now that was not a pleasant option. Creepy. It had happened once before, when Derek had stalked me and I had been thoroughly frightened. I knew the feeling. He had even thrown a stone through my shop window.
I went along to the Mexican restaurant, three doors down from my shop. It was not a place that I ate at although I love Mexican food, enchiladas, tortillas, hot and spicy. The price list in the window put me off. I couldn’t fork out for one dish, not even a starter. The price of a meal would keep me in food for a whole week.
The restaurant was dimly lit as it was before opening time. But a lot of cleaning was going on. The small tables were topped with ethnic oilcloths, nothing flashy. Plants hung everywhere; travel posters and mirrors decorated the walls. They were putting fresh flowers in bright red vases and laying the tables for the evening's customers, folding red linen napkins. The recent hold-up had not defeated them.
‘Can I speak to your manager or owner?’ I asked. I handed over one of my new business cards. They were understated, professional. The waiter was small and dark skinned, lithe. He flashed a smile at me.
‘Of course. Please wait. Please sit. A glass of wine, senorita?’
Heavens, this was the treatment. Why had I never come here before? They were my neighbours in the row of shops.
‘Thank you,’ I said. Who cared what the time was? ‘A house red would be fine.’
‘Chilean special for you. Only the best.’
In seconds the young man placed a statuesque glass of wine before me. It was not a normal sized wine glass. It was enormous. The wine glistened like dewed rubies. I was speechless and could only thank him with a Goldie Hawn smile.
‘Boss not long,’ said the waiter.
For a few ecstatic minutes I forgot all about being unloved, unpaid and unbelieved. The wine ran through my veins, healing the hurt. I almost forgot why I was there. The air broke into an alcoholic fragrance. This was supposed to be working.
Then the owner/manager arrived. He was a clone of Omar Sharif, only a decade younger. Even the same sultry, dipped-in-treacle voice. Half of Latching’s female population must be swooning at his feet, especially the newly divorced and widowed. No wonder they paid his prices. He was a man and a half.
Maya, Toltec, Aztec, all the Spanish conquests. I could see ancient civilisations spinning in his blood. I hoped he had a name I could pronounce.
‘Miguel Cortes,’ he said, holding out his hand. It was brown, strong fingered, capable, wrists sprinkled with dark hairs. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, jeans and a chefs striped apron. The man cooked for a living. He liked food.
‘I’m Jordan Lacey,’ I said, hoping my tongue could get round the wine. ‘I’m a private investigator. My office is on the corner, behind the First Class Junk shop.’
‘I know,’ he said, his dark brown eyes drinking in my face, my casual clothes, my tawny red hair. I don’t know what he thought of them. His clientele were probably smart dressers. ‘I have seen you many times. You are the brave lady who tackled the thugs on the pier. I nearly sent you a bottle of wine only I forgot. Forgive me?’
‘It was nothing,' I said. ‘I just happened to be there. Would you mind telling me about the hold-up on Sunday night? I know you have already told the police all that you know. DS Evans was at my shop the next day.’ I threw in Ben Evans’ name for authenticity. ‘And it does link with another case I am working on.’
Miguel threw up his hands, almost rocking my wine. I took a quick drink. ‘It was like on the films. These two men. They came in, ordered the lot, good meal, no expense spared. Wine, my best. They waited until everyone had gone, heads talking close together. The place was empty, my staff gone, then they held me up. Guns to my head. Beat me with the butt of the guns. I am no fool. I give them everything. Hundreds of pounds. It had been a good night. Still I am here and I am alive.’ His face was full of emotion, reliving every moment.
‘It must have been awful,’ I sympathised. ‘Can you describe these men?’
‘Sure. Stupid. Mean. Greedy.’
My hopes fell. ‘What did they look like? You know, face, height, appearance? Did anyone use a name?’
‘Sure. One was called Chuck. I know that. He held a thin moustache. The other man was mean looking.’
Miguel Cortes was not being very helpful but he had been in the kitchen, cooking and cleaning, before he had been held up. His eyes soothed me with kindliness. I knew what it meant now to drown in a man’s eyes. It was the wine seeping deep into my veins.
I got out my notebook, hoping I could see the lines. ‘Let’s go into details. Man One — named Chuck with thin moustache? What else can you remember?’
I was on my second large glass of Chilean when I ran out of things to ask. It was a long time since I had felt so comfortable with a man, sitting in his restaurant, three doors down from my shop. Resolution: I should cultivate my neighbours.
‘You never come here,’ said Miguel, with regret in his voice. ‘I never seen you eat here.’
‘I can’t afford your restaurant.’ I couldn’t afford any restaurant.
‘Ah …’ He nodded knowingly. ‘My prices are high, on purpose. I only want special clientele. The credit card, the expenses, the big spenders. If you want to impress someone, you come to eat Mexican; casual decor but the food is from heaven.’
‘I can believe that.’
‘So what do you eat, Miss Jordan Lacey who is a very private detective?’ This man was laughing at me, but I did not mind. I could forgive his brown eyes anything.
‘Soup, salads, sandwiches. Occasionally fish at Maeve’s Cafe.’
‘Please eat here, one night. Be my guest. We will sit together, no hurry, have a bottle of good wine and talk about nice things, not hold-ups and beatings.’
‘But don't you have to cook … ?’
‘I have a deputy. That is what I am training him for.’
It was hard to leave, to extract myself from the calming surroundings. I didn’t even know the name of the restaurant. I looked at the menu. It was called Miguel’s. Some detective.
Miguel Cortes stood outside on the step of his restaurant, a big dark man full of confidence, not defeated by the hold-up or the gun to his head. Why was he here in Latching? I could not understand his purpose in cooking in a small restaurant in this seaside town. He should be in some big, cosmopolitan capital of the world, cooking for diplomats, politicians, millionaires.
‘Thank you for the wine,’ I said. ‘And the information. It will all help. I’m sure we’ll find these thugs.’
‘Gracias. Adios.’
I turned slowly with a new thought. ‘If they took everything, then they will have taken all the credit card counterfoils as well?’
‘Yes, sure, but that money I do not lose. It is credited to my account instantly.’
I went back to my shop and drank two glasses of cold water to dilute the wine. It was a long time since any man had been so pleasant to me. I could not count Jack on the pier with his awful coffee. Miguel had style and made me feel cherished and cared for. Fool. He probably had a Page Three sex-bomb at home, panting for his return every night.
Doris put her head round the door. She’d been discount shopping again, arms full of bags. She smiled knowingly.
‘Dishy, isn’t he?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Miguel. It’s taken you long enough to meet him. I could have told you.’
‘I didn’t need telling.’
‘Jordan Lacey, you should have therapy. Miguel Cortes is the most gorgeous man in Latching, apart from several fishermen, and you have only just noticed him. There arc queues of women from here to Brighton who will pay anything for a smile with their meal. And you’ve just had time for free.’
‘I was working.’
‘Pull the other one. I can smell the wine.’
‘How’s Mavis?’
‘Poorly. It’s been quite a shock.’
*
I spent a pointless evening standing near number eight Luton Road, an address I was beginning to dislike, which was not fair to listed fishermen’s cottages. I pretended I was waiting to meet someone, preferably tall and crew cut, consulting my watch (imaginary). Walking up and down, I had only the valley of my intimate thoughts to keep me warm.
Where was this husband of hers? Colin Spiller. Surely he came home sometimes? The last train from London would have arrived by now.
The cavalier eyes of Miguel intruded. If only DI James would look at me with a quarter of Miguel’s directness and warmth, I would be a happy woman. My one-man reticence was holding me back. Why didn’t I just throw myself into a gloriously mad, ecstatic Central American love affair and forget the cold, critical detective whose one diversion in life was pulling me to pieces?
‘Clear off,’ someone shouted from an upstairs window. ‘You’ve been hanging about long enough. He’s not coming. Go home or the police’ll get you for loitering.’
It was so humiliating.
Six
Mavis lived somewhere down at East Latching, the stretch of beach that is almost desolate, sans boats, sans buildings, only a narrow gravel path at the top of the shingle. I got the address from Doris. On my way, I stopped at Mr Hopkins, my friend the greengrocer, and bought three bunches of his best spray carnations and some clementines.
‘I don’t want bargains,’ I said. ‘These are for a friend who’s had a rough time.’
‘That’s nice. Going to see Mavis, are you?’
I contained a sigh. ‘Does Latching know everything I do?’ Fred Hopkins grinned. ‘Take her this nice melon from me. If she’s not eating, it might tempt her. Sweet and ripe, easy on the teeth.'
‘Thank you,’ I said. I had forgotten about teeth hurting, though I’d been beaten up several times.
I parked the ladybird outside the small terrace of Edwardian villas where Mavis had a flat. Doris said Mavis lived upstairs at the end, number five B. It overlooked a pond where there were ducks and geese and clusters of thick reeds for nesting. The water was a deep green, very Monet, and as still as glass.
‘You can’t miss it,’ Doris said. ‘It’s the one with weeds growing in the window boxes. She only plants her boxes once a year. Half an hour’s work and she’s done all her gardening.’ It was a terrace of small, sturdy houses, built to last, with bay windows upstairs and downstairs, identical porches, ornate lintels over the front doors. They looked as if they had been built for the staff of a much bigger house. If they had, then the mansion had long since been pulled down for an estate of identical semis.
It was easy to spot the prolific weeds. Grass and dandelions hung down in a tangle from the two upstairs windowsills, a wisp of cow parsley. I pressed the bell under a label saying No. 5b. Footsteps came down the stairs and someone peered through the peephole.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s Jordan, Mavis. Jordan Lacey. It’s quite safe to open the door. It’s only me, no one else is here.’
‘Oh, Jordan, thank goodness. Just a minute. I’ll let you in.’
I heard bolts being drawn back and a chain rattle. Mavis had turned her home into a fortress and I didn’t blame her. She opened the door cautiously and it was a shock to see her. I tried not to stare, but her face was a mess. One eye was half closed and an ugly bruise spread down her cheek, a gross purple and yellow stain. Her chin was swollen and butterfly strips held together random cuts on her other cheek.
‘Wow,’ I said, heart contracting. I put my arms round her gently and gave her a light hug. She smelt of Radox muscle soak and was still in her dressing gown. ‘Oh Mavis, I’m so sorry.’
‘You did warn me.’ She tried a smile, but her face was too stiff. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’
She went through all the locking and bolting again. I presumed the tenant of the downstairs flat had agreed. I followed her up narrow, carpeted stairs and into her kitchen. It was small and odd-shaped, with the air of once having been the smallest bedroom which had changed its purpose in life and was still trying to get used to it. I don’t think Mavis did much cooking at home for there was only a kettle jug and a microwave oven. She took the flowers from me.
‘They’re lovely,’ she said, trying to find a vase. ‘Thank you.’ She seemed to have no idea where she kept her vases and opened several doors before finding a simple white china jug. Her hands shook as she took scissors from a drawer to trim t
he stems. She was still in shock. I didn’t help her.
‘The melon is from Fred Hopkins. He thought you might have lost your appetite.’
‘I have. It hurts too much to eat. All I can do is drink. Tea and soup, that is,’ she hastened to add. ‘I get my spuds from Fred Hopkins. Only the best, of course. He gets them in special for me. Would you like some tea?’
‘I’ll make it,’ I said, worried that she would scald herself. I didn’t want to talk about the hold-up, but I had to if I was going to catch these mindless thugs. I filled the kettle and switched it on, got out two mugs. They were brightly coloured flower mugs. She had plates to match. I wondered if her fishermen liked them.
‘I’ve spoken to Miguel Cortes about the men that held up his place. He’s given me some descriptions but they’re pretty vague. I know it must be painful for you to talk about it, but are you able to describe the men?’
‘I’ll never forget them,’ said Mavis grimly, staring out of the window at the duck pond as if she had never seen it before. ‘Their faces will haunt me for the rest of my life.’
I had never heard such misery in her voice. Mavis had always seemed such a cheerful, down-to-earth person, with her basic cooking and basic fishermen lovers. She had some dogmatic ideas at times, but they were all part of her personality.
‘But why you? Maeve’s Cafe, of all places. You do good business, but hardly in the same income bracket as the Mexican restaurant. How much did they take?’
‘I don’t know. I hadn’t counted the takings. It could have been about a hundred pounds or thereabouts. It hadn’t been a good day, too cold and too wet. Your policeman friend hadn’t been in, that dishy DI James. You’re a bit slow there, Jordan. Or some of my other regulars. Christmas and all that.’
‘Ah, Christinas. What will you do for Christmas? You won’t be alone will you?’
‘Oh no. There’s Doris. She’s a brick. She’s staying overnight with me for a bit. Till I feel better. And I’m not going out until my face is back to normal.’
She meant she would not be seeing any of her male friends until her face was back to normal. It was sad. I didn’t think they bothered to go fishing over the holiday, no sales, too much turkey being consumed.
Spin and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 3) Page 5
