‘Hello, Jordan. How are you? Thought we ought to get together for a Christmas drink.’
‘Hi, Joshua. That’s a nice idea but I’m not very well. I’m getting over the ’flu. Fever, aches and pains.’
‘Jordan! How awful. I’d better ring off.’
I could hear the panic in his voice. He was such a baby. ‘It’s not contagious by voice. You can’t catch it down a phone line,’ I reassured him.
‘Look after yourself,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I’ll ring again when you’re better.’
I delivered the two writs that afternoon that were long overdue. The recipients looked surprised. They did not expect to see a half-ghost person doing legal legging. Perhaps that’s why they took them without the usual hassle.
It was the evening of Brenda Hamilton’s party already. Gloomy thoughts did not encourage party mood or party dressing so I switched on Jazz FM and let some soul and blues lift my spirits a few degrees.
Party dressing? That was a joke. Newest indigo jeans, embroidered blue cowboy shirt and usual boots. It was the best I could do. Black leather jacket, of course. Anyway, I was driving there, so wrapping up weather resistant was not essential.
My face was wan. I put on some mascara. I might meet the man of my dreams.
How can you go to a party when Oliver Guilbert has died, my conscience nagged, as I drove towards Sea Avenue. This is work, I argued. How come? The JCB is not your case. In fact, you are out of work at the moment. No cases, no work, no income. There’s the two muggings. So who’s paying you? Santa Claus?
I can’t argue with my conscience. It wins every time. But I still went to the party.
Brenda Hamilton lived in one of those really nice houses that faced the green sward that ran along seawards after the road petered out. They were built just before the war, no particular style, but elegant and well proportioned. It had a classy blue tiled roof, a balcony along the upstairs, a spacious porch and an in-out circular drive. Lights were on in every room and I could see tasteful Christmas decorations. Every room was crowded, too. I nearly turned on my heels.
‘Come in,’ said Mrs Hamilton, seeing my hesitation on the doorstep. ‘I’ve forgotten who you are but do come in.’
She was smartly dressed in black silky trousers and tunic top, lots of gold jewellery, bangles, beads and earrings. She jangled at every movement. My efforts were easily unnoticed.
‘You did invite me,’ I said. ‘Jordan Lacey.’
‘Of course.’ She clearly didn’t remember when she had invited me and I did not remind her. ‘Come and have a drink. There’s a lovely punch. We used a very good claret. You can taste the difference.’
I bet, I thought.
‘Do you know the members of the Bowling Club? I’m sure you can introduce yourself. There’s lots of people you’ll know. Just make yourself at home, Jason.’
‘Jordan.’
So I made myself at home. It was a big room with the kind of comfort I scarcely knew. The armchairs and two three-seater settees were deeply upholstered in pale blue silk damask and would be like sinking into a cloud. The toning carpet was inches thick. The wall lights were gold-fitted and mirrored so the light reflected. Floor length blue silk curtains hung with intricate pleats and swirls that looked like a stage set.
I couldn’t think why she would have wanted to do the bowls party on the cheap. Mr Hamilton must be seriously wealthy.
There was plenty of hot wine punch, with floating fruit and mint leaves, and my Victorian wash bowl looked splendid on the long side table. She’d used a snowy white linen tablecloth and there were trays holding excellent cut glass. She was also using the jug for replacement punch. Even the soap dish held peanuts.
‘One of my finds,’ I heard her telling a guest. ‘Victorian. Isn’t it perfect?’
One of her finds indeed … she’d wanted a cheap old soup tureen.
Plenty to drink but very little to eat. A plate of reheated sausage rolls from a supermarket bumper pack came round and disappeared in seconds. A few cheese and pineapple sticks appeared and vanished. I soon finished the nuts.
I wondered if I dare wander out into her kitchen and find something edible. The punch, even though it was cheap, had gone straight to my head. It needed soaking up with food. I ate some fruit out of the punch bowl.
I also did my duty networking the party. When anyone asked me, ‘And what do you do?’, I immediately brought up the subject of the JCB. They all had their theories, ranging from drunk yobbos to disgruntled ex-bowls champions.
‘Disgruntled?’ I asked. ‘Why should this be? I thought bowls was the most civilised of games. It always looks so polite and slow paced.’
‘They’ve just changed the club rules and everyone is up in arms about it,’ said a thin woman, her rimmed eyes darting round the room as if daring anyone to contradict her.
‘Does it make a difference?’ I asked. ‘After all, it’s just a game.’
‘It’s not just a game,’ she said indignantly, slaying me with crisp consonants. ‘Mind what you say, young lady. Remarks like that could get you into trouble.’
Wow. I slid away, murmuring insincere words of apology. An unwise second glass of punch reminded me that I had a dependent car to drive home.
The room was getting very warm. I shed my leather jacket behind a chair. It was a potent punch. Cheap wine or not, it was lethal. Perhaps Mr Hamilton, knowing his wife’s parsimonious ways, had emptied a bottle of his best brandy into the bowl. I wondered how many of the guests would be breathalised on their way home. The orange juice was hardly touched. I did not know which was Mr Hamilton. No one introduced me.
‘Just as well I’ve arrived,’ said DI James, coming straight over to me. ‘You’re going to need driving home. You’re weaving.’
‘I’m not weaving. This is circulating.’
‘Call it what you like. Don’t you know you can’t drink and drive?’
He looked more than just normally gorgeous. DI James’s stern look riveted me to the carpet. He was all dark and authoritative with glinting blue eyes that bored into my soul. The air broke into a fragrance of desire. The vaulting halls of my head filled with love for him. I wondered if he would ever know …
‘And I thought it was just plain old red-tinted lemonade,’ I said, enunciating carefully. ‘Punch isn’t usually so strong.’
‘And you aren’t eating …’
‘There’s nothing to eat. The food is rationed, half a sausage and six nuts each. Trust me, I’ve counted them. Find me something to eat and I’ll eat it. Don’t worry about me, I can easily walk home.’
‘Not in that state, you don’t.’
‘What state? I’m not in any state. Go on, I dare you … walk me the line, go on. I can walk any straight line.’
‘Stay there,’ he commanded. He walked back into the hallway and was gone several minutes. Someone refilled my glass. He returned with a tumbler of water and a banana. ‘Drink this and eat this.’
‘You’re wonderful,’ I said, all smiles and lashes fluttering. I was glad I’d worn mascara. ‘What would I do without you?’
‘End up in the slammer.’
‘Why are you here?’ I asked, mouth full of banana.
‘I was invited. JCB, remember? Thought I might get a line.’
‘They’ve just changed the club rules and some people are upset,’ I offered.
‘Really. But it’s only a game.’
I grabbed his arm. ‘Don’t say that. You mustn’t say that. It’s enough to get you lynched here. It’s seriously hostile.’ I was even copying words.
‘Jordan, I’m taking you home.’
I was still holding onto his arm. ‘If you want to take me home, then you have to do something for me first. Please, James.’
A flash of apprehension clouded the vivid blue of his eyes. He was obviously thinking mistletoe and other pagan rituals. ‘So … ?’
‘Don’t look so worried. I only want to sit in a real armchair. You know what my upright moral c
hair is like. But these sofas are just so utterly decadent and look so comfortable. I want to feel what it feels like to sit in one.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about …’
But I was leading him across the room to one of the three-seaters and I sank down into the soft cushions, pulling him with me. It was like wallowing in marshmallow. The party guests vanished into the haze of alcohol and cigarette smoke. There was only James and me. No one else existed. We were alone on a soft, blue cloud, a doorway to heaven. I could barely breathe. The closeness and intimacy was suffocating me. I hardly dared to look at him, but I could feel him and smell him.
For a few delicious minutes, maybe I slept. When I awoke I was stone cold and he had gone.
It was a unpalatable revelation. My muscles knotted with anguish. James did not care about me. I wondered if anyone, anytime, was ever going to love me. Perhaps I am so worthless, so unlovable, that life will be a stoney road, always alone, growing middle-aged and increasingly crotchety as desolation envelops all hope. It was a sobering thought.
‘Miss Lacey?’ A young male voice entered my ear. ‘DI James had to go. They have found something washed up in the river estuary down at Shoreham. He’s asked me to drive you home.’
The world tipped right again as DS Ben Evans’ face came into view. He was smiling as if driving a scatty, only just sober, red-headed female home was his sole ambition in life.
‘Terrific,’ I said, hoping I could heave myself up off the drowning softness. ‘I’m ready to go now. My car is outside. The red and black one.’
‘I know. I’ve seen it,’ he grinned. ‘We call it the bumming bird.’
My brain was too befuddled to think up a smart answer. It would come to me in the middle of the night. But I did latch on to one fact.
‘That something in the river,’ I asked. ‘Is it another arm?’
Nine
It was a phone call that I never expected to get. The voice was achingly familiar. A voice that I had spoken to every morning for almost a week. It was unsettling. Yet I had seen the man, neck broken and very dead. It could not be Oliver Guilbert.
‘Can I speak to Miss Jordan Lacey?’
‘This is Jordan Lacey. How can I help you?’
‘Am I interrupting you?’
‘No, go ahead.’
‘I wonder if you could come round and see me in my office this morning. It’s not something I want to discuss on the phone.’
‘Do I know you?’
‘I’m sorry. This is Francis Guilbert of Guilberts Department Store. We haven’t met but I feel I know you.’
I did not want to see Mr Guilbert. It was too close to Oliver’s death, but he probably wanted to settle up the arrangement we’d had. Tidy things up.
‘Would eleven a.m. be OK?’
‘Yes. Take the lift to the fourth floor. My office is just beyond the restaurant.’
I was in my usual jeans and polo-necked jersey, not Guilbert gear. My props box was unhelpful, but a man’s red brocade waistcoat might lift the outfit a notch. Unusual but distinctive. The anorak was creased from daily wear. Shopping list: second iron.
I locked up the shop and put CLOSED FOR LUNCH on the door. A bit early for lunch, but then I was a hungry working girl. Breakfast had been a banana. It only took ten minutes to walk into the centre of town where the big department store dominated the High Street. The window displays were Christ-masy with inches of fake snow and silver trees hung with baubles. The prices of the goods in the windows were way above my budget any day of the week. Given the one hundred percent mark up, Guilberts could well afford my daily charge for following Sonia Spiller. I hoped Mr Guilbert was not going to try and cut me down.
Judging by the crowds milling around inside, most carrying the distinctive mauve carrier bags, business was booming. I strolled through ground floor perfume and cosmetics, handbags, hats (fur) and accessories (leather), then took the lift to the restaurant. That was also packed with shoppers having reviving coffees and cakes. Why couldn’t I have that relaxed lifestyle? Would I ever have time to sit and do nothing? The smell of coffee was stomach churning.
A discreet door at the end was labelled, Administration Private. I knocked and opened it. An open-plan office was beyond, busy with clattering keyboards, phones ringing, and the murmur of voices. A fresh-faced receptionist smiled at me from her desk.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I have an appointment with Mr Guilbert. Miss Jordan Lacey.’ I was about to flourish my card but changed my mind. Sometimes it paid to be discreet.
‘Please go straight through to Mr Guilbert’s office. It’s the last door at the end. He’s expecting you.’
The door had a plainly typed card saying, Francis Guilberl, Managing Director. He did not believe in throwing money away on fancy name plates. I knocked again, went in when he said, ‘Come in,’ found myself in an office, equally austere. But I glimpsed a high panoramic view over Latching from the windows, the sea, pier, hotels and shopping precincts. It was magnetic even on a frosty winter’s day. I could have spent hours leaning on the windowsill, watching the world at the seaside.
But there was a man behind the plain oak desk and he stood to greet me.
‘Miss Lacey. Thank you for coming to see me at such short notice. Please sit down.’
‘Mr Guilbert,’ I said, immediately. Get it over with. ‘I can’t find the right words to say how sorry I am about your son, Oliver. It was a terrible accident.’
‘Thank you, Miss Lacey. We just don’t understand what he was doing on the funfair ride. It was so unlike him. I’m trying not to think about it. He was such a fine young man and liked by everyone.’
‘I know. It’s always a shock. How is your wife taking it? She must be devastated.’
‘My wife died two years ago, so she has been spared this tragic time, thank goodness. I expect you think it’s strange that I am here, at work.’
I shook my head. ‘No. Work can be therapeutic. It can anaesthetise the pain for a while.’
‘And these three days running up to Christmas are our busiest time. We’re open Sunday as well. No point in staying at home in an empty house.’
Francis Guilbert was an older version of Oliver with thick grey hair brushed back, the same hazel eyes and strong features, a lean figure with only the slightest thickening around the waist.
‘You have wonderful views of Latching from your office,’ I said, changing the subject deliberately. I was no good with death.
‘That’s why I chose this room as my office,’ he said. ‘I can see that you love Latching as much as I do.’
I smiled. ‘My favourite seaside place. Now, I take it you wanted to see me about finalising (oh dear, wrong choice of word) the work I was doing for your son.’
‘He did tell me you had made considerable progress, Miss Lacey, and I thank you for that, but I have actually asked you here on another matter. Guilberts is losing a lot of merchandise and it seems to have escalated in the last week. I believe there is a well-organised gang at work. It’s not the usual type of shoplifter.’
‘Tin openers,’ I said.
His bushy eyebrows raised slightly. ‘We are losing whole rackfuls of clothes, entire consignments of shoes, bags, suitcases, umbrellas. Yet we have received the goods in the normal way and signed for them. It’s not your average shoplifter stuffing a jumper up her skirt, if you’ll excuse my crudeness.’
‘Doesn’t sound like it,’ I said, wondering where I came into this, and feeling decidedly guilty about my furtive squirts of Diorissimo.
‘My son thought highly of your ability, Miss Lacey, and I should like you to work here undercover — I believe that’s the term — here in the store. Starting as soon as possible.’
It was just as well I was sitting down. I can’t take surprises like this. Work in the store! Percentage staff discounts came straight to mind although I had already bought the silk scarves for Cleo and Leroy. Downside: I’d have to shut my shop. What about my Chri
stmas trade?
‘I can start now,’ I said before he changed his mind. ‘Good. I was hoping you’d say that. We’d pay you the same rate as Oliver was paying you, plus lunch in the staff canteen. We take on a lot of extra staff at Christmas, so one more will hardly be noticed. We’ll provide you with a black dress and black shoes. You can choose what you like from Ladies Dress on the first floor and charge it to my account.’
I was walking on air again. I was about to become a bona fide shop assistant, undercover, in a discreet black dress. I half hoped DI James would come in and be suitably impressed by my rise in status.
‘Thank you. It will be necessary for me to check your various security systems and tagging devices.’
‘Of course. My warehouse manager, Alan Preston, will explain everything to you, then I suggest you become a sort of roving assistant, going to departments that need help. This is quite normal with our seasonal extras. Alan Preston will be the only person to know that you have another role here.’
‘The fewer people who know, the better.’
‘I trust Alan Preston implicitly. He’s worked for us since he started as a boy in the basement warehouse, stacking stock.’
‘And the Sonia Spiller investigation?’
'I think that can take a rest for the time being but I will pay you any sum owing up to date.’
‘I’ll send you an invoice.’ It was beyond me to work it out in my head especially with Oliver’s death drawing a hasty line.
‘And sometime I’d like to run the videos you took.’
‘Sure. I'll drop them by.’ After I’d checked that none of them showed Oliver Guilbert visiting number eight Luton Road. No point in muddying the water now.
We shook hands and said goodbye. I felt really sorry for Francis Guilbert coping with the frantic Christmas rush while his son resided in the Latching mortuary with a label on his big toe.
*
Since Mr Guilbert hadn’t offered me a coffee, and particularly as I could now afford it, I had a pot of coffee in the fourth floor restaurant. It came in one of those fancy gilt cafetiere contraptions where you press the coffee grounds down through boiling water, then strain it off. It was a generous size and I got two cups out of the pot, sitting in the restaurant pretending I was one of the idle rich.
Spin and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 3) Page 8
