In Ladies Dress on the first floor, I explained that as I had to start work straightaway, Mr Guilbert was being debited and then I would pay him back from my first week’s wages. I didn’t care if they believed me or not.
I chose a plain, straight, creaseless black jersey dress, with a scoop neckline and three-quarter-length sleeves. There was a tiny satin edge to the neckline. Very neat. It would do me for parties, weddings, funerals, dates with DI James or DS Evans, whoever asked me out first. The shoes were black suede pumps with the tiniest heel, a sensible choice as I was going to be standing on my feet all day.
‘The black will look lovely with your hair,’ said the assistant, who was quite a friendly soul. ‘Here, how about this black velvet scrunchie to tie it back? It was in the autumn sale, only £1.50, but it didn’t go.’
‘Thanks. Perhaps I’d better pay for the scrunchie myself.’
‘Don't you worry. I’ll put black accessory on the bill. Could be anything.’ She winked, then looked sorry that she had winked. ‘Mr Guilbert won’t check it. I mean, he’s got a lot on his mind.’
‘You mean, his son … ?’
‘Sure. Isn’t it awful? A funfair of all places. We just cant believe it. The last place …’
‘Did you know him well?’
‘He was very friendly. He visited all the departments regularly and stopped to listen to anyone. We could go to him with complaints, suggestions, problems. We shall all miss him.’
‘Perhaps he did it for a dare. You know, Hell’s Revenge.’
‘Some dare. I don’t believe it. Not like him at all.’
I put my own clothes in one of their mauve carrier bags and left it in my allocated locker in the staff cloakroom. It was like being back at school with a locker, only this time I got a key.
I tied my hair back with the scrunchie and tried to look dedicated and professional, when really I wanted to whoop around a bit. Mr Preston would not be impressed if I whooped around. My errant legs were on the verge of a tap dance along the corridor. At this rate I’d have to tie them together.
Alan Preston was not in his office. He was down in the basement talking earnestly to one of the female staff (black dress). It was easy to recognise him from the sober suit and plain tie, also from the worried expression on his face.
He was in his late forties with a thinnish face and pale brown hair combed neatly in place. He was wearing spectacles which seemed to be sliding down his nose and needed constant pushing up to the bridge.
‘I simply don’t understand it,’ he was saying. ‘We can’t be out of luxury jug kettles. We had a delivery only yesterday. I saw it come in myself. Would you ask if the customer can come back tomorrow and we’ll put one aside for her. I’ll give the suppliers a ring.’
‘Certainly, Mr Preston. She’s got an account so she probably won’t go elsewhere.’
‘We don’t want to risk that,’ he rumbled.
As soon as he was on his own, I introduced myself. He’d been told of my purpose there. He launched immediately into a whole list of goods which had gone missing recently, including the consignment of luxury jug kettles.
‘The stuff’s disappearing under my very nose,’ he said, pushing his specs up. ‘I can’t understand it and I can’t explain it. Perhaps you’ll be able to throw some light on the problem. It’s got to stop. We’re losing thousands.’
‘Perhaps you’ll take me through all aspects of your security system,’ I said, as if I dealt with security systems every day of the week. My own shop security system was a front lock and a back bolt. Anyone could be rifling through the place at this very moment.
Mr Preston took me to the back of the warehouse area where there was a loading bay. He explained the electronic locks with codes on the double-bayed door. The codes were changed frequently.
‘There’s coded locks on all the doors to the store, customer, staff and goods entrances. Only three of us know the codes, Mr Frank, Mr Oliver and myself. Oh, I keep forgetting, so sad … only two of us now.’
‘Very sad,’ I murmured.
‘There are magnetic tags on most of the clothes and accessories but, of course, not on electrical goods. There’s a sophisticated alarm system with video cameras on all the walls near the ceiling. The tagging machine is over there. We tag everything before it goes upstairs in the service lift. Our store is well protected.’
Video cameras … automatically I looked up. Thank goodness the tap dance had been aborted.
‘Yet they are stealing your merchandise.’
He sighed. ‘And I wish I knew how.’
‘Someone must have discovered the codes, knows how to disarm the security alarms, shuts off the videos and robs the store while it’s closed.’
‘Impossible. I think the goods are being smuggled out while the store is open. But how, I just don’t know.’
‘I know you’re busy, Christmas and all that, but I really do need a list of your staff and a list of all the goods which have disappeared recently.’
‘No problem. My secretary can print out a couple of lists for you. I’ll leave them in a sealed brown envelope with Iris, the receptionist. You can pick them up in about an hour.’
‘I appreciate that,’ I said. ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Preston. I’m sure you’ve got a lot to do, so I’ll start my own surveillance now. I need to learn where everything is. Some pattern may emerge.’
I did not really know what I was talking about. I was out of my depth. Come back hate letters and trashed WI stands. This was going to be a serious failure but I kept a smile on my face and went into seasonal extra role. It could have been fun going round all the different departments, but I was too worried to take much pleasure from the tour. Perhaps the thieves had dug a tunnel under the store and were moving the stuff out onto the beach where it crossed the Channel in a fishing boat, hidden under a pile of smelly nets. Some hope.
A lateral thought nagged me like toothache. Supposing I tried a different tack? Instead of finding out how the goods were stolen from the store, supposing I went to the end of the trail and tracked the goods back to Guilberts?
An almost impossible task but there was a glimmer of hope. My smile began to look a degree more natural. A customer asked me the way to Linen and I was able to tell her; another wanted to know the closing time.
‘We're staying open till seven o’clock tonight,’ I told her. ‘And we are open all day on Sunday.’
‘Thank you, miss.’
A girl in torn jeans and windcheater passed me, swinging an ancient rucksack. She looked vaguely familiar. Where had I seen her bleached dreadlocks before? Then I remembered. I slid up to her side in my best shop assistant manner.
‘Can I interest madam in a tin opener?’ I asked.
Ten
Nine to seven was my inescapable routine from now on. It was as intimidating as the clang of prison gates. Start digging the tunnel. Shift work on my beat days was nothing compared to this relentless grind. At least I did not have to stand behind the same counter, but could move about the store as demand demanded.
But I was determined not to neglect First Class Junk. I made a new notice: VERY LATE, LATE NIGHT SHOPPING. I planned to stay open from seven thirty to nine each evening, including this Sunday, to catch the odd panic customer. To hell with my social life. What social life, Jordan? The highlight of my social life was clearly going to be the staff Christmas Eve party after the store closed. It was scheduled for the fourth floor restaurant. Perhaps we got to eat up the leftovers.
The list of staff duly arrived in a brown envelope plus details of the most recent losses. I did not recognise any of the names. Instant villain did not leap out. The stolen goods were all items which would disappear easily. Men’s suits, trousers, leather jackets and handbags, electrical goods, perfume. CDs. I couldn’t spread the net too wide. I didn’t have the time or opportunity.
I decided to skip the canteen lunch, delicious though I’m sure it was, in order to see my friend and goldmine of local info
rmation. Jack, owner of the Pier Amusement Arcade, had the mentality of a magpie. I walked fast through the shoppers and onto the pier. The sea air was cool after the artificial temperature of the store. The tide was way out leaving a long stretch of flat and grey sand. It was on the turn, that suspended moment. I knew the tide times by heart.
‘Cor. Strewth. Jordan?’ Jack swore, spotting me through the bulletproof windows of his kiosk inside the arcade. He keyed in the code to open the door. He kept a very old green steel safe for the money. ‘What a corker. Whatcha doing tonight, Jordan?’ It was the black dress, the velvet scrunchie, sample lipstick given me by Estée Lauder beautician, free squirt etc. She’d offered me a make-over too but seasonal extras are not makeover material. Jack had never seen me before in anything but washed out jeans and anorak. My scruff gear as per normal.
‘You look a million dollars,’ he groaned, knowing he did not stand a chance. His furrowed face fell into degrees of gloom, then recovered as he put the kettle on for his revolting coffee.
‘Don’t exaggerate, Jack. Fifty dollars perhaps.’
‘Would you come out with me if I paid yer?’
‘Don’t talk daft. I don’t go out with anyone.’
‘I know that,’ he groaned further. ‘It’s not as if I’m being stood up for some classy fella. You’re not one of them … yer know?’
‘No, I’m not,’ I said gently. ‘Gosh, that coffee smells good. Can I have a mug? I’ve skipped lunch to come and see you.’
‘Have a biscuit.’ He offered an open pack of Garibaldi, the kind scattered with bits of raisins like dead flies. ‘My favourite.’
‘Mine too,’ I lied.
‘Really?’ He brightened. ‘Something else we got in common.’
‘I’ve come to pick your superior brain,’ I said. My lunch half-hour was ticking away. ‘I’m trying to trace good-quality stolen leather goods, mens’ and womens’ jackets, windcheaters and handbags. Where do I start?’
‘Wanna handbag for Christmas?’ he asked hopefully. ‘I can get you one cheap.’
‘No, thank you, Jack. But I do want to know where you were going to get it from. I guess you don’t shop at shops, do you?’
‘Catch me going into one of those potsy places. I’d go to a midnight.’
Jack’s coffee was thick with whitener and heavy on the sugar. He thought everyone liked it the way he did. I drank some knowing I needed the kick and the calories. ‘A midnight?’ I asked casually, but my spine was already tingling. ‘Tell me, what’s a midnight?’
‘A midnight car boot, out Ford way. Ain’t you heard of them? Thought you coppers knew everything. They get raided occasionally. Like yer regular car boot, only a bit special. In an old barn.’
‘And a bit late. At midnight?’
‘Course. When the pubs have closed. Not going to lose good drinking time.’
‘When’s the next one?’
‘Termorrow night. Christmas shopping, like. Wanna come?’
‘OK.’ I must be mad. I’d let myself in for several hours of Jack’s eager company and at the same time I’d be raising his hopes when he had no hope at all. But there was no way I could find this old barn place by myself. ‘Strictly business. Jack. It’s not a date.’
‘Have it your way, dicky bird.’
At least I wouldn’t have to fight him off like Derek, or be lending him money like Joshua. I knew that much about his character. But it was not going to be easy. He’d want to buy me everything in sight. I’d need to practise a dozen different ways of saying no firmly.
‘Pick you up about quarter past eleven. Your place. You gotta be early to get the bargains.’
How did he know my place? But then Jack knew everything. Time was running out. Guilberts summoned the faithful. First call this afternoon was Ladies Dress. Pass me patience and a generous heart. These women spent more on one outfit than I do in an entire year.
Most of the afternoon passed helping ladies size sixteen into gowns size fourteen, agreeing with them that the manufacturers cut everything very small these days. I sold several outfits. I wondered if I got commission.
‘Anybody ever walk off with things?’ I asked casually to one of the other assistants. She was as skinny as a coat hanger with make-up a quarter-inch thick.
‘You bet. You’ve got to watch some of them, usually the most unlikely of people. We caught a little old lady the other day trying to get a ball gown into her shopping basket.’
‘I mean really serious theft.’
‘Sure. There’s regulars. They try to distract our attention while a mate slides outfits off the rails.’
‘What about the electronic tags?’
‘They go into the cloakroom and try to get them off. Or they make a run for it, out the front entrance and into a waiting car. Oh, it’s all well planned.’
In a tea break, I took the opportunity to commit to heart the brand labels of the present stock of leather coats, jackets and windcheaters. I also memorised the current fashionable styles of handbags. I’d never spent so much time looking at clothes in my entire life. So many shapes and sizes and styles. It was a whole new scenario.
It was dark outside now and trade was intense as office workers called in on their way home. I barely had time to look out of a window. Everyone seemed to have gone shopping mad. I imagined all this stuff changing hands on Christmas Day, half of it unliked and unwanted and returned the week after. Still, it was the thought, as they say, and I still hadn’t got anything for DI James. Shopping list: buy gun, shoot self. Slightly.
It was Last Chance Saloon time. I’d got two shopping days to Christmas and my beloved was presentless. Not even a standard, slimline diary. I could always pretend that I didn’t celebrate Christmas on moral grounds. Coward.
‘Could you help me, please, miss? I want a present for my mother. Something special.’ His head was inclined towards me. I could see the merest sprinkling of silver in the cropped hair. If only I could touch it. I knew it would feel like velvet. DI James waited for an answer.
I did my best to come down to earth. I cleared my throat and tried to think of something cool and professional to say. Inspiration looked the other way.
‘Certainly, sir. What kind of thing did you have in mind?’
‘I’ve no ideas at all. I thought perhaps you might have.’ His mother. I didn’t even know that he had a mother, a mother that was alive and well and about to receive a Christmas present.
‘Well, sir. There are these beautiful leather handbags but they are extremely expensive and overpriced.’
‘You’re not supposed to say that, Jordan,’ said DI James, leaning further towards me and dropping his voice low. ‘What is this? Why are you here? Is this a career move?’
‘Please don’t act as if you know me,' I said. ‘Pretend you’ve never seen me before.’
‘I’ve never seen you in a black dress before.’ He sniffed in the direction of my right ear. ‘And wearing perfume.’
‘A free squirt,’ I admitted. ‘Now about this present … is this a genuine purchase or are you just trying to disconcert me?’
‘I have a genuine mother and I do want to give her a present. But not necessarily an expensive handbag. I don’t think she would appreciate that. She’s a practical lady and lives on a farm.’
‘Electric jug kettle?’
He shook his head. ‘She’s got one.’
‘Tights, bath foam, scarf.’
‘No. Too ordinary.’
‘How about a personal CD player so she could walk round the farm listening to music all the time, or around the house, or driving a tractor. Very cool. There’s some neat ones downstairs, pretty colours and well designed. She could get CDs of all her favourite tunes.’
‘Now you’ve sold me one of those, Jordan. She enjoys music. Lead the way.’
I took him downstairs to the basement and left him buying a pale mauve Matsui CD player for his mother. Perhaps he might buy two. If pigs could talk. I’d be happy if he bought me a box of
After Eights. Perhaps he might return and thank me for my brilliant idea, but he didn’t. I scanned the crowds for his dark cropped head but he had gone. As always.
*
By seven p.m. I was exhausted, ready to drop. The last customers drifted out of the doors and the security men locked up. I changed back into my own clothes and left the black dress in the locker. I actually hung it up. My jeans slipped on like old friends, a warmth I needed round my legs. The plan was to open up my shop, but I was tired and needed a break. My brain buzzed with facts and ideas, spinning in my head as bright as fireworks. My feet took me automatically towards the sea. The tide was in now, crashing against the shingle, the waves dark and mysterious. Its power was awesome.
Sometimes the sea took my breath away. I didn’t want to move. I was lost to its magnetism, my breathing synchronised with the pulse of the waves. Lights winked back to me from the distant horizon, enticing me towards it. Tankers in the Channel. How simple it would be just to walk into the sea and not have anything more to worry about.
A lot of people were milling around me, arriving and greeting friends. The funfair was in full swing, music rocking. Some sort of function was beginning on the pier. The clothes were strange. I’d got clothes on the brain, granted, but these were from another world … the sixties and earlier. Then the ten pence dropped. It was the much publicised Swinging Forties Ball with a popular band playing the music of the era, unquote. Teddy boys, US Army uniforms, thick khaki battledress, zoot suits, black tie and tails, British service uniforms and service caps and that was only the men.
The women were wearing the fashions of the forties, fifties and sixties. Anything went. Short utility skirts, the New Look, turbans, flowers in their hair, service uniforms, a nurse, long stain evening dresses, some carrying gas masks.
I blinked. I had strayed into another time and it was unnerving. It was as if it was wartime. Some girls had even managed a strange sausage-roll style with their hair. Did women really wear flowers in their hair in wartime?
Spin and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 3) Page 9
