I didn’t buy a ticket. I wasn’t staying. This was curiosity time. There was a stage door entrance round the back manned by a boy practising with drum brushes.
‘I’m with the band,’ I said, trying to look singer/sound technician/page turner.
‘In there,’ he said, jerking his head.
The Swing Ball had already started. The band was playing forties jive and all the old wartime tunes, ‘Opus One’, ‘The Donkey Serenade’. The dancers were hopping and spinning and throwing themselves about. It looked fun except that I couldn’t jive. No one had taught me. I wondered if James could dance, apart from party social-moving. It would be heaven. ‘Strangers in the Night’, ‘I’m Getting Sentimental Over You’, some slow tune like that. The mood, the closeness, the inner bliss of being held by the one you love.
The dress code at the ball was out of space. There were braces, a tatty brown squirrel fur coat, bovver boots, corespondent shoes, flying jackets. I went for those. Very sexy. It’s the element of danger. A man with casual courage.
I blinked. I had strayed into another decade, before I was born. It was wartime. Any minute a bomb might explode, filling the pavilion with dust and debris. 1 knew the Germans had targetted the Latching gasometer and the London railway line but missed both, destroying small houses in their bombing raids. There’s a cobbled wall round a park, now rebuilt, where a plane had crashed, but the difference in stone texture is visible.
The forces uniforms transformed the men. They grew into the mould, loved the status aura, preened, became tough men. Some men could even dance. They had spinning feet and writhing bodies, all arms and legs, spine distorted.
The music was fabulous. I had forgotten these old tunes. Tunes with real melodies and lyrics that said something. I sank onto a seat at the back and let the rhythms invade my body. I nearly twitched.
There were older couples, reliving their first romances, jiving in slow remembrance, the husband still fitting his uniform (almost) even if he could not button up the jacket. Silver heads still loving. I envied them. I’d never had time to dance, to meet anyone on the dance floor. I could never look so pretty, so small, so feminine.
The tide of people at the edges of the dance floor grew till I could hardly see the dancers. Moving spots of light from the mirrored ball flew round the walls, darting like silver moths. I was in danger of starting to dance by myself, on my own, making a fool of myself.
Then I saw her. She was wearing a red taffeta skirt with froufrou petticoats, a tight bodice, cummerbund, flat shoes and bobby socks. It was the socks that threw me. But there was no doubt it was Sonia Spiller, dancing her head off. Her black hair flew. Her face was alight, glowing with perspiration. Her partner was an anonymous sergeant in khaki with the required stripes on his arm.
Out came my notebook. Date, time, place. This could count. Surveillance in operation. Jordan Lacey never stops. Payment time, no question. No one could dance like that with a painful shoulder.
Ethical dilemma. Was I still working for the unfortunately accident-prone Oliver Guilbert or was that contract suspended? It was not an easy answer. It was as I put my notes in order that I realised that DI James and DS Evans had sauntered into the pavilion, both looking completely out of place, and were scanning the crowds. Sometimes you could spot a policeman a mile off, even in civvies. What on earth were they doing here? I tried to shrivel into my seat, hide behind the heavy velvet curtains at the pier end. But DS Ben Evans had seen me and came over.
‘I didn’t know you liked dancing,’ he said.
‘Not normally my scene. I’m actually working.’ Only a slight exaggeration. ‘So why are you here?’
‘Two boyos in Mickey Mouse masks held up the cinema. Took the whole day’s takings. They were seen running in this direction. Have you seen anyone wearing a mask?’
‘Come off it. The first thing they would do would be to take off the masks and mingle with the crowd. You know that. They could be anyone on the dance floor. It’s the perfect place to hide.’
We looked on the dance floor for tell-tale sweat. But everyone was sweating, even the women. A land-army girl in leggings and shirt bobbed by, armpits stained.
‘It could be her,’ I said. ‘Are you sure that it’s two men.’
‘You’re right there. I’ll mention that to the Dl.’
‘Ask him to come and talk to me. I’ve something to tell him,’ I said. This was news to me. I could not bear being ignored. The music filled me with artificial boldness. I might even ask him to dance.
But he was there before me, measuring the distance between us. This was three foot six time. ‘I don’t dance, Jordan, especially this stuff,’ he said. ‘So don’t even ask.’
‘Heaven forbid,’ I scoffed. ‘Last thing on my mind. I wanted to ask you about Oliver Guilbert. You’ve got to tell me how he died. I was working for him. It’s relevant to my case.’
He looked at me keenly. ‘You tell me and I’ll tell you.’
‘I was on surveillance for Oliver Guilbert. They were being sued by a woman customer for a substantial amount for injuries sustained when she slipped on a plastic bag in their store. They believed that the claim was fraudulent. And that’s the woman, Sonia Spiller, the lady in red, gyrating all over the floor.’
He looked at the spinning figure and then at me. ‘So you’re her stalker after all.’
‘No way,’ I said, hardening my heart to his closeness. ‘Her stalker is a tall man wearing a sort of smart uniform, very upright. I’ve seen him. She has got a stalker, but it’s not me. And it wasn’t Oliver because I saw the stalker following her moments before poor Oliver was found on Hell’s Revenge.’
‘Can you describe him?’
Dear me, was the man dim? ‘I have just described him. There’s nothing more I can add. It’s the uniform I can’t describe because I didn’t see it properly, but he did seem to be wearing some kind of official suit and coat. Darkish. There’s nothing else. I never saw his face.’
‘Traffic warden, policeman, army, navy, airforce?’
‘I tell you, I don’t know.’
‘Salvation Army?’
‘Don’t be daft. I thought this was a serious enquiry.’
He gave a heavy sigh and lowered himself into the seat beside me. I could see the tiredness etched into the lines on his face. ‘This is serious,’ he added. He stretched out his long legs into the aisle. ‘Buy me a drink, Jordan. Pineapple juice. A double.’
I didn’t ask why he didn’t get it himself. I threaded my way through the spectators and waited in the bar queue. Everyone was thirsty. They were doing a roaring trade. It was surprising that I had enough money. A double pineapple was not cheap. I could have bought a litre carton for the same sum.
When I went back, balancing the full glass, his eyes were nearly closed. ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.
‘Thank you.’ He smiled his thanks, jerking himself awake. ‘Jordan, I’m sick and I’m tired. Do you know of a nice hospital? Do A & E departments find beds for stressed and overworked CID? I’ve five off sick, two on leave, one about to retire who couldn’t file a report marked A.’
‘I know a very nice convalescent home,’ I said. ‘It’s small, privately run. Superb attention. Home-made soup, soft music, sleep all you want, no one would disturb you. No phone calls, no newspapers, no television. Just care and comfort.’
‘Sounds bliss,’ he said, yawning. ‘I wish I could say lead me there, Jordan. But you know how it is.’
‘I know how it is. So how did Oliver Guilbert die?’
‘Broken neck. Maybe a counter jerk of the car against the spin direction of the wheel and his head was thrown back against the headrest. We shall have to wait for the full forensic.’
‘But what was he doing on Hell’s Revenge in the first place? It’s so unlikely. He was not a funfair type person.’
‘Now that’s the real mystery, Jordan. Solve that and maybe we’d get a lot of answers.’
I caught something then. Shortha
nd for not a straightforward accident and DI James wasn’t telling me.
‘What about the second arm?’ I said, hating to change the subject, but horribly curious.
‘Matched,’ he said. ‘I suppose bits are going to turn up all over Sussex, spoiling my Christmas.’
‘What are you doing for Christmas?’ I couldn’t help asking. Ask him round, an inner voice urged. Spoil him with goodies.
‘I’m on duty. I’m the only one without any family ties.’
‘You’re a saint,’ I said brightly. ‘I’m working, too. PIs never stop.’
‘Thanks for the drink, Jordan,’ he said, getting up. ‘I owe you one. See you around. Let me know if you remember anything about the stalker.’
Owe me one? He owed me a hundred plus.
At that moment, Sonia Spiller swanned by with a military escort who was very red in the face and wiping his forehead with a khaki handkerchief. She stopped and looked at me.
‘Don’t I know you?’ she asked. ‘Historial cottages, wasn’t it?’
I nodded. ‘Fascinating,’ I said. ‘I thought the friezes were delightful.’
‘Are you sure you don’t play squash, too?’ She narrowed her eyes. All sorts of suspicions were bobbing about in her over-stimulated brain cells.
‘This lady wouldn’t know a squash ball from an orange,’ said DI James, pausing. ‘Believe me, she’s no athlete.’
I was grateful but not flattered.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Something funny is going on.’ Sonia turned to DI James. ‘I told you that I’ve got a stalker and it’s not my imagination. I keep seeing this person. And this car. It can’t be a coincidence.’
‘Has this person approached you yet?’
‘No. I don’t think so …’
‘Stalkers usually start phoning or sending letters,’ I said helpfully. ‘They are not content with just following you.’
‘Know all about it, do you, Miss Whatever your name is?’ DI James was just about to supply my name when I pinched his rear. It was unforgivable but stopped him in his tracks. He was astonished. So was I. The band started playing Glenn Miller’s ‘Bugle Call Rag’. Sonia Spider’s feet began to twitch. ‘Come on, baby, let’s hit the floor,’ said her partner.
‘Did you know,’ said DI James in a quiet voice, ‘that could be classed as an offence? Molesting a police officer.’
I smiled sweetly. ‘Arrest me, then, officer. You nearly blew my cover.’
Eleven
Sunday shoppers are a relaxed bunch. They have all day to wander. A carnival atmosphere had been generated at Guilberts with silver balloons outside the entrance doors, a live choir singing carols in the foyer and free coffee and mince pies being served at various points throughout the store. Pastry crumbs began to assemble.
Francis Guilbert was functioning on autopilot, determined that the store should not be rudderless during the lead up to Christmas. Most of the organisation had been done weeks earlier so he could rely on his arrangements working.
The creases in the black dress had hung out overnight. It was good quality. I poured myself into it and I knew when to say when. The beautician gave me a sample sachet of super hydrating 24-hour anti-aging cream. And did I need it.
‘You should let me do your face,’ she urged. ‘You don’t make the best of your features.’
‘I know, I neglect my cars,’ I said.
I took up my station in Linens. The display stands were a rainbow of colours. Piles of thick luxury towels, packets of matching sheets, pillowcases, valances and duvet covers, mountains of varied tog grades of feathers and foam to till the covers. My modest pink and white floral duvet cover was a limp poor cousin compared to these glorious creations; my towels a hodge-podge collection garnered over the years, many threadbare.
‘Everything matching, that’s what I should aim for,’ I told myself. ‘Get with it, girl.’ I fancied a pair of fashionable pillowcases, splashed with poppies. Then I saw the price ticket and did a quick retreat. Even with the staff discount, I’d never get my head to sleep on them.
People stole the odd face cloth or hand towel from Linens. The goods were too bulky to stuff under a jumper and you could hardly leave the store wearing a minimum-iron sheet. They were not magnetically tagged but there was less shoplifting in this department than anywhere else. The beautician told me that the cosmetic testers disappeared all the time.
I had made a lot of enquiries but was no nearer finding the black hole through which the goods were slipping. The head of Linens, an upright, smoothly grey-haired woman in an immaculate black suit and designer specs, sent me down to the basement warehouse to check if a range of unisex luxury towelling bathrobes had arrived yet.
‘They’re selling like hot cakes,’ she said. ‘We need a dozen up immediately. They are the ones with an embroidered pocket. Very classy.’
‘Very classy, Miss Kent,’ I agreed. I always wore a big towel sarong-wise, in and out of the bath, no embroidery, no pocket. ‘A perfect gift.’
‘Sure,’ said Alan Preston, who remembered me. ‘They arrived first thing this morning. Signed for them myself. Wait, here’s the delivery note. Two dozen bathrobes, white and pastel. I’ll get a boy to bring them up.’
‘I’ll just check if they are the ones with an embroidered pocket,’ I said. ‘Miss Kent might be annoyed if they’ve sent the wrong ones.’
‘OK, they’re over there.’ Mr Preston directed me to the area where linen goods were stored. I hunted around the shelves and racks but I couldn’t find one, let alone two dozen bathrobes. Yet they had only arrived that morning. I’d glanced at the delivery note, duly signed and dated. They must be here somewhere.
‘I can’t find them anywhere,’ I said. ‘Please send them up to Linens as soon as you can.’
‘Sure,’ he nodded. ‘How are you getting on?’
I didn’t know how to answer. I really had nothing to go on, but I did not want to look too incompetent.
‘Slowly,’ I said. ‘Nothing definite.’
‘It’s a puzzle,’ he agreed.
I took the service lift back upstairs. Shop work was tiring. Support stockings loomed. It was all that standing, trying to look both helpful, but inconspicuous. Difficult at my height.
‘I want a present for my daughter-in-law,’ said a cow-faced woman in a fur hat marching up to me. ‘She’s completely impractical. She needs guidance. My son just isn’t used to living in such chaos. Please show me some towel sets.’
‘Is this a Christmas present?’ I asked carefully.
‘Of course,’ she snapped. ‘I’m trying to sort out her household arrangements. She simply has no idea how to run a house.’
‘Are there any children?’ I asked, putting out a selection of our prettiest matching towel sets on the counter. I couldn’t make up my mind which I liked the best, the apricot or the lilac. They were all gorgeous.
‘Twins. Eighteen months old.’
‘Perhaps that’s why her household is chaotic,’ I murmured. ‘She has her hands full. Not much spare time for chaos-sorting.’
‘Nonsense,’ the woman snorted, her hat bobbing. ‘It just requires organisation. I’ll take these plain white ones. My son isn’t used to coloured towels.’
‘We have a special gift-wrapping service,’ I said smoothly. ‘Would you like them gift-wrapped? There’s no charge.’
This was not strictly true, but I reckoned she was not the sort to pay extra. I’d do it for nothing. It worked.
‘Thank you, miss,’ she said, momentarily gracious.
I turned away and busied myself with a large sheet of festive paper covered in holly and mistletoe. Did DI James know what mistletoe was for? He probably thought it was a churchyard weed. I tied the ribbon and expertly frilled the ends with scissors. Very professional.
I took the money, keyed in the code and rang up the amount, then handed over the parcel, receipt and change with a smile.
‘A pleasure to serve you,’ I said. What a liar.
‘I do hope your daughter-in-law likes her present.’
‘It doesn’t matter whether she likes it or not,’ said the hatted dragon. ‘It’s what she’s getting.’
I thought she would like them. I’d switched the sets. The ones I’d gift-wrapped were blue, edged with navy and embroidered with yachts and seagulls on rolling waves. Very nautical. The twins would love them. Mother-in-law would be thanked with flattery for her excellent taste. She could hardly come back and complain.
Marriage note: always meet mother-in-law before committing self. Urgent reminder: present for DI James. Extra note: don’t panic even if falling apart.
I did not exactly have to get him a present. It was not as if we were mates, great buddies or even close friends. But he had come to my rescue, twice. The wing walking and the hermit’s hole. Both episodes still made me shudder, could bring me out in a cold sweat. I wanted to give him the moon but I thought it would have to be a slimline diary.
Would I survive till the midnight car boot at this rate? If I fell asleep in Jack’s car I might end up at Gretna Green. A sobering thought. Was I fit enough to walk back?
My boredom threshold is abysmally low. I had to play games to keep my brain active. How long could I make a Polo Mint last? Record: three and a half minutes. Could I sell a customer something they obviously did not want? I sold a thirteen tog duvet to a man who was emigrating to South America. Criminal. Could I introduce the topic of ferrets into the conversation? One woman actually bred the creatures and showed me photos of her babies. They were piled into hammocks, all arms and legs and tails intermingled.
‘How sweet,’ I said.
The day wore on. I will never, ever, again be short with a shop assistant. They are angels, martyrs, heroines of the first order. Ask after their corns.
Did I have lunch? A bland cottage cheese and shredded salad passed in a haze. If the luxury towelling robes ever arrived, then it was all water under the bridge to me, for I was transferred to Electrical and spent a rivetting afternoon discussing the merits of steam irons and jug kettles. I only wanted one that played a tune.
Spin and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 3) Page 10
