Spin and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 3)

by Whitelaw, Stella

  At closing time I rushed round to Stationery. ‘Can I buy a slimline diary?’ I gasped.

  ‘Too late, sorry. We’ve just closed the till. Come tomorrow. There’s plenty left.’

  I staggered home, glad to have air-filled trainers on my sore feet. Yet I had to open my shop. Another couple of hours lay ahead, selling first-class junk. But it was buy anything time. Trade was blooming. People were still shopping. They bought surprising things. So much so that I opened a bottle of Doris’ special offer cooking sherry and gave everyone a glass. If Guilberts could dispense coffee, I’d go one better with sherry. No one commented on the quality. It was the concept that counted.

  Sixty-nine pounds in two hours. I don’t quite know how it came to that odd sum when all my goods have six pound price labels. Maybe some books got sold. I couldn’t remember. I didn’t care. It was money, not maths.

  I needed sleep. I went home, set the alarm, curled up in bed and tried to get a couple of hours before the midnight boot. It was going to be a late night or early morning, whichever way the clock ticked.

  When Jack arrived for me, I was as fresh as a newly opened daisy. Indigo jeans, black polo, black leather jacket, usual look. It was becoming a uniform. I made sure he would not be buying me anything by looking one hundred per cent confident and independent. My wallet was in my back pocket. The video camera hidden in a cheap, canvas shoulder bag.

  ‘A million dollars!’ he said again.

  ‘You’re right there,’ I said. ‘And all my own gear.’

  ‘Get in, Jordan, and I’ll take you for a spin.’

  I nearly had a heart attack. Outside on the road was a gleaming top of the range Jaguar sports car. It was low slung, metallic blue, gleaming headlamps and grill. The amusement arcade business was a runaway money maker.

  ‘Is this new?’ I asked, wondering if he had bought it specially for this evening. It was the kind of crazy thing he might do to impress me.

  ‘I buy a new one every year. Always the best, Jordan. My little hobby. I like cars.’

  And other people’s hobbies was the rate at which they lost their money on the machines, creating windfall-sized profits.

  Jack had cleaned himself up, marginally. He was wearing a cleanish, untorn T-shirt, nondescript jeans, and a baggy anorak. He had even combed his hair. It lay on his head like a slick of tar. He’d almost shaved. Shown it the razor.

  ‘And can this baby move,’ he said. ‘Fasten your belt and we’ll burn up a few miles.’

  Burn up a few tyres, a few roads. I held my breath. Jack was a good driver, deft and in control, but dear God, he broke every speed limit in existence. OK, there was little traffic on the road at that time of night, but at every clear stretch he upped the gear and the speedometer needle swung over a hundred. I stopped looking at it.

  He glanced at me. ‘Like it?’ he shouted. ‘Isn’t she grand?’

  I nodded. Keep your eyes on the road, Jack.

  ‘What a baby! She can do a hundred and twenty. Wanna try it?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ I shouted back. ‘This is fast enough for me.’

  The thought of my ladybird crawling along at twenty-five on a good day was a comfort. I didn’t have to prove anything. I just had to get where I wanted to go, without getting wet.

  He swerved suddenly. I was thrown against the seat belt. But he straightened up almost immediately.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Fox in the headlights. We missed it.’

  I sighed. ‘Could we slow down a bit?’

  ‘Anything you say, lady.’

  The speedometer dropped to eighty. I suppose that was cruising to Jack. We were nearing Ford. I recognised the bridge over the river Arun. There were eleventh-century farmhouses in the village but we barely slowed down enough to look at them.

  Jack knew the way. He turned down a narrow lane, bumping over a badly made road at thirty. Low foliage hung like a canopy, shutting out the night sky. I gripped my bag tightly. A frisson of fear touched my spine, yet there was nothing to be frightened of. Or was there? And Jack? Was I leading him into danger, into something that was not his concern? He sensed my worry.

  ‘Don’t worry, baby. I’ll take care of you. I won’t leave you behind.’

  I tried a smile. ‘I’m not worried, just apprehensive.’

  A beam lanced through the trees. A lorry was following us. Shadows passed through the beam. Ahead loomed a big slate barn and round it were a dozen cars and Land Rovers parked haphazardly in the yard, bonnets darkly red, gleaming grills. Jack turned in the gate and parked at a distance among some bushes.

  ‘Don’t want nobody scratching my baby,’ he said. He had a sophisticated security system, more alarms than Buckingham Palace. It took a minute to code it in. ‘Ain’t taking no chances. Come on, girl. Let’s buy you a present.’

  He took my arm and lead me through the open barn doors. Spotlights had been rigged up on the beams. Round the walls were casual stalls set up and selling areas, like a Middle Eastern marketplace. A pile of rugs here, a heaped mixture of tools, loads of batteries, shavers, cigarettes, lighters and mobile phones on trestle tables. A lot of dealers were milling about. A CD player was blaring heavy rock.

  ‘See anything you fancy? Don’t pay what they ask. Bargain first. I always do.’

  Two racks of clothes stood at the far end, heaps of handbags tangled in cardboard boxes. Some dark-faced men hung around. Even at this distance, I could see the goods were leather, not imitation. It was the smell. Real leather has that unmistakable smell.

  ‘Let’s look at the jackets,’ I said.

  ‘Wanna jacket? I’ll get you one.’

  ‘Jack, please.’ I slowed him down. ‘Look, I’ve got a leather jacket. I’m wearing it, sec? My parents gave it to me for my 21st. It’s special. I don’t want another.’

  He looked disappointed. ‘OK. Whatever you say. You’re the boss.’

  Dear man, whatever could I do with him? He was like a puppy, yapping at my heels, adoring, pleading for a pat on the head.

  ‘Believe me, whoever drives that shiny monster is the boss.’

  He cheered up instantly. ‘Yeah … she’s a monster, a beautiful monster. C’mon. Let’s see what they’ve got.’

  I’d cut a hole in the canvas bag just big enough for the lens of the video. I switched on the camera, hoping the contraption would work, holding it steady against my hip. Pretty cool.

  I recognised the labels, the styles, the manufacturers. I bet my entire fee that this was part of the consignment delivered to Guilberts. I moved the hangers along the rail, making inane comments.

  ‘This is nice. Classy. Oh, I like this one. Not my size. Pity. Belt’s a bit tight. Don’t like the buckle.’

  ‘Real leather, lady,’ said a man, strolling up. ‘Surplus stock. Nothing shady. You won’t get better value in the whole of the UK. I’m letting them go cheap because it’s Christmas.’

  ‘How much is this one?’ I asked, turning so that the camera would get a view of him.

  ‘Four hundred quid. Cost a thousand, tell yer what, how about three hundred and fifty to a nice lady like you?’

  I gave him a totally false smile. ‘I’ll think about it. It is a lovely jacket.’

  ‘Wanna handbag?’ said Jack. ‘This one you’re carrying is a bit naff.’ He nearly shook the video camera. I clutched it to me. It was filming a great view of my right hip.

  ‘No, thank you, Jack. No bag.’

  I deliberately moved, making a mental description of the man. He was joined by another. They rolled cigarettes and blew smoke in my direction. I coughed. The atmosphere was heavy with smoke, worse than any pub.

  Then I spotted the luxury towelling robes, each still in clear plastic packing, folded so that the embroidered pockets showed. Miss Kent’s pride and joy.

  ‘Forty quid,’ said the stallholder, seeing my interest. ‘Any colour you like, miss.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ I said, making sure I got a shot, then moving on. There were a lot of people now and
I was being jostled from all sides. I’d lost Jack somewhere along the way. He was not particularly tall so it wasn’t easy to find him. Still, he could not have gone far. Probably looking at car accessories.

  ‘Whatcher got, Chuck?’ I heard someone say. I stood still, trying to pin down the direction of the voice. The din was distracting. ‘Heard you’d gone Mexican,’ came a chuckle.

  My throat hardened like I’d swallowed a pebble. I thought of Mavis and her poor face. I looked carefully, pretending to be scanning the goods, but making a survey of all the nearby faces, one at a time, trying to fit her description to someone. Nothing. Short, dark, skinny: the other taller, heavier, mean eyes. Those descriptions fitted half the men in the barn.

  Then I heard the chuckle again. It was a rotund little man in a Happing raincoat that wouldn’t fasten. He was greedily stuffing crisps into his mouth and swigging from a beer bottle. ‘Got any whiskey?’ he was asking a stallholder.

  I didn’t wait to think. ‘Hey,’ I said, a bit rough. ‘Have you seen Chuck? I said I’d meet him. What’s he got tonight?’

  He peered at me through the fog. ‘Dunno. Bits and pieces.’

  ‘Come on, you can do better than that. He’s always got something special.’

  ‘Mobiles. But nobody’s buying. They all got them. Market’s down the drain. Even my granddaughter’s got one and she’s not out of her pram.’ He chuckled again.

  But I’d gone before he could elaborate. Mobile phones. I’d seen them somewhere. But where? People were packing up. The midnight boot did not hang about. Then I saw him. Short, dark, skinny, packing mobile phones into boxes, a cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth. Surely I’d seen him before somewhere, but I couldn’t think where.

  ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Hold on, don’t put them all away. I need a new facia for mine. Something bright and cheerful.’

  ‘Take your choice,’ he said morosely. Bright and cheerful he was not. ‘But don’t take your time. I gotta be somewhere else.’

  I was drawing his face in my head. Long thin nose, slitty eyes, colour impossible to see, pointed chin, earring in one ear, heavy gold ring on wedding finger. Clean nails, bitten down. Height, weight, all recorded. Clothes: black trousers, white shirt, jacket … not the usual jeans brigade.

  ‘How much?’ I asked, pointing out a particularly lurid purple and yellow one.

  ‘A fiver.’

  What a nerve. They were only £4.99 in the shops. ‘Three quid,’ I came back.

  ‘Four, take it or leave it.’

  He was some salesman. He hadn’t been to a charm school.

  ‘OK. Gotta a bag?’

  Chuck picked up the purple and yellow monstrosity. Nice prints. He put it in a brown paper bag. I gave him a fiver from my wallet, from my hard-earned day’s takings.

  He stuffed it in his pocket and turned away.

  ‘Change please,’ I said promptly, holding out my hand.

  He reluctantly fished out a coin and put it into my open palm.

  ‘Thank you.’ I moved on swiftly and dropped the coin into the paper bag. There might be a print on it too. This was turning out to be a good night.

  Jack appeared behind me and plonked something onto my head. He was grinning broadly. ‘I said I’d get you a pressie. Perfick.’

  I took it off and looked down at what was in my hand. It was a baker’s boy cap in soft black leather. Just my style, my kind of gear. I slapped it back on my head dead straight and gave him a radiant smile.

  ‘Perfick,’ I said.

  He grinned back. I’d just made his night.

  ‘Cor. I ought to be buying champagne and stuff.’ Champagne. The word broke my slender recognition thread. The Latching Bowling Club party at the Hamilton’s house. Chuck had been one of the waiters. He was in the casual catering trade.

  Twelve

  Jack turned out to be a real gentleman, rough cast, and left me at my door at ten to one, with a brief, almost apologetic hug and revved away in his metallic blue into the rest of the lonely night. 1 had expected a struggle and hassle. It was a relief. I liked him too much for any disagreement.

  *

  I went into the store early next morning for a wander around the basement. There was no sign of the towelling robes. No arrival upstairs either. Another consignment which had disappeared and I was one hundred percent sure that I had seen them at the midnight boot.

  So how had they been removed from the warehouse? The answer struck me with simple logic. Perhaps they had never come in. OK, Mr Preston signed for the delivery, but had he checked the actual unloading and storing of the goods? He was busy. Perhaps the robes had never even left the van but were driven out again, on their way to Ford.

  I would have to ask the poor man. And on Christmas Eve, too. It was enough to ruin his Christmas.

  I also switched on a television set in Electrical and played my videotapes. It was a strange feeling in the empty department. I felt an intruder, which I suppose I was, although I had been told the necessary security codes in order to come and go as I liked. Apart from shots of my jeans, boots, hip and inside of bag, the midnight boot film was brilliant. DI James would be over the moon, give me a medal, buy me a drink.

  Suspect number one for the Mexican and Maeve’s Cafe robbery was clearly in the picture and so were the racks of leather jackets, handbags, robes, and a variety of other goods.

  The videotape of Sonia Spiller was less successful. Jasper leaping about on the beach and back views of Sonia walking were not conclusive. Nor were the shots of her playing squash because she played … left-handed. I had not noticed. Black mark, Jordan. The other significant person I had missed was her squash partner. It was Oliver Guilbert. From my bird’s eye view, he had looked like any other man in shorts and white T-shirt.

  So they had known each other, sort of. Muddier and muddier became the plot. But it was too late to ask Oliver. I hoped there was an innocent solution because Oliver was another man I had liked. I squinted hard at the film, hoping to spot her stalker in the background, the man in a kind of uniform. But apart from that one occasion, he stalked at a different time to when I followed. No wonder the woman was paranoid.

  Guilberts was a madhouse on Christmas Eve. Shoppers scrambled to buy anything. And I was appalled at the behaviour. The season of goodwill had been replaced by irritability and sheer bad manners. Men elbowed old ladies, trod on toddlers, pushed pushchairs out of the way. They were far worse than the women. Clear cases of last-minute panic.

  ‘Only just noticed that it’s Christmas?’ I said to one businessman, who rudely pushed to the head of the queue at the till. ‘It’s been around since last year.’

  He flung his credit card at me. He was buying four identical boxes of lace handkcrchievcs. One for each mistress? I served him to get rid of him and I did not want a mouthful of abuse.

  ‘I do apologise,’ I said to the rest of the queue. ‘For this gentleman’s appalling bad manners. And thank you for waiting so patiently.’

  He heard me and snatched the carrier bag off the counter. He could not get away fast enough.

  At lunch time I threw myself into the ladybird and delivered my few presents to friends. I did not have time to talk to anyone. Fortunately I had had the sense to post Cleo’s silk scarf to her in Chichester. There was still DI James to buy for. The situation was getting worse. Memo: start earlier next year, like on Boxing Day. I existed on black coffee. All that caffeine was not good for me. I was on a permanent high.

  As I drove passed First Class Junk I saw a figure I recognised waiting on the doorstep. It was the retired doctor who had bought all the old medicine bottles. I stopped, parking illegally, and ran over to him, keys in hand.

  ‘I’m not really open,’ I said breathlessly. ‘But can I help you?’

  ‘It’s those two biographies in the window, the Jonas Salk and Archibald MacIndoe. I’d really like to buy them for a present,’ he said. ‘MacIndoe was one of our greatest plastic surgeons, operating on badly burned airmen at East
Grinstead, and Salk was the pioneer who produced the first vaccine against polio.’

  ‘I didn’t know, I’m so ignorant,’ I said, unlocking the door. ‘They’re just books to me. I’ve only put them in the window because I’m short of stock. Hardbacks are £1 each.’

  ‘That’s not nearly enough,’ said the doctor. ‘Let me give you a fiver. Regard it as a Christmas bonus. You were very kind, packing those bottles so carefully. They are all displayed in a cabinet.’

  I took the money. There wasn’t time to argue. As the doctor went out of the door, books safely in a Guilberts carrier bag — it was the least I could do, he paused and looked back.

  ‘Actually, I lied to you. The books are a present but they are a present from me to me. You see, I don’t think I shall get any presents and I must have something to unwrap.’

  My heart missed a beat. Join the club, he didn’t think he would get any presents. It was horribly sobering. How many other people in Latching would be spending Christmas alone? I was alone in a stern white way but going to make myself rush round, checking on friends, eating numerous mince pies and pulling crackers, when all I really wanted to do was to put my head down and sleep.

  The afternoon at Guilberts was ratchety, only a kind of despair had set in. People didn’t care any longer. It was all too much. You could see the weariness in their shoulders and in their glazed eyes. Too much to do and too little time to do it in. The modern curse. The Christmas curse.

  My enquiries narrowed down. In one break, I hovered near the delivery entrance. A van arrived and a cheeky soul got out of the driver’s seat and waved a pro forma at me.

  ‘I’ve got a load of CDs here. Will you sign for them, miss? I’m in a bit of a hurry. Got four more deliveries to do before six.’ Why me? It must have been the black dress.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘My signature is as good as any. And Mr Preston doesn’t seem to be around.’

  The driver did some bustling, acting busy, checked his lights, moved the van to a better position. I did not sign the delivery note, but stood there waiting.