Spin and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 3)

by Whitelaw, Stella

  ‘Thanks a lot, mate,’ said the driver. ‘Sign, please, and I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘I need to check the goods.’

  ‘You’ve got them. I gave them to you. First thing I did.’

  ‘No way,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘You must have forgotten. Take a look in the van.’

  He did not like it but reluctantly went round and reopened the doors to the van. ‘Strike me,’ he said. ‘I must have forgotten. Here they are. miss.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Now I’ll sign the delivery note.’

  It was not the loyal Mr Preston. I felt sure. It was someone down the line, accepting goods, signing for them, but not checking delivery. Or worse still, knowing the goods were not being taken into the warehouse. Perhaps he got a cut.

  I wandered round the warehouse. They all looked the average kind of staff that dealt with deliveries, brown overalls, ordinary faces. All ages, all degrees of boredom and resignation in a dead end job. Which one was I going to shop? It was not pleasant. They were not your normal villains. They were men fed up with their jobs, mortgages, debts, wanting to make an extra buck.

  The day ended. I was poleaxed. Heavens, now there was the staff party but I had to speak to DI James first. I went into the staff cloakroom and tested my newly acquired mobile.

  ‘Dl James, please. And it’s urgent,’ I said from the privacy of a white-tiled loo. The loo paper had run out. Nothing to blow my nose on.

  ‘DI James.’ It was his voice. It cut through me.

  ‘It’s Jordan. Jordan Lacey. Can you hear me?’

  ‘Of course I can hear you. Where are you?’

  ‘I wish I could say on the train. But actually I’m in the loo. The ladies’ loo at Guilberts.’

  ‘I thought so. I can hear lots of flushing noises.’

  ‘This is the only place I can talk to you,’ I said, holding the phone close to my ear. ‘I think I have a videotape of one of the men who robbed the Mexican and Maeve’s Cafe. Not one hundred percent sure, but it’s someone called Chuck who fits both descriptions. I’ll drop them by the station. Also shots of lots of possibly stolen goods. It’s big stuff, except I don’t want to be involved. Can we do a deal? You know, you can use the videos but you must not say where you got them.’

  ‘You know me, Jordan. Anything you say.’ He sounded so smooth I did not know whether to trust him. ‘Where are you going now?’

  ‘Just making a token appearance at the Christmas Eve staff party at Guilberts. I reckon I’ve earned it. I’m practically dead on my feet. A mince pie might keep me standing.’

  ‘Party on, girl. I may join you.’

  He cut off the call and I was left, mid-air, swinging halfway between heaven and paradise. He might join me. Promises, promises. I reassessed the black dress. It was too late for a make-over. I went upstairs to the restaurant. The beautician lady was halfway through a glass of ruby-red punch. Miss Kent was dipping her sausage on a stick into a glass of sherry. Wow, it was really swinging.

  Francis Guilbert made an appearance. He had aged. I felt really sorry for him. But he was doing his best, founder of the firm and all that. He was doing the rounds, talking to old and new. The staff gathered in groups and did not know what to say. Happy Christmas or sorry about your son?

  ‘Mr Guilbert,’ I said, rescuing him from tearful ladies in Hosiery. ‘Can I talk to you?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Lacey. I hoped we might have a moment.’

  I came straight to the point. He was holding a glass but not drinking. ‘I think I have pin-pointed the black hole in your system. I may know how the goods are disappearing and I’m half sure where they are being sold off. It just needs names and who is organising the racket.’

  His tired face brightened for an instant. The lines were etched in pain. ‘Well done, Miss Lacey. When do you think you will have the rest of this information?’

  ‘It may not be up to me. It may now be a police job.’

  ‘Ah, the police. But I had hoped we could do it without police intervention.’

  ‘It’s not that easy, Mr Guilbert. After all, stealing is a criminal offence.’

  ‘But I don’t want any of my staff prosecuted.’ He looked quite distressed. ‘I thought by employing you we could keep the police out of it.’

  ‘Let me think about it,’ I said. ‘You’re making it tricky. But I will do my best.’

  ‘Do more than your best. Miss Lacey,’ he said, suddenly very much the Managing Director, some of his old spirit returning. ‘I don’t want any of my staff charged. It’s got to be settled within the firm. Do you understand?’

  I slid away, trying to look understanding. Time to leave. I’d had enough of salty crisps and wine from a box. I hardly knew these people and my social skills were nil. I could turn on a smile, but small talk was beyond me. It was on the way to the staff exit that I saw the man of my dreams.

  DI James was coming towards me, dark-coated and crew-cut and stern-faced. I stopped in my tracks, unlit embers of sex stirring. If he saw me, well and good, but if he did not, I would keep going, out of sight. The shadows merged with me.

  ‘Enjoying the party?’ he asked.

  ‘I was just leaving.’

  ‘Don’t go. Not yet.’

  The words hung in the air, waiting to be stored. Don’t go. I waited, in my black dress and black pumps, wondering if he would notice a female form hidden inside. He was all man, me all woman. Surely something would surface in this little valley, this of all nights? Didn’t he know he was supposed to kiss me under the mistletoe?

  But all he did was turn me towards the main crowd of jostling party-goers. ‘Now tell me everything, from the word go. Have another glass of festive wine. I don’t want anything left out. I’ve no leads on those two robbers and anything you have is important.’

  I let him fetch me another glass of red plonk. He did not touch it, but grabbed a handful of peanuts. I could not believe he was standing beside me. Dream angel, you have answered my prayer.

  ‘I’m working on several cases at once,’ I began.

  ‘Usual scenario. You take on far more than you can cope with.’

  I ignored the remark. ‘Case One for Oliver: Sonia Spiller suing Guilberts because of shoulder injury sustained in basement, slipping on a plastic bag.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Genuine injury, no dispute there. But she has recovered, I believe. She maintains that it is a permanent disability, loss of earnings etc.’

  ‘Next?’ He grabbed another handful of nuts. I knew the feeling. It was the salt. He was missing Mavis’s chips.

  ‘The sadists who bashed up Mavis’s face. Have you seen her?’ He nodded. ‘Well, I’ve taken on this case, but, of course, no fee and Mavis doesn’t have to know,’ I said.

  He shook his head now. ‘Jordan, you need to go on a business course. You don’t take on any case without a fee.’

  ‘Mavis is my friend,’ I said indignantly. ‘And excuse me, Detective Inspector James, I’ll do exactly what I please.’

  For a moment, he looked amused. The sternness actually melted a nanometre. There was a glimmer in his ocean blue eyes. He refilled my glass from the wine box. I was losing count.

  ‘Your hair seems to flash lights when you get angry,’ he said. ‘Did you know that? Like a lighthouse. How can you drink this stuff?’

  ‘You’re pouring it down me.’

  It took me several moments to resume normal transmission. This interrogation was difficult in the middle of a party. People kept bumping into us and saying hello. I smiled back, nodded like a doll, making bland comments.

  ‘Is this hunky guy your regular boyfriend?’ asked the beautician who was passed drawing eyeliner even on an elephant.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Just a friend.’

  ‘Work on it, sister,’ she advised, with a mascara’d wink. ‘Come and see me. I’ll give you a few tips.’

  James came to the rescue. ‘I am just a friend,’ he said. ‘But I’m working on it, too
.’

  His charm salvaged the situation and she weaved away, not knowing quite where she was going.

  ‘Case number three,’ he prompted.

  ‘After Oliver’s accident and by the way, you have got to tell me what forensic have come up with, Mr Francis Guilbcrt took me on to solve the mysterious disappearance of goods from the basement warehouse. Really expensive stuff is going walkies.’

  ‘And you think you have solved this?’

  ‘No names yet. But I think I know how the scam is being worked and I’ve seen similar goods on sale.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Look, I don’t really like this wine. Do I have to drink anymore?’

  He took the plastic glass from me. ‘I’m sorry, Jordan. It was unfair of me. This stuff is lethal. Great for removing paint. Go drink some water. I’ll buy you a really nice wine somewhere else. Where did you see the stolen stuff on sale?’

  ‘It’s on the videotape. A midnight boot, somewhere near Ford. I don’t know the exact place because I didn’t see where I was going.’

  ‘Blind drunk, I suppose.’

  That almost blew it. There were only so many insults I could take, even from the man I cared for most in the whole world.

  ‘No. I was in a car that was breaking all speed limits. And I’m not going to tell you who was driving because I like him. Not in a special way,’ I hastened to add. ‘Just as a friend, an informant actually.’

  ‘One of your fans?’

  ‘You could say so.’

  ‘Blue metallic Jag?’

  ‘I’m not saying.’

  ‘We know it.’

  He steered me towards the back exit of the store. I fetched my anorak, did not bother to change. No work tomorrow. The store was shut. I could have the whole day off apart from calling on friends. The creases could fall out at home.

  Could James be classed as a lonely friend? Sometimes he looked very lonely. He rarely mentioned his marriage or the circumstances of his divorce. Just sometimes a clue dropped, like a window opening.

  There was more of the festive atmosphere outside in the street. People were milling about, either going into pubs or coming out of pubs, or leaving staff parties. The strings of lights along the promenade twinkled. The lights in the trees Hashed on and off. Santa rode his reindeer across the street. Christmas was the weirdest thing.

  ‘So what are you doing tomorrow?’ I asked, very casual.

  ‘I told you — on duty, both shifts, the two till ten and the ten till six. I’ve volunteered. Everyone has families except me. I’m the obvious choice.’

  ‘Oh.’ So I couldn’t ask him round. I couldn’t even rustle up a turkey sandwich. I hadn’t done any Christmas shopping for myself and even Safeways was closed now. Still, who wanted to eat? There was far too much eating done in this world already. Guzzle, guzzle. Remember the starving millions.

  James look me to some nightclub that had a late licence. It was upstairs rather than downstairs and called the Skyliner Club. We went up and up, flight after flight, in some elegantly narrow Georgian terraced house that was rented off, floor by floor. The top floor was dimly lit, soft music, thick smoke. It was packed, but miraculously a table in a corner became vacant. James seemed to know the owner. How come he was accepted in this place?

  ‘A bottle of red,’ James ordered. ‘But I want your best, the very best. Serve us rubbish and I will revoke your licence. And we haven’t eaten. What have you got?’

  ‘The kitchen has closed but I expect we can rustle up a couple of sandwiches.’

  It was an out of this world fantasy. I wondered if I was indeed dreaming, that I had fallen asleep upright, leaning on a counter. James buying the best wine in the house. A secluded table in a corner, seductive music breaking the air. Sandwiches on their way and the only man that I wanted was by my side. When the sandwiches arrived they were made of granary bread, thick with salad and pickle and Stilton, Hanked with sliced tomatoes and green pepper. My mouth could not wait.

  ‘Got the videotapes with you?’ James asked. ‘I’ll take them now.’

  Thirteen

  The potent wine ebbed and flowed undeclared through my veins and I told James almost everything. I also told him again that I had spotted Sonia’s stalker, in case he had not been listening.

  ‘Describe the uniform.’

  ‘Er … dark, quite smart.’

  ‘Surely you can do better than that … was it military?’

  ‘No, not a proper sort of uniform. It was only an impression, after all. We’ve been through this before.’

  He nodded instead of sighing with exasperation. He had mellowed. It might be seasonal. ‘Go on.’

  I told him that I’d seen Oliver at Sonia’s house and filmed him playing squash with her. James did not seem to attach too much importance to the fact.

  ‘He could have been trying to talk her out of the claim. Perhaps he offered a few incentives. Discount on purchases for life? Free lunch on Saturdays in the restaurant?’

  ‘Sure. We should not always think the worst.’

  ‘Our records show he was a respectable citizen, worked hard, paid his taxes.’

  ‘A sweetie. Rather boyish yet very serious. I liked him immensely. I can’t understand what he was doing on Hell’s Revenge. It seems completely out of character. How did he die?’ I threw the question at him. I was determined to get an answer. Surely it was not classified? It looked like an accident, a stupid, unexpected accident.

  ‘He broke his neck. It could have been the force of the car suddenly changing direction at speed while the wheel base was actually spinning in the opposite direction. Yet he was correctly strapped in and his head was supported by the brace. A freak accident.’

  ‘Is that the final pathologist’s report?’

  ‘No, there are other routine tests they’re making. As you say, we can’t understand what he was doing on the wheel. Nor can his father. There’s some bruising which can’t be accounted for and residue of a sticky substance.’

  James let it slip. Whoops. I could see from the slight tightening of his mouth that he had not intended to say that much. I did not pursue the comment. He would just clam up. Usual DI James reaction.

  ‘Bruising where?’

  ‘You know better than to ask me that.’

  They were starting to sing round the bar, carols with dubious words that I couldn’t quite hear, and some couples were dancing. If you could call it dancing. Hugging with movement. Would he ask me to dance? But my dream angel had gone off duty and James made a move to leave.

  ‘It’s getting noisy,’ he said. ‘Shall we go?’

  I nodded. ‘Thank you for a lovely end to the evening. The staff party was a bit awkward and I didn’t really feel in the mood.’

  ‘In the mood? In the mood for what?' He was teasing now, helping me on with my anorak, finishing his wine. ‘I never associate moodiness with you.’

  ‘In the mood for Christmas.’

  ‘Is it Christmas? Oh, those lights everywhere? And I thought the council were trying to use up a bulk purchase of cheap bulbs.'

  No present in the offing, obviously. He was not into Christmas unless one was related maternally. So I could stop wondering if he was going to give me anything. Shopping list: buy own diary.

  It was as he was walking me home along the seafront that it happened. There was a commotion near the pay kiosk of Hell’s Revenge, people shouting and feet running. The crowd was thrashing around, distraught, arms waving, pushing and more shouting. Someone got shouldered out of the way and fell on the flower beds. Some kids started screaming. All hell let loose; revenge indeed.

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Something’s happening.’

  ‘Jordan,’ said James. ‘Stay out of it. It could be nasty.’ He was talking on his mobile at the same time as running. ‘DI James. Back-up required on the front. At the funfair. I’m investigating now.’ He turned to me. ‘Go home, Jordan. I don’t want you here in case it gets rough.’

  I ignored him. It
was easy to do since he was already several metres ahead of me. It was almost as if he had forgotten that I was there. The crowds parted as DI James strode forward, waving his ID. It was only a few steps to the kiosk where a woman was sobbing.

  The lights on the sideshows and the flashing lights on the neighbouring funfair novelty rides lit the gaudy night-time scene. Two men were jostling a path through the sightseers, pushing them roughly out of the way. It was difficult to see what had happened, but putting two and two together came up with robbery.

  Then I caught sight of the escaping couple. Their faces were grotesque. The light caught them full face. They were wearing Mickey Mouse masks, red and shiny nosed. One was thin and short, wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt. He wove in and out of the crowd like an eel. It was a good performance.

  He was clutching a leather pouch. The takings. At £1.50 a ride and forty available seats, it didn’t take a maths genius to work out that Hell’s Revenge was raking in a lot of money. And all of it in cash. The pouch looked full and heavy.

  A flashing patrol car came screaming along the front. People scattered or gathered depending on whether they were frightened or curious.

  DI James shouted back at me. ‘Stay with the woman. I’ll go after them.’

  I took no notice. I can really run, even in a black dress, hitched up in my pants’ elastic, and since I was further away I could dodge round the edge of the crowd and cut through to where I could see two masked bobbing heads emerging. They had gone on the pier, hoping to throw us off the track. At some point they would tear off their masks, mingle with the crowds in the dark. The pier was not as well lit as the seafront.

  The pier was like a second home to me. I knew every route, bench seat, litter bin, kiosk, railing and step. I ran on to it, keeping my eyes firmly on the two ahead. They had slowed down, masks off now. They stuffed the masks into a litter bin. I noted which bin, caught a gloss of red paint.

  Now they were going down the iron steps to the lower level walkway round the end of the pier where the anglers congregate. No hopeful fishing tonight. It was deserted except for a few courting couples who barely surfaced in time to look at the men.