I could almost see them. They were not youths at all. The shorter one was perhaps in his early thirties, but the heavier build was definitely late forties. It was time they were put away. They were causing enough trouble in Latching. If they were the same pair that had robbed the Mexican and Mavis. Perhaps the cinema robbery, too.
I suddenly thought of the owner of the Mexican and what a dish he was. Miguel Cortes. Probably too old for me, but hey, who cares these days? Age is not that important. It’s character and personality that count and he had plenty of both. Perhaps I’d treat myself to a Mexican supper on Christmas Day. He’d buy me a bottle of wine, sit at my table. I had a black dress and a velvet scrunchie.
It was a mind-blowing idea. In that moment of inattention, the two men disappeared. This is always happening to me. Loss of concentration. Where could they have gone? I ran round the railings, peering over to the lower level. No sign of them.
Lights were bobbing on the water. I knew those lights. They were from a small fishing boat, going under the pier through the allotted span, where a notice said, ‘No fishing between these posts’. I ran to the other side of the pier, just in time to see the fishing boat re-emerge, with extra crew I could swear. These small boats are usually a one-man affair, but I could see three people aboard. All men.
‘Chuck,’ I yelled down. ‘Chuck!’ An old trick.
It was automatic. He looked up. Bingo! But I could not make out the registration number of the boat, nor the colour it was painted. Brownish red, maybe. Too dark for any identification. Even the sea was almost black, only reflecting the lights.
I drew back instantly. Chuck could not see me and was confused. He was talking to the older man. They both looked up.
Now, where had they stashed the money pouch? I walked back along the pier slowly, unhitching the black dress, looking in all the bins, actually enjoying the night air. A few strollers looked at me with disgust. Bag lady, they thought.
Then I found the pouch. A few chips stuck to the leather, but I was not fussy. I shook them off. The woman in the pay kiosk would be pleased. It weighed a ton.
Substitute lover. The phrase came into my mind as I walked back towards the pier entrance. I was still thinking of Miguel. DI James caught sight of me. He came over immediately, his face dark with fury.
‘You didn’t obey me! I said, stay with the woman. Don’t pursue them.’
‘I don’t work for you. Remember? I’ve left the force.’
‘You are the most irritating woman.’
‘Here’s the money. I’ve got it back but I’ll let you hand it to the woman who was robbed. One of the robbers is called Chuck, I think. You can take all the credit. I’m not mean-minded like some.’
It was a moment of glory. I gave him the pouch bulging with money. Our hands almost touched. He looked at me but I don’t know what his eyes were saying. I was tired. I was almost passed caring. James, James … save me, stay with me, don’t let me swop you for a hunky Mexican.
‘They climbed down under the pier and a fishing boat picked them up. I couldn’t make out which one. They’ve probably transferred to a motor launch out at sea or gone ashore by now.’
He took the pouch. Thank you, Jordan. Well done. Now stay here, and don’t you dare move a single inch. I’m taking you home.’ He went back on his mobile and passed on the fishing boat information. The coast guard could take over now.
He saw me home, both of us beyond talking, another gentleman who did not hassle me. But he could have hassled me from here to Littlehampton and I would not have whispered a word of protest.
*
It was Christmas Day. I lay in bed and for a moment thought of my parents and so many Christmases as a child. Christmas trees, crackers, presents in a stocking at the end of my bed, a proper lunch with all the trimmings after morning church. Not a good idea, all this thinking. Too weepy and nostalgic. I got up and made myself a mug of tea. I drew the curtains and Latching was bleak and rainswept. Rivulets trickled down the glass. Branches swayed.
I normally love the rain. It’s so cleansing. Especially if you arc dressed for it, not if you get soaked. A walk along the seafront would be wonderful before the kids invaded it with their presents, bikes, scooters, skateboards, roller skates, anything with wheels. It might blow away the cobwebs.
Breakfast was muesli with a sliced banana and some dried apricots for brainpower. I thought of the good doctor opening his presents to himself. I did not remember having supper, except for the sandwich at Skyliners. There was nothing in my fridge for Christmas lunch. A few pots of yogurt past their sell-by.
There were five Christmasy wrapped gifts for me to open, delivered to the shop during the week. Expensive bath foam, another pair of knitted gloves, notelets of Old Latching and a box of Belgian chocolates. And a tin of herbal teabags from Doris. I had not given her anything. She had not been on my list.
The sea was inhospitable and un-Christmasy. It was in a bad mood. I could see anger in the waves pounding the shore. Pebbles slid into the froth. It looked as if a storm was brewing. The sky was scurrying fast with dark cloud formations looming like beasts of prey. Sometimes I loved it, sometimes I was plain scared.
We know nothing about the sky or sea, or what really controls it or makes it stay in place. Why doesn’t the sea fall off? We arc tiny humans, strutting about our planet like we own it, thinking we know everything when we know absolutely nothing. The planet is not even ours. We are here by accident. Email me if you think you know better.
I walked all the way to the Sea Lane cafe, open, bless them, eight days a week, and I had a glorious hot chocolate, creamily frothed with decadence, worth every penny of £1.65. Happy Christmas me.
Then I walked back, listening to the sea lashing the pebbles, hair blowing across my face. It was a south-westerly, the wind behind me, pushing me along, so I made it in good time. The rain had eased off while I was in the Sea Lane cafe. I was only a bit wet.
Back in my flat there was a message on my answer phone.
‘Will you come and have lunch with me, Miss Lacey? I am feeling lonely and bereft. I will pay for your time, if that’s necessary. Please phone Francis Guilbert.’
The message stunned me. He was offering to pay for company. I rang him back immediately. I’d be delighted. Just give me half an hour to change and get dry. I put on my best indigo jeans, black jersey, tied my hair back with a clashing red silk scarf which I’d borrowed from my shop. It was the only festive touch.
Just as I was leaving, the phone rang. ‘Hi Jordan. Are you feeling better? What are we doing for Christmas? Something nice, eh?’ It was Joshua, fishing for an invite.
‘Hello, Joshua. Happy Christmas.’ I wasn’t rising to the bait.
‘Shall I come over to your place? I’ll bring the nuts.’
I hurt myself trying not to laugh. I knew Joshua so well. He’d bring a 500-gram packet of unsalted peanuts in their shells.
‘I’m sorry I won’t be able to see you,’ I said, all sweetness and light. ‘I’ve got an invitation.’
‘How about I come along, too?’ he said amiably. ‘One more won’t make any difference.’
‘Two’s company, three’s an imposition,’ I said. ‘You won’t starve. I’m sure you can get tinned turkey and oven-ready roast potatoes.’
‘That’s not fair,’ Joshua whined. ‘Making fun of me.’
‘Bye, Joshua. Gotta go.’ I put the phone down and went out.
The rain had eased, Latching style, and I decided to walk. My hands slipped into the silky sea of the pocket linings. The pockets of my black leather jacket were kept empty on purpose. The last gift of my parents was too special to be cluttered with crushed tissues, receipts, pencil stubs and old Polos. An anorak was different. The contents of my anorak pockets would have kept me alive on a survival course.
Francis Guilbert lived in an old house at the back of Latching, one of the imposing double-fronted Victorian villas, a few streets from the town. It was the size they now turned
into solicitors’ offices or doctors’ surgeries. Not quite big enough to convert into a residential home for the aged, but ideal for a coastal office. I wondered if he lived alone.
The house was built of white stone and stucco, the wideangled bays extending to the first floor. The entrance had fluted columns and carved stonework, the rooftops crested with ironwork. As soon as I walked up the drive, 1 knew that it was the kind of house that I would have loved to live in. Francis Guilbert opened the decorative stained glass, panelled front door.
‘There’s no charge,’ I said immediately. ‘I’m very happy to be eating with you, Mr Guilbert. I’m on my own, too. I won’t say Happy Christmas because I know it isn’t one.’
‘Call me Francis,’ he said, smiling. ‘Come in.’
We went inside. The hall was marble and cool but so welcoming. Flowers and seascape pictures everywhere. Who looked after him now?
‘I have a housekeeper,’ he said. ‘But she has gone home early. Her daughter is not well. We shall have to serve ourselves.’
‘Lovely,’ I said. ‘I am always a bit intimidated by staff.’
‘To tell the truth, so am I,’ he said. ‘Let’s help ourselves and hope it’s still hot. It’s all standing on hot plates.’
The dining room table was far too long for two people. I moved my place right next to his. There was red and white wine on the table, more than I could ever drink, even at Christmas. I would have to watch it.
‘Let me serve you,’ I said. ‘Dab hand at serving, but you will have to carve the turkey. Chopping up birds, I cannot do.’ So, somehow, between us, with a lot of harmless laughter and bantering, we managed to serve each other with overflowing plates of Christmas fare. I found I was quite hungry. It must have been that walk along the seafront. We had lots to talk about which was surprising considering the age and status difference. Francis was genuinely interested in my PI work, my shop and my former police work. I even told him about the rape case that precipitated my departure from the force.
He shook his head. ‘You acted exactly as I would have expected. Totally right in the circumstances. But, of course, it’s a disgrace that both of them got off. The detective and the rapist.’
‘No more of that,’ I said, waving the subject away. ‘Water under the flyover. I don’t think about it any more. Let’s hope he’s got caught for something else. So tell me how Guilberts got started and became one of the most expensive stores in Latching.’
‘Ah … you find it expensive?’
‘Yes, but I did buy two presents for friends at Guilberts. The quality was what I wanted and I wasn’t disappointed.’
‘That’s it, Jordan. I offer quality. There’s lots of cheap shops in Latching, you know, seconds and special offers. It’s what many people can only afford. I understand that. But I offer quality for the other range of shoppers. Even if, like you, they only shop in my store occasionally. I see you are wearing one of our scarves. It’s an old range. They last forever.’
‘In the normal run of things, I can’t afford you.’
‘Understandable,’ he said. We’d reached the Christmas pudding and whipped brandy cream stage. It was all delicious. I was full to the brim but just had room for a few mouthfuls of the lovely fruity pud. Could I take home a doggy bag?
‘I have to stock designer clothes. There are many rich women living along the Sussex coast, and a lot of widows. I don’t want them to go to London to buy clothes. They come to see what’s the latest from Frank Usher and buy a new toaster on the way out. Please don’t think I’m talking through the wine, but I’d be happy to give you a permanent, no strings attached, discount on all our goods.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I may never use the privilege but I appreciate the thought.’
Francis did not pursue the subject. The man had tact. I wondered who I could introduce him to for company. He was such a catch. Mrs Fenwick came immediately to mind. A sweet woman. They had seascapes in common.
About mid-afternoon I left. I was full to the gills. I’d eaten enough for days. Francis was ready to sleep off the bottle or two of his good wine. He was not openly sorrowing, but I knew he was feeling the loss of his son, even if he did not show it.
‘Thank you,’ I said. My composure was unravelling. I wanted to see James but he was doing double shifts. ‘I’ve enjoyed sharing your Christmas lunch. Thank you for thinking of me. There was only yogurt in my fridge.’
‘And thank you,’ he said. ‘For your company. For helping me through a Christmas that was quite unacceptable.’
‘I do understand. See you on Thursday, that is if you want me to carry on with the investigation.’
‘I do indeed. But there’s tomorrow, Boxing Day, please. It doesn’t stop. The first day of the sales. If you thought Christmas was horrendous, wait till you experience the sales. People are queueing up already for the best bargains. A 26-inch widescreen television set for £50.’
‘I’ll join the queue,’ I joked.
‘Come and see me occasionally,’ said Francis, a wistfulness entering his voice.
*
‘I’d like that.’
A Mexican supper treat was out. I hadn’t room for a tortilla crisp but the good claret had made me long for admiring male company, in particular of smouldering DI rank. I wandered along towards First Class Junk, wondering if I ought to open up and catch some trade. Last-minute presents, forgotten aunties …
I was just about to put my key in the lock, when Miguel Cortes came out of his restaurant.
‘I was keeping the eye open for you,’ he said. He looked distraught. His dark curly hair was standing on end as if he had run a hand through it many times.
‘Happy Christmas,’ I said.
‘Ah, yes … Happy Christmas. Look, I am in the spot. Will you help me? I will pay double time as it is Christmas Day and you keep all the tips.’
‘Me? How? I can’t cook. And I’m not much into washing up, not even to help out a friend.’
‘I would never ask a fragrant woman like you to wash up. I would do it myself until dawn. And I do all the cooking. It is the serving. One of my girls has not turned up and every table is booked. I even have second bookings at nine o’clock. It’s my busiest night of the year, except New Year’s Eve. Please, Jordan, help me out.’
His velvety brown eyes were so appealing. Time to swoon. I’d never been called fragrant before. I was a fool but it might be fun. Other people worked on Christmas Day so why not me? I’d had a fabulous lunch and a bit of graft would not hurt. The Times once wrote that salvation is to be won by long, hard graft.
‘OK. Give me ten minutes to tidy up and I’ll be round.’
Miguel threw his hands in the air and blessed me in several languages. I was entranced. Send in the clowns. I was alive and living in Latching. The evening might have surprises.
Fourteen
It was my best Christmas for years and there was a surprise. Sure, I was worked off my pies (Spanish for feet) serving the spicy Mexican food to customers, pouring wine (with festive flourish), asking if everything was all right. I had the jargon off pat. It could have been my vocation. The kitchen was a hive of industrial steam, spicy smells, clattering saucepans, hissing grills. Miguel was overseeing all the cooking, adding a little extra of this and that, giving his dishes the Cortes signature.
I soon picked up how to take orders and pass them to the kitchen, then recognise when to collect the dishes and serve them to the right table number. I only made a couple of mistakes, not knowing my enchiladas from my espadrilles, but no one seemed to mind. It was Christmas.
‘One cajun jambalaya, two fajitas, tiger prawn and mushroom and baby corn fillings, one burrito, spicy chicken,’ I murmured to myself.
Then the door opened and Sonia Spiller came in with a man. Hotel, Echo, Lima, Papa. Help! Where could I hide? But like most customers, she hardly looked at the anonymous person taking their order. The man ordered. He was about midthirties, light brown hair, smartly dressed in blazer and polonecke
d jersey, sheepskin coat, pleasant manner. I’d never seen him before. Was this her husband, Colin? They did not seem to be talking much. Sonia twitched nervously like a horse, her long dark hair hiding her face. She was wearing a tight green dress and pearls. Perhaps it was too tight. It did not look the happiest of meals.
‘Happy Christmas!’ I said brightly, serving their order. ‘Enjoy your meal.’
‘Happy Christmas,’ said the man, looking across at Sonia. She said nothing but unfolded her napkin and smoothed it across her lap as if she was ironing. I poured out their red Merlot. He nodded their thanks. I left them to salvage what festivity they could find.
‘Like some crackers?’
‘No crackers,’ Sonia snarled.
I backed off.
Towards eleven, I began to tire. Waitress legs combined with shop assistant’s back did not add up to one hundred percent energy, despite all my sea walking. New Year’s Resolution: go to gym. I’d rather go to James.
The patrons were thinning out. I did not see Sonia and her companion leave. The bills were handled by Miguel at his desk. There was a bowl of mints on the desk in case anyone was worried by garlic breath. I wondered if the robbers took mints as well.
I began clearing tables, wiping tops, wondering what the routine was for closing up. But Miguel came over and took the J-cloth out of my hand.
‘You don’t have to do that,’ he said. ‘I asked you to serve, not clean. No more work. Sit down and I will bring you some supper. I will serve you myself.’
I shook my head. ‘No, thank you. Miguel. I’m too tired to eat, really.’
He looked disappointed. ‘The staff always eat together afterwards. We have good time. Plenty of wine. A cup of coffee then?’
‘Yes, thank you. Some coffee would be lovely. I’d like that.'
I sat down very carefully, wondering if I would ever be able to get up again. At a pinch I could sleep at the shop, but I really wanted my own bed, my own bath, and eight hours’ sleep. If I put my head down on the table I would probably doze off. It was as bad as that. My eyes needed propping open. Pass me the matchsticks.
Spin and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 3) Page 13
