The last few diners began to leave, fairly merry, calling out Happy Christmases to the staff, wearing rakish paper hats, waving and laughing, blowing whistles from the crackers. They went out into the night and their voices drifted back.
‘You have been marvellous,’ said Miguel, coming over with two cups of his special aromatic coffee. ‘I could not have managed without you.’ His eyes were full of warm admiration even though I must have looked a mess and any eye make-up that I once started out with had long since worn off. It was a miracle that the scarf had stayed tied round my hair. He handed me a small brown envelope. ‘Here is your pay,’ he said. ‘And a share of the tips.’
‘Thank you. I never realised how hard you work in a restaurant,’ I said, putting the envelope in my pocket unopened. It seemed rude to open it. ‘It’s non-stop.’
‘It is not always as busy as this,’ he said. ‘Tonight was a special night. If you will not eat with us now, perhaps some other would be better? You come in any time, any evening, and it will be my pleasure to serve.’
‘I’ll come when you all eat together,’ I said. Safer. ‘That would be nice. I often work late.’ Miguel’s coffee was excellent. The caffeine began to wake me up. Then I remembered the Boxing Day sales ahead and that sobered me down. ‘I do have to go.’
‘I will order you a taxi on my account. A lady should not walk alone at night. It not safe. The pubs are coming out and the streets are full of many men who have had too much beer … so noisy and disgusting.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, stifling a yawn. ‘I just want to roll into bed.’
Huh … wrong thing to say. His eyes sent me an invitation which I pretended not to see. He smiled with resignation and ambled over to the phone on his desk and ordered a taxi. He was indeed a very handsome man in that dark, Latin way. Even when he was bone-deep tired and he was surely as tired as I was.
‘Such a pity,’ he said, ‘I too would like a roll.’
*
Boxing Day was a nightmare. I had no chance to do any enquiries of my own. We could have done with twice the staff. Did Francis know what it was really like? Had he ever worked on the shop floor during this stampede? I half expected people to howl like wolves. Some of them certainly behaved like animals. I had to separate two women fighting over a size fourteen gold lamé skirt.
‘If you tear it in half, then no one is going to wear it to a party,’ I said grimly. ‘Give over, ladies. Why not share the skirt if you both like it so much?’
There were some great bargains. I knew they were genuine reductions because I’d been selling them earlier in the week at the original prices. There were also piles of special goods brought in for the sales. I supposed this was normal.
‘They’re special offers,’ I was told.
But other things were happening. Department heads were becoming irritated by replacement goods not arriving. I heard Miss Kent on the telephone.
‘I’ve asked twice for those bathroom sets to come up. When am I getting them? That’s not good enough. I want them now, not tomorrow. Mr Oliver would never have allowed this.’
It was the same in Accessories. A consignment of Italian leather wallets and purses was wanted urgently. But they never arrived at the department. The buyer was hopping mad.
‘I’m losing sales,’ she hissed down the phone. ‘And it's all your fault. I shall report you to the general manager.’ Then she remembered that the general manager was dead and slammed the phone down to hide her tears.
It dawned on me moving somewhere between bathroom sets and golf umbrellas that Mr Oliver, Oliver Guilbert, the former general manager, son and heir, was the key to many puzzles. He worked for his father and would have inherited it one day. He might have stumbled upon the disappearing stock racket. Supposing he had been removed from a lucrative scene?
Also he’d been seeing Sonia Spiller, the woman who was suing the store for a lot of money. He’d been handling the claim. He played squash. He was a fit young man and upright citizen yet he’d been spun to death on Hell’s Revenge. Not his scene, not his style.
No accident. He’d been murdered. It came to me without any doubt. By person or persons who had an interest in both scams. And DI James was keeping it from me. What had he said? Something about a sticky substance? And he mentioned bruising. Manual neck breaking leaves bruises. The arm is hooked across the throat and the head jerked back. The SAS know how to do it. Or it could have been a karate chop, the silent kill.
I needed to know a lot more about Oliver. The clues were somewhere in his lifestyle, his home, his circle of friends. So where should I start? Here and now. As I cruised the staff, I began bringing up his name, dropping loaded questions like miniscule time bombs.
He had known everyone. He had no special friends. He did not chat up female staff. He was not going out with anyone on the staff. All they knew was that he worked hard and often stayed late. He played squash. He drove a red Aston Martin convertible.
An Aston Martin convertible? Where was it now? Hardly the kind of car you could easily mislay. I managed to catch a word with Francis Guilbert as he made one of his lightning tours.
‘It was Oliver’s pride and joy,’ he said, his face lighting up for a second. ‘It’s a two-door coupe. Six cylinder, twin-overhead camshaft engines.’
Foreign language to me but I tried to look knowledgable. ‘And where is it now?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know.’ He looked confused. ‘It’s not in the garage. To tell the truth, I’d forgotten all about Oliver’s car. It just wasn’t important any more … you know …’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’ll find out where it is.’
He walked away, looking broken. I’d reminded him about Oliver’s death when perhaps, for a few moments at least, the bustle of the store in sales mode had suppressed his grief.
I phoned the leisure centre. The car was not abandoned in their car park. They would have noticed, they said. Nor was it in the store’s own underground car park. I checked.
Yet I felt I’d seen it somewhere or a car very much like it. The Aston Marlin has a distinctive bonnet line with a flattened air vent, wide grill and laid-back headlamps. An unforgettable shape and length. You can’t forget something so unforgettable as an Aston Martin. But I had managed.
I rang up a couple of extra noughts on a pair of pillowcases, charging the bemused woman over £500 for minimum-iron polka dots.
‘So sorry,’ I said, voiding the whole operation. ‘Fingers slipped. Frostbite.’
Who could tell me more about Oliver Guilbert? Sonia Spiller. But I could hardly call on her again after admiring her indoor stencil work so effusively. I sneaked into the loo and got out my mobile.
My voice became coated with sympathy and sincerity. Synthetic treacle. It was pretty awful.
‘Mrs Sonia Spiller? This is Tracy Solomon. I am so sorry to intrude at a time of grief but I am writing a piece for the staff magazine about Mr Oliver Guilbert and I wondered if you could add anything to it.’
‘Me?’ She seemed genuinely taken aback. ‘But I hardly knew the man.’ But she knew he had died.
‘He spoke very highly of you.’ I lied. ‘As a fellow squash player.’
'Squash? Yes, we occasionally played together but I was hardly in his class. He played very well.’
‘Can you tell me anything about the case in which you were involved? You know, the plastic bag you slipped on.’
I heard a sharp intake of breath. ‘I can’t see what that has to do with the accident,’ she said.
‘Yours or his?’ I asked innocently.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Are you talking about Oliver Guilbert’s accident or your own accident in the store?’
‘What has this got to do with writing a piece for the staff magazine?’
‘I wondered if you found Mr Guilbert sympathetic or helpful in your claim.’
Sonia was losing her cool but seemed unable to do anything about it. Any minute now she was going to say somethi
ng she would regret.
‘Look, Miss Solomon or whoever you say you are, I resent this intrusion. I know nothing about Mr Guilbert’s accident or how it happened. He was not a friend of mine. And it’s none of my business how he died.’
‘If you’ll recall, I have not asked you anything about Mr Guilbert’s accident.’ I was such a smoothie at times. ‘I thought we were talking about your accident, slipping on the plastic bag that you say was on the floor.’
‘If I say there was a plastic bag on the floor, then believe me, young lady, there definitely was a plastic bag. And you can’t prove anything different.’
‘What kind of plastic bag was it?’
‘I’ve had enough of this.’
‘Thank you for being such a help, Mrs Spiller. You have given me a very useful insight into Mr Guilbert’s character,’ I said before she could slam the phone down.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she flared.
Someone came into the lavatories and so I switched off the phone and flushed the loo. I came out and washed my hands. I looked at myself in the mirror and didn’t like what I saw. What a job. Phoning people up and pretending to be someone else. Lies and more lies. Still, I could hardly have asked her outright what was Oliver doing in her house the afternoon the RSPCA inspector checked on Jasper in the car? And only Sonia could tell me.
Alan Preston was looking more harrassed than ever. He was losing control of the stock. It was disappearing as fast as it came in. He stood there, wringing his hands and pushing his specs up, both at the same time, if possible.
‘I don’t understand what is happening. The goods are vanishing before my very eyes. I sign for most of the delivery notes. Look, that’s my handwriting.’ He waved a pile of notes at me. They were crumpled as if he had checked them over and over again.
‘And who sees the goods in? Who actually carries them in?’
‘They are usually loaded onto a pallet or trolley and wheeled in. Smaller items are carried by one of my warehouse staff. We have three good strong lads.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘Well, there’s only two in today. Over there, unloading those crates. Daffy is off sick, so he says, probably out late at the pubs last night. Knowing him, he’ll be off a week.’
‘What has come in those crates?’ I asked.
Preston unclipped the last of the delivery notes. ‘Duvets. Single, double and king-sized, and pillows, goose, feather and synthetic. Standard quality. Not luxury.’
‘Will you check the crates now,’ 1 asked. ‘I know you’re busy but I’d like it done right away.'
‘Certainly. Nothing wrong with this delivery. I’m sure. A most reliable firm.’
The tops were prised off the crates as they were stacked on the concrete floor. Crates one, two and four were full of duvets and pillows packed in plastic bags. Crate number three was also full of plastic packs. But nothing else. The bags were empty. It was a fake delivery. I closed it quickly so that only Mr Preston and I had seen the contents, or lack of them.
I told Alan Preston about the consignment of CDs which I had taken. ‘He was actually about to drive away without leaving the delivery.’
‘A mistake. I’m sure …’ Alan Preston was too trusting, too good-natured. ‘This could be a mistake too, you know, in the Christmas rush.’
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But I suggest you check the contents of everything as it comes in. And check some of these other deliveries which have not yet been unpacked. You may get some surprises.’
‘I hope not,’ he said wearily. ‘I don’t want any nasty surprises.’
I went outside into the yard. The air was sharp and bracing, the sky granite with laden clouds. It was the best place to make a private call to Frances Guilbert in his office.
‘Mr Guilbert? It’s Jordan Lacey. I’m outside the warehouse. First I must thank you for that very pleasant lunch yesterday. I didn’t mention it earlier on in front of everyone.’
‘It was my pleasure, young lady.’
‘I think I have discovered how your stock is disappearing, but not who is organising it. It feels like the work of a well-organised gang, operating in several towns, maybe widespread thieving throughout Sussex. I don’t think it’s a member of your staff although one of your warehouse lads could be being paid to keep his eyes closed to the goings-on.’
‘How am I losing the stock?’
‘Firstly, some of it is never actually delivered. It’s signed for but no one checks that it has in fact been carried into the warehouse. Secondly, in a big consignment, boxes or crates are being switched somewhere along the line and empty ones brought in among the genuine deliveries. We’ve found one just now, an empty crate that should contain duvets and pillows.'
‘I’ll be right down.’
‘No, don’t do that, Mr Guilbert. Play it cool and we may be able to catch them red-handed. But I do think I have to inform the police. As I said, you may not be an isolated case.’
There was a momentary silence. ‘I understand. Yes, you may inform the police, Jordan. But it must be discreet. I don’t want any heavy-handed police guarding the store and frightening away customers.’
‘From my previous experience,’ I said, as if I was always arranging police presence at crime scenes. ‘They will probably plant an officer here in the warehouse, plain clothes, brown overalls. No one will notice him. Only you, I and Mr Preston need know who he is and why he is here.’
‘I leave it in your hands,’ said Mr Guilbert with a deep sigh. ‘I am relying on you.’
A phone call to my favourite Detective Inspector, some quick talking and an hour later, DS Ben Evans appeared at the warehouse entrance. He was in scruffy, paint-sploshed jeans and a torn sweatshirt.
‘I understand you are looking for temporary warehouse bods,’ he said, trying to look unemployed and short of money.
‘Come in, lad,’ said Mr Preston. ‘Yes, we’re short-handed. I’ll show you what to do.’
Fifteen
After the store closed its doors on Boxing Day, everyone was too tired to talk or even go for a drink together. The cashiers had to stay and count the money. The assistants wanted to get home, soak their feet and unwind.
‘Goodnight. Goodnight,’ they called to each other. ‘Goodnight, Jordan,’ said Miss Kent, sweeping out in a fur-trimmed coat. ‘You’ve been a great help. We couldn’t have done without you.’
Praise indeed. ‘Thank you. Goodnight, Miss Kent.’
I went home to my bedsits. They had a neglected, boardinghouse look about them. I’d only slept there, none of the usual living around. No books, tapes, newspapers on the floor or washing-up waiting to be done. My plants were dehydrated, drooping visibly. I toured the pots with water and encouraging words.
‘Come off it, you’re putting it on. You can’t have died yet. It’s only been a few days.’
It seemed like a lifetime since I’d had any life of my own. I started at Guilberts on Saturday morning and now it was Wednesday evening. The store had taken over. Sunday had been a working day, and I’d been to the midnight boot. When did I last open my own shop? I could hardly remember where it was.
But I wasn’t finished yet. I wanted a serious talk with DI James. I’d neglected my friends over Christmas. And I had to see Mr Guilbert and ask him more about Oliver. But when? Oliver’s funeral would be soon. I would have to go to that.
Now. It had to be now. I phoned Mr Guilbert and asked if a brief visit would be convenient. He seemed pleased to hear from me.
‘Sure, Jordan. Come round and have a drink. The house seems very empty.’
‘In half an hour, then? I want to shower and change. It’s been a hard day.’
‘Make it an hour’s time. I may catch a little snooze.’
It took a whole hour to get ready. I slowed down to a frail snail’s pace in the shower, washing my hair slow-motion, rubbing in and rubbing off masks and rejuvenating samples given to me by the cosmetics lady who hadn’t given up on my appearance.
<
br /> ‘You have such flawless skin,’ she’d enthused. ‘You must not let it wrinkle. And that bone structure. It simply isn’t fair.’
I looked at my unfair bone structure and saw nothing special or different to any other face. Except that it was wan and manless and hadn’t seen the jazz trumpeter for weeks. Perhaps my fate was to become an old man’s darling.
I hung up my black dress which also looked dispirited and creased. My best dress now. My only dress. I’d gotta a real dress in my wardrobe. And a pricey one. I hadn’t chosen cheap.
I appeared at Francis Guilbcrt’s front door in the same indigo jeans, black jersey and leather jacket. He would start thinking it was a uniform. But my damp hair was in two squaw plaits either side of my face. Very youthful. No make-up. The scrubbed look.
His face was sunken and hollowed-out, bruised with pain, his soul bankrupt. The lines had deepened. And I was about to make him feel worse. I made as if to go.
‘No, no, Jordan, come in. Please, I need some company. I’ve had a little sleep and whenever I wake up, Oliver’s death hits me hard, every time. I suppose it always will. I’ll never wake up without thinking that he has gone.’
I didn’t know whether to say it. ‘My parents died in a car crash, together, when they were on holiday in France. A wedding anniversary holiday. I felt as you feel, for a long time. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but the pain does fade. It never goes away, but it does lessen in intensity. Then sometimes it comes back and hits hard, just as strong and painful as if it only happened yesterday.’
‘My dear. How awful for you. Both parents. I didn’t know, of course.’
‘This black leather jacket, it’s real leather,’ I went on, to distract him. ‘They gave it to me for my twenty-first birthday. I still keep their little card in the top pocket. It gives me comfort to wear it.’
I took out the little birthday card, but did not show it to him.
‘Jordan, thank you for telling me. We all have sorrows to bear. It’s what life is all about, I suppose. The way it moves on in its unfathomable way, making waves. Come in. I shall open a nice bottle of wine. What did you think of our Boxing Day sales?’
Spin and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 3) Page 14
