Spin and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 3)

by Whitelaw, Stella

  ‘Madness,’ I said, shedding my jacket on a hall chair. ‘I couldn’t believe that people still had money to spend after the Christmas excesses. Nor the energy to go shopping.’

  ‘Shopping is the new leisure pursuit,’ he said. ‘There’s the soaps, the pub and shopping. I don’t mind being third on the list.’

  His colour was improving. Francis Guilbert had guts. He might be disintegrating inside but he wasn’t going to let it show. He should have had a family of sons, not just one.

  We took the wine and glasses into his study. It was a smaller, cosy room with dark tapestry armchairs pulled up to an open fire. Not exactly book-lined. He did not have much time to read. But there was a desk piled with paperwork that he could not leave at the office.

  ‘My housekeeper, Mrs Waite, is still away, so I can’t offer you anything to eat. Her home life is a problem. I’ve opened a packet of crisps. Bacon flavoured.’

  I didn’t laugh. I drank some wine and we talked about DS Evans in the warehouse. I reassured Francis that he was discreet and very bright. He was the right police presence. We got round to talking about Oliver.

  ‘I feel like Al Fayed,’ said Mr Guilbert. ‘I don’t believe that my son’s death was an accident. He would not have gone for a ride on this so-called Hell’s Revenge. I ask you, Jordan, does it seem likely?’

  ‘No, Francis, it doesn’t add up. And I don’t believe that his death was accidental either. Something is quite definitely wrong. It doesn’t ring true. I know this is an imposition, but may I see your son’s room?’

  It was the wine talking. I could never have found the courage on my own.

  ‘You want to see my son’s room? Just as he left it?’

  Oh dear, what would I find? Teddy bears and Spice Girl posters?

  ‘Please, if you don’t mind.’

  Francis took me upstairs. But he paused on the landing for a moment. It was still difficult for him to even open the door …

  Oliver’s room was on the front corner of the house with two large bay windows, one facing south and the other facing the setting sun. The view did not quite include the sea, but it was there, twinkling away in the distance and the horizon line was clearly defined.

  It was a plain room, all navy and mahogany and lots of brass naval touches. He had not changed the furniture for years. But the curtains were a modern navy and cream design and the matching bed cover (Guilbert’s best) was top quality. The carpet was navy, inches thick with the odd red rug thrown for contrast. The pictures were all of the sea which I would have expected. Everything neat and tidy as if the absent housekeeper had been at work and Oliver was expected back.

  Surely not as Oliver would have left it? Not a sock in sight, not a letter or magazine. Only some crime novels on the bedside table.

  ‘Have you noticed his trophies?’ said Francis, his voice full of pride. He had recovered slightly. ‘Oliver was junior county champion.’

  The silver cups in the case were county squash trophies. He was a good player, hardly Sonia Spiller standard. Weird.

  I duly admired them. The room did not tell me much about him after all. I needed to look through the sturdy chest of drawers and three-door wardrobe. Bottoms of drawers often held secrets.

  ‘Did Oliver have a girlfriend?’ I asked, thinking about Leroy Anderson, who would have been just right.

  ‘Not as far as I knew,’ said Francis Guilbert. ‘He didn’t mention anyone special and brought no one home. But then he didn’t confide his private life to me. He lead a separate existence even if we shared the same roof.’

  ‘Very normal,’ I said, as if I knew all about it. ‘Is his funeral soon?’ I added, putting my size sixes well into it.

  ‘On Friday. You are welcome to come. I shall be closing the store as a mark of respect.’

  I nodded. ‘Of course. Everyone will want to be there. Oliver was so well liked.’

  ‘Jordan, if you ever find out anything more about my son’s death …’ he hesitated, ‘… you will tell me, won’t you?’

  Was he asking me to investigate? It wasn’t clear. But I nodded. ‘Yes, I will.’

  Later I made scrambled eggs on toast for both of us in the kitchen. The height of my culinary skills. He seemed grateful and we ate them at the kitchen table with salt and pepper, tomato sauce and the wine.

  ‘I enjoy your company,’ he said. ‘I’m almost tempted to pay you to visit me. But that would be unacceptable, wouldn’t it, even for a working girl?’

  ‘Not very ethical.’

  ‘I shall invent cases for you to solve and demand weekly reports in person.’ His eyes twinkled.

  ‘Outrageous.’

  It was after eleven when I left. He didn’t order me a taxi, perhaps not knowing the Latching scene late at night. I walked home fast, no short cuts or twittens, keeping to well-lit streets, one of his kitchen knives clasped in my hand just in case. I’d lifted it. A kitchenlifter.

  I knew I wouldn’t use it, but the light from street lamps on the steel blade was reassuring.

  *

  When I awoke, I didn’t care if I was supposed to go into the store or not. I was not going. DS Lyons was there. It was his case now. I’d done my bit.

  First Class Junk looked as if it had been closed for months. It had been repossessed by spiders and moths. Dead flies redesigned the window dressing. I rushed round with J-cloth and broom, door wide open for fresh air, coffee percolating in the background, a tape of Benny Goodman blowing his clear clarinet into the street. ‘Autumn Leaves’, ‘April in Paris’. Where was my jazzman? Why had he left it so long to come and see me? If anything had happened to him, it would have been in the papers … but when did I get the time to read them?

  A single rose in cellophane lay on the shop floor. It had been posted through the open door. There was no label. I picked it up. sniffing at the petals, expecting scent, but there was no perfume. DI James had remembered me after all. That’s all that mattered.

  There was a single-bloom vase out back and I put the rose in the window, pride of place, a way of saying thank you.

  I had a steady stream of customers and browsers. I sold a bumper bundle of paperbacks, knock-down price, several small china ornaments (didn’t people have enough?) and a couple more of those cap badges. Not a bad morning’s work.

  ‘And how’s Mavis?’ I asked Doris, diving into her grocery shop for a carton of soya milk. She was stocking it now, just for me.

  ‘Not so bad. I spent Christmas Day with her. She’s getting over it and her face is healing,’ said Doris.

  ‘I meant to call, I did. I really did.’

  ‘Don’t worry. She knew you were working at Guilberts. And I saw you, all dolled up like a dog’s dinner, rolling gold paper round things like you knew how to do gift-wrapping.’

  ‘Is there nothing, nothing that you don’t know?’ I grinned. ‘You should be running my business. Wanna take it on? I’d make more money serving in your shop.’

  ‘No, thank you. Too dangerous.’ Doris was trying to stick an extension onto a broken nail. She liked nails inches long. Lethal. ‘I wouldn’t like to be mixing with the sorts that bashed Mavis up. Have you found them yet?’

  ‘Not exactly but we’ve good descriptions of them. They tried to hold up one of the funfair cash kiosks, but I got the money back even if they got away. They escaped on a fishing boat waiting for them under the pier.’

  As I said the words, the fifty pence coin dropped. I wondered if Doris had the same thought. It had puzzled me why Maeve’s Cafe should have been robbed of its takings. Not a lot by any means. But the fishy connection suddenly connected.

  ‘Has Mavis got a fisherman boyfriend who is married or very much in a relationship?’ I asked.

  Doris would not look at me. ‘You’ll have to ask her,’ she sniffed. ‘None of my business.’

  ‘It could be the reason why she was beaten up.’

  ‘Ah … you mean another Hell’s Revenge? Some wife or girlfriend wanting her swarthy fisherman back?
All that sun-bronzed skin. Or making sure he would not stray again?’

  ‘Exactly. One of the two funfair robbers was called Chuck. They both match Mavis’ description and those of the Mexican restaurant robbers. It’s the same pair without any doubt.’

  ‘Miguel give you a nice tip?’ Doris winked. ‘I saw you serving tables. Get around, don’t you?’

  I grabbed the carton of soya and put the money down on the counter. ‘Doris, that mind of yours. It’s going to get you into trouble.’

  But I didn’t mind the teasing. The trouble was it was onesided. If only I could retaliate with the odd barb. ‘Thank you for the herbal tea. I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to that.’

  Lunch time I shut shop and went along to the police station. Sergeant Rawlings looked really hungover. Had they had a late station party?

  ‘Hey,’ I said. ‘I didn’t get invited to the party.’

  ‘What party? We didn’t have a party,’ he said morosely. ‘But everyone else in Latching did. We were called out to five domestics, two pub fights, three stolen cars, one shop ram raid. And what were you doing last night, PI Jordan Lacey?’

  ‘Cooking scrambled eggs for a client.’

  ‘How sensible. I suppose you want to see DI James?’

  ‘Is that possible? Or is he sleeping it off?’

  ‘I never get time to sleep,’ said a voice I could die for. DI James stood there, his usual serious expression, yet with a glimmer of welcome, as if I was light relief. He was washed out with exhaustion. A double shift on Christmas Day. Boxing Day sounded a barrel of fun. He waved me upstairs to his office. It was littered with take-aways and polystyrene coffee cups.

  ‘Don’t you ever have anything proper to eat?’ I said, surveying the debris.

  ‘Maeve’s Cafe is closed.’

  ‘She’s getting better. I’m sure she’ll open again soon.’

  ‘Good. I’ll wait.’

  He poured me some coffee from the machine. I took it. How I had missed him, these last few days. I had not seen him over Christmas, that special time for people together. Work for him, work for me. I smiled at him, relieved that he was still alive, that no stray bullet had stolen him from my life.

  ‘Thank you for the rose,’ I said.

  ‘The what?’ He was not going to admit it.

  ‘Here’s your Christmas present,’ I said, pushing a slim holly festooned package across his desk.

  ‘I didn’t expect anything,’ he said, looking at the package. That solemn look. It got me. Then sometimes he smiled and the sun broke through. I like the sternness in his ocean blue eyes. I need that kind of discipline. When was he going to come in to my life, take over, take charge?

  ‘So? Does it matter? This is my present to you,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve already got three slimline diaries.’

  We looked at each other and then began laughing. That’s what he thought was in the package. And I knew differently. Music surged into my heart. This man was a soulmate, but he did not know it.

  ‘Open it, you twit. Show some enthusiasm. I spent valuable hours cruising the shops searching for that present.’

  James opened the package carefully as if he was going to save the wrapping paper. He liked what he saw. A book of one-liners. Wit and wisdom. He opened it at random.

  ‘There aren’t enough days in the weekend,’ he read. ‘Anonymous. Ask him the time, and he’ll tell you how the watch was made. Jane Wyman of ex-husband, Ronald Reagan. Thank you, Jordan.’

  ‘For the man who has everything, but no time to read,’ I said flippantly.

  ‘For the man who has nothing,’ he said.

  It was all in his face yet he would not allow me anywhere near. Some woman had hurt him so much. That wife that he never mentioned. He did not trust me. I was that sassy Jordan Lacey, PI irresponsible, wild, reckless, always in need of rescuing. Not someone to take seriously.

  ‘OK. Christmas is over. Back to work. Oliver Guilbert. I’m still working for his father. How did Oliver die? I don’t believe Oliver died on Hell’s Revenge. Or if he did, how did he get there? Something is totally wrong. And where is his red Aston Martin convertible? It’s gone missing.’

  ‘Jordan, slow down. I know you’re Latching’s Wonder Woman. How many cases are you working on? Or how many do you think you are still working on? I’d really like to know. Then we won’t clash or we could collaborate.’

  I had to think hard. ‘Oliver Guilbert employed me to follow Sonia Spiller. She’s suing Guilberts for a lot of money for slipping on a plastic bag and dislocating her shoulder. No actual evidence of this plastic bag as far as I can make out. Francis Guilbert is employing me to find out how stock is disappearing from his warehouse.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No. I took on the robbery myself. Mavis is my friend. I was outraged.’

  'But now you’ve turned Guilberts over to us, having asked for a police presence, i.e. DS Ben Evans is in place. It’s our case now. And Oliver Guilbert is dead so I presume he is no longer employing you?’

  ‘It seems I am no longer employed by anyone.’

  I had let the coffee grow cold. No one had paid me either. Oliver hadn’t paid me, obviously, being dead. And Francis had put me into some office system for the shop assistant work which had not yet surfaced. The only money I had earned recently was in the small brown wages envelope, unopened, given to me by Miguel Cortes. It had fell quite bulky. Several folded notes.

  ‘You haven’t answered my question. Do you know how Oliver Guilbert died? Was he killed by being spun round in the funfair? Or was his neck broken manually? It could have been a really nasty karate chop delivered to the front of the neck by the outside of the hand. It compresses the vagal nerve and causes the heart to stop quite quickly. Surely you know by now, James.’

  ‘And you know, just as surely, that I am unable to give you this information, Jordan. Nor do you need it. The cause of Oliver Guilberl’s death can’t be established. We are waiting for the coronor’s report. You’ll have to wait like everyone else. Then there may be an inquest.’

  ‘That’s not good enough, James. I give you lots of information. You can’t deny that. I’m your secret weapon. You’ll probably solve half a dozen cases in the county with my lead from the warehouse. You’ll be promoted.’

  ‘Those Sonia Spiller tapes,’ he said, deftly changing the subject.

  ‘Going to pay for them?’

  He ignored the suggestion. ‘Her dog, the labrador puppy that she takes for walks … Do you know anything about dogs? Can you recognise them?’

  ‘Four-legged, jumping about, face licking. Yes, I can recognise a dog.’

  ‘Come and see this one. It was found last night, wandering on the beach in a distressed state. We’re waiting for the RSPCA to come and collect it.’

  I followed his tall figure out to the back of the station. They’d tied the dog to a radiator but with food and water bowls within reach. It looked forlorn, head resting on front paws, doggy eyes blank with misery.

  ‘Hello, Jasper,’ I said.

  The brown eyes lit up at the sound of his name. Jasper went into his mad dog routine, jumping and barking, trying to reach me. He sent the water bowl flying. I went down on one knee and he immediately decided to lick my face clean.

  ‘Hold on buster,’ I said, trying to restrain him. ‘I’ve washed already this morning. Down, sit. Good boy.’

  He looked astonished at the stern command, quietened and sat, tongue lolling, eyes bright with expectation.

  ‘Is this Sonia Spiller’s dog?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure it is. She couldn’t handle him. She’s probably thrown him out. Or tried to drown him. Poor old thing.’

  ‘I’ll give her a call, then ask the RSPCA to rehouse him. Lots of pets are abandoned over Christmas.’

  ‘There’s the husband, Mr Spiller, although I’ve never seen him. Perhaps it’s his dog. You need a dog,’ I rambled on, stroking Jasper’s he
ad. The dog turned so that my hand found a special place behind his ear. ‘Something to take for walks. Company in the evenings, someone to talk to.’

  ‘You know I’m never at home.’

  ‘Where’s home?’ I asked, seizing the opportunity.

  ‘Sometimes I don’t remember where it is and have to look for it. Just rooms, Jordan, not a home like your place. I envy you your two bedsits. You’ve made them a real home, all your own, full of your personality, pictures and plates and things.’

  I was stunned. Four whole sentences. James had actually spoken to me, for once, like a real person, noticed what was in my home. He was standing way above me so I could not see the look on his face. I could only see his trousered knees. Dear knees. 1 wanted to write the words down so that I would never forget them. I wanted to hug his knees, lean my head onto their bones.

  ‘I can’t have a dog,’ I said, like an idiot, to cover my frailty. ‘Not in two bedsits.’

  ‘No, of course not. Far too small. Jasper would break all your treasures in Five minutes. He’s not your problem. I’ll phone the RSPCA.’

  ‘But I know someone who would like a dog,’ I said, standing up. My knees were damp and stiff from kneeling in a puddle. ‘Someone who needs a dog. Can I take him?’

  Sixteen

  Mavis was surprised at first but then delighted. She and Jasper took to each other like long lost friends. She did not mind having her face washed.

  ‘Of course I’ve got room for him. He’s a smashing dog. He’ll have to be taken for lots of walks and that will get me out again. I’ll take him to the cafe every day and keep him there with me, out back, away from the food. He’ll learn. I’ll train him, feed him up, make him obey me. And if I say attack, then he’ll attack.’

  I was not so sure about the attack command. Jasper would probably lick a robber to death. But if it made Mavis feel more secure, then it would work for her.

  ‘At the moment, I’m not sure if you will be allowed to keep him. He was found wandering at night and the owner says she does not want him any more. But the RSPCA may have to vet you to see if you are a suitable home.’