DI James sprinted upstairs to his office. No prizes. He had dry clothes in his cupboard. I used to keep spares in my locker. I wondered who was using it now.
I drank the tea and continued dripping on the floor. A small pool formed. Steam was starting to rise from my boots.
‘Why can’t I go home?’ I asked. ‘I’m all right now. I’m not injured.’ Except for a bruised arm, a trophy of uncertain value.
‘We may want a statement, Jordan,’ said Sergeant Rawlings, giving me a refill. ‘You might need protection.’
‘Sure,’ I scoffed. ‘The West Sussex Police Authority has plenty of spare manpower, yes? I don’t think so, matey. Anyway, I can take care of myself. I’ll be careful.’
I thought of Mavis’s face. No joke. I might be next on the hit list.
The station was filling up. The usual night’s sweepings. A couple of homeless and smelly drunks; a domestic still going at each other, hammering and tonging; a driver whose breathalyser test had soared. He was in for a blood test. Relations, witnesses, solicitors, doctors … it was worse than ER, worse than the Guilberts Boxing Day sales.
DI James came downstairs, pulling a black jersey over his head. He had towelled his crew cut dry. It stuck out like a small boy’s.
‘I’ve got to go out,’ he said to Sergeant Rawlings. Then to me, ‘Stay here and I’ll be back.’
I can’t help it. I was born to snoop. Indicating to Sergeant Rawlings that I was going to the loo, I wandered out and took a sharp left turn and raced upstairs. Everything had changed since I last worked there. It used to be cramped little offices, hardly room to swing a warrant. Now it was all open plan and plants that needed watering. But there was still the same shabby furniture and desks piled high with paperwork.
It took me a few minutes to identify James’s desk. Wet clothes slung over a chair, tidy desk, no photos, nothing personal. I ached for his hurt. But it did not stop me looking through the papers and files on his desk. I wanted information about Oliver Guilbert’s death.
Then I found the file that I wanted and extracted a two-page document. Another file caught my attention. I looked round for a photocopier and ran off copies of several pages in as many seconds. Brilliant. I could barely keep my excitement from showing. He’d kept this from me. Why? Was he trying to protect me, or drill me into the ground? I returned the two files to more or less the same position on his desk, then went downstairs and back to the chair, trying to look as if drying my hands had taken a long time.
‘Sorry,’ said Sergeant Rawlings, apologising for his lack of attention. He had not even noticed how long I’d been gone. ‘Been a bit busy.’
‘Par for the course. Usual night’s trawl.’
The photocopies were folded inside my sweater, giving my bust an angular shape. 1 hoped he would not get suspicious. But he was far too busy to investigate my lopsided bosom. Besides he was a gentleman (almost) and married (very).
‘What’s happening?’ I went on, draping myself over the radiator. The photocopies crackled.
‘Don’t ask me,’ he groaned. ‘Latching has erupted into a tidal wave of minor criminal activity. And in this weather, too. You name it and it’s happening. I don’t think DI James will be back for hours. He’s gone out to a nasty pile-up on the Arundel Road.’
‘I’ll walk home,’ I said. ‘I feel better now and I’ve dried off a bit. Some warm clothes would be nice.’
He didn’t argue. ‘We don’t have a car available to take you home. Sorry. But you can borrow a waterproof and take my torch. There’s been a power cut. No street lighting.’
He’d forgotten about the statement. It had taken a back seat.
The waterproof was six sizes too big, came rustling down to my knees, but was ample protection. I forced my feet back into wet boots. They felt like soggy socks.
‘Thanks, Tiger.’ I grinned, reminding him of his face painting on the pier. ‘I’ll return it tomorrow.’ Then I remembered that tomorrow was the day of the funeral. ‘Or sometime tomorrow, after the funeral.’
‘OK, Jordan. Anytime. We’ll issue a warrant when it’s overdue.’
It was spooky outside without street lighting. The station had been using an emergency generator. They couldn’t have villains escaping in the dark. Nearby houses and flats were darkened too, some windows illuminated by wavering candlelight. The Christmas decorations were off, as were the garlands of bright fairy lights strung along the seafront. Inky Latching was a different world, as if struck by some major disaster. Very few people had ventured out. The twittens were deserted. The sooner I got safely home, the better.
I transferred the photocopies to pockets in the waterproof in case they fell onto the wet pavement. The storm had abated but it was still raining heavily. I held the torch at the ready like a weapon. I didn’t trust anyone these days. Every approaching car gave me a fright, headlights sweeping my feet into panic mode. They all looked shades of red. My two bedsits were shrouded in darkness but I raced for them.
I knew exactly where I kept the candles and matches. I crept upstairs, feeling around like someone newly blind. The flame ignited a wick and I steadied the candle in its holder and walked about as Florence Nightingale had in the Crimea. The shadows revealed no intruders. No one had broken into my fortress. The hit-and-run had unnerved me. Even Derek would have been a comfort as long as he did not hassle me as I peeled off my damp jeans and changed into a fleecy tracksuit. I heated some soup and poured it into a big white bowl.
A ring of candles threw light onto the coffee table and I flattened out the photocopies, squinting at the crumpled lines of black printing. The pathologist’s report on Oliver Guilbert was two closely written pages, the language half legal, half medical.
The sticky substance on his face was the residue from heavy-duty parcel tape. There was bruising on his throat with damage to the thyroid cartilage and the hyoid bone was broken. This was shown both on X-rays and found in the autopsy. Wounds on the hands and arms were defensive. Oliver had fought off his attacker.
The pathologist deducted that Oliver Guilbert had died of manual strangulation, in particular from an arm-hold across his neck, jerking the head back. The breaking of this small hyoid bone was a strong sign of manual strangulation even if there were few other visible signs. At some point a surgical neck collar had been placed on him. There were traces of the foam material.
From blood displacement and lividity, it was deduced that Oliver had already been dead before being placed in a sitting position in a car on Hell’s Revenge. His head had been taped to the brace and headrest for the spin, then the tape removed as the ride slowed down and the attacker made his escape.
The report then listed the different fibres found on Oliver’s clothes. My eye caught on two words: scales, fish. Two minute scales had been found, identified as huss, Latching’s staple catch.
Fish again. But what was the connection with Oliver? He hardly knew Mavis, apart from the occasional chip shop treat. Sonia surely did not know Mavis. I couldn’t imagine her in Maeve’s Cafe. Nor her husband … if the man treating her to a festive Mexican meal was her husband.
Mavis wasn’t giving me the name of her current lover, the fisherman with a jealous wife. What possible connection could there be between these people? Fishermen didn’t shop at Guilberts or their wives. They trundled round Tesco’s and Quality Seconds looking for bargains and special offers.
This was making my head ache. A candle spluttered.
I turned my attention to the second stolen photocopy. Stolen. The word shocked me. One could hardly call them borrowed or accidentally acquired. It had been a deliberate theft.
This was not my case either, but the part destruction of Latching Bowling Club’s pavilion was of interest as was the gruesome find in the bucket/scoop/shovel. A second arm had been washed up on the west bank of the River Arun by the tide. Did they belong to each other? Had they been identified? I was just plain nosey.
By the time I’d finished reading the report, I was
also plain nauseated. It served me right. The detail made me feel ill. I should have left the report where I found it.
The arms did belong together. They had been identified by fingerprinting, DNA, skin-scrapings, a ring, a watch and naval anchor tattoo on the left wrist. But no one had reported this man as missing. I read on, hardly breathing. The man who partly ended up in the shovel of a yellow JCB was Ronald Arnold Hamilton, aged fifty-four, antique dealer and husband of Mrs Brenda Hamilton, secretary of Latching Bowling Club and giver of lavish, but foodless parties.
*
Music, bath, lots to drink. All at the same time. I was severely dehydrated despite getting soaked. I put on some smooth jazz, Stan Kenton playing Dorsey, ran a bath laced with aromatherapy oils, lavender and neroli, to soothe my tattered nerves, drank several glasses of water. I couldn’t tolerate alcohol.
How could Mrs Hamilton give a party when her husband was dead and strewn around the county? Perhaps she didn’t know. Husbands often walked out and the wife kept quiet about it. Who had been the silver-haired man handing out drinks, greeting people like a good host? Of course, a hired butler. What was going on? Another household that was not what it seemed on the outside.
But none of this was my concern. Not my case. I had to get my priorities in order. I had only to find out if Sonia Spiller was faking her claim and explain the disappearance of goods from Guilberts. I’d set the police on the right track of the second investigation. I was no longer employed to follow Sonia Spiller but it would keep my mind occupied if I brought that case to some conclusion. Picket surveillance was the answer. Anticipate where Sonia is going and be there first.
The three robberies were strictly police business even if I had a personal interest in Mavis. I could just leave it all to DI James and DS Evans and his brilliant band of men, concentrate on my shop and lost tortoises. I’d given Mavis a dog. That’s what friends are for.
But the hit-and-run car had been after me. That was a sobering thought. They obviously thought I was on the right track of something. If only I knew what it was.
*
The next morning I dressed soberly. The funeral was at eleven o’clock at St Michael’s, private cremation to follow. I wondered why the body had been released when the death had not been accidental as at first thought. Perhaps they had taken all the evidence and samples they needed and could let the body of poor Oliver go to his rest.
The church was packed and I was able to slip in the back unnoticed. This was fortunate as funerals upset me and I did not want to be seen sniffing into a damp tissue.
A few rows in front of me sat a woman with a mane of dark hair on her shoulders. As she moved slightly, I saw it was Sonia Spiller. I could not believe it. She was at Oliver’s funeral, bold as brass, and to add to it, she was wearing a neck collar. This was outrageous. She really did have a nerve. Perhaps she thought this public appearance would manufacture some sympathy from Francis Guilbert.
I couldn’t bear to look at the coffin as it was being carried in. A wreath of white lilies had been placed on the lid. It bore no resemblance to the Oliver Guilbert, so boyish and handsome, that I remembered coming into my shop not long ago. I could even hear his voice apologising to me: I’ve got suspicious of everyone. This business has really upset me. You don’t know who to trust …
Had he meant that he had suspicions about someone he knew at the store … now that I could no longer ask him, his words took on another meaning.
Francis Guilbert was one of the pall bearers. Carrying his son now in death, as he had once carried him in life, as a small boy. I found this unbearably moving. I had to blink away the tears. At this rate of disintegration, I’d have to leave the church before the service was half over.
The music was inspired and saved me. As well as two traditional hymns, Francis had chosen some of his son’s favourite pieces. A tape played Queen, Elton John, Madonna. It cheered everyone up. I recognised many of the staff from the store. Several smiled at me.
It took ages to file out afterwards. Francis Guilbert stood outside, shaking hands with everyone. Oliver had already left in a black Daimler for his last journey. Francis even shook hands with Sonia, briefly but politely. They barely spoke. But when he came to me, he clasped my hand warmly.
‘You didn’t come into work yesterday,’ he scolded me lightly. ‘We were expecting you.’
‘I thought my job was over,' I said, hoping I was not being overheard. ‘Seasonal temp, you know.’
‘But you were so good. I’d offer you a permanent position anytime. An asset to any establishment.’
‘But I’ve got my own shop and a business,’ I said, gently reminding him of First Class Investigations.
‘But we are hardly competition!’ He tried a slight joke. He was trying to put me at ease. The man was made of stern stuff. I really ought to introduce him to Hilary Fenwick. She was a sweet woman and lonely. ‘Don’t forget to pick up your pay packet for all your work for me,’ he added.
‘No, I won't,’ I said, slightly confused. I presumed he meant for the FCI work at the store, although I had not yet sent him an invoice. ‘I also have some unfinished business … for Oliver.’
‘Ah yes … I should be grateful if that could be completed at some time. No hurry.’
‘I’m so sorry again,’ I said, moving down the steps.
‘I know you are, my dear.’
I wondered if he knew about the arm-hold and broken hyoid bone. I hoped not. Better to think it had been an unfortunate accident and that his son had died in a moment of Christmas high spirits.
Someone was following me. My fingers closed on Sergeant Rawlings’ torch, which I still had. I was becoming paranoid. The footsteps quickened. I heard fast breathing.
‘Hold on, Jordan. It’s only me. Slow down … it’s not a marathon. I want to talk to you.’
DI James caught up with me. He was wearing his up all night look, his eyes weary. That pile-up on the Arundel Road had taken longer than anyone expected.
‘You look tired.’
‘Sorry, I never made it back to the station,’ he said. ‘You got home all right, then?’
‘With the aid of Sergeant Rawlings’ trusty torch.’ I drank in his apology. Another first. I didn’t remember James ever apologising to me before. If only I could take him home now, feed him breakfast, all his favourite things, then let him flake out on my comfortable bed. He might not even notice the rose patterned duvet. He could sleep as long as he liked. I’d divert all calls. ‘DI James is unavailable,’ I’d say sweetly to his mobile callers. ‘He will be unavailable all day.’
‘All day what?’ DI James asked.
‘Er … talking to myself. Nasty habit. Sign of dementia. Were you at the funeral?’
‘Yes, on the far side. I wanted to see who was there. Check on a few faces.’
‘Have you checked on his friends? Found out who suggested a visit to the funfair?’
‘Of course. He hadn’t seen any friends that day. It was a normal working day at the store. They were busy at Guilberts, getting ready for the last-minute Christmas rush.’
Not all that normal. He found time to go and see Sonia.
‘Sonia Spiller was at the church,’ I said. ‘A bit odd.’
‘I saw her. That woman never smiles.’
‘It’s supposed to be a look of pain. All part of the charade.’
He did not comment. I suppose he couldn’t. It would not be right.
‘A red convertible, an Aston Martin,’ he said. ‘We found one last night in a ditch off the Arundel Road. It had been dumped. There was no one inside. We checked the PNC for vehicle registration. It belonged to Oliver Guilbert, personalised number plate. You were right. Forensic are going over it now with a tooth comb. Perhaps we’ll find out where it’s been since Oliver died.’
Fish scales. They might find a few fish scales. I was certain it was the car that made an unwelcomed delivery to my shop. DS Ben Evans might have told James. But then again, he might have forgotten.
/>
‘Is it the car that drove at us last night?’
‘Difficult to be sure, Jordan. But it’s fishy that it was abandoned soon after.’
‘It was raining too hard to see the number plate,’ I said. ‘Nor did I see the driver. But Oliver’s father, Francis Guilbert, said the car had been missing since his son’s death. And he didn’t know where it was.’
‘Someone has been driving it around since then. It got a parking ticket on Christmas Eve in the High Street. It was illegally parked outside the health food shop.’
‘Stocking up on vitamins?’ I suggested then bit the words back. It wasn’t funny. ‘Sorry. I remember something about the hit-and-run car … it’s not much … it all happened so fast … but …’
James waited expectantly, almost patiently. That showed how tired he was. ‘So …?’
‘It had an old-style GB plate on the back bumper.’
‘Better than nothing, I suppose,’ he said. He nodded, turned and walked away without another word, leaving me as always, bereft.
Eighteen
It was on display in the front window of a Heart Foundation charity shop. Heavens, and so soon after Christmas. People usually get rid of unwanted Christmas presents after a discreet interval but the boy’s mother had thrown it out immediately. If in doubt, throw it out was her motto.
I bought it back, of course. I hadn’t wanted to sell it in the First place. The Edwardian beaded evening bag that I would never use. It was my Girl Guide streak. Be ready, just in case. I paid more for it than I had charged the boy, but that’s life.
And I had a black dress and the shoes. Shopping list: nil. It cheered me up no end.
So Francis Guilbert wanted me to continue following Sonia Spiller. But no windy walks along the front. What would she do with her time now that she had got rid of Jasper? More squash? More interior decorating? Her poor shoulder made it impossible for her to go back to work at school, all that lifting of heavy exercise books and marking pens.
I was determined to catch her out. I checked the video camera, having almost forgotten how to work it in my brief career as a shop assistant. Picket surveillance. I drove to the leisure centre out of town and parked, checking on the other parked cars. Bingo. Her white Toyota was already there.
Spin and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 3) Page 17
