George Hill was the star of the show. He got top billing. The whole of the second half apparently — apart from a spectacular dance finale — was his alone. I was impressed. I must remember to ask him if he had been on television. I could imagine him with his own show on a Saturday night. Those good looks could go a long way.
The second half began with a great fanfare of trumpets and a walk on for George, trailing a mike, singing a standard Sinatra song. I didn’t know George could sing. The black sequins on his jacket glistened like rain. His make-up was discreet but I could see it from Row A. His long legs were encased in hugging black silk trousers. He was all man. And he did not need a nose job.
I enjoyed about ten minutes of his scripted act. Then I started to get uneasy, looking at my feet. Strange how you get that feeling. The jokes were funny, at first. Then I stopped laughing. Everyone else was still laughing and clapping. I looked round cautiously. It must be me.
Sophistication is weird. It means different things to different people. Some people were holding their sides with laughter; others were laughing politely, not wanting to be seen out of stride. I was cold. I could see nothing funny in what he was saying.
The jokes got bluer and coarser until my spirit became bruised with distress. I’m no prude. I’ve worked in the police force where jokes were navy hued. But these jokes were beyond the pall. I could hardly believe that this good-looking, outwardly pleasant man, could have such vile and obscene thoughts about the church, women, even animals, lodged in his head. Let alone put them into words for a mixed audience. Perhaps they could have passed for a private stag night. But this was mixed and public.
I sat there, the edge of the seat biting into the back of my knees. I sat there because I was polite and he was paying me. I tried to shut my ears to the torrent of filth but I grew sick and longed for the performance to end. With concentration, I managed to imagine the sea pounding in my ears, giving some solace. Latching sunsets soared through my mind with their pink-edged clouds and shots of silver on the surface of the sea. They were so beautiful. They were infinitely more enduring than the heap of smut which filled the inside of this man’s mind.
I did not join in the explosion of clapping which ended George the Jester’s half of the show. The spectacular finale that followed went by unheeded in a climax of musical noise, dancers and clapping. I was longing for the clean night air.
There was no way I could hang about. Job or no job, I was going home. Where was the nearest taxi rank?
I was halfway out into the street when George caught me up. I was wrenched round to face him. The cool air hit my bare shoulders. I forced myself to meet his eyes.
‘What the hell are you doing? Where are you going?’ George shouted. ‘Come backstage. I need you. She’s there. For God’s sake, please Jordan, help me.’
This was a different man. He was two people wearing the same skin. This one was vulnerable, scared, almost panicking. His hollowed face was no mask. He was truly frightened out of his wits.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘I needed some air. It was hot in the theatre. Take me where you want me to be. Don’t worry. I can cope with anything.’
He pushed through the crowds, half laughing and thanking people, the other part of him taut with fear.
‘Why don’t we just leave?’ I said. ‘That would be simple. Why do you have to go back? Nothing says you have to be part of this aftershow circus.’
‘I have to show her that I’m not scared of her. That she is nothing. That she’s zero. Don’t you understand, Jordan? Women like her think they are controlling your life. If I ran away, then that would be proving what they think.’
‘I think I saw her,’ I said.
‘Good. Then you know there is something weird about her. She’s not normal. She’s a goddamned freak.’
I hung on to his arm. He was walking so fast I could barely keep up with him on Leroy’s sandals. I felt very tall. The backstage was crowded, many still in their stage costumes. Stagehands milling about, getting in everyone’s way. Cleaners trying to cope with the surge of debris. One of my scrappy straps broke but no one seemed to notice. I draped the boa over the flying end.
My head was starting to ache. No aspirins. George put a glass of chilled wine into my hand and I drank it without thinking. I needed the liquid but not a cheap white. Hadn’t anyone heard of water?
‘Stay here, Jordan. I’ve got to see someone. Talk to Max. Hi, Max, talk to my girlfriend for a minute. But don’t chat her up. She’s mine.’
‘As if I would,’ Max laughed. It was Max the Magician, the clever young man whose act had held me enthralled. He hovered, attentively, his dark clothes sculptured to his body. His face was handsome in a boyish way with perfect features and a good skin.
‘You were really excellent,’ I began. T couldn’t see how you did anything.’
‘You’re not supposed to,’ he smiled. ‘Tommy Cooper was the only one who did that and it was his trademark.’
‘How did you learn how to do all these tricks?’
‘Illusions, please.’ He laughed again, it was a schoolboy thing. I was not popular at school. They used to bully me because I wasn’t any good at sport. Two left feet. So I decided I’d better be clever at something and make them like me. My grandfather showed me a sleight of hand trick with cards and I was hooked.’
‘Hey, I think I know that one. You have three cards, face down and you move them about … Is that the one?’
Max nodded. I noticed he was drinking orange juice and ice. ‘That’s the one. I found I was quite good at magic and suddenly I was popular at school. I gave shows in the lunch break to the bully boys. It saved my life really. I had to practise for hours. Now it’s my profession. I’m booked on a P & O cruise next month.’
‘Wonderful. I hope you don’t get any rough weather. It might spoil your illusions.’
‘It could be a problem but we’ll face it then. Will you excuse me? I have to rescue some equipment from the stage before it disappears. Sorry, that wasn’t supposed to be a joke. It’s been nice talking to you.’
Max smiled and nodded. I smiled back. I liked him but he left me, stranded in the milling crowd. More people had arrived and the room was spinning. My asthma did not like the massed perfume, deodorants and hair lacquer. People merged too close and intruded on my space. I tried to shrink into being a small person.
‘So who are you?’ The voice was demanding and low, very female. I knew who it was without moving. Her face was bright and tanned, eyes enamel blue as if enhanced with tinted lenses. The lashes were spiked with mascara, harsh brown hair done up in a turban. Her mouth etched with strawberry gloss. The perfume was hard to place. Then it came to me. Poison by Dior, the purple bottle.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘George Hill. What are you to him? You’ve been hanging on his arm all evening. I’ve seen you.’
‘Hanging on his arm? Hardly.’ I tried a surprised look. ‘He’s been on stage for the last hour.’
‘I don’t know what you are playing at but you had better leave him alone. George belongs to me. He’s been mine for years and anyone who gets in the way is going to regret it. I burn babies like you for breakfast.’ She was looking at me with loathing, her eyes narrowed, her hands beginning to wash.
Although George Hill was nothing to me beyond a paying customer, I did not like this talk. I grabbed a soda syphon from the bar and filled my glass. This was what I needed. I drank the fizzy water but held on to the syphon. I might need some more, pretty soon.
‘Now, I don’t know your name or who you are but I do know that I don’t like your attitude,’ I said firmly. ‘George Hill is a star in his own right, and he needs his privacy whether you like his act or not. He has done no harm to anyone and you are nothing to him but a pain in the arse. He does not belong to me and certainly not to you. His patience is exhausted. Either you leave him alone or I’ll put detailed documentation of your activities in the hands of the Sussex Police.’
T
his was a pretty good speech for someone who only wanted to go home. For a moment she looked shocked, then she recovered.
‘Aren’t we the smart talking girlie! Documentation, indeed! What rubbish does that mean? You clear off before I do something really nasty to your baby face. Quite by accident, you understand.’
‘Threats, is it now? There’s something seriously wrong with you. I suggest you go and see your doctor. And I suggest you leave George Hill alone. You obviously need professional help before it’s too late.’
I turned to move away from her. I’d had enough. George Hill had disappeared somewhere. He was big enough to deal with her himself. I was still carrying the soda syphon but I could not face trying to return it through the crush to the bar.
I had not found out the woman’s identity but I might have scared her off. No one had confronted her before. She had been stalking George, undetected, for months. Then it occurred to me … this woman might not be the stalker but another demented fan. The real stalker could be watching him right now.
There was time to make a quick survey of the remaining crowd before I left for good. I tucked the end of the broken strap down the bodice of the dress. No need to look dishevelled.
As I went back into the foyer, the same woman cannoned into me. It was like being hit by a soft brick wall. Her chiffon-covered bosom was heaving, her eyes glinting.
‘No, you don’t go back to him,’ she spat at me. ‘He’s mine, do you understand? He’s mine for ever.’
Her gold painted nails flew up to my face, nicking my nose.
It was purely involuntary. Totally unplanned. A reflex action. I pressed the syphon handle/lever.
A stream of soda water sprayed straight at her chest. She gasped at the coldness and at the wetness as it spread over her bust and started to run down the front of her dress.
‘My dress,’ she screamed. ‘You’ve ruined it. You tart! You trollop!’
‘Sorry,’ I said sweetly. ‘Quite by accident, you understand?’
Nine
Ace. The woman gasped with shock as the cold spray hit her skin. I made a swift move to depart, feeling good. George Hill was hyped-up, keen to go to his aftershow parties. I begged to be excused, usual hormonal headache, and offered to take a taxi. George insisted on paying. The wet witch disappeared fast, to wherever her home or coven was. He was feeling relaxed now.
‘The show went really well. You were the ticket,’ he said, stuffing several folded fivers into my hand. ‘She’s cleared off, hopefully for good. Are you sure you don’t want to come? It’ll be fun. OK, I’ll see you tomorrow. We’ll talk.’
‘Sure.’
He planted a warm kiss on my cheek. ‘Great dress,’ he added with a saucy wink. ‘My scarlet woman.’
The kiss was unexpected. My clients don’t usually kiss me. Still, my clients don’t usually earn a living telling blue jokes either.
‘Interesting evening,’ I added. Interesting covered a minefield. ‘Enjoy your party. George.’
A late night taxi in Brighton is hard to find. Impossible, in fact. The clubs had emptied out and syphoned off anything on wheels. I did not want a mini-cab. The last train had already gone. It was a depressingly long walk. I should have come in the ladybird. Note: always have own transport. I wondered where I could spend the rest of the night before the first train was timetabled to leave for Littlehampton. Fortunately there was little of the night left. About four and a bit hours. I had three choices:
Spend them in a hotel bar
Walk to Hove actually railway station
Stay within the safety of the police station as guest of HM The Queen and talk shop.
Hove actually’ is a joke. People are always saying, ‘Oh, I live in Hove actually.’
I chose the bar. Call me an alky. It was in one of the grand old hotels along the sea front, a cosy bar all done up in apricot velvet and gold lamps, bottles of unblended malt whisky and old brandies glistening in mellow rows behind the counter. They even had Glenfiddich which was James’s favourite whisky.
I could not afford to stay or drink in a five-star for long. There were a few customers still drinking and the barman was pleased to have someone to talk to. He did not mind that I only drank juice. I did explain the circumstances. By three a.m. I was swimming in Vitamin C. The barman took pity on me and let me doze off in a corner armchair.
‘What time do you want your wake-up call?’ he asked.
‘Five a.m.?’
‘OK. I’ll be closing the bar before then anyway.’
It was still dark at ten to five. He woke me with a cup of coffee and a fawn raincoat draped over his arm. I could hear the rain drumming on the windows, could feel the chill of early morning coming off the sodden beach.
‘I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave now, miss. I’m closing up before the cleaners arrive.’
‘You’ve been very kind,’ I said, trying to unwind my stiff legs from the chair. My neck was cricked. Like overnight flying in economy without the jet lag.
‘You’ll need this,’ he said, offering the raincoat. ‘A lady guest left it behind ages ago. I don’t think she’s coming back for it now.’ He looked at a tagged label on the sleeve. ‘March 10 last year.’
‘Thank you, that’s kind,’ I said. ‘It sounds as if I shall need it.’ The raincoat was a pale pinky fawn, light and silky. I bet it had another label on it somewhere, maybe a very expensive Molton Street address.
I tucked one of George’s fivers under my empty glass and left. Outside the pavement was wet and shimmering with rain. My shoes were not made for walking. I should have gone to those aftershow parties and sat in a corner.
The first train left Brighton at 5.23 a.m. I made it with seconds to spare. A few early workers stumbled aboard, stretching their faces. The sky was leaking light, pink rays streaking the horizon with a faint amateur wash. The gulls were flirting with the new day, swooping and squabbling, combing the beach for fish heads.
This time I did get a taxi at Latching. It was still drizzling within a grey and forlorn mist. A private taxi was waiting outside the station, windscreen fogged with raindrops. I went up to the driver.
‘Can you take me home, please?’
‘You’re in luck, miss. I was waiting to pick up a doctor due at the hospital. A consultant coming down from London. But the train is half an hour late. I’ve got time if you don’t want to go too far.’
I gave him my address. The roads were empty and we were there in less than five minutes. I handed over another of George’s fivers and told him to keep the change. He did not merit such a big tip but what could I do?
The taxi driver looked surprised. ‘Thanks a lot, miss. Flag me down anytime. I owe you another trip.’ As if I would remember him. He hardly had a face.
‘I’ll take you up on that,’ I said.
I stripped off in my bedroom, hung up Leroy’s dress. Most of the sequins had survived the night. The water was not hot because I had switched off the immersion heater before leaving, but it was warm enough to wash off grime and stress and residue make-up. My hair had disintegrated long ago and reverted to mop status.
I slept, wrapped in a sheet, for three hours. After a ripe banana, oats and bran crisp breakfast, I went into domestic mode for ten minutes, i.e. I cleaned the bathroom. Sometimes I am such a slut.
The only way to put those obscene jokes out of my head was to work and forget them. Distasteful memories can be damped down with sheer hard work. I could hardly rinse out my brain. Instead I decided to check out Samuel Steel’s property chain. I had his former address. Samuel and Anne had moved from a house in West Goring to Updown Hill.
The Steels’ former home was in a high profile avenue, graceful lime trees planted along a central path that divided the wide road. Their old house was a corner site with garden on three sides behind a cobbled Sussex wall. Quite a lot of garden. The house was stuccoed white and substantial. Denbury Court was in a different class. Denbury Court was old quality. They had moved upmarke
t. This house was solid post-war money.
I parked the ladybird in the next road and walked back to the corner house. As I might have guessed it was called The Corner House. Bingo. I opened the gale and walked up to the porch. It was gabled with grey tiles and a couple of imitation Grecian pillars. The potted flowers were mostly tired geraniums, exhausted by the summer. An uncomplicated buzzer rang as I pressed the bell. No chimes, no sing-song, no football anthem.
‘Yes?’
He was not a yes-type man. He was large, pot-bellied over a tight trouser belt at hip level, greasy scrapes of hair combed across a nearly bald head, faded blue eyes, full-lipped and same lips edged with a froth of beer.
‘Yes?’ he said again, more impatiently. Perhaps I’d woken him up.
‘Mr Arnold? I’m Jordan Lacey. I’m a private investigator and hope you can help me with my present investigation. Strangely enough, it’s about a garden. Your garden looks … very nice.’
‘A detective investigating gardens? That’s a bit ripe, isn’t it?’
‘I know. It sounds weird, but I can explain.’
‘Got a card?’
I fished out my business card and gave it to him.
‘Want a beer?’
‘Great.’
Tim Arnold was hospitable. He guided me towards a fairly new Victorian-style conservatory which had been built on to the back of the house. A low pine table was already littered with glasses, beer cans, crisp packets and bowls of nuts, newspapers. He nodded towards the selection. I went straight for the nuts, selected a palmful of cashews, then sat down in a cane chair with cushioned seat. My day’s ration of essential nut oil.
‘So you are a detective. Well, well, well. I never thought I’d meet a real detective.’ Mr Arnold pulled on a ring can of beer and handed it to me. His faded blue eyes twinkled in a tired way. ‘Get this down you, then ask your questions. I’ve only asked you in because I’m slowly dying of boredom in this house. It’s suffocating me. You are a welcome intrusion.’
Jest and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 5) Page 9
