‘Have you counted this money?’ I asked, saying the obvious. It looked counted.
‘There’s over five thousand pounds.’ His voice was hollow. ‘Don’t ask me what this means or where it came from. I don’t know or understand. She had all the money she ever needed from me and she had her own bank account. I gave her everything she wanted. Car, clothes, jewellery. She only had to ask. I’ve no idea where this money has come from or who it belongs to.’
Prints everywhere. His and others. Some help.
‘You could have destroyed all this.’ It was a sombre thought. ‘Yes, I know. I thought about it, but although I don’t want the police to have this evidence, it did make me start thinking that there might be some other reason for Anne’s death. Not some mindless killing by a garden maniac.’
‘Is that what the police are working on?’
He nodded. ‘They think it’s connected. Perhaps that Anne surprised a man with a weedkiller spray and he tried to silence her. That does make a motive.’
I did not touch anything. The briefcase was loaded with prints, including Samuel’s. This was going to be difficult. How could I get it dusted for prints without DI James knowing that it had come from Denbury Court?
‘Are you asking me to try and trace the money and decipher the contents of the spreadsheets?’ I asked. I was seriously out of my depth. I was more a trashed Women’s Institute stand type detective. My spreadsheet training was minimal.
‘Please, Jordan, will you try? I’ve no one to turn to. I don’t know who to ask to help me. But I do know that I can trust you. This mustn’t go to the police until we know what it all means or how Anne was involved.’
How does one bring up the subject of payment when a much beloved wife has died? I could not do it. His retainer covered the garden investigation only. It did not include a homicide investigation. I swallowed my avarice.
A change of tactic might work. ‘Did you ever employ a gardener here?’ I asked. ‘Someone from the village called Bert? He smoked a lot.’
‘Yes, we did. He strolled up here one day, saying he used to work at Denbury Court, but couldn’t get on with the former owners. He said he loved this garden and would like to work here again. It sounded too good to be true, so yes, we took him on.’
Mr Steel finished his whisky and went for a refill. He poured a generous measure and I feared for his liver. He added a dash of soda and turned round.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, offering the decanter. ‘Would you like something to drink? A glass of wine maybe? There’s a nice white Chablis cooling.’
I shook my head. ‘I’m driving.’
‘My good manners seem to have escaped me these days.’
‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘I’ve a bottle of water. What about Bert?’
‘He was not exactly the best gardener in the world but we were grateful, at first. There was an awful lot to do. But he spent more time drinking and eating and smoking than actually working and we had to let him go.’
‘Was he annoyed?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Annoyed enough to wreak havoc on your garden?’
‘I doubt it. I think he was pretty used to being sacked. He just finished his drink, packed his things and left. It was not a big deal.’
‘Do you know anything about his family?’
‘I should imagine he is a loner.’
Another loner.
‘Thank you, Mr Steel. Before I go, how do you get on with the previous owners of Denbury Court?’ I pretended to look up their name in my notebook. ‘The Carltons. She was Sandra Carlton, the TV cook. She had a programme.’
‘All right, I suppose,’ he said mildly. The whisky was numbing his brain cells, taking away some of the pain. ‘They seemed very nice people. We had no problems, apart from the price. They bumped the price up once they knew we were really interested, not exactly fair trading. But I knew Anne had set her heart on the place, so I didn’t argue.’
‘And have you seen them at all since?’
‘No. I don’t even know where they moved to. I doubt if I would recognize them. Everything’s done over the phone or through agents these days.’
‘What about the people who bought your old house?’
‘Our old house?’ He looked puzzled.
‘The Corner House.’
‘Oh, that one. Heavens, I’ve almost forgotten who bought it. Nice house but no character. It was some man who made a fuss about us taking a few plants. You would have thought it was a crime. Storm in a teacup. I sent him a cheque for the wretched plants and have never heard from him since.’
‘You paid him?’ This was news.
‘I did indeed. I could probably find the payment in some bank statement if you need proof.’
‘That’s not necessary. I believe you, of course.’ I closed the lid of the briefcase using my elbow. I hoped it did not look as awkward as it felt. I was not going to touch anything until I had put on some gloves. My heart lightened. DS Ben Evans would help me. There was no need to tell him more than the bare details. Maybe we hadn’t gone on holiday to Cyprus together but he still liked me. He still liked me a lot.
In fact it was more than liking me. Ben had a sort of mega-crush on me. I couldn’t think why. It must be the tangled tawny hair. I had not given him that much encouragement apart from normal politeness and a few goodnight kisses. Pleasant enough. Not binding in any way but welcome in a state of siege.
I had not been all that keen on a twosome holiday in Cyprus but somehow I got sweet-talked into it. The security alert in London had saved me. I still hadn’t told Ben that I hadn’t been at the airport in time. It seemed more gallant to let him do his duty. And we had both been too busy since to make new plans.
I was not proud of making use of Ben Evans. I was not paying with my body, only my lips. Was that two per cent of body surface? DI James still had first call. If ever.
Samuel and I took a walk around the garden. It seemed to help him to see that some paths were untouched and that a few trees and shrubs were still in foliage. There was hope that he could restore part of the garden.
‘I was thinking of moving,’ he said. ‘But I suppose Anne would like it if I got the garden back into shape again.’
I had to say it, get the variance cleared up. ‘I’m surprised that your wife liked gardening so much. She seemed a more sophisticated lady, shopping and bridge … not exactly wellies and compost.’
Samuel was amused. ‘You’re quite right, of course. Anne was a sophisticated lady but she loved flowers. She enjoyed taking cuttings and growing things in the greenhouse. Truly, she had green fingers. One day, she said, we were going to grow our own orchids. She had it all planned.’
‘Sounds a great idea,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you grow a new orchid?’
‘And call it Anne Michelle?’
‘Perfect.’
I took the briefcase back to my office, closed the door and put on a pair of surgical gloves. I needed to itemize the contents, selecting some for fingerprinting, see if anything gave any leads. I was not hopeful. Although the money was a mystery, the rest was probably complicated bridge winning formulas.
I laid the contents over my desk, trying only to touch the edges, holding everything very carefully with tongs. There were five small A5 notebooks, each year dated, the last beginning 2004. They were casual diaries, no exact days, but written in coded language, short forms and abbreviations. She was keeping a detailed record of the years. There were sums of money recorded. Was Anne Steel an Avon lady, selling a mountain of moisturizer and anti-wrinkle creams?
The spreadsheets were even less easy to decipher. Payments in and payments out. Also several accounts abroad. Nowhere was there any indication of what it was all about. Each transaction was simply numbered. It didn’t say: 20 jars of caviar or 32 bottles of Extra Virgin Olive Oil. The turnover was substantial. Several thousands of pounds a month. Anne Steel was dealing with a turnover of some size. A turnover of what?
I put the
money aside in an M & S green plastic bag. I buy my T-shirts there. They wash well. Here was a slight problem. I did not have a safe. Never had anything worth hiding in my shop. Miguel would have a safe and he would not ask questions. His Mexican restaurant would be opening for the evening soon. Problem solved.
The odds and ends were fairly ordinary. A hotel sewing kit. A raft of paracetamol, two tablets punched open and gone. This reminded me of a joke about a parrot who was not allowed in a chemist shop. Because the parrots-eat-em-all. Don’t bother to laugh. A clutch of post-it notes with scribbled phone numbers. Should I phone them? A key on a BT ring. A calculator and a credit card. Shopping: buy a computer, hardware and printer; take Internet course; become computer literate; get highly paid executive job.
It was obvious to me that Mrs Anne Steel had been carrying on a business of some sort without her husband’s knowledge. Every time she went shopping or to the hairdressers, she was actually working, and sometimes working late. Well, good for her. Not just a shopping bimbo. But it seemed strange when she had all the money in the world, a beautiful home and a doting husband. It would take me about five and a half seconds to give up working.
Try me, James. Come on, try me. You’d be surprised how fast I could make this transition. Lightning fast. You wouldn’t see where you were coming from.
‘Ah, my favourite English rose,’ said Miguel, sweeping me into his restaurant. The staff were laying up for the evening, putting real flowers into pottery vases, folding bright napkins into fan shapes, making sure the jumbo-sized wine glasses were sparkling. ‘You look pale. You need a glass of my best Chilean. I have a new one. It will bring a bloom to your cheeks.’
‘I’ve come to ask you a favour.’
‘I cannot refuse you anything.’
Miguel was always like this. It broke my heart. He filled a wine glass with the wine and handed it to me, his velvety brown eyes twinkling, wanting me to stay and keep him company. ‘What do you think of this, my beautiful Jordan?’
It was an elixir produced by an alchemist, designed to prolong my life, turn metal into gold, suggest a prolonged affair with Miguel. ‘You like it, yes?’
I nodded as the crimson nectar warmed my throat, reminding me of blackberries and cinnamon. It was hard to find the right word. Hand me a thesaurus. ‘It’s delicious, perfection, wonderful.’
‘I knew you would like it,’ he said, with satisfaction. ‘So, you will eat with me tonight, a special meal, after I have granted this favour?’
Now there was a loaded question. The favour was being bought with my company. It could be worse.
‘I admit I haven’t eaten well recently. I’ve almost forgotten food.’
‘Then I will be your guide and choose the menu. Not too hot and spicy in case you cough with your asthma. See, I remember your asthma. But the taste buds will explode with amazing pleasure and the good wine will soften your heart.’
‘Soften my heart? Do you think I’m hard-hearted?’
Miguel put on a sad face. ‘Yes, because you think I am too old for you. Middle-aged, past the romance of life. A dinosaur who should chase the elderly widows who dine in my restaurant. But Jordan, I would ask nothing from you, only the pleasure of seeing your face across a table. And if you asked for more, then we would pleasure each other.’
I was defeated by his words and tried to smile at him. His words threw me. I could read his expressive eyes. They said try a breakfast table. He was not too old, never, but I was not ready. I might never be ready.
‘And the favour?’ he asked. ‘Tell me.’
I put down the wine glass and produced the green plastic M&S bag. ‘Could I put this bag in your safe for a few hours? I don’t think I should leave it in my shop.’
‘Encantado! Si. No problem. Give it to me.’
‘Muchas gracias.’
‘Jordan! You speak Spanish! Me gusta. It pleases me. Me encanta. I love it.’
‘I only know two words.’
‘It is a beginning. Life is too serious to be taken too seriously.’
Eleven
Detective Sergeant Ben Evans was more than averagely pleased to see me. He came striding out of the police station, his clean-cut face alight. It made me feel about two inches high. I had let him down over the Cyprus holiday and then ignored him for weeks. How low could I get? I developed a shell.
‘Hi, Jordan. You look great. I hope this a social visit.’
‘Partly,’ I said, falling into step beside him. Height ratiowise we were perfect. I was reminded of his physique, his good looks and impeccable dressing. He used a trouser press. He was going towards a patrol car. ‘I need a fingerprint check.’
‘You know I can’t do that.’
‘I know you can’t but I was wondering if you could tell me how to get round the red tape. Is that too much to ask? It is important for one of my cases.’
‘Which case?’
I could lie. But it would not help if Ben found out that I had lied. What I said was almost the truth. ‘The garden on Updown Hill that’s being vandalized. You know all about it.’
‘You’ve found a fingerprint on a blade of grass?’
‘Ha, ha. Not quite, but near.’
‘You want me to put this blade of grass through the system?’
‘Sort of. It’s a couple of sheets of paper which were found in the vicinity.’
I did not tell him it was about twenty spreadsheets. The A5 notebooks could wait. The five thousand pounds in tenners and twenties would have dozens of prints. But how many people would handle a spreadsheet? Maybe two or three.
‘What do you want me to do? Run off the prints or try to match them up? You need to be a bit more specific.’
I was asking him to risk his job so I got devious. ‘Perhaps we could talk about it over a glass of wine?’
I cringed at my deceit. Lacey, you are on the road to perdition. St Peter is not going to be there to greet you. Don’t expect him to be hanging around with a cheerleader.
Ben grinned. ‘Good idea, Jordan. Give me half an hour. I’ll pick you up at your shop.’
I rushed back to First Class Junk, threw tepid water all over myself, found some clean jeans and a black T-shirt, tied my hair back with the floating silk scarf that had mysteriously arrived. It was this month’s uniform. The kohl pencil broke and I had to make do with smudged charcoal shadow. It was a cool but mysterious look. Shopping list: pencil sharpener.
His car was waiting outside, engine ticking over. I slid a couple of spreadsheets into a brown envelope, checked everything, locked up and went out smiling to my fate.
‘You look very happy, Jordan,’ he said, taking in my appearance.
‘It’s seeing my favourite Detective Sergeant,’ I said. Cringe galore time. I would not be able to keep this up. I could act, but not nonstop cringe acting with this really nice man.
‘Where do you want to go?’
‘The Gun?’ I suggested.
‘The Gun it is.’
I knew this was his favourite pub. The Bear and Bait was mine, but mainly for the jazz. Red wine varies in every pub from the red vinegar out of a box to the smoothest bliss from sun-drenched vineyards. It was hard to keep track. We talked about a lot of things on the drive.
The alert in London had been a false one, thank goodness, but for a moment it had looked really nasty, he told me. He parked near The Gun, turned off the ignition and sat back.
‘I’m glad you are in Sussex,’ said Ben. ‘You’re relatively safe here. Rural and coastal. No way bomb fodder.’
‘Relatively?’
‘I hardly think that Latching pier is much of a target or your beloved Bear and Bait. Mind you, missiles sometimes go off-course.’
‘I don’t want to know.’
‘None of us do. But it has to be faced these days. We do not live in easy times, Jordan.’ Ben turned to me, his eyes softening. ‘That’s why we have to make the most of life. Enjoy ourselves, not be too serious, have another drink or two.’
&
nbsp; ‘We haven’t had the first drink yet,’ I said, getting out of the car. I could see an intense embrace coming on. I needed a couple of glasses of wine inside me before I could respond. If only he was DI James, I would be so content. Why couldn’t James be like this, sweet and concerned and cruising my wavelength?
We went through into the smoky atmosphere of the saloon bar and sat in a two-seater panelled cubby hole. It was secluded and the pictures above us were old and brown. Faded prints of bewhiskered customers from the past sat outside the pub with their brimming tankards.
‘The usual?’
‘Please, Ben.’
I liked looking at his back standing at the bar. Taller, better built, better dressed than anyone else present. No one would mess with him. He returned with two glasses. He only drank shandy when he was driving.
‘So tell me what you have been doing,’ he said, his arm sliding casually along the back of the bench, his finger touching a tendril of hair on my neck. A shiver went down my back. ‘I want to know everything.’
Talking shop was my second favourite occupation so I told him about my two cases. Don’t ask about the first favourite. He wasn’t there.
‘Stalking is the devil to catch,’ said Ben. ‘Have you got a camera? Is there any firm evidence like things coming through the post and telephone calls?’
‘Plenty, but it’s not confirmed. It’s only what I am told or shown. But I think I have met the woman.’
‘And what happened?’
‘She threatened me. It was pretty unpleasant. She’s a very possessive lady.’
‘And what did you do?’
‘Unfortunately I sprayed her with soda water. It was purely accidental.’
‘So now she might be stalking you as well. Not nice. Stalkers can be vindictive. Make sure your car is always locked and check day and night whether anyone is following you.’
Jest and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 5) Page 11
