Jest and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 5)

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Jordan?’

  ‘Yes, I think it is. But I’m not sure who I am as I am halfway to bed. Do you know what time it is?’

  ‘I asked you to contact me earlier and you didn’t. You obviously had other things on your mind.’ Nasty barb.

  ‘I had two calls to make re my Updown Hill garden case. At the time, they were more important.’

  DI James and I were talking to each other like strangers.

  ‘Can I come round?’

  ‘What? Now? It’s late. What will the neighbours think?’

  ‘You haven’t got any neighbours. Don’t worry, I have nothing on my mind except work.’

  ‘Give me ten minutes to get respectable,’ I groaned.

  Those ten minutes were spent flinging on a light tracksuit, doing the washing up, hoovering the carpet, throwing out newspapers and rubbish, finally putting a brush through my hair. When the doorbell rang, I had twenty seconds to spare.

  ‘This had better be quick. Sorry, there’s no soup,’ I said.

  ‘Pity,’ said James. ‘I may have a home at last but alas no one knows how to cook.’

  ‘I’ll buy you a cook book.’

  ‘I only read short words.’

  It was the first halfway humorous thing he had said for weeks. I could not remember when we had last been on speaking terms, that is, friendly speaking terms. Things had been going wrong for a long time. There was a ritual that Red Indians did in that situation but I could not recall what it was. Something about dream catchers, something with feathers hung over your bed.

  I’m sure it would be helpful if I knew what it was.

  ‘Come in,’ I said, leading the way upstairs, barefooted. ‘You know the way.’

  I was reminding him of our soup and salad days. Before he got so uppity and before I gave up waiting for him to make a move.

  ‘I could throw together a sandwich,’ I offered.

  ‘That’s food, and I call that nearly cooking,’ he said, stretching himself out on my moral chair without an invitation. He put his head back and closed his eyes. He had dark lashes, too long and too dark. He looked ready to doze off.

  I made him a sandwich of Dagwood proportions. Two slices of granary bread consumed a generous amount of tuna, sweet-corn, cos lettuce, honey and mustard relish. I made one for myself too, scaled down. Hunger had returned.

  I sat on the floor, my back against the radiator, plate balanced on my knees. The radiator had the faintest residue of warmth, not enough to ease my bones but comforting. Summer was not quite over but I had partially turned on my heating at night.

  ‘Wake up,’ I said.

  It was the first time that we had looked straight at each other. His blue eyes were questioning.

  ‘So?’ I asked.

  ‘So, Jordan,’ said James. ‘Firstly, I am not surprised that you and Ben are becoming an item. But I wish it had not happened under my roof. It makes me a little touchy.’

  ‘We are not an item and nothing happened. It’s not my fault that you have such a comfortable sofa and Ben has a high libido. He likes kissing me. It was also a fatigue syndrome. Surely you must have experienced something similar? When you are so tired that anyone will do as long as you can sleep.’

  James laughed. It was an invigorating sound. His teeth were strong and white. How had he changed sides so quickly? I edged nearer to him. He was still draped over my moral chair, utterly relaxed. I could have touched his ankles, tenderly stroked the bare skin above his black socks. There were dark hairs on his skin that sent me wild.

  Then the truth dawned on me. If I was going around with Ben Evans in a serious sort of way, then I was no longer interested in him. He didn’t want me becoming a complication or emotional baggage. I had given him back his freedom and that’s what he really wanted. Freedom from me, freedom from any women. The woman who had hurt him so much had made it impossible for him to trust any other. So he did not want a relationship. He did not want my adoration, my care and devotion. He wanted to be free.

  Now he thought he had got it and that made him happier.

  ‘Like another sandwich?’ I asked, letting the reality sink in.

  ‘I could do with some of your good coffee.’

  ‘Sure.’

  I was none too steady, making the coffee. I did not know if I could cope. The knowledge that James did not want me — ever, in any capacity — was unnerving. But the aroma soothed my nerves. He took a mug of coffee from me.

  ‘This is a strictly work call now,’ he said, breathing in the pure infusion. ‘I have to ask you some questions.’

  ‘I knew there would be a flip side.’

  ‘You know I never stop work.’

  ‘Carry on,’ I said, not caring, flinging caution to the elements. I might say anything. ‘I’ve always cooperated.’

  ‘George Hill. How well do you know him? You were seen with him in Brighton, at the revue theatre.’

  This was the last thing I expected James to ask me. I nearly had a nasty accident with my coffee.

  ‘And you saw me being picked up by him. Remember, the red dress?’

  ‘Oh yes, you were almost wearing a dress. So that was George Hill?’

  ‘George Hill is a new client,’ I said. ‘I’m working on a case for him.’

  ‘What sort of case?’

  ‘James, you know better than to ask me that.’

  ‘What sort of case?’ he repeated. ‘I have every right to ask you. I’m the one investigating a homicide.’

  ‘Mrs Steel? Heavens, what has she got to do with George Hill?’

  ‘I didn’t say she had anything to do with George Hill. Tell me what you know about him, please. Where’s this famous cooperation gone?’

  I took a sip of my coffee. It was cooling. ‘I’ll tell you what I know about him but nothing about the case. He’s a very pleasant man, charming, articulate, clever, quite successful as a stand-up comedian around the coastal theatre circuit. Name in lights. But his humour on stage is so far below the belt, you could trip over it. I mean, I’m not straight-laced or a Victorian prude but his jokes were unacceptable. He was coarse, vile, lewd and disgusting. I was his guest so I couldn’t walk out.’

  ‘So you didn’t like his show?’

  ‘No, it was rotten to the core.’

  ‘Did you tell him?’

  ‘Of course not. I said it was great. I lied. Off-stage he’s really quite ordinary,’ I said. ‘I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.’

  ‘Have you been to his home?’

  ‘I know where it is,’ I began carefully. ‘He has a flat in a block at the back of Latching. It’s just an office, a pied-a-terre. He doesn’t actually live there. He flies in and out, on the circuit. It’s just a place to change his shirt.’

  ‘What about enemies?’

  ‘Enemies? I’ve no idea. How would I know?’ I’d no idea if a stalker was classed as an enemy. Tricky one.

  ‘Tell me about the revue again. You say it did not appeal to you.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But everyone else liked it?’

  ‘Yes, I’m a freak.’

  ‘Not necessarily, Jordan. Perhaps there were others who did not like it either but were not brave enough to say so. There’s always the herd instinct. People often go along with the majority because it’s easier. It takes guts to be different.’

  He was looking at me with a kind of benevolent uncle approval. I am not used to his approval. It made me feel like a little girl. Any moment now he was going to pat my head and give me a sweetie.

  ‘And did you go to any aftershow parties with George?’

  ‘No, I didn’t want to go. I’d had enough. George had lots of invitations and he wanted to go, but I didn’t. I wanted to come home.’

  ‘And did you come home?’

  ‘Not straightaway, it was too late. I walked around for a bit looking for a taxi. The last train had already gone. I had to wait for the first train at 5.23 a.m.’

  ‘And wher
e did you wait?’

  ‘Hey, what’s all this? What’s it to you where I waited? You asked me what I know about George Hill and I’ve told you everything, which is not much.’

  ‘Between the end of the show and dawn, can you tell me where you were?’ The nice uncle had gone, replaced by the granite-faced detective inspector. His eyes were clipped ice.

  ‘I don’t see why I have to tell you, but yes, I was in a hotel bar, chatting up the barman, drinking juice, if you must know.’

  ‘Can you prove that? Which hotel?’

  I couldn’t remember the name of the hotel. Grand, Glorious, Excelsior? I had walked in without looking, drawn by the soft lights and luxurious interior. I could describe the decor of the bar in detail but little else. Even the barman had no obvious face despite his kindness.

  ‘Do you have an alibi?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Would the people in this mythical hotel bar vouch for your presence?’

  ‘It’s not mythical and I have absolutely no idea which hotel it was. And why are you asking me all this? If I can find it, of course the barman would remember me, if the same one is on duty. It’s of no importance to you what I did that night. I sat in a bar drinking orange juice till it was time to catch the first train. At one point, I fell asleep. Anything else?’

  ‘It’s not enough. I need more exact details.’

  I suddenly remembered. ‘Hold on! I’ve got a label!’

  It was still in the wicker wastebin in my bedroom. The label I’d cut from the pink silk raincoat. There it was, printed clearly. The Majestic Hotel, Brighton, with a March date. I went back, flourishing the label. ‘The Majestic Hotel,’ I said. ‘That’s where I was.’

  ‘Jordan, you’ve been very helpful.’ He closed his notebook. ‘Though it would be even more helpful if you could tell me why he was employing you. Had he lost a beloved pet, maybe a tortoise?’

  The old tortoise wind-up. No one would forget when I was hired to find a lost tortoise. I solved the case. But not without the help of Latching police who had found the tortoise wandering along the A27. They fed it on canteen salad till I returned it to its rightful owner.

  ‘My lips are sealed,’ I said.

  ‘They weren’t sealed on the sofa.’

  That was a knife in the ribs.

  I did not offer James a second cup of coffee. The sooner he left the better. I wanted to go to bed and forget the whole day. A small part of me was glad that DI James had found himself somewhere decent to live and that it was fun and interesting. It had always been a mystery where he hung his socks. He never said, never explained, and never seemed happy.

  But Marchmont Tower was ideal for him. He’d find it difficult to conform to a flat. It was not his style. The tower was more than four rooms built on top of each other and linked by a treacherous stairway. It was the expression of an eccentric personality from an earlier age.

  ‘So why the third degree?’ I asked, escorting him downstairs and showing him the door. A cool westerly wind blew in. ‘At this time of night?’

  ‘Go in, Jordan. It’s turning cold.’

  ‘I want to know.’

  James turned back, jangling his car keys. His face was grave, ‘I said I was investigating a homicide. I didn’t mean the Anne Steel case. I meant George Hill. He was found hanging from a hook on the back of his dressing-room door. Your phone number was in his pocket.’

  Thirteen

  It is never possible to be immune to death. The police find many situations difficult to grasp. The shock was obvious on my face. DI James watched my reaction with surprise. Had he forgotten that I had feelings?

  ‘Are you all right?’ He looked concerned.

  I leaned against the doorway. ‘George Hill? I can’t believe it. He can’t be dead. I mean, I saw him only Saturday evening. He was fine then, on top form. He was elated because he thought the show had gone well and he had several parties to go on to. No way would he want to commit suicide.’

  ‘I didn’t say it was suicide. I said it was homicide. Yes, he was hanging from a hook on the back of his dressing-room door, but he was pumped full of a street drug, a derivative of Methylenedioxy Amphetamine.’

  ‘Ecstasy.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have known the time of day.’

  ‘He could have taken it himself.’

  ‘No one takes the equivalent of four tablets. One keeps you going all night.’

  ‘So who pumped him?’ I said, shaking my head, trying to take in the options. ‘When I left him, he was bright and breezy. Not a sign of drugs or alcohol, I’m sure of that. He’d drunk nothing more lethal than pints of black coffee and a gin and tonic before the show and I made that myself.’

  ‘Are your gin and tonics lethal?’

  ‘Not several hours later.’

  ‘Do you still have a George Hill case?’

  ‘No, not now, I suppose. It’s down the drain. D’you know anyone who wants a cleaner or shelves stacked? No one stalks a dead man.’

  ‘So stalking came into it? Is that right? That was his case you were working on?’

  I was starting to get cold. A sneaky wind was cooling my skin. Vicious whips of air attacked any bare skin allowed out. I was sinking into disbelief and shock. I did not even want James around.

  ‘Stalking, did you say, Jordan?’ he persisted. ‘Have you identified the stalker?’

  ‘Sorry, James, this is not the time for swopping intimate confidences. The man’s dead. Would you mind going home, please,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to talk anymore.’

  ‘OK, but I’ll want to talk to you again. I haven’t finished.’

  I closed the door and leaned against it. James was still outside. I could hear his breathing. He changed weight from one foot to another. There was still time for me to reopen the door and invite him in. But I was not in the mood to be helpful. It was time to sleep.

  Sleep did not come easily to me. Instead I sweated and twisted and turned, images flashing across my mind. Camera shots of George Hill on stage, smooth, successful, sophisticated, the sequins glistening. The flavour of the jokes was fading fast. I could not remember a single line.

  At dawn I slid my legs over the side of the bed and hung my head. I needed to walk and breathe fresh air. I pulled on a thin tracksuit and trainers, drank some water and let myself out. The sky was a clear, pure passing summer vista. Cloudless and washed with lightning blue. Latching has such beautiful skies. Nothing had changed in that department.

  Few cars were out on the sea road. Most of the early workers were using the bypass on their way to Brighton, or Chichester in the other direction. The quietness was soothing, only the waves talking and whispering to each other as the incoming tide spread over the untouched grey sands. The gulls were wheeling and dealing, waiting for the local fishing boats to reach the shore. They knew there would be plenty of fish heads and tails thrown out for a cafeteria style breakfast. No queueing. Swoop and grab.

  One brown-feathered juvenile gull was having a bad time on the sand. The older birds were dragging him away by the leg. It was cruel. I clapped my hands and made them all fly off. He might have a better chance somewhere else.

  The empty beach stretched ahead, distant rollers freckled with mist and smudging the horizon. I saw very little as I walked, concentrating on my feet and my breathing as if they might both desert me. The path was cracked in places. It needed resurfacing. The council had forgotten the sea road, far too busy pulling down elegant Georgian mansions for mammoth four-storey car parks. I had that sour grapes taste.

  Distances were guesswork. I am always meaning to cap the miles when driving along frequently walked routes but usually forget. The one statistic that stays permanent is that it takes me eight minutes to walk the pier. I need one of those surveyor’s things on wheels to push along ahead of me. Shopping list: buy second-hand surveyor’s thing on wheels for surveillance. Not urgent as no imminent surveillance case at present.

  They were renewing a stretch of decking on the p
ier. The old blackened timber was piled up against the wire railing that stopped inattentive pedestrians from falling down the hole. I leaned over, interested in seeing a view of the underside of the pier that I had not seen before. The decking was supported by sturdy cross-timbers, which in turn were latched to iron girders.

  Latched. Latching must get its name from some piece of similar joinery, way back in distant medieval times. Medieval conversation: ‘Eh, lad, that’s a fine bit of latching.’

  ‘Found them timbers washed up where there’s a bit o’ fishing off the beach.’

  ‘That’s the place for latching then, lad. We’ll reckon on more timber when tide comes in.’

  It was my first flippant thought of the day. My spirits were recovering. I took the road to the back of Latching, deliberately going towards George Hill’s flat in Chapel Court. It might even be open. He had died in Brighton. His pied-a-terre for a couple of shirts and spare razor might not be of interest to the police yet.

  Yet.

  The postman and the milkman were on their rounds. It was easy to slip in as they keyed the entry system.

  ‘Morning,’ I said brightly, working the arms. ‘Summer is still with us then.’ I hoped I looked like a new tenant out for a run.

  ‘Morning, miss. The lift’s out as usual.’

  ‘I prefer walking,’ I grinned. ‘Good for the tummy.’ I patted said area and both men agreed. ‘I’ll take the mail for number 17, George Hill, if you like. He doesn’t have milk, does he?’

  ‘Never there,’ said the milkman, shaking his head.

  ‘Nor picks up his mail. Sometimes I have to leave it in a pile outside the door, there’s so much. Can’t blame him. Most of it is junk.’

  ‘Perhaps his lady friend collects it,’ I said casually.

  ‘Oh, that one. She’s not his lady friend,’ said the postman, shedding elastic bands on the floor. ‘More of a nuisance friend. Never leaves him alone. Always watching for him coming in or out. Got ears like a hawk. She can hear his key turning from two floors down.’

  I could not believe what I was hearing. If this was the same woman, if this was his stalker … and she lived in the same block of flats? On the ground floor? Call me lucky.