Jest and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 5)

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘Such concern deserves a meal for a queen, Jordan. Come tonight? This would be a kindness to me. I will cook you something special. I have today bought the most succulent fish from the fishermen on the beach. The fruit of the sea.’

  My taste buds melted. I almost volunteered to wash up our glasses. Instead I promised to be back at 9 p.m. A bit late but I guessed that Miguel already had a first sitting fully booked. Sometimes he had a waiting list for cancellations.

  ‘Don’t forget I have your carrier bag,’ he said. ‘The bag full of mystery. It is still locked in my safe.’

  ‘Can you keep it for a few more days, please?’

  He nodded.

  I knew it was not fair. I was leaving him open to danger and he was too nice for that.

  ‘Not much longer though,’ I promised. ‘I’ll take it back soon.’

  I drove through Goring, Ferring, and East Preston, then Filtered right on to the main A27 to Chichester. The roundabout south of Arundel was choked with traffic. Drivers glared at my ladybird’s spots as if an insect had no right to be masquerading as a car and on a main road.

  An hour later I was at the boldly designed Chichester Festival Theatre enquiring the whereabouts of Michelle Steel, or Michelle Tapley as she was known in the profession. Or not known, it seemed. No one had heard of her. I enquired backstage and front of house. Unemployed actresses often filled in as ASMs to gain experience and network the producers. Her yellow roadster was not in the theatre car park.

  I parked my car and bought a parking ticket. I had a two-hour limit in which to make some enquiries on foot. Chichester is a labyrinth of one-way streets and a nightmare for a visiting driver. It was possible to get stuck on a circular route and never to be seen again in society.

  Firstly I made a quick survey from the top of the ancient stone city walls which surround the four main compass pointing streets. The broad ramparts are easy to walk on and give an uninterrupted view of back gardens and lanes and car parks. The spire and detached bell tower of the cathedral dominates the skyline. The medieval market cross in the centre of the town is still a landmark and thriving meeting place.

  If I had not been checking for every glimpse of yellow, I would have enjoyed the walk. Other people’s back gardens are so interesting and revealing. One slice of back garden was an overgrown tangle of weeds and brambles. It had not been touched for years yet the house was smart enough with fresh paint and neat curtains. Perhaps they were allergic to horticulture.

  I descended to street level and checked every pub, restaurant and cafe to see if Michelle was filling in time as a waitress or barmaid. Another blank. The phone book was blank on both names. Yet Samuel Steel seemed pretty sure that Michelle was working in some show. I wondered if Chichester had an underground theatre, some avant-garde company that put on fringe shows in an old warehouse or garage.

  Time flew by and I was beginning to tire. I bought a cucumber and cheese sandwich from the last cafe and sat in the Bishop’s Garden, catching the last of the summer sun. Some tame starlings watched from nearby, bright-eyed, hopefully waiting for crumbs. Their iridescent black feathers were tinged with glossy green and purple, the marking on their heads like a tiny dusting of gold. We shared the unbuttered and uncheesed crusts. Their idea of gratitude was to fly off immediately it was all finished. Not 3, single note, scale or song.

  As I wandered back to my car, aware that I was late, but too tired to hurry, I saw a petite figure in tight white jeans and red cotton buttoned shirt hurrying out of a shop. She was swinging two carrier bags. They were light enough to swing, but full enough to bulge. I looked up at the name of the shop. Home Based Garden Supplies. Artificial leaves decorated the big windows. A lawnmower stood theatrically posed on a stretch of verdant plastic grass. Jumbo packets of commercial weedkiller were being offered at two for the price of one.

  *

  I was going to be late for my date at Miguel’s. My bath took longer than expected as I fell asleep. Not the most sensible course of action, or non-action, at that time of the evening. I woke up with a sharp jolt. The water had cooled and I was fast succumbing to hypothermia.

  The snazzy dress had gone back to Leroy so I was left to dither between one blue cowboy shirt and another blue cowboy shirt. Then I remembered the black dress from Guilberts and the low-heeled pumps. And I would take the poncho that Miguel had given me in case it turned cold when it was time to walk home.

  Miguel liked the black outfit. His eyes said so. He was beaming as he escorted me into the restaurant, his hand lightly under my elbow. He had reserved a table in the corner and there was a single red rose in a vase. The restaurant was full of noise and clatter, waiters bustling about with steaming dishes of spicy Mexican food; the background music a classy, guitar dominated low-key jazz.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ he said, taking the poncho from me and hanging it up on a row of brass hooks near his desk. ‘I’ll join you when I have the dish ready for us.’

  He lit the candle with a flick of his lighter, poured out some wine for me. I did not need to ask what it was. I knew it would be the best and it was. Don’t ask me the price. I would not even look at the wine list.

  A girl brought me a starter dish, spicy potato skins, raw veggies and dips, garlic bread. Suddenly I remembered I had not eaten for ages.

  I dipped and dunked, relaxing into the atmosphere, letting my thoughts about Michelle, Anne, and Sheree simmer in my mind as Miguel simmered a different set of ingredients. The two deaths were a puzzle and DI James was no nearer solving the murder of Mrs Steel. At least, he was not telling me anything. He was handling it in his usual laid-back manner. He’d said the shears had not been the main cause of death. It was my guess that someone had already tried to throttle her. Maybe they had thought she was dead, then found she wasn’t. Or maybe they had suddenly got scared and backed off.

  But I remembered the red flash on a pair of trainers, a Penguin bar wrapper on the grass, the look of hatred in Sheree Lechlade’s eyes in the foyer of the theatre. Could she have killed George in a moment of passion? A twisted mind could do anything. She was more than a loose cannon. She was a hand grenade with a broken pin.

  George was a tall man. There was no way she could have managed to lift him on to the door hook unless she had an accomplice.

  Then I remembered that I had forgotten to take the miniature cottages to Mrs Lechlade. I didn’t care. I had her address now and that was what really mattered. If she wanted the cottages for her collection she would come back for them.

  The street door opened letting in a gust of evening air. It was a faint herald of autumn. A touch of an easterly. I did not look to see who was coming in although normally I can immediately sense his presence. My seventh sense. Perhaps it was the wine or the anticipation of a lovely meal ahead that dulled my senses. I was already feeling hungry, savouring the thought of fish fresh from the sea.

  DI James stood by my table. He was dishevelled, mud on his jacket and knees. He looked shaken. His face was gaunt, almost ashen. This was not a social call.

  ‘Jordan,’ he said.

  ‘Hello, James,’ I said. ‘Nice to see you. Would you like a beer or something cold? You look as if you need a drink.’

  ‘Jordan,’ he said again, not actually answering me. He was lost for words. I had never seen him lost for words before. A shiver went down my spine as the door opened again. In the doorway was the bulky figure of Sergeant Rawlings in uniform. He was looking straight at me with an expression I could not fathom.

  My throat knotted into hardness.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I said, standing up awkwardly. I automatically steadied the glass of wine. The tablecloth was a spotless white and I did not want to spill the wine. Somewhere a candle fluttered in the night air. A moth flew in, attracted by the light, like a lost soul.

  James tried to find his voice. I was reading his face. All thoughts of a meal with Miguel faded into nothingness. I waited for the worst. I tasted ash and fear.

  Ja
mes made the smallest movement towards me. ‘There’s been an accident,’ he said. ‘I think you had better come with me.’

  Sixteen he hours folded into time that had no meaning. DI James and Sergeant Rawlings took me to the station and then to the hospital. People spoke to me but I did not remember their words or faces. I was derailed. One day I would remember the details of that night.

  Eventually, a long time later, James offered to drive me home but I asked him to drop me near the pier. I needed to walk.

  ‘Are you going to be all right?’ he asked.

  ‘All right? What does all right mean? I don’t understand why you even ask. You know that none of us will ever be the same.’

  He was swallowing hard. ‘One day I will tell you something that I had to live through,’ he said. ‘But not now, Jordan. This isn’t the time.’

  ‘Thank you for finding me,’ I said when we reached the pier.

  ‘Doris told me where you were.’

  ‘Doris knows everything. Or she thinks she knows everything.’

  I got out of his car and beheld the pier pavilion, white domed and ghostly in the early dawn. The shape was comforting in its familiarity. Streaks of pink light shot the sky. The dawn chorus of seagulls was raucous and vulgar but for once I was not listening.

  James put the car into gear and drove away without another word. I couldn’t help him and he couldn’t help me.

  I took off the black shoes and held them loosely. The poncho was over my shoulders and I needed the warmth. I don’t remember who put it there. Miguel, I suppose, in that kind way of his. I must go in and thank him for cooking the meal I did not have.

  The sand was wet and grey, the tide on its way out. I followed the water out to the furthermost legs of the pier, not caring if the stones cut my feet. I wanted to bleed.

  I had no way of dealing with this. There was only walking and pushing my feet into the sand, my head down against the wind. At the station, Sergeant Rawlings had given me a cup of tea. At the hospital, a nurse had given me a cup of tea. What was it with this tea business? My feelings were locked inside a block of stone. No amount of tea was going to help.

  Did this mean I was beyond normal feeling? The answers were somewhere but not legible. I could barely see the water although I could hear it. My sight seemed to have gone but not my hearing.

  And I kept hearing his voice.

  ‘Hi, Jordan.’

  A thin scream sent the seagulls flapping panic-stricken into the air. They wheeled in fright, wings beating the air, no idea of which direction to fly. I could hear their wings disordered and desperate.

  I knew I was the one screaming because my throat hurt but I don’t remember opening my mouth. My throat felt raw and sore. I was becoming overwhelmingly tired and wanted to sleep but I knew if I lay down on the sand, on the pebbles, here under the legs of the pier, I might never get up.

  I threw back my head and screamed again but this time the sound didn’t come but welled into a gulf of white pain and my cheeks were streaming with tears. My eyes were screwed up and salted and I staggered about, not caring where I went. The air was tinged with a raw grey. The sky was not talking to me. There was no way of finding the route back to the shore line. They would find me on the beach the next day, some time, somewhere. I didn’t care.

  I never heard anyone come running over the sand. Hearing, seeing, thinking, were skills I had forgotten. Arms locked round me in a tight grip, almost hoisting me off my feet. I went into another wave of shock.

  ‘Jordan, Jordan, baby. Where the hell are you going? What’s the matter? Wotcha doing out here? Come on back, gal, come on home. This is no place for you in the middle of the night. There’s my gal. Come with me.’

  He was half carrying me, leading me, lifting me over stones. Tears were running down my cheeks and I had no control over them. He took out a rag and dabbed inefficiently. I could not stop him. The noise I was making was drowning all coherency.

  I only knew we were climbing the shingle when the pebbles began to roll beneath my feet. They slithered and clattered as I slid to my knees, my bare feet in agony.

  ‘Come on, Jordan, you can make it. Come on, baby. Don’t give up on me now.’ He lifted me with ease. I could smell sweat on his T-shirt.

  I felt myself being bundled into a car. The leather was sweet. He was putting on my shoes, with difficulty because my feet had swollen. Night-bound, I was being driven along roads. Then the car stopped, the engine died and a door slammed and the driver got out.

  ‘Where’s your bloody key?’ he said, rapping on the window.

  Key? What key?

  ‘OK, I’ll pick the lock. Gawd, I still know how.’

  I was too exhausted to argue. My bag had been mislaid somewhere along the way. Had I left it in the station or at Miguel’s? I was hauled up the stairs and propelled into my bedroom and pushed on to my bed. Then a weight was on top of me and it was pure male. Heavy and suffocating, legs wrapped round my thighs. They were like steel.

  ‘Oh Jordan, darlin’. You’re wonderful. Dammit, I’ve dreamed of this moment, being like this together, but don’t worry, I’m not staying. Don’t cry, darlin’. I’m going now. I just wanted to feel you close for a little while.’

  He stayed a moment longer, a rough face against mine, gripping my arms hard.

  Then he got off, still shaking, and pulled the duvet over me. I was gasping for breath. ‘Get to sleep now. You’ll feel better in the morning.’

  ‘He’s dead,’ I wept. ‘I know.’

  *

  There was no way I could feel better in the morning, although I was grateful to have been brought home in one piece. My rescuer had been Jack, of course, from the Amusement Arcade. I knew who it was now, though I’m not sure if I did then. What he’d been doing on the pier in the early hours of the morning I would never know. Perhaps another night boot sale or betting on the dogs somewhere. I had a feeling he was a betting man. What else would he do with all that money?

  The next few days were a haze of work. I had to work. I barely remember washing or dressing though I suppose I did. Eating did not come into it until Mavis practically force-fed an omelette down me. I’d only gone into the cafe for tea.

  ‘I can’t eat that,’ I said, even though it was glistening with melted cheese, the way I like it.

  ‘Yes, you can, my girl, and you will,’ said Mavis. ‘I shall sit here until you do.’

  ‘You’ve a dozen customers.’

  ‘They can wait.’

  I put a minuscule morsel on the end of a fork and lifted it to my mouth, pretending to eat it.

  ‘Swallow,’ Mavis ordered.

  *

  Doris was no better. She practically lived in my shop, bringing goodies daily like the Three Wise Men. She was buying me things she could not afford, like fresh figs and smoked salmon. A tin of lobster soup appeared from nowhere.

  ‘You’ve got to stop this,’ I said desperately.

  ‘Stop what? This is a shop, isn’t it? The law says I can come into it.’

  ‘But not bringing me things all the time.’

  ‘Nonsense. I’m expecting several favours in return. Just wait and see.’

  Leroy came round with a bunch of spray carnations and put them into my hands without a word. I stood them in a pretty vase in the window of my shop and let the small lemony flowers tell the world of my grief.

  I needed James but I knew he would not come. He was using work in the same way as me, as a cushion, a sponge, a blindfold, a gag, morphine, alcohol, a shield, buffer, a prop. As he had once before when it happened to him, he’d said. And one day he would tell me. He’d promised.

  *

  The funeral was shattering. Even the weather was grim with a curtain of warm drizzle. All those rows of policemen in well-pressed uniforms, their badges highly polished, shoes like black diamonds. I stood at the back, hidden behind a pillar. I didn’t wear black. I don’t know what I wore. Francis Guilbert stood beside me. He looked grey and solemn, very mu
ch the elder statesman. The last funeral I had gone to had been his son’s, Oliver Guilbert. I guess we were both thinking of Oliver as well.

  There were people I did not recognize. Relatives and friends, I suppose. He must have had relatives. The service and tributes were moving but I refused to let myself become involved in the words. I pretended it was all about someone else. No way was I going to break down in public. Especially as I did not really know how I felt.

  ‘You’re doing fine,’ said Francis, handing me an open hymn book. ‘Psalm 23. The Lord’s My Shepherd. You don’t have to sing.’

  ‘You haven’t heard me sing,’ I said.

  It was good that Francis was there because he took care of me, propelled me out of the church and away from the handshaking and condolences. He steered me along the blowy sea front and into one of the posh hotels where I sank into an armchair in a lounge the size of the Titanic deck. A waiter came over immediately.

  ‘A pot of coffee for two, please,’ said Francis. ‘And two very large brandies. Could you bring the brandies first, please. We need them.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  ‘I shall get very tight,’ I said. ‘I’m not eating much.’

  Then I’d better order sandwiches as well.’

  Francis followed with another precise order. There was no question of anything being inconvenient or not served in the lounge. The waiter was attentive. Francis Guilbert was Francis Guilbert. I wondered if they would let me sleep in this armchair. It was comfortable.

  ‘So, Jordan,’ said Francis, returning his attention to me. ‘Tell me about the cases you are working on right now.’

  I tried to gather my pale thoughts and put them in order. ‘There’s a garden on Updown Hill that’s being vandalized. Glyphosate on the lawn, weedkiller on the shrubs, plants, everywhere. It’s horrendous. And the wife of the owner has recently been m-murdered.’ I stumbled over the word. ‘Garden shears stabbing her neck but they were not the only cause of death. I haven’t seen the post-mortem report, but I think she may have been strangled.’