Jest and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 5)

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘I’m so glad to see you. How come you are here?’ I gasped breathlessly at the bottom of the steps, holding on to the rail to steady myself. My legs were wobbly. Mother Earth never felt so good.

  ‘Someone spotted the smoke and dialled 999.’

  ‘Hurrah! Another historic post-mill saved,’ I said, coughing. Water was whooshing down the steps like a garden waterfall.

  ‘Are you all right?’ the fireman asked. ‘Perhaps you ought to be checked out at the hospital. Smoke inhalation can cause damage to the lungs.’

  ‘No, thank you, I’m fine,’ I said, trying to breathe normally. No more hospitals for me. ‘If I have any problems I’ll go to my own doctor.’

  ‘My sub’ll need to make out a report first, then do you want a lift home?’

  That was how I got a ride on a fire appliance in the middle of a late summer storm, squashed between two burly firemen and wearing a fire officer’s open-necked shirt. A trophy. I knew DI

  James would be annoyed that I did not go back to Marchmont Tower but I could not remember his address. The fire fighters might get suspicious if I said I didn’t know exactly where I was living at present. They might decide I was an arsonist.

  I thanked them for the lift and promised beer and cakes another time. I needed to drink more water and go to my own bathroom. It felt wonderful to be home. My plants were glad to see me holding a watering can. Stateless and homeless does not suit me. I remembered to put my phone on charge. The doors were locked and I propped chairs up against them. It did not seem all that safe. Anyone could get in. Who was after me, anyway? James had not told me that.

  ‘James?’ I said on the landline phone, when sufficient water had rendered me vocal again. He knew instantly who it was.

  ‘Yes?’ he snapped.

  ‘I’ve some information for you. Someone or somebodies are using Upper Latching Windmill as a drop.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘How should I know? It came as a surprise. I’m telling you that cryptic little cards are being planted behind a pulley in the mill.’

  ‘What do they say? Read them out to me.’

  My note-taking paid off. I read them out to him, including the last one for 1 a.m. tonight.

  ‘Was there anything else on the cards?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Think hard.’

  It was not easy to think hard when the cards were now only a vague memory.

  ‘Yes, I think there was something else. A little scribble, a sort of number. Something like that. I can’t quite remember. It didn’t seem to mean anything.’

  ‘I think it does mean something. Might it have tied in with the numbers on the spreadsheets? Where are you? My place or your place?’

  ‘My place.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I didn’t like your choice of cereal.’

  I don’t know what makes me say these things to him. It wasn’t what I meant at all. I meant that I could not trust myself to be so near to him, that one day or night I would go over the top and pin him to a sofa with my legs. It was a deeply sobering thought.

  ‘Don’t you have any sense? Don’t you realize that you are not safe where they can find you?’

  ‘What on earth have I got that anyone would want? Some bits of information all of which I have passed on to you in the goodness of my heart and in the pursuit of justice.’

  ‘Think, Jordan. What else have you got that someone might go to extremes to get?’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ I said. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘It would be better if I don’t tell you. You might say something incriminating. Best to play dumb. You’re good at that.’ He rang off.

  What a nice man.

  Of course, I had the money, a rather large sum of it. Or rather, Miguel had the money. Oh dear.

  Or maybe it was the notebooks. Anne’s diary-type notebooks. They were under my bed. I think up such brilliant hiding places.

  *

  After a fitful night, everything barred and locked like Fort Knox, I was up early to go round to the police station. I did not feel at all safe. I almost wanted them to lock me up and call it police protection. I put on my bag lady outfit, long skirt, old raincoat, pull-on felt hat, grubby trainers. Even Doris did not recognize me.

  ‘Get a move on,’ she said when I hovered outside her shop. She was about to open up. ‘You’ll give me a bad name.’

  I picked up a couple of her wastebin bags. They smelt of old fruit. A few flies thought so too.

  ‘OK, you can have those. But the stuffs off.’

  I stumbled along the road, trying to look grateful. Something in the bags was squashy too. I did not want to know what had leaked. People moved away when they saw me coming. Some kids threw pebbles at me. They missed.

  The station was changing shift. Police officers were leaving in civilian clothes, glad the night was over. They climbed into cars or wheeled out motorbikes, fastening helmets.

  ‘Who’s on the desk?’ I croaked.

  ‘Sergeant Rawlings.’

  ‘Oh good. He likes me.’

  ‘Don’t count on it, not the way you’re smelling.’

  I went through the new automatic doors, my bags bumping against them. A strong smell of sour yogurt filled the air. Sergeant Rawlings took one look at the ensemble and shook his head.

  ‘Jordan, not again. Will you give up coming in here looking like that? You’re putting off the real villains.’

  ‘Sorry, but it was the only safe way of travelling, i.e. incognito, around in Latching this morning. I have a horrid feeling someone is trying to get me out of the way.’

  ‘I’m not surprised, in that outfit. We’re trying to clean up the streets.’

  ‘Can I see DI James?’

  ‘Sorry, he’s not in yet.’

  ‘Yes, he is,’ said James, coming in fast. He was shrugging out of a light jacket. ‘This way, Jordan. Shower room first, please.’ I thought for one ecstatic moment that he was planning for us to have a shower together. It was a dizzy thought. But he was pushing me towards the women’s showers, bundling a towel and soap into my hands.

  ‘I don’t want to see you until you are clean,’ he said. ‘You smell of smoke.’

  ‘I’ve been in a fire.’

  That shook him. He had not linked the windmill fire with me. Why should he? It was nothing to do with the police. It was not arson. It was the wind driving the sails against the brake. You can’t charge a Gale Force 6.

  ‘A fire?’

  ‘Windmill fire, caused by the wind. I haven’t any clothes except these,’ I added.

  ‘I’ll find something for you to wear.’

  I had a lukewarm shower, taking as long as possible. I did not want to come out, but I had to eventually, wrapped in a very thin, scratchy, well-laundered towel. Some clothes were laid on the chair in the washroom. A pair of jeans and a shirt that I recognized as belonging to James. The one with the pilot style shoulder tabs. No clean bra or pants. Well, I couldn’t expect the moon. I put my own back on. I bundled my bag lady clothes into a plastic bag. No way was anyone throwing them away. Much too valuable.

  I wandered along the corridor, trying to dry my hair. It hung down my back in wet straggles. DI James called down from his first-floor office.

  ‘To what do I owe the honour at this time of the morning?’

  T think you are right. I don’t think I am safe. I’ve come for police protection.’

  ‘We don’t have the time or the resources,’ he began.

  I shot him a look of disbelief. ‘I’ll go and put a stone through Guilbert’s shop window. Then you’ll find the time and the resources.’

  ‘You’re too young for a life of crime. I’ll get you a coffee. Come and drink it. I’ve got ten minutes. What do you want to tell me?’

  I told him again about the windmill being a drop. I told him about Anne’s annual membership card. He listened carefully. Then I told him about the five thousand pounds.

  He did not know what to say
for a few seconds. ‘This is outrageous, Jordan, withholding police evidence. You could get into serious trouble. You should have known better, you idiot. Surely your WPC days taught you that.’

  ‘I know, I know, but Mr Steel made me promise not to tell anyone. I knew it was wrong but what could I do? He’s the one paying me and I did as I was told. The money is in a safe place, at least I’m hoping it’s still safe.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘In a friend’s safe.’

  ‘Which friend?’ He did not look up from his note writing.

  ‘Miguel.’

  ‘The Mexican Romeo.’

  ‘He’s a dear, sweet, kind man,’ I began, knowing it would annoy him. ‘And he sends me roses.’

  ‘Does he know that he has all this money in his safe?’

  I shook my head. ‘It’s in a carrier bag.’

  James obviously thought there was no point in reprimanding me any further. In one ear, etc. ‘We’d better make arrangements to collect the cash. You would not want your dear, sweet, rose-sending friend to be carved up with a kitchen knife.’

  ‘He probably won’t give it to you. He’s very loyal.’

  ‘Write him a note,’ James growled, pushing a pad towards me. ‘Authorization for my officer and sign it.’

  I thought for a moment, then wrote: ‘Dear Miguel, it would be safer if you gave the carrier bag to this police officer. You have my permission. Make sure he doesn’t drop it. Thanks, Jordan.’ James read it through without comment, then got up and left the room. It was ages before he came back. I was reduced to trying to read the files on his desk upside down.

  ‘Haven’t you gone yet?’ he said, returning.

  ‘You promised me a coffee.’

  ‘If I get you a coffee, will you promise me to go back to Marchmont Tower?’

  ‘I’ll go back to Marchmont Tower if you promise to tell me something,’ I said.

  ‘I haven’t got time for games, Jordan.’

  ‘It’s about George Hill.’

  ‘What about George Hill?’

  ‘Can I see the body?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can I see the autopsy report?’

  ‘No.’

  I tried a new tactic. Such sweetness and light. ‘I wonder if you could kindly tell me who identified poor George Hill. Someone has to identify a dead person, don’t they? It won’t be breaking any monumental police investigation law to tell me who identified him, will it now?’

  He was obviously weighing up my reasons for wanting this information. So far, he could see no obvious interference on my part, but then he did not know what I knew.

  ‘I suppose there’s no harm in telling you, although I can’t see what good it’ll do you. We had a problem. As far as we could trace, George Hill didn’t have any relations. Not a soul. Parents dead, no brother or sister. No aunts or uncles. No regular girlfriend.’

  ‘Only me,’ I put in. ‘Except I wasn’t regular.’

  ‘At that point in the investigation, we had no idea what your involvement was.’ James went to fetch coffee from the coffee machine. I followed him out into the corridor.

  ‘So?’

  ‘In the end we had to ask one of the other performers in the theatre to make a formal identification. This man had known George Hill for over a year, toured around in the same show, knew him quite well. He was upset. Suffocation doesn’t look nice.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘A chap called Max Cornelius.’

  ‘I know Max,’ I said. ‘He’s the magician.’

  *

  James put me in a taxi and gave the driver instructions to take me to Marchmont Tower without delay.

  ‘And keep your head down,’ he said, closing the door. I didn’t know if he meant literally. I did not fancy going anywhere under a blanket.

  As soon as we had driven out of sight of the police station, I turned to the driver. ‘There’s been a change of plan,’ I said in an official voice. ‘Could you please take me to the Regal Theatre in Brighton, you know the old theatre? I think that’s what it’s called.’

  ‘I thought he said Marchmont Tower … ?’

  ‘That’s normal police procedure,’ I said. ‘In case someone is listening. Bugging, you know. This is undercover police work. I’ve to check something at the theatre.’

  ‘If you say so, miss. But I’ll have to charge them.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, settling back. He was taking the scenic route along the coast road. ‘No problem.’

  I did not have any money on me or my mobile. Bag ladies only carry vital keys and those they pin inside a bra. I always seem to embark on these things without thinking them through first. It would not be easy getting home. Brighton station had those automatic barriers. No slipping through without a ticket. Something might turn up. It often did.

  The warmth in the car was making me sleepy. I nearly dozed off. The driver was not chatty. Most taxi drivers chat a lot but this one preferred listening to Radio Two. Suited me.

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ I said as we drew up outside the theatre. I recognized the regal exterior. Already a new show was posted up, a stage play, opening soon. ‘Hope you get a fare back.’

  ‘I shall charge them both ways,’ he said.

  ‘You do that,’ I nodded. DI James would kill me. I’d have to offer to pay.

  I went round the back and pushed open the stage door. There was no doorkeeper checking but a lot of activity going on as a new set was being built on the stage. I walked confidently towards George Hill’s dressing room.

  ‘Hi,’ I said to several stagehands.

  The scene of crime tape had gone. No point.

  It was funny going into his dressing room. It was not locked. It had not been cleared. Unusual. It was still full of his possessions. Perhaps there was some stage superstition about moving an actor’s things before he was buried. Stage people are a very superstitious lot.

  I remember reading about a famous actor who walked the streets of London every evening before a show, speaking through his entire part. Another who wouldn’t wear a certain colour for fear of bad luck. And an actress who must have the same dressing room and everything in exactly the same place or she won’t go on.

  His black sequinned jacket was still hung on the preformed model. George had changed out of it after the show for casual party gear. I tried not to look at the hook behind the door. I knew I was looking for something but I was not sure what it was. Everybody and every event leaves behind some trace. Something so small and insignificant that it is overlooked. I rummaged through the waste bin and took out a chocolate wrapper. No harm in removing it.

  The jacket drew me. George had looked so handsome in it, the sequins glistening like wet water. Now it was not quite so well pressed as if he had flung it off. I peered closer. A couple of sequins were snagged. They needed a stitch.

  Then I saw it, something very small and white caught among the sequins. I held my breath in case actual breathing might dislodge it. I had found what I was looking for. I had found the vital difference which might provide a link.

  I did not touch it or remove it. The white link had to remain exactly where it was.

  The door opened quietly behind me with a small rush of air. For a moment I was not sure if I had heard it open or not. But then I became aware of someone standing behind me.

  There was a low chuckle as the door closed. A chuckle that I knew.

  ‘Well, well, well, so here is the intrepid Miss Lacey. Who would have thought it? She has some brain cells that actually work. And we have a lot to talk about.’

  I turned very slowly but I already knew who it was.

  Twenty-One

  It was George Hill, all six foot one of him alive and well, smiling at me from the doorway. He looked different. He was different. The sleek ponytail had gone and along with it the suave immaculate look. The gear was baggy cargo trousers, heavy belt, overlarge T-shirt and a baseball cap.

  ‘What’s this?’ I said. ‘A fancy dress
party?’

  I was surprised, yet not surprised. Mrs Lechlade said she was sure she had seen George on the stairs. I’d half thought she was hallucinating.

  ‘So you’re not dead?’

  He pinched an arm playfully. ‘Nope.’

  ‘So who is dead?’

  ‘How should I know? The morgue is full of bodies. People die every day.’

  ‘But not in your dressing room. There’s a body in the morgue wearing a George Hill toe tag, but no tattoo.’

  ‘I shall have to get it removed.’ The tone of his voice changed. ‘And what are you doing in my dressing room?’

  ‘Your dressing room? You’re officially dead. I don’t believe it’s your dressing room any more,’ I said. ‘I was just looking around for old time’s sake.’

  I carefully positioned myself so as to block his view of the sequinned jacket. I did not want him to suddenly think of taking it away and disposing of it.

  ‘Strangely enough, I don’t believe you,’ said George. ‘Your brain is twitching. You’re poking your nose where you are not wanted.’

  ‘You paid me so I’m still working on the case. I’m tracking your stalker,’ I said.

  ‘My stalker!’ He began to laugh showing those whiter than white teeth. ‘We really hoodwinked you there, didn’t we? Sheree isn’t a stalker. She’s an out-of-work actress. Did pretty well, didn’t she? But she was furious about the dress. I didn’t know you were into soda syphon tactics.’

  ‘You don’t have a stalker … ?’ I asked slowly, the implications unravelling. ‘It was all play acting?’

  ‘That’s right, I paid Sheree to act the part a couple of times, just to keep you on your toes.’

  ‘On my toes? The stalker case was something to divert me?’ It was starting to dawn, like a fog lifting.

  ‘Sure. I wanted to keep you very busy. And I paid you well, don’t deny it.’