Jest and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 5)

by Stella Whitelaw

  Twenty-Two

  A police helicopter flew James and me back to Shoreham airport. It was a glorious way to travel, despite the noise, watching the waves surging beneath, all shades of green and blue and deepest navy.

  They arrested George Hill as he drove off the ferry at Dieppe. He would spend several nights in a French police cell awaiting the process of extradition. I hoped it would be a rough crossing.

  ‘I don’t ever want to see him again,’ I shuddered.

  ‘I’m afraid you may have to,’ said James. ‘You’ll be a witness in court. Of course you won’t have to look at him.’

  ‘Could I have a screen?’

  ‘Come off it, Jordan. You can’t be that nervous.’

  ‘I might be, by then.’

  His car was parked near the police helicopter hangar at the far end of the airport. He felt under the driver’s seat and produced a thermos flask and some wrapped polystyrene beakers. ‘Pour out some coffee, please, Jordan. Perhaps it’ll steady your nerves.’

  James noticed my rubbed wrist. ‘That looks nasty,’ he said. ‘You ought to have it dressed. It could get infected. We’ll go via A & E.’

  ‘I’m allergic to hospitals,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ he said. ‘You must have been in every hospital in Sussex.’

  ‘What an exaggeration. Not every hospital, but quite a few. It’s my newish year resolution. No more hospitals.’

  James drained his coffee and turned the ignition key. ‘We’ll argue about that when we get to Latching.’

  I kept quiet, did not ask any questions, on my best behaviour. James was amused. I could see it on his face each time I snatched a look at his profile. His nose and chin were etched so finely. It was hard to take my eyes off the shape of his head.

  ‘So, don’t you want to ask me what’s been going on?’

  ‘Surely if I’m going to be a witness, I’m not supposed to know,’ I said carefully.

  ‘When you have almost been thrown overboard and drowned by a killer, I think you are entitled to know why,’ he said, the amusement vanishing from his face.

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Entitle me.’

  We were on the main road and James kept exactly to the speed limit. The needle on the speedometer never wavered.

  ‘George Hill and Anne Steel ran this false identity passport factory. It was not drugs as we first thought, but still a lucrative business and a complex organization. They made thousands. But you started getting in their way when you took on the Updown Hill garden case. It began to worry them and they realized that they had to distract you.’

  ‘They distracted me with a false stalker.’ I could not help interrupting. ‘More time-consuming surveillance.’

  ‘When you removed the briefcase, George Hill knew he had to remove you as well. You knew far too much, or he thought you did. You had all the incriminating documents. And you had their last haul of cash. He wanted it all back, especially the money. He needed to disappear for a while after Anne’s death.’

  ‘He killed her, you know,’ I said. ‘He stabbed her with the shears. And my prints are on the shears.’

  ‘We found your prints. But we knew you couldn’t have done it. You were up a tree, weren’t you? Unless you’re an Olympic javelin thrower.’

  ‘I’m hurt that you even considered it,’ I said.

  ‘Prints are prints,’ he said solidly.

  ‘But it wasn’t just the shears, was it?’

  ‘No, Anne had been throttled with something called a Spanish windlass. But the killer was disturbed and though

  Anne was unconscious, she might have recovered if George Hill had not come along with the shears.’

  ‘But who did this Spanish windlass? What is it?’

  ‘A Spanish windlass is a loop of material placed round the victim’s neck, something like a scarf, and then tightened with a stick. It’s very quick.’

  ‘I think it was a scarf,’ I said, feeling sick. ‘But you didn’t find it, did you?’

  ‘No, we didn’t find the scarf but we did find a stick and some fibres from the material were on Anne’s neck and the stick.’

  ‘I don’t think I want to hear any more,’ I said.

  ‘Are you feeling car sick?’

  ‘No, I’m feeling scarf sick.’

  James didn’t understand that but I’d tell him later. We were nearing the outskirts of Latching and I knew by his route that he was taking me to Latching hospital. Perhaps I would let A & E look at my wrist. It was raw and tender.

  ‘So did George Hill kill Anne Steel?’

  ‘We believe we can prove it. The cadaveric spasm is clutching some dark hair, quite long hair tightly gripped.’

  ‘George Hill used to have a ponytail. He cut it off.’

  James drove into the hospital entrance and parked near the A & E Department.

  ‘What about the 1 a.m. drop tonight? The last card in the windmill.’ I asked.

  ‘All taken care of. The six small figures were a map reference. You probably didn’t know that,’ he added kindly.

  A map reference. It had never occurred to me.

  ‘You won’t have to wait,’ he went on, opening the door. ‘I’ll go in with you and explain that you are under police protection.’

  ‘There’s something else you ought to do before some stagehand throws it in a locker,’ I said.

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘George Hill wore a black sequinned jacket for his last stage show. I saw him wearing it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘If you send the jacket to forensic, they’ll be able to find evidence of the man George Hill fed with ecstasy. The person he hung on the hook behind the dressing room door.’

  ‘And how do you know this?’

  ‘I’ve seen the jacket and I spotted some minute evidence. There may also be skin, saliva. The snagged sequins might reveal more particles of skin. It’s on a stand in his dressing room at the Regal Theatre. And there’s a speck of white.’

  ‘What did you see exactly?’

  ‘It’s a feather, a tiny white feather. It’s the kind of thing that could easily be transferred in a struggle.’

  ‘And do you know the identity of the man in the morgue? The man that George Hill identified as himself?’

  I paused. It hurt to say it.

  ‘Yes, I do. Only one person would have had a feather on him after the show and that’s Max, Max the magician. There were several doves in his act. He only drank juice. George Hill could easily have slipped in some tablets while Max was checking his equipment on the stage. He was such a nice person. And, James … ?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Could your officer please check on the doves?’

  *

  They did a good job on my wrist. Neat dressing. Told me to rest it and go to my doctor’s clinic to have it redressed. I nodded and agreed to do that. It’s easier to agree.

  James came back into the cubicle, switching off his mobile. ‘They are sending officers to fetch the jacket,’ he said. ‘And everything else in the dressing room. Forensic will go through the lot. We can match DNA with the victim and Hill.’

  ‘Good. Have I earned bonus points?’

  ‘A few … ’ Sometimes he could be so mean.

  ‘Tim Arnold? Is he recovering? Can I go and see him?’

  ‘You do push your luck. He’s recovering and yes, you can see him. But I’m coming with you.’

  I really wanted to see Tim Arnold alone but I guess I had to be thankful that DI James was allowing me this much leeway.

  There was a police officer outside the private room on the first floor.

  ‘It’s OK,’ said DI James. ‘I am escorting Miss Lacey. We are only staying a few minutes.’

  Tim Arnold was attached to lots of drips and tubes but his colouring had returned to normal and he seemed to be breathing easily. He opened his eyes slowly and caught sight of me.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he sighed. ‘I don’t want to see you. Dammit it. You arrived to
o soon. Why couldn’t you have been late?’

  ‘It was fate,’ I said, drawing up a chair with my good hand. ‘You weren’t meant to die yet.’

  ‘Yes I am. I can’t go on living. I can’t live with what I’ve done.’ He stared at some point on the ceiling as if willing God to take him now.

  ‘Is it about spraying the garden with weedkiller at Denbury Court?’ I asked gently. ‘It wasn’t very nice but it isn’t something you have to kill yourself for.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t that … I didn’t do that. It was something much, much worse.’ He seemed to be making a great effort, taking several deep breaths. I took a quick look at James. He was standing by the door, listening. He shook his head.

  ‘Don’t say anything if you don’t want to, Mr Arnold,’ I said. ‘Wait till you feel stronger.’

  ‘No, I’m going to tell you now or I may never tell anyone. Because I shall do this again, you know. As soon as I get out. Drive off Beachy Head on a wet day. I won’t survive that.’

  ‘There’s no need … ’ I began.

  ‘Oh yes, there is. You see, I killed my daughter. My daughter, my Annie. I killed her. My little girl … ’

  ‘Your daughter, Annie? The little girl in the photographs. A lovely child. She was Anne Steel?’

  He nodded and seemed relieved that he did not have to explain. ‘You found the photographs? Such a pretty girl, so lively and full of mischief. Her mother and I separated when she was only little. All I got were photographs and occasionally I managed to snatch a glimpse of her. Visiting rights weren’t normal in those days. I was cut right out of her life. My punishment for straying.’

  ‘And you bought The Corner House, hoping to see her?’ He nodded. I thought we might meet socially. But it didn’t work out that way when they took all the plants.’

  ‘Tell me why you think you killed her.’

  ‘Think? I know I did. I had my hands round her throat before I realized who it was. I thought it was the other one, the one who has been spraying the garden with weedkiller. That skinny stepdaughter of hers, Michelle.’

  ‘Michelle?’

  ‘Yes, Michelle, she’s the one. She’s always hated my Annie. It was a way of getting back at her, to spoil her garden, to cause problems between Annie and Sam. She’d do anything to come between them. What were a few flowers if she could ruin their marriage? I wanted to give her a fright. But I got the wrong one in the dark. I got my Annie … ’

  He was so distressed that I stopped him from talking any more with my hand on his arm.

  ‘Now Mr Arnold, listen to me very carefully. Was it your hands you used or a piece of material or twine? Think before you answer me and tell me exactly how you did it.’

  He lifted his hands, then let them drop back on to the bed. ‘These damned hands, damn ’em.’

  I looked across at James for permission. Can I tell him, I asked silently? He nodded.

  ‘Mr Arnold, if you say that you put your hands round Annie’s throat to give her a fright, thinking it was Michelle, then I’m telling you that you didn’t kill Annie. You see, Annie died in a different way, something quite different, information that has not been released to the newspapers at all.’

  ‘Is that true?’ he asked hoarsely. ‘Are you sure? You’re not just making it up?’

  ‘Quite true. I’m not making it up. You didn’t kill your daughter.’

  ‘Thank God … thank God … ’ He sank back on to his pillow, his eyes closed.

  ‘But someone else did, Mr Arnold,’ said James, coming forward and speaking for the first time. ‘And a man is in custody. He is going to be charged.’

  ‘So you got him … ’

  ‘You should rest now, Mr Arnold, and think about getting better. Perhaps the nurse will bring you a cup of tea.’

  ‘I deserve something a bit stronger,’ said Mr Arnold, some of his old humour returning. He turned to me and took my hand. Only he took the wrong one. I flinched. ‘What have you done to your wrist, girl?’

  ‘A slight altercation with a pair of handcuffs.’

  ‘Who won?’

  I looked at James. ‘I did.’

  *

  ‘So it was Michelle,’ I said as we walked down the hospital corridor. ‘Ruining her father’s garden. I’d seen the red flash on her trainers but couldn’t understand why she had to break into her own home.’

  ‘She was after the floppy disk,’ said James. ‘At that point she didn’t know that Anne was dead in the garden and she was trying to get the disk and make it look like a burglary.’

  ‘And you know what’s on the disk?’ I asked, following him down the stairs.

  ‘Yes, I do. Something Michelle wanted to destroy. It would have ruined her acting career if it was made public.’

  ‘And you’re not going to tell me … ’

  ‘That’s right, I’m not. You’re far too nosy for your own good. It should have been destroyed long ago but Anne kept it so that she would have some hold over Michelle.’

  ‘So George Hill did kill Anne Steel and I had the scarf all the time,’ I said, more to myself.

  ‘The scarf? You’ve got the scarf?’ James could barely contain his impatience.

  ‘Not exactly, James. Actually you’ve got the scarf. I left it in your bathroom. Remember when I slept in your bath?’

  *

  I had not seen or heard of my trumpeter for months. It was like an empty ache in my veins. His music always soared in my head, making my spine tingly. But there had been no time for any jazz.

  My wrist was healing. My cracked rib had healed. Michelle apologized for booting me in the stomach. Mr Arnold came out of hospital and had gone on a late holiday to Italy. Samuel Steel was having his garden steam-cleaned to rid it of the poison. If that didn’t work then he was going to have the entire top 12 inches of soil removed and replaced. It seemed a bit drastic.

  He had forgiven Michelle for the destruction of the garden and was not pressing charges. ‘I’ve lost my wife. I can’t lose my daughter as well. She’s promised to help me plant a new garden.’

  He told me to keep the retainer. He said I had earned it. I was not sure about earning it. I did not want to fall out of any more trees. But I remembered the moonlight streaming across the sea like silver and the stars twinkling in a cloud of silent stardust.

  ‘Stardust’ is one of my favourite tunes. Hoagy Carmichael knew what he was doing when he plucked that one out of the sky. But I could hear strains of the melody right now, out in the street, in the late summer evening. Surely not? It sounded so close. I could not be imagining it.

  My feet hurried towards the Bear and Bait. I knew those notes and could hardly believe what I was hearing. My trumpeter had returned from his travels and he was here, even now, playing to his devoted fans. I could not move fast enough. I flew along the pavement. My hair came out of its plait and fell around my shoulders.

  As I hurried into the Bear and Bait, he blew the last few bars and triumphant notes on his gleaming trumpet, lingering beads of sound clung to the air. Amid the applause, he strolled over towards me, his arms open wide.

  ‘Hello, sweetheart,’ he said with such affection in his eyes that my bones melted. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Locked in a windmill. Chained on a ferry.’

  ‘I wouldn’t think of looking for you in a windmill,’ he said, shaking his head.

  ‘No one did,’ I said. ‘Till it caught fire.’

  ‘Sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t anyone look after you?’

  ‘I have to look after myself.’

  I turned, radiant for once, and froze. DI James was watching me from the doorway but it was too late. I saw the expression on his face and my heart fell apart. He came over.

  ‘The doves are all right,’ he said. ‘A stage hand took them home.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re glad,’ he said, glancing at my trumpeter. He nodded and walked out. My joy drained away with him.

  Life was not fair. N
ot in Latching.

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  Acknowledgements

  Long overdue thanks to a certain station officer in the Fire Service; a certain, now retired, detective chief inspector; and to a wonderful windmill preservation guide for answering all my questions.

  Also warm thanks to the staff of both Oxted and Worthing libraries for finding endless books and newspaper microfilm.

  And my thanks again to Anna Telfer, for her enthusiasm and helpful editorial work; and to Edwin Buckhalter for his confidence and support for the Jordan Lacey series.