Wave and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 2)

by Stella Whitelaw

  “Thank you,” I said, closing the last album. “You’ve been very helpful. You must have been up all night printing this lot. But I can’t spot the stolen cake. Perhaps it’s too soon. Shall I come again?”

  “Have you tried the British Legion or the Salvation Army? They have lots of impromptu wedding parties. They use the Community Hall.”

  “Thanks. I’ll pop along.” An impromptu Salvation Army wedding? A shot-gun affair? Perhaps it was the uniform.

  By this time, I was sick of weddings and went home. I was sinking under showers of confetti and bouffant skirts. The ritual suffocated me. It put me off sugar icing for life. DI James was safe. No close shave imminent. He had been married once, he’d told me. I knew nothing about the aftermath, except that it had left him bitter and withdrawn. It was hard to get a smile out of him. I had my small victories. A few times I had even made him laugh.

  “Jordan. Are you in? It’s DI James. Let me in. I have to talk to you.” He was calling up to my open window.

  I flew downstairs from my bedsits. He was standing on the doorstep, hunched in a navy anorak, growling like a bear in rehab.

  “Don’t you ever ring a bell? Didn’t your mother teach you how to be polite?” I asked.

  I drank in the sight of him. Even in bear-mode, he was so attractive if you like that craggy, cropped-head look. And I did.

  “I haven’t time to be polite. I could see you were in.”

  “So what’s all this about, James?”

  “Water lilies. Thousands of pounds’ worth. Did you put that damned-fool advert in the paper? ‘STOCKING A POND? WATER LILIES FOR SALE’. I put two good men on to that lead.”

  “Well, more fool you, Detective Inspector, for taking the bait. Would a thief really advertise his stolen goods? Fresh off the back of a lorry stuff? I credited you with more sense.”

  I steered him upstairs as I spoke, towards my upright moral sofa and sat him down. It only held one person in comfort, but still it was big enough for two in an emergency. At the same time as talking, I was making good coffee as he liked it, opening a packet of shortbread, tipping figs and prunes into a dish. Before he knew what was happening, he had a mug of coffee, my special coffee, in his hand, the aroma relaxing the tenseness of his well-toned muscles.

  “Milk, cream, coffee-mate?”

  “Black, Jordan.”

  Just as well. I only had black. I put two mugs on the saffron tiled coffee table. The coffee table had style and class, right height, right size, all warm colors.

  “I want you to leave this case alone,” said James. He looked a few degrees more human with my best mug in his hand. His body sagged against the unrelenting back of my upright sofa. There was room for me too but I did not intrude, sat on the floor, my back against the ribbed radiator, its heat easing any pain.

  “But Mr Lucan is employing me so I can’t leave it. He doesn’t feel CID are taking the case seriously. That is, before you realized how valuable the plants were. And did your O-level sums, etc.”

  “We’ve got some information. You are just holding things up, Jordan. I want you out. Get on with your other cases, whatever they are.”

  “What do you mean, out? What sort of information?”

  “You know I can’t tell you but it may be mixed up with something bigger.”

  “Forget it. Mr Lucan is paying me good money and I need that money.” A driving vision of red with black spots appeared before my eyes and almost crossed them. “Remember, I don’t get a monthly salary and an index-linked pension nor a stress payment if the going gets hard. I have to work all hours for every penny. What information?”

  “What about this community spirit of yours? Has avarice taken hold? You are interfering in normal police procedure. We’ve leads in Amsterdam outlets already. The flower markets on the canals. It’s a big operation and too complicated a set-up for you.”

  “Good, I’m pleased. You look after Amsterdam and I’ll look after the Latching end.”

  “You are an impossible woman. Don’t you know your own limits? This may be some international smuggling gang.”

  “Oh my, what a big story… international smuggling in water plants? Has Mr Lucan been growing cannabis on the side? You’re right, I may not be able to handle it. On the other hand, perhaps I’d better brush up on my Dutch. Ja, Herr James. Hoe gaat het?”

  DI James put down the empty mug. The caffeine had revived him. He had that sharp look again. Those ocean eyes glimmered with intelligence and for once, the merest grain of humor.

  “I don’t know why I come here, Jordan. You talk complete nonsense. Where did you learn Dutch?”

  “We found a young Dutch girl sleeping rough on the front, a runaway, when I was still with the force. I looked after her for a few days, picked up some phrases. You know why you come here, for my coffee, you know that. And my particular variety of scintillating company. It makes you feel men are the superior race for a few isolated moments. No one down at the nick is half as much fun.”

  His eyes riveted on mine like a flash of electricity. He’d know me if he saw me again.

  “No one down at the nick is any fun.”

  Ten seconds later, he had gone, shutting the door behind him. I heard the street door close downstairs. His mug stood on the table. I moved over and sat on the sofa on the exact spot where he had sat so that I could feel the residual warmth from his body. I drank it in through my pores, touched the crushed velour, melting with desire for the man.

  I needed a head test.

  *

  The charity box produced a fox fur. The speckled red fur was in good condition but I hated the sad glass eyes of the fox. Had they hunted him and the trauma stayed fixed? A two-piece beige suit was Jacques Verte but I wore the label inside. A pair of painful court shoes and a black pull-on thirties cloche hat made me look a wealthy eccentric, the kind of woman who had all her money in real estate and not on her back.

  “My goodness,” said Doris, coming out of her grocery shop to replenish the newspaper display. “Off to Ascot, are we?”

  “Ascot’s over. Besides I always wear Antonio Berardi to Ascot.”

  “I should have known. You’ve such good taste. Your trainers are the talk of Latching.”

  I cycled part of the way, ignoring the odd looks, left my bike chained to some railings round the corner and out of sight, and walked into Fenwick Future Homes. No, I couldn’t see Mr Fenwick, said the receptionist. No, he wasn’t free today. No, he never saw anyone without an appointment. Pity. The haughty young woman had been to elocution classes and said no with elongated vowels, both of them. I did not feel she was the object of Mr Fenwick’s menopausal desire.

  “Then I’d like to make an appointment for tomorrow if that’s not too much trouble,” I said, with all the courtesy of old money. I wanted to talk to him, get the character of the man, wanted him in the office at a certain time so I could snap him arriving, leaving, start tailing him.

  “Nine thirty tomorrow morning,” said Miss Tone and Tonsils, fingers twinkling over a keyboard. “Or is that too early?”

  “I don’t sleep much,” I said. Too busy counting my money. “That’s fine.”

  “And what name shall I say?”

  “Mrs Barbara Hutton.” She did not blink a stiff, mascaraed lash. Before her time. I stroked the sad hard head of the fox, took his limp body off my shoulders, and hung him over my arm. He felt better that way, more at home.

  I decided to walk back to my shop, cruising the charity shops on the way. I needed more stock. A couple of carrier bags later and I’d a nice selection of memorabilia to dress my windows.

  While I was in the shops, I asked if anyone had offered them a wedding cake.

  “Heavens no!” The ladies had been much amused. “Left in the lurch, were they?”

  It never worried my conscience that I was two-timing the charities. I paid their asking price. If I could resell an item for more, that was their look-out. It felt like I was keeping stock moving. Most things found th
eir way back to the charity shelves a few years later.

  Small ads in shop windows also drew a blank. No one was advertising a three-tier cake for sale. Gold ribbons included.

  The evening was making notes time. The trademark of a good PI was detailed notes. Never rely on memory. It can play tricks.

  It was a cold night, temperature zeroing on minus. I thought twice about putting on a T-shirt but was too lazy to get out of bed, lay there shivering instead, toes frozen. DI James would have kept me warm but that was a pointless fantasy. He might isolate me, even in bed, with his long back turned away. Intelligence and brawn on the law side of the bed, independent female PI falling off the other. To him, Jordan Lacey was an alien creature, her face retreating into the night, scattering clusters of stars as she drifted away. At some point, I fell asleep.

  But near dawn I awoke, stiff and cold, bells ringing in my ears. A fire engine was clanging down the road, closely followed by a second appliance. I thought I could smell smoke. Had I left something on? I staggered, stiff-legged, round my two bedsits, checking. Something was burning but it wasn’t here or my shop. The engines were heading away in the other direction, thank goodness.

  I grabbed some heavy jeans, a brushed sweat shirt and anorak and let myself out. The morning air was sharp and biting. Frost hung on last summer’s leaves, turning them brown. Dahlia heads had lost any petal color. I weaved along the road, half asleep, my breath puffing out in cloud vapors. I couldn’t go back to sleep so I might as well find out what was going on.

  It was easy to follow the sounds and the smell into the center of town, taking a short cut through Field Alley. The appliances were screeching to a halt and I could already see flames and smoke rising above the rooftops. The firefighters flung themselves out, opening hatches, running the hoses along the pavement. It was a scene I knew all too well from my days with the police. We were always called to a fire scene soon after the firefighters had put out the blaze.

  I stood on the corner of the street in the early morning mist, suddenly shocked awake by the sight.

  Fenwick Future Homes was on fire. The brand new showroom was ablaze. Not much of a future now. A crowd was gathering. They were being kept back for their own safety. I slipped round to the side, out of the way, but partly to see what I could see.

  “Anyone live upstairs?” I heard the sub officer ask. He was the one in a white helmet and a first class physique. He looked as if he knew what to do in any circumstance. The impression was of cool intelligence and judgement. A bit like DI James. Without the height or looks.

  “No one upstairs, guv!” someone shouted back. “It’s all offices.”

  The fire was spreading rapidly and the extreme heat was forcing the crew to tackle the blaze from the pavement. One firefighter was directing a hose from the top of an aerial appliance. Four fighters crouched on the pavement directing water jets through the door and the broken showroom windows. In their navy and red fire kit and coordinated movements, they looked like a row of line dancers. Huge clouds of steam billowed out. Video cameras on a tripod were recording the scene.

  I could not understand why the fire was so intense or what was causing the combustion. Paper, desks, computers, carpeting, copier cartridges, photographic equipment, paint? There had been discreet no-smoking signs on all the desks. Computers generate a lot of heat and nowadays many were left on all night.

  Tongues of flame, bright orange and yellow, reflected in what was left of the glass. The fire was reducing the opulent corner showroom to blackened walls and barely recognizable debris. Steam eddied upwards. Glass and plastic melted. Dirty water flooded the road and ran along the gutters. Miss T&T was howling on to someone’s shoulder. She looked as if she was wearing an outdoor coat over her nightie.

  “I’ve lost everything,” she gulped. “All my things.”

  There were no police in attendance yet. It was West Sussex Fire Brigade’s pigeon. A tangle of dull orange hoses littered the gutter like arteries and veins, cables like capillaries. I heard glass shattering and blowing out as the flames spread upstairs. The noise was horrific like an animal devouring Adrian Fenwick’s prize showroom.

  No nine-thirty appointment now. I wondered which bystander was Cllr Adrian Fenwick. I had only a hazy idea of what he looked like. One councilor is much like another. But surely he would be here, checking on his insurance. Getting the sympathy vote. The crowd was growing as workers stopped on their way, talking in groups, shocked by the devastation.

  They were damping down the premises now. Pockets of fire sometimes existed under debris. I could see the office was a mess, equipment destroyed, a mass of sodden paper and charred furniture. Bits of personal belongings were strewn among the debris, a coffee jar, mugs, burnt sugar bag. Shopping list: get a smoke alarm. Get two smoke alarms.

  The fumes were no good for my asthma. I didn’t know why I was still there. Plain curiosity and being unable to turn down any new experience. The firefighters would soon be handing over to the police. I didn’t want to be around when the plodders arrived.

  The fire investigators would also be on the spot. They had to find out how the fire started. Perhaps Miss T&T had left an aromatherapy candle burning on her desk. Or maybe it was arson. Some mindless gang of youths on a spree, leaving one of Latching’s nightclubs, worse the wear for a dozen pints of bitter. Latching did have such clubs, hidden away in alleyways. The pounding music shook the night air, cracked pavements, stained glasses left on the roadway.

  “It’s too awful,” the young woman shuddered, almost relishing her star role. “I can’t believe it. Everything’s gone.”

  She would have been good in an old black and white movie. Before sound. I could just see her roped to the rails, an express thundering towards her at twenty miles an hour.

  “Do we know how this happened?” I asked a disheveled fireman. Firemen are 90 per cent dishy. It’s the bulky uniform and the aura of courage and strength. This one had a jutting jaw.

  “No, miss. Probably an electrical fault. It usually is.”

  “Which is Mr Adrian Fenwick?” I probed.

  “He doesn’t seem to have turned up yet.”

  “Overslept,” I suggested.

  Errant husband would have to go on hold. I doubted if he would have much time for erotic dalliances in the next few’ days. It was back to plants and wedding cakes house-to-house or Mrs Drury would be losing her faith in me.

  “Do you want to go in, officer?” It was the sub officer, the one in the white helmet.

  He thought I was still in the force. It was a little unnerving.

  Hadn’t the news got around yet? Or had the Chief Super suppressed my departure for some unique reason of his own? The dodgy CID officer who caused all the trouble was not reprimanded, simply moved on to another area. I was the one who got her knuckles slapped for being right and fair.

  “Great,” I said, not complaining. I stepped over the threshold to devastation. Fire was not nice. Everywhere was under water. My feet were getting wet. I was squelching in sodden soles. Trainers are no substitute for the rubberized boots the Firefighters were wearing. The scene was depressing, desks, chairs, computers, all twisted, charred and ruined, barely recognizable. Only the safe in the far corner had survived. The door was slightly ajar, debris piled against it. I was about to go when I caught a whiff of something different and it was a horrendous stench. I found a handkerchief and crushed it to my nose.

  Suddenly, I knew what it was. I had been to a lot of barbecues on the beach in my time and knew the smell of roasted meat. People got missed in fires. It happened all the time; a child could crawl into a three-inch gap under a sofa. Panicking victims hid in wardrobes.

  Someone had crawled into the safe, thinking the one-inch thickness of steel would protect him. But something had gone wrong with closing the door. Or his smoldering clothes had set the stored documents and stacked money alight. He had ovened himself.

  I caught hold of a firefighter, reeling in a hose. He was sweating heav
ily, his face grimed.

  “Excuse me,” I said, trying to hold my voice steady. “Have you looked in the safe recently?”

  *

  It was beginning to rain, light autumn, coolish. The innocent fall put out the last of the smoldering embers and the crowds scattered to cafes and shops, work premises, unfolding telescopic umbrellas. I did not mind getting top wet and the rain

  cleared the smell from my nostrils. It saved me from trying to look tidy.

  A police car arrived. DI James got out, hunched up in a collared trench coat. I turned away. He was followed by two other CID officers. I inched nearer, but tried to stay invisible. There was a lot of activity. I spotted Sergeant Rawlings, my friend with the tiger face. Unusual to find him out of Custody.

  “What’s happening?” I asked, artlessly. “Seems a lot of activity for a shop fire. Do you know anything?”

  “Not sure, Jordan. Just a rumor. They’ve found a body, huddled in the safe. Someone trapped by the fire. Nasty, if that’s true. And if it’s arson, then that makes it murder. I should leg it if I were you, Jordan. And I shouldn’t be seen talking to you.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’d hate to rocket your pension rights.”

  I drifted away. I had to talk to someone. I perambulated. Someone must tell me more. The body in the safe couldn’t be Mr Fenwick. He’d not been in that afternoon when I’d called. If he was not at work in the afternoon, he’d hardly return in the middle of the night. It wouldn’t make sense.

  The haughty young receptionist was trying to repair her make-up. The media had lost interest in her. So had the firefighters.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, sidling up, hoping no one would recognize me. “You must be terribly upset. It was such a lovely showroom and you had everything so nice. What’s this about a body being found?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, clearly shaken. “There was no one there when I locked up. I always make sure. I was the last to leave.”

  “So who do you think it is?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve no idea. Perhaps someone broke in. It must be a burglar. Or perhaps I locked someone in by mistake and it’s all my fault. Oh God, this is so, so awful.”