Wave and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 2)

by Stella Whitelaw

  Mrs Drury was off. That woman could talk. I held the phone away from my ear and jotted down relevant names, letting the bulk of her meanderings fill the ether. It was an avenue that had not occurred to me before.

  “Thank you, Mrs Drury. That’s a great help. I’ll follow them up.”

  “My, my, Jordan, you work so hard. I’m so impressed.”

  It was on my bike time again. I had a list of names. As Mavis said, sometimes you get the truth from gossip.

  Seven

  They were planning to raise the wreck of the Lancaster bomber. It was the stuff of nightmares, searching for dead bodies in dark water. I knew the female police diver with the Sussex Police Underwater Search Unit from my days on the beat. Her name was Ellen Peach, which was a fragrant name for someone who looked tough and had such a murky job. Some days, she’s looking for a corpse in a river bed or a reservoir, the next searching sewers for drugs or a gun.

  I recognized her immediately despite the wet suit and bulky equipment, helmet, mask, respirator. All I could see of Ellen were her eyes, deceptively mild and gentle. She liked Debussy, especially the nocturnes. Her hair was brown, cut short like a boy and she was very fit. She jogged and trained with weights. It showed. I always felt puny and weak beside her but she was nice enough not to comment. I’d once done her a good turn so perhaps that counted. Or rather, a good turn that helped her mother. Still, it counted.

  The end of the pier had been taped off, scene of crime tape with no apparent crime. They didn’t want gawping sightseers getting in the way, or video enthusiasts and reporters. There were several reporters hanging about in various journalistic stances, most of them glued to their mobiles. There were the plain bored, smoking, major-pollution variety, to those trying to look seriously busy in case an editor caught them on screen. I knew most of them by sight but kept out of their way.

  “Zero visibility and freezing,” I heard a police officer say. “I don’t envy them. They don’t know yet what they arc going to find.”

  A police launch was riding the waves, tossing and lurching. The two police divers tipped over backwards into the water, like dolphins, disappearing into the choppy blue depths. The wind was beginning to strengthen. The weathermen had forecast storms and strong winds and I had a feeling they were right for once. I zipped up my anorak and tried to find some small shelter. If the wind went through my ears I’d end up with earache. It was no fun having sensitive drums.

  One of the reporters ambled over. He was jumpy, looking for an angle, editor breathing down his polo neck. “What are you doing here, WPC Lacey?” he asked, another one with information months out of date. “And in civvies. Or are we plain clothes now?”

  “Very plain,” I said, not correcting him. “I’m interested in the Lancaster, part of Latching’s history. A fascinating legend. What do you know about it?”

  “Not a lot. They think there’s one body still in the wreck, the pilot. Everyone says the rest of the crew struggled ashore and were accounted for. But who knows?”

  “What about bombs and incendiaries? Any of them aboard?”

  “A full load apparently. Enough to blow up half of Latching. A pretty dangerous wreck. Any of these fishing trawlers could have dragged the debris to the surface and blown themselves sky high. Which makes it even more curious that Councilor Fenwick should have opposed the raising of the wreck.”

  “He did what?” I kept the surprise out of my voice. I ought to read council meetings more carefully.

  “He opposed it at the last council meeting, vehemently. He maintained that it was a war grave and should be left where it is, undisturbed. Desecration of the dead. Grieving relatives upset, etc. But the vote went through.”

  “What relatives?”

  “Exactly. Who is there left now to care? I’m only a humble reporter so I can only report, but we’re talking over half a century. But there’s a dozen letters in today’s paper opposing the rising of the wreck. Quite an uproar. Councilor Fenwick is determined to stop this operation. It’s a wonder he’s not here with a placard, making a fuss, getting in everyone’s way as he usually does. It’s the kind of headline he likes. Don’t Touch Our Heroic Dead.”

  “What else do you know about Councilor Fenwick?” I asked casually. “Has he an eye for the ladies as well as the headlines? Is there an attractive woman councilor who shares his views over a late night drink, non-alcoholic, of course.”

  “Now, now, Miss Lacey,” the reporter smirked. “What kind of question is that? Anyone would think you had an interest in the councilor’s private life.”

  “Well, I have, in a way,” I smiled. I was not going to give this nosy-parker, twitchy-biro newsgatherer the merest clue. “I have a close friend who has a crush on him and I wondered if she stood a chance.”

  It was a pathetic route, I knew. But it was the best I could do at short notice. The reporter grinned back and was about to say something when his mobile phone rang, an irritating call sign jangling on the air, setting my nerves on edge even when he turned away to answer. My chance had gone. Usual luck.

  I wandered off to as near as I could get to the end of the pier. This was only a ten-minute air break from FCI. I had that list of people to see, paperwork to do, a shop to run.

  The divers were surfacing, bobbing along on the waves, riding the splashes, waiting to climb back on board the launch. They tipped themselves into the boat. I leaned over the railings of the pier, waved down to Ellen Peach.

  “Hi, Ellen,” I called, hoping she would remember me. trying to look memorable. “Found anything of interest?”

  She nodded, pulling off her helmet. Her short hair stuck up like a broom. She unclipped all the equipment to rid herself of the weight. She looked shocked, thrown, unusual for her. She was used to all sorts of sights.

  “Just the pilot?” I yelled again.

  She shook her head and held up two fingers. Not a rude sign.

  “Two airmen?” I shouted. But she did not answer. She had bent down to say something to her colleague.

  The launch was spinning giddily in the rough waves. It washed right up close to the rust-ridden girders of the pier. I could see clearly down into the launch.

  “No,” Ellen said, peering up at me, slightly more relaxed. She made up her mind. She was remembering the good turn and that I liked music too. “One is a woman. Was a woman.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She’s wearing a bracelet on her wrist. There was just bones and a bracelet. Don’t ask me any more, Jordan.”

  *

  A woman. It was startling news but nothing to do with any of my cases. What was a woman doing on board a Lancaster bomber in the middle of a war? Perhaps she was an agent, ready to be dropped somewhere in France. Did this have anything to do with Cllr Fenwick’s wreck-raising objection? But how could it? He must have been a mere baby, a dummy-guzzler, at the time of the heroic run.

  I went back to my shop and opened up. I had been neglecting the merchandising of late but still, it was only a front, and not my main source of income. Income? Did I have one? Not a frequent word in my vocabulary.

  I thought it was time to run a few thoughts by DI James but I was hesitant. Terence Lucan was my client, he was paying me and I was besotted about buying his beautiful car. Here we go again – conflicting interests. But still I had this stupid morality thing that made me leave a message on DI James’ answerphone.

  “Hi, James,” I said, all cheery, perky girl informer. “Just a thought. Have you checked if Terence Lucan has any gambling debts? That invitation for coffee still stands even though you were so rude to me last time. Promise no cut corners with a jar of instant, though you deserve it.”

  I didn’t say my name. If he couldn’t recognize my voice by now then he was an imbecile. A dear, acutely remote, madly attractive, amazingly sexy imbecile. If only he would look at me clearly with those ocean-blue eyes instead of clouding them with distrust.

  The dear, acutely remote object of affection rang back within mi
nutes. “What’s this about Terence Lucan?” he said crisply. “What debts?”

  “Er… not sure,” I said. “But apparently his financial situation is not exactly healthy. He likes the horses, the running and jumping over hedges kind. And I’m not saying any more. Pure gossip.”

  “Then why ring me?”

  “Just to hear your resonant tintinnabulary,” I crooned, then slamming down the receiver. Love that word. Never had a chance to use it before. DI James’ voice drove me mad. That trace of an accent. Those deep brown tones. It was not fair. No man should be allowed to speak like that. The voice can be the most evocative and attractive thing about a man. Shut your eyes and it doesn’t matter what a man looks like, or what he does to your body as long as the voice in your ear is an echo of heaven.

  I closed my eyes, pretending I could still hear him. But all I heard was the thrashing of the waves on the shore. It was getting rough again. Something was going wrong with the weather. Global warming was on its way. Latching first hit.

  My trumpeter has that kind of voice, caring and enfolding as if you are the only person in the world who exists for him. But he has two voices, for his trumpet is a second voice. His music sings in my ears with a message that is often only for me and I always listen for it. His wife may hear a different message but I know when he plays solely for me. Another gut-ripping scenario. Pass me the Glenn Miller and String of Pearls, no, recap, not the String of Pearls tape. I’d rather hear a little Speak Low, Sweet and Lovely or Mercy, Mercy, Me.

  I had not seen my special trumpeter for weeks. I supposed he was off playing dazzling Vegas or New York or doing Bond film credits. I could recognize his trumpet soaring above the theme music. He got paid thousands of dollars for those few notes. I always felt gloriously proud of him and wanted to tell the people sitting next to me in the cinema. I know that man! The man who played those soaring notes.

  There was a jumbled message from Mrs Drury. “I’ve gone through all our records,” she proclaimed. “And there is one woman, just one woman who has been turned down three times by the committee. Now isn’t that extraordinary?”

  “Extraordinary,” I agreed even though she couldn’t hear me on the answerphone. I didn’t think there was anything more I could do for Mrs Drury and Latching Wl. The food had gone; the wedding cake was under wraps in some deep freeze; it was a cold trail. Any moment now I would have to give her back her money and tell her the case was closed.

  “It’s Mrs Fairbrother, the bank manager’s wife. She’s tried to join three times. But we won’t have her. No, thank you. Weird is her middle name.”

  The tape clicked off and I sat back in my chair. Mrs Fairbrother. Leroy Anderson’s sister and now blacklisted by the Latching WI. Talk about coincidence and coincidences don’t happen. Perhaps I ought to go and see her. Funny how she overlapped three cases… although the disappearance of Leslie Fairbrother, her husband, was nothing to do with her. Or was it? DI James could keep that one. I didn’t want to know.

  I looked up the address again. No 12 Tarrant Close. Not far on my Raleigh Sunrise. Two birds with one pebble. I might have a word with Leroy at the same time. Is your boss a nice man, that kind of thing. Does he have affairs?

  *

  Tarrant Close was a road of fifties development and a cul-de-sac. The different styled houses looked very settled. Trees had grown and hedges expanded, creeping along perimeters. Everywhere had that weathered look, nothing new or glaring. No nasty extensions or garages turned into extra TV rooms.

  Number twelve had a Tudorish timbered porch with ceramic pot for umbrellas, two curtained bay windows, chalet-style gable, a detached garage and a Japanese magnolia in the front garden. Exactly what a bank manager would buy on mortgage, special terms for staff in management, a perk, of course.

  I parked my Sunrise and rang the bell. Chimes sounded indoors. A woman opened the door. I knew immediately I had seen her somewhere before but I had no idea where. Her face was out of this world. Plains of beauty.

  “Yes?” she said.

  I didn’t know what a bank manager’s wife should look like. Was there a standard model? I suppose I expected the middle-class mold of M&S twinsets and plain court shoes, not the wild-haired vision who opened the door at No 12, all swirling Indian cotton skirts, bare feet and anklets.

  “Mrs Fairbrother?” I smiled hopefully. Could be the wrong house. “My name is Jordan Lacey, a private investigator. I’m making some enquiries on behalf of the Latching WI and I wondered if you could help me.”

  “I’m Waz Fairbrother, yes,” she said. She had long black hair, long locks loose, half braided, half beaded as if she had lost interest in the middle of getting dressed. Although not a model-type beauty, her face was arresting with constantly changing expressions. Her hands were beautiful, long and tapered, each nail painted a different color, some decorated with stars, crescent moons, splatter cuts. Definitely not WI material.

  “Ah yes, Waz Fairbrother.” Was there a river called Waz? I was christened after a river. Perhaps her mother also had a river fixation. Or a mountain conception figured. Waziristan was a mountainous region somewhere in North Pakistan. Learned that from a crossword I couldn’t do.

  “DI James has also brought me into his search for your husband.” That was a close one. Showing me a photograph of the balding Leslie Fairbrother could be construed as professional cooperation. “Can I speak to you? It won’t take long.”

  “Come in,” she said. “Have they found him?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  I followed her through a plain, magnolia-walled, cheerless hallway to the back kitchen. Kitchen. This room hit me like a cyclone. I took a deep breath.

  “This is mine,” she explained, waving her arms around. “No one is allowed in here except with me. If you don’t mind, I’ve some stuff setting now and I can’t leave it.”

  It was a mega muddle, a mega mess, mega catastrophe. Every surface, including the floor, was covered in objects, boxes, cartons, bits and pieces. The only resemblance to a normal kitchen was a gas cooker on which bubbled various gungy pots, and a sink piled high with plates, mugs, palettes and sablehaired brushes. There was a table lurking somewhere underneath a collection of piled tins and corrugated paper, wire, egg boxes and lengths of garden trellis. My bland bedsits were pure Ideal Home showrooms in comparison. Latching WI would have binned the lot in the name of hygiene.

  “I’m making something,” she added, not explaining. “Something special.”

  “Interesting,” I murmured. “I wonder if you could go through your husband’s disappearance for me?”

  “I don’t think I was here,” Waz said, stirring some pot like a medieval witch. She brushed her black hair out of her eyes with a flick. “I think I was away on research.”

  Research? Researching a council dump, a recycling plant? Collecting a few choice items of other people’s junk. Perhaps I should ask her to keep an eye open for my shop. I was getting low on novelty stock.

  “When I got back, he wasn’t here. The front door was open and he’d been abducted.”

  “How do you know?”

  The answer was in her pale eyes, so pale they held no color. “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? They drove him to the bank, to get him to open the safe deposit boxes, didn’t they? But he didn’t have the master key to the vaults.”

  “Where was his key?”

  “It was here. All his keys are here,” she said with a gleam of triumph, touching a three-foot-high misshapen edifice that stood on the floor. It was a lethal-looking object, green in color, streaked with rust. “I’ve called it ‘Ruin’.”

  “Very appropriate,” I said, wondering if I was supposed to understand. “Can you tell me any more about your husband’s disappearance? Supposing he wasn’t abducted?”

  “He could have done a runner. What’s that phrase they all use these days? He wanted some space. Space, my eye! Men today don’t want responsibility, nothing marital like it used to be. Marriage once was till death
do us part. Now it’s just until something else takes your fancy.”

  “I’m very sorry about your husband, Mrs Fairbrother, but as I said, it’s not my case. I really want to talk to you about the WI.”

  She gave a short, sharp laugh. “Oh, that lot. Leslie wanted me to join. He made me apply three times. To calm me down, he said, to make me more normal. I couldn’t have cared less. Anyway, I never cook. We don’t need cooked food. Not my style.”

  There was no room in that kitchen to cook. Not even to microwave a soup.

  “Did you go to the Agricultural Show last weekend?”

  “Yes.” She did not hesitate. “I wanted some hay and straw.”

  “Oh, fascinating. Did you see the WI’s winning entry?”

  “Their what? I don’t know… no, did they have one? Don’t ask me.”

  “So you never went near it?”

  “I wouldn’t recognize their entry if I saw it. I’m sorry. I never saw anything. Would you like a drink?” She fished out a crushed sachet from under the assorted debris. “Camomile and ginger? Very good for the nerves.”

  “No, thank you but thank you. By the way, your sister lives with you, doesn’t she?”

  “Leroy? Yes, she lives here. Somewhere. Upstairs, I think, in one of the rooms. The front room, I guess. I never see her. She has a hectic social life. No purpose or direction except in a straight line towards the male race.”

  So this muddy collection of painted clutter had purpose and direction? I suppose it depended on which way you looked at it.

  “I’d like to talk to your sister sometime. Can you give her a message saying that and my phone number.” I wrote my number down on an old typed card which she folded and folded until it was a stub which she poked between two tins of rimmed adhesive. Farewell, phone number. It would end up buried in an edifice. Shopping list: professional business cards (again). I made to leave. The glue cooking on the stove was making me feel sick.