I sat back, shocked. And DI James never told me. He must have known the victim’s identity when we met on the beach. That was pretty mean.
There was a blurred photograph of Cllr Fenwick waving to the electorate on the last polling day, his hand raised high in the air as if sensing victory. By his side stood his wife, feather-hatted, smiling hesitantly, bag clutched to her waist.
I took a closer look at the face of the public wife. She was middle-aged with neatly waved hair and a resigned expression. This woman was not the BMW wife I had met. No way. This woman was someone different.
Nine
More rain fell in the next twelve hours than Latching normally has in a month. The forecasters measured the downpour in inches. It sounded like a herd of rampaging buffalos on the roof of my bedroom. Another broken night. The roads and gutters were awash, overflowing. I was glad of the step up into my shop. It didn’t get flooded, but many shops did and the next morning the assistants were mopping up dirty water and throwing out sodden carpets. Basement workrooms were a foot deep in water.
There were old photographs in Latching Town Museum of the great flood of the thirties when boats were used to navigate the low-lying streets. That was before they built up the shoreline and added groynes along the seafront to slow down the impact of the great waves. In the late nineteenth century, a whole pub was washed out to sea. The major catastrophe of the year. Drinkers wept.
My Wellington boots came in for a good slosh as I waded through patches of deep puddles. Latching’s dogs were having a glorious time in the running gutters, spraying passers-by as they shook the wet out of their coats. It’s only when there’s a downpour of that immensity that one discovers the uneven levels of different roads. The council ought to do something about it instead of pulling down historic houses and turning them into car parks and bowling alleys. My pet pedestal of disgust.
Apart from the wellies, I made an effort to look mournful and decent for my sympathy visit to the recently bereaved Mrs Fenwick. She would not be wanting photos, dates and times of philandering now that her husband was dead. But which Mrs Fenwick was I visiting? The woman in the newspaper photo or the BMW version? Vision of a ladybird car was fast fading. I was doomed to two wheels.
The Fenwicks owned one of the best seafront houses at the Goring end of West Latching. It was white with a green roof, double bay windows with a big sun balcony jutting out along the front of the First floor. A double garage housed their cars, her BMW and his Rover saloon. The garden was spacious and neatly planted with trimmed shrubs and dahlias in rows. It did not seem her style but perhaps he was the gardener. And that seemed unlikely too. Perhaps they paid a gardener and let him do what he liked.
I stood in the glass porch, straightening my black leather jacket and newest indigo jeans. The weather had sent me digging out winter polo-necked jerseys. I had three, one white, one navy and one nearly black. This one was the nearly black, suitably mournful.
A woman answered the door bell. She was middle-aged, her hair a carefully tinted pale brown, Figure broadening round the waist, neat blouse and gray skirt, the matt denier of light support stockings on her legs. She must be the housekeeper I had spoken to on the phone. Her face was hollowed and drawn out as if she, too, had not slept.
“I’m Jordan Lacey,” I said. “I’d like to give my condolences to Mrs Fenwick. May I see her, please? Would it be convenient?”
“I’m Mrs Fenwick,” she said tremulously. “I’m afraid I don’t know you but it’s very kind of you to call.”
“You’re Mrs Fenwick?” I could not keep the surprise out of my voice. This was no svelte blonde in skin-tight white pants and glossed lip paint, leaning on a BMW like it was a photoshoot for Hello magazine.
Now I saw that this was the woman who had been standingbeside Adrian Fenwick in the polling day newspaper photo, the waving photograph. The woman in a feathered hat. And she had been crying recently. Her pale eyes were filling even now. I ought to go. It was the wrong time.
“I’m sorry,” I went on. “But I’m a little confused. I understood that someone I met recently was Mrs Fenwick, but I must have been mistaken.”
“I daresay it’s quite a common name.” She was talking for talking’s sake. She took out a hanky that was tucked up her sleeve. It looked crushed and damp.
“I’d better go.”
“No, please don’t go. I am Mrs Hilary Fenwick, I assure you,” she said with admirable composure. “Would you like to come in? I’m just about to make some coffee. Instant, I’m afraid.”
“Thank you. Instant would be fine.”
I followed this different Mrs Fenwick into her immaculate house which was all late fifties and sixties. It had a kind of permanent look, that durable feeling. Homely but with expensive touches that plenty of money bought. The thick mushroom carpeting which continued along the hall and up the stairs; the good Venetian glass on a shelf; the genuine oil paintings of storms and yachts and moonlit liners on the walls.
“My husband loves… loved sea paintings,” she said, seeing my glance wandering over the seascapes that hung on the walls of the hall.
“I do too,” I said. “Anything to do with the sea. I’m a sea person.”
“You would have got on well with Adrian. Is your birthday in July?”
“Yes. The fourth.”
She nodded knowingly. “His was the sixteenth. All Cancer people love the sea. It’s part of your genes. He couldn’t keep away from the sea. That’s why he worked along the coast. He hated being inland. London bored him, made him irritable.”
I suddenly had a different feeling for the charred body in Latching Hospital mortuary. I was always roaming the beach or walking the pier, sitting on my rock. My second home, my pied de mer, left over from a prehistoric crawling out of the sea beginning. I toed off my wellies and left them in the porch.
This older Mrs Fenwick took me into her kitchen. It was purely functional, gray and checked pink, probably quite new. I could just see her making an elaborate wedding cake here, icing the layers on the wide, pink formica work surfaces. The draining board was cluttered with unwashed cups and saucers. She had obviously been drinking a lot of coffee but not eating.
Mrs Fenwick made coffee, enquiring about milk and sugar and carried a tray outside to a big glassed conservatory, very new with a set of bamboo chairs, deeply upholstered and cushioned in a floral material.
“This is nice,” I said, sitting down.
“One of Adrian’s ideas,” she said. “It’s brand new. We could be outdoors even in the winter, he said.”
There were more tears in her eyes and I wondered again if this call was a good idea. But I was dead (sorry) curious. It might help Mrs Fenwick to have someone to talk to. She was a million miles away from the other Mrs Fenwick.
“First, I must say how sorry I was to read about your husband’s death,” I said, sipping the coffee. It wasn’t that bad. “But I must confess that I thought I was to give my sympathy to another lady.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I. I recently met a lady, who introduced herself as Mrs Fenwick and who asked me to undertake some work for her and who arranged to pay me by standing order.”
“What sort of work?”
This was tricky. Even my good clothes could not take away the tackiness of the case work.
“I’m a private investigator. She wanted me to follow her husband, that is, your husband, Councilor Adrian Fenwick, to see if he was having an affair. She wanted photos, dates… you know, that kind of thing.”
“How awful. Not my Adrian. Never.” Mrs Fenwick pushed the hanky against her nose. “It’s a ridiculous idea,” she said, blinking. It clearly meant nothing to her. “My husband? My husband having an affair with a woman? That’s not possible, not true, never. Adrian was a wonderful husband. Someone is playing a joke on you. It’s a hoax. He was never unfaithful. I can vouch for that, one hundred per cent.”
Oh dear, now I had upset her. Fool. I put down my
coffee cup and patted her on the shoulder. I’m not good at sisterly patting. Perhaps I should go to touch classes. They say that touch is often more comforting than words.
“I met this woman in the multi-storeyed car park, this woman who called herself Mrs Fenwick, after the WI wedding display was vandalized,” I said, trying to take her mind off Adrian. “Mrs Drury asked me to take the case on, then I arranged to meet this lady who had made the wedding cake—”
“But I made the wedding cake,” she protested. “And someone stole it. I was very upset. It had taken me hours to decorate. Four layers of icing.”
“Could it be that somehow, someone is intercepting your telephone calls? Is that at all possible? Did Mrs Drury call your home or your mobile? Can you remember what you were doing the afternoon of the Agricultural Show?”
“I was there,” she said, straightaway. “I was at the show.”
“You were there? But Mrs Drury went away to phone you.”
“I was in a different marquee. I was in Crafts. Yes, I do have a mobile but I lost it the day before somewhere. Adrian’s always on at me about losing things.” She stopped. He wouldn’t be on at her any more. “I make dolls. All different nationalities, in national costumes. This year, I entered Greek and Indonesian. Would you like to see them? I’ve a whole room full of my dolls.” She looked at me hopefully.
My heart sank a degree. I was not into dolls unless I was selling a painted china-faced doll stuffed with sawdust in my shop. “Perhaps another time? I’d really like to solve the current misunderstanding first. You’re saying you didn’t get a call from Mrs Drury because you were somewhere else, and had lost your phone anyway?”
“I only found out about the stolen wedding cake hours later. I met some of the WI members in the refreshment tent. They were very upset. So was I. That cake was made for… for a special wedding. Now I’ll have to make another one.”
“So you didn’t get the call from Mrs Drury?”
“I never spoke to her. I don’t know who got the call.”
Nor did I. Nor would I ever know. Unless there was a way of tracing back a standing order. Big joke. Banks and building societies were tight-mouthed with information.
I put down my cup. I didn’t know where I was with this. Perhaps I had imagined the BMW Mrs Fenwick and her standing order. I ought to check with my bank again. Could you get Alzheimer’s at twenty-eight?
“Thank you for the lovely coffee, Mrs Fenwick. And I’m so sorry again, about your husband. Do you know what he was doing at the office so late?”
“Oh yes, he often worked late. It was nothing unusual. He liked having the office to himself when it was empty. Liked to catch up on the work. He always took a thermos of coffee with him. He’d rung me earlier to say he would be very late and not to wait up.” She looked away, blinking back tears. It was the last time he had spoken to her.
That’s what the BMW Mrs Fenwick had said. He often worked late. Perhaps he did. Somewhere here was a line of truth. But I hadn’t found it yet.
“So you made him his usual thermos of coffee that evening?”
Mrs Fenwick burst into tears. “No, I never made any coffee. I let him down.”
I left the house hurriedly. But I had to ask because there had been a melted lump of silver thermos on the desk nearest the safe.
The floods were draining away, leaving litter and glistening tarmac. Cars drove through the remaining pools, spraying water over pedestrians.
I walked back to town slowly, savoring the fresh air, freshening my airways with ozone. Out at sea, some windsurfers were skimming the waves like gaudy butterflies, taking advantage of the wind direction. I could still smell that charred body. Dental records, they’d said. Perhaps a Rolex watch and handmade Italian leather shoes, too. Leather doesn’t burn fast. It smolders.
Two Mrs Fenwicks and each so different. Were they model one and a future Mark II model? It was a fair guess. Perhaps the Mark II model was actually the one on the side, but why had she wanted Adrian followed was a mystery. Or was there a third female, some little flaxen-haired teenager with washboard stomach that had captivated his romantic heart and warmed his ageing bones? He was a Cancerian, after all.
And who had killed him? DI James seemed set on arson, nothing accidental, no falling asleep over a lighted cigarette, no electrical short-circuit. As far as DI James had said, there were traces of petrol and a candle in a waste bin. Very odd. Especially with Adrian Fenwick already in the office. Unless they didn’t know he was there. Maybe he was drugged. Already non compos mentis. Only emerging from his drugged state when he could hardly breathe, smoke-clogged, dragging himself to the safe, trying to shut himself inside, away from the inferno.
Why should I think he was drugged? Because he was an efficient businessman, ran a successful chain of estate agents; because it was out of character for him to be caught out.
It was an awful death, especially for a man who loved the sea. I had a rapport with him if you could rapport with a dead man, a cheating dead man. A double-cheating man. It was possible in a funny way.
The bank cashiers changed faces every few weeks. Maybe they wore masks. I never saw the same person twice. William Weaver was now on sick leave. I felt responsible.
“There’s a new standing order,” I said. “Has it been paid into my account this week? I’d like it checked.” I gave the account number.
“Yes, the standing order has been paid in, Miss Lacey,” said the girl, a bright young thing in a patterned bank uniform blouse. She keyed up my account and wrote a sum on a memo notelet. “Here’s your current statement.”
I nearly went up the wall. This was ridiculous. My account showed a total of £6,000 plus. Another £2,000 had been paid in. Correctly deposited as the jargon goes.
“I really must see the deputy manager,” I said with a sinking feeling. “This is beyond a joke. Something must be done at once.”
This was an even younger manager. He looked as if he had just left school or was doing work experience.
“I have checked and see that the sum of two thousand pounds cash was paid into your account yesterday and there was nothing unusual about the payment. You have made a similar payment recently.”
“Not unusual?” I nearly yelled. “They are all unusual and not mine. I didn’t pay them in and the money belongs to someone else. I keep telling you to take it out. Would you please remove it.”
“I have no authority to remove it,” he said pompously, dabbing a speck of sweat off his downy upper lip. He didn’t even shave yet.
“I’m giving you the authority,” I snarled. I was feeling really anti every bank and building society that existed. It was back to under the mattress any minute. To hell with the Euro, credit cards, e-mail and technology. I’m a pounds, shillings and pence girl. Correction: pounds and pence. None of those stupid pees, please. I’m not using loo money every time I buy a cauliflower.
I left the building before I lost my temper. They could sort out the muddle. It was not my problem. I washed my hands of it. I fancied some cholesterol-coated fish and chips for a late lunch and stormed into Maeve’s Cafe. At least she would give me a welcome and cook fish how I liked it. Fresh from the sea, caught by one of her brown-skinned lovers.
“Hello, Mavis,” I said, shedding my leather jacket as I went into her fried-up heat. I took my usual table by the window where I could people watch through the steamed glass.
“Sorry, we’re full,” said Mavis.
“Full? Don’t be daft. You’re not full.” I didn’t understand what she was talking about. The place was half empty.
“I’m expecting a coachload,” she said, not meeting my eyes. “From Blackpool. Coming down for the lights.”
“Is this a joke?” I asked. “Latching has lights. Yes, a pretty good display for a small Sussex seaside town but nobody actually comes just to see them, especially not from Blackpool. Fish and chips, please, Mavis, the way I like them. And you know how.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t se
rve you,” she said, her face soldered all stiff and disapproving. She drummed her fingers on the table. “Would you mind leaving? I’m busy.”
“What? Too busy? Too busy for an old friend? Mavis, please explain in English. I don’t understand. What’s the matter? What’s going on? I’ve been eating here for years. Why the cold shoulder?”
“I don’t serve arsonists,” she said, flouncing off with a twitch of her head.
I froze in my seat. This hurt. The silence drained my mind.
Ten
Indignation followed immediately. I could have torn DI James apart, limb from limb. Have him mounted for a mantelpiece. I knew he ate at Maeve’s Cafe regularly but he had no right to talk about me. I could sue. I would sue the whole West Sussex Police Force, defamation of character, loss of earnings, stress, withdrawal of local eating servery, the lot.
A female Lacey when she is aroused is a fearsome beast. I fled the cafe, stamped the deck of the pier, kicked shingle, trashed seaweed, then opened my neglected shop and dressed both windows in funereal black. Within minutes, I had sold a black silk scarf, a black biscuit barrel and a pair of ginettes. Ginettes are thick glasses with little bowls for the gin. I had thought of drowning my sorrows in neat gin. A passing moment of pained, diurnal self-pity. Liver destruction.
I made £18 in as many minutes. It cheered me up no end. Perhaps the clue to selling was color coordination. A blue window, a pink window, apricot, saffron, indigo, striped, spotted. Give me a color, I’ll make you a window.
I celebrated the easy money by getting some business cards printed at one of those self-service machines in the shopping arcade. The choice of personal logos was bewildering. I was hardly a typewriter or a flowerpot. Nothing suitable for First Class Investigations. I settled for a top and bottom border of question marks. I could always change the design as I only had fifty printed. I practised saying: “My card,” with a flourish. Then I tried authoritative. Next voice used was more humble. Plain, expressionless won.
Wave and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 2) Page 9
