What I really needed was a healthy dose of pure jazz. A steady drumbeat, tinkling keyboard, soaring saxes, blazing trumpets bursting my eardrums. Magic. My own trumpeter… where art thou now? Rehearsing in the studio, taking dearest wife out to a candlelit dinner, driving round the North on nightly gigs? I didn’t even know what kind of car he drove.
Work ahead was obvious. I had to get fixes on Terence Lucan, the late Adrian Fenwick and Mrs Drury, bless her gray knitted cardigan. Find out if they had any kind of record that had caught the eye of the police. If I was to clear myself of this arson charge, then I had to find out who had really torched the showroom. Although Terence Lucan was not linked in any way, the fact that I was investigating the theft of his water lilies might in some way be a threat to someone else. Confusing.
DI James was in Maeve’s Cafe, attacking a huge plate of sausage, mushroom, eggs and chips. He was slurping tomato sauce over the succulent heap. I marched in, straight past Mavis and handed him one of my freshly printed cards.
“My card,” I said, plain, expressionless.
He peered at it as if he did not know who I was. “Most impressive,” he said. “What do all the question marks mean? That you are not sure what or whom you are investigating?”
“You owe me one,” I said, helping myself to a big, fat chip. It was delicious, taste-bud zapping.
“Quit stealing my chips,” he said.
“You told Mavis I set fire to Fenwick Future Homes.”
“I did not.”
“She knows. I mean, she knows that you suspect me but not that you don’t now.”
“Clear as mud. You should take lessons on how to articulate your thoughts.”
“You should take lessons on how to eat properly without getting tomato sauce on your chin,” I retorted.
He wiped his chin with one of Mavis’s cheap and scratchy paper napkins. I grinned at the gesture. There wasn’t any sauce on his chin, of course.
He sighed deeply. “You really are immature, Jordan.”
But I noticed that he was almost amused.
“I need a quick decko at the PNC or the CRO. Please? It’s all perfectly harmless but I need to know if three people have any record, however trivial.”
“And I suppose one of these people is the late Councilor Adrian Fenwick? Well, I’ll save you the trouble. Clean as a whistle. Nothing. Not even a parking ticket.”
“Thank you,” I said, humble-voiced. The practising had come in useful.
“And the second?” The chips were putting him in a good mood.
“Terence Lucan. The stolen water lilies. He’s one of your cases, too.”
“I know. I did follow up your chance remark and Lucan does have betting debts. There’s a couple of double yellow line fines on the PNC, picked up whilst delivering shrubs to hotels. The bailiffs were called in over an unpaid tax bill. A pretty hefty one.”
Chance remark indeed. It was information. But I let it go. “The third is a lady you may never have heard of. She’s the chairman of Latching Women’s Institute. Mrs Edith Drury.”
“Joey’s owner.”
“Well done,” I said. “What a memory.”
“How could I forget Joey? One of your more successful cases.” He was rubbing that in as well but I let the cynic get away with it. I was in a very accommodating frame of mind.
“And what has Mrs Drury done? Been caught selling water lilies at WI meetings?”
“No,” I said carefully. “She has lost something… a wedding cake. Nothing of interest to you.”
“Tortoises and wedding cakes. My, my, Jordan. You do lead an exciting life.”
DI James had shaved since our clash. His chin was chiseled, clean and stubborn, jaw set and resolute. Yet the shape and softness of his lips was devastating. I wondered how many of the WPCs at Latching Police Station were losing sleep over him. Or worse, sleeping with him.
A shock wave of jealousy swept through me. It nearly took my breath away. I had never felt anything so sharp, so cutting, so debilitating. It was like being stabbed and took years off my life. I aged and shriveled, decimated cells dying by their millions. Handfuls of hair might fall out any minute. I touched my thick plait, expecting it to have turned gray.
But it was still a reassuring tawny reddish brown. I gave it a little tug to make sure it was also attached.
James was offering me his last chip which I took. “You look a bit peckish,” he said. “Are you sure you’re eating properly?”
“Being a suspected arsonist does dampen the appetite,” I said faintly. “Especially when you are innocent. And Mavis won’t even serve me now. Apparently I’m not welcome here. I might give the cafe a bad name, or worse still, set fire to it.”
His face changed expression, a minute shift. He cleared his throat and signaled to catch her attention. “Tall tea for Jordan, Mavis,” he called out. “How she likes it, honey and stuff.”
She disappeared into the kitchen, probably to swear or down a Valium. When she came back, her face was set in thunder but she was carrying a jar of honey. She brought over a mug of tea and dumped it in front of me without saying a word.
“Thank you, Mavis,” said James. “Put it on my bill.”
I knew now why I loved him.
He was beautiful. The moment I saw him, the sun filled the sky… the melodic guitar of John Williams calmed my heart and filled my head. I couldn’t remember the words but the song played on and on, the strings of his guitar soothing all the wounds.
Mavis was playing a tape of Cavatina, the lyric version. I hoped it was her way of saying sorry.
It was raining again, heavily, but for me the sun was shining.
When DI James went, suddenly busy and professional again, I sat staring at his empty chair, trying to bring back his image. Substance is a strange thing. I could still see him so clearly and yet I couldn’t bring back the body with any solidarity.
This is how it must be when someone dies. They are there but not there. My parents dying was that way. What would I do if James died, shot by some dope-crazed hoodlum in street violence? It would shred me. I would only go on half living, mourning him every empty day.
The empty chair filled. A bulky man sat in it, heavy sweater in double-knit wool, blond spiky hair already graying, his face lined but not old.
“Hi,” he said. “You got me into a helluva lot of trouble. You owe me a coffee.”
“Right,” I agreed. I had no idea who he was. It seemed safer to go along with his suggestion. I nodded at Mavis and pointed to my new companion.
“Cappuccino,” he said loudly. “Right for dumpy days. Picks you up.”
He had mischievous eyes, lightish brown flecked with green. He did not seem too angry with me. His hair was thinning on top. Tempus fugiting.
“I didn’t know you’d left the force. I thought you were one of Her Majesty’s valiant women in blue.”
It was the sub officer, the firefighter who had let me wander about the scene of the fire. I recognized the burly figure, now out of uniform and face ungrimed from smoke. He had cleaned up nicely.
“I’m sorry if I got you into trouble. It was too good an opportunity to miss. I’m a private investigator.” I flourished one of my new cards which he looked at, then pocketed. “The estate agent figures in one of my cases.”
“I’ve never met a private eye,” he said, spooning the froth off the top of his coffee. “You look ordinary enough. Aren’t you supposed to wear shades?”
I didn’t like looking just ordinary but I suppose it was a back-handed compliment. “I’m off duty, Is the coffee all right?”
“Just the ticket. Investigating the fire for some insurance company, eh? Our people definitely pin arson on this one. Guess you know all about it.”
The sub officer had fallen into my lap, so to speak. A willing gossip in the shop-talk department. I’d buy him a dozen cappuccinos, pint-sized.
“Yes. But I’m out of my depth. I’m no expert on fires. How was it started?”
“Candle in a bin, oldest trick in the world.” Di James had said the same thing. “Circle of petrol-soaked shredded paper. It left the usual tell-tale ring of ashes with central blow-out. It’s the locked door that puzzles us. It was locked on the outside, so the victim didn’t have a chance of getting out. He couldn’t phone. Wires were cut. Windows all double-glazed and secured. Councilor Fenwick was trapped.”
I tried not to show my shock. My sensitive feelings imagined the panic, the fear.
“But there must have been some other way out. He would have known. After all he owned the place. And he had a mobile.”
“Smoke inhalation acts fast.” The sub officer spooned out the last of the froth from the sides, making pathways. “It gets very confusing in the dark. He didn’t know whether he was coming or going. That’s why he crawled into the safe. He thought the steel would save him but he didn’t stand a chance. Steel conducts heat.”
“Poor man. What an awful way to die. I want to be in my own bed with a glass of champagne and the Three Tenors.”
“The three whos? You’ll be a bit cramped. Adrian Fenwick was out for the count. The smoke gets them first. Course, the PM might come up with something different. These forensic blokes are devilish clever. They might discover he was cracked on the head before being heaved into the safe.”
“Why would anyone do that?”
“To make sure there was enough of him left to identify. If the motive is gain of some sort, then you don’t want a charred John Doe in the freezer for months. Sorry, shop talk. Let’s change the subject.”
I didn’t want to change the subject but I knew when to stop.
“My name’s Bud Morrison. Bud’s short for Budweiser in case you ask. Budweiser is my favorite beer. You know how firemen get nicknames.”
“Just as well your favorite tipple isn’t Stella Artois or Bonnington’s,” I said.
“How about a pint along at the B&B tonight? I’ll be there about nine.” He was on the make. I could tell it a mile off.
I thought fleetingly of the unobtainable DI James, my distant trumpeter playing to audiences of hundreds nightly, the moody and unstable Derek, the starving Joshua. Did I really want to start dating again? Was it sensible to add a firefighter to the list, even a hunky one?
“Oh… all right. About nine… Bud.”
It was sheer desperation. I don’t drink beer. And this wasn’t dating. I was simply meeting the man for a drink. He was a good contact. I might even put him on expenses. No one in their right mind went out with someone named after a can of beer.
*
I was sitting on the floor of my sitting room, writing up notes, when I heard a car draw up outside. I peered through a chink in the curtains. It was an unmarked police car. I know them all. DI James got out and looked up. He was accompanied by another officer and a uniformed WPC. Obviously not a social call.
My heart sank. Not my bike again, please. I couldn’t stand the hassle. No wonder people got stressed out by police interrogations. It could ruin your sex life if you had one.
“Hello, DI James,” I said politely at the door. “Is this a deputation? Want a petition signed about pension rights? Do you need any help with an investigation?”
“You could say that. Can we come in, Jordan? This is DC Roberts and WPC Patel. I have to ask you a few questions.” He sounded almost human. I didn’t like it one bit. Ominous dark clouds gathered in the hallway. Alarm bells were going off in my head.
“Okay. Come in, but either wipe your feet or take off your shoes.”
“Is this a shrine?”
“My mother always made me take off my outdoor shoes. It’s a good habit.”
The WPC took off her lace-up black shoes and I could see why. She had dainty feet clad in barely black tights and her toenails were painted crimson. She was making sure DI James saw them wriggling. The two men merely wiped their shoes. Perhaps DI James had a hole in his sock. The detective constable was a young, fresh-faced officer with bad skin. He needed acne medication. I wondered if he’d like to read my book of herbal remedies.
“Can we sit down?”
Heavens. This was so formal. I checked my nails to see if they were clean.
“Of course.” DI James sat on the moral sofa with the WPC beside him. DC Roberts stood stiffly in a corner, dunce-like. I sat on the floor. I know my place.
“Can you give me details of your whereabouts on Tuesday night, early Wednesday morning?”
“The night of the fire?” I was quick.
“That’s right, Jordan.”
“Is this still about my bike? It sounds so serious. Shall I put on some music? I’ve a great John Coltrane tape. Small venue stuff. Walking the bar.”
“Please, Jordan. No music. This is not a social call.”
“I’ve gathered that. No kettle on, no nuts.”
I was beginning to feel frivolous. My mind was gathering air. I couldn’t take this serious stuff. Didn’t he know how I felt? My mind was blowing with his closeness. All I could see were his shoes. I wanted to take them off, massage his tired toes.
“What were you doing the night of Tuesday last?”
“Gee, that was some night,” I said, waggling my fingers shoulder height, head disco-jogging. “OK. Let’s think. I spent an hour at the Reggae Club, then I went on to the Pier Prom, later I called in at the Rose and Seraph. Sometime around midnight I cruised the singles bar in Jarrick Street, sussing the potential, then I went on to the—”
“Jordan! Stop. What a load of nonsense. I want the truth.” He looked distraught, almost paternal.
“I went to bed. I was cold. I couldn’t sleep.”
Could I tell him that I had fantasised about him, imagining him lying beside me, keeping me warm, close in his arms. How my heart splintered in the cold. How I wanted him so much that it made a big pain in my stomach.
“Are you telling me that you didn’t go out at all?”
“Not until early morning, when I heard the fire engines rushing by, sirens blaring. I thought I might just as well get up, go see what was happening, do a little sleuthing. It was too late for any sleep.”
DI James was covering me with concern, almost a gleam of pity in his eyes. I couldn’t understand what was happening. It threw me. I was treading a minefield, blindfold.
“So?”
“Jordan Lacey. I must ask you to accompany me to the station to make a statement. Anything you may say… et cetera, et cetera. You know the caution. Do you want a coat or something?”
“What caution? Why me? I don’t understand.” I was horrified. What was happening? Was this the super massive Black Hole in our Galaxy… or was I being framed by some criminal network who used innocent citizens? Were they zooming in onme, dragging me down? I couldn’t think, my breath sucked away. My airways constricted.
“I am investigating the murder of Adrian Fenwick and I have to take a statement from you.”
“I didn’t even know the man,” I protested, taking a deep breath. “I’ve never met him.”
“But you know Pippa Shaw… and you have met her. We have also had an anonymous tip-off that you have been paying in large sums of cash into your bank account. A total of six thousand pounds in the last few days. Maybe this is payment for torching Fenwick Future Homes. Not to be sniffed at.”
“This is completely ridiculous!” I broke in. “Where did you get this from?”
“You were seen acting suspiciously near the fire and loitering about afterwards. We have several witnesses who have identified you. And Councilor Fenwick was about to demolish Trenchers, your favorite heritage building in Latching, and we all know your excessive feelings about saving the place. You might call it an obsession. That makes quite a strong motive and, knowing the financial straits of your business… Get your coat, Jordan.”
“I don’t know any Pippa Shaw. And that six thousand pounds… it’s a total mystery. Who told you that anyway? I thought banks were supposed to be confidential, like doctors. I’ve told the bank it’s n
ot mine, asked them to remove it but they won’t,” I added faintly.
“Do you want a coat or not? It’s cold outside.”
“Where are you taking me? Siberia?”
“Close.”
Eleven
State of shock. I kept repeating and protesting my innocence all the way down the stairs and out the front door and into their waiting police car.
“Got your keys?” asked DI James before slamming the front door shut when I nodded. I’d picked them up automatically.
“Oh, I’m coming back then, am I?” I flared, struggling into my anorak. They had not even given me time to get my arms in the sleeves before bundling me into the panda. “When this ridiculous charade is over.”
“You’re not exactly a threat to the community. Someone will probably stand bail for you,” he said.
Bail. That meant business. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Who would stand bail for me? None of my friends had any money. Not bail kind of money. I was beginning to wish I had been nicer to Derek. The knuckle-cracking miser probably had thousands stacked away in gilts. He’d charge me interest.
“Social call,” I said airily to Sergeant Rawlings as they marched me into the station. At least DI James had not used handcuffs. I’d only come to make a statement, hadn’t I? This was not an arrest, or had I missed something?
Sergeant Rawlings looked as miserable as a born-again sinner. He obviously did not believe all this nonsense. “Wanna cuppa of tea, Jaws?” he asked, making like it was a station Open Day. It was a gesture.
I nodded. The Jaws choked me. I never thought I’d be pleased to hear that name. DI James led me into the nicest of the interview rooms. The one with a homely touch. Some WPC had put a pot plant on top of a filing cabinet.
“What, no SO13?” I said. SO13 was the Anti Terrorist Squad at Scotland Yard. “I’m sure you’re going to accuse me of every unsolved crime left on the books.”
DI James slipped a tape into the machine, switched it on, recited date and time. “Detective Inspector James interviewing Jordan Lacey—”
“Miss Jordan Lacey, please,” I interrupted.
Wave and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 2) Page 10
