Wave and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 2)

by Stella Whitelaw

  “Miss Jordan Lacey,” he said wearily and continued with the procedural rigmarole. “Now, Miss Lacey, would you tell me what you were doing last Tuesday night? Speak clearly, please, and don’t mumble.”

  “I never mumble. My diction is excellent. In school plays…”

  “Keep to the subject. Your movements on the night of the fire, please.”

  “Movements? You mean which leg did I move first, the left or the right? Was my arm up in the air, that sort of thing?” I could see I had gone too far by the clouds gathering on his face. “Sorry, just a little light relief on this pretty dismal occasion. okay, what did I do on the night of the fire… I was damned cold, I remember that. And no, I didn’t start the fire to get warm. I didn’t start the fire at all. I lay in bed, shivering.”

  “Go on.”

  “I couldn’t sleep. I nearly got up to find a T-shirt but I was too cold to get up.” WPC Patel gave a little cough. She had worked it out that I was sleeping nude. I glanced at DI James. He had not worked it out. Bless his cotton socks, holes and all. The man was an innocent. My face softened.

  “Some time I must have gone to sleep. Froze to sleep, I guess. Because I woke up suddenly. Woken up by the sirens and the engines racing by. Of course, I checked everywhere. I thought at first my place was on fire, or my shop, but they were going in a different direction. By the time I’d done all that, I had woken up completely and thought I might as well go out and see what was cooking. Sorry, I mean, what was happening.”

  “Are you in the habit of following fire engines at dawn?”

  “Of course not. I have odd habits but not that one. It was the first time… I mean, who in their right mind goes out at dawn to watch a fire?”

  “Exactly.”

  I’d fallen into my own trap but it was becoming like an aural story-telling group. The picture was growing in my mind and I was warming (oh dear) to the theme.

  “I wrapped up warm.” Oh dear again. “Do you want to know what I was wearing? Right, omit clothes. Well, then, I was not the only sightseer. There was quite a crowd gathering. I hope you are interviewing the dozens of other people standing around on the pavement when they ought to have been safely in bed. It was still a pretty chilly dawn. Clouds of mist and fog rolling up from the sea. Then there was the receptionist, Miss Leroy Anderson, weeping buckets and moaning the loss of her mascara. I consoled her and gave her a little bit of sisterly advice. Then I spoke to this nice sub officer. Or was it the other way round? Yes, I spoke to the nice firefighter first, then I spoke to Leroy. But he spoke to me before I spoke to him.”

  DI James was drawing on his reserves of patience. He threw me a dart of silent scorn.

  As I stopped for breath, DI James said evenly: “I understand you drew the attention of one of the fire crew to the body in the safe.”

  “Not exactly drew attention. I didn’t know exactly what it was. I was only guessing because of the smell. I mean, I’m no expert. It could have been anything. And there was so much debris piled everywhere. I mean, plastic melts, doesn’t it? I’ve no idea what steel does. Perhaps there were plastic items in the safe. Or somebody’s shopping, the weekend joint or pork chops. Perhaps they kept copier toner or primer in the safe which gave off the funny smell.”

  Sergeant Rawlings came in with slopping mugs of tea. DI James announced a break and switched off the tape with an abrupt movement.

  “You know you’ve been talking absolute nonsense, don’t you, Jordan? I ought to arrest you for wasting police time. I don’t know when I last heard such a load of rubbish.”

  “That’s what this is, James, rubbish. And you know that it’s total rubbish,” I said earnestly, my elbows on the table, yawning. Suddenly I was almost too tired to pick up the tea. It was strong, navy-brew, but I drank some just the same, hardly noticing the bitter taste. When I put the mug back down James restarted the tape.

  “You know and I know,” I went on, “That it’s all circumstantial evidence because you’ve nothing better to offer. No leads to go on, nothing. Only the sighting of someone looking vaguely like me on my bike and a can of petrol which anyone could have put there. Anyway, half the population of Latching is carrying around cans since the petrol stations ran out in the VAT tax dispute. Isn’t that true?”

  “True, but the fire was started with petrol.”

  “So, what’s new? There are only a limited number of ways of starting a fire. Petrol is an obvious choice.”

  “Your choice?”

  “Don’t be daft. I didn’t start the fire. I didn’t murder Councilor Fenwick. The money isn’t mine. I didn’t put it into my account. And I don’t know anyone called Pippa Shaw. Can I go home now, please? Anyway, how do you know about the cash in my bank? Who’s been talking?”

  “I didn’t say the body was Councilor Fenwick’s.”

  “It’s in all the newspapers.”

  “I didn’t say he was murdered.”

  “Well, I think he was murdered. If he wasn’t murdered then how come the door was locked on the outside?”

  Oh dear. Too late. Tongue slip. Bud had told me that. Damage limitation necessary. But DI James knew he had caught me out and it was too late to retrieve what I had said.

  “Classified?” My smile lied. “Sorry. Someone told me. In confidence.”

  “I won’t ask how you know that. But don’t worry, eventually I will.”

  He switched off the tape. “Interview concluded at…” He looked at his watch. “At five forty-five p.m, owing to extreme tiredness of witness.”

  “Thank you,” I said, sinking on to the table. “I like your pot plant. It’s a spider plant, anthericum. Fully hardy. You have to keep it well watered in the summer.”

  They let me go home and I was not quite sure why. I had to walk. They weren’t going to waste a car on taking me. I went down to the sea, seeking solace from the waves and the birds. I needed solitude to think. The sea was a cold gray, creamed a dirty white in troughs. The tide was coming in, eating up the shoreline with insidious hunger. It was drizzling lightly and a boisterous wind whipped the rain down my bare neck. Not nice. The moistness crept along my skin with icy fingers.

  I walked the length of the pier. Even the noise and heat coming from the amusement arcade did not comfort me. The ice-cream kiosks were closed, deserted, shuttered up for the winter.

  My friend Jack, the manager, might cheer me up. But when I looked in, I saw that he was in the middle of an argument with a punter. Someone caught cheating or feeding buttons into a machine. It was not a good time. Jack was one of my fans. I still have the teddy bear he gave me.

  I leaned over the rail at the far end. Trawlers and tankers hung on the horizon like items of washing. We were too far away to see the ferries from Newhaven or the cruise liners from Southampton. I drank in the blustery air, hoping the ozone would clear my woolly brain. How was I going to get myself out of this mess? I could hardly hire a PI.

  A seagull hopped on to the railing beside me, cocked his head, a beady eye on my pockets.

  “Sorry, bird, I’ve got nothing for you.” I spread out my empty hands and he flew off, wings spread wide, screeching with indignation. Get that, he squawked angrily. She’s come on the pier with nothing.

  I remembered I had a shop to run and a case to solve. Re-run water lilies. Mrs Drury had paid me off and the real Mrs Hilary Fenwick had not hired me. So who exactly had I met in the car park? Now that was worth finding out, except that no one would be paying me. And, just out of curiosity, where had Mr Fairbrother gone? Now, if the body in the safe had been Mr Fairbrother then DI James would have had a puzzle of mega dimension on his hands.

  My shop needed dusting. I did a five-second flit with a J-cloth. I tipped out the old coffee grains and washed the pot. My veins needed coffee. My bones needed heat. My body needed DI James. But I had to be realistic. I made fresh coffee.

  A man crept into the shop. I hardly noticed him arriving. He was like a shadow, shallow breathing, tiptoeing on soft soles. He looke
d behind him as if being followed. His face was gaunt, greenish, unhealthy, hardly customer material.

  “Hello,” I said brightly, changing into shop mode. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m still being followed. They think I’m him. One day they’ll kill me.”

  I scanned through my memory banks. I had met this nutter before. He thought the Sicilian Mafia were after him, or was it the lot from Naples? Did they write operas by the score on crime-off days?

  “Are you still being followed? That’s a shame. Must blight your social life.”

  “What social life? What life have I got at all? They make every minute a misery.”

  “Why don’t you just change your name? Take on a new identity. If they really think you are this Al person, then make him disappear from sight.”

  “But I’d lose my job.”

  “You work in a garage, don’t you? So, what’s more important? Your job or your life?”

  “You mean, just go?” It had not occurred to him before. It sank in like lead.

  “Take out what money and savings you have in the bank. Cash everything. Pack your bags. Speak to no one. Get on a train, if there are any running, and go as far away as possible. Change your appearance, grow a beard, dye your hair and start a new life somewhere else. You’ll find a job, something different.”

  I scanned my classic book shelves. I wished I had time to read them. Retirement fantasy. Reading in bed. I wondered what James would read. “Here’s a nice new name for you.” I juggled authors. “How about Ernest Dickins? Or William Swift?”

  His face lit up with hope. “Do you think it would really work? I like Ernest Swift. Very nice. I could be Ernest Swift, a real man’s name.”

  “Then move like one. Get going. Fly! Leave Latching today, tomorrow at the latest. And good luck, Mr Swift.”

  Some days later, a grubby envelope arrived in the post. The postmark was Newcastle-upon-Tyne, gateway to the world. Inside was a fifty-pound note and a scrawled message on a torn page: “With swift thanks.”

  I hoped he would be all right. My advice had not been considered. More off the top of my head.

  *

  This had to be almost the worst day of my life. But I was free and determined to clear my name. Someone looking like me had been seen riding on my bike, that’s all. It was a slender hope that someone else had seen her/him. There was still time to begin trawling the shops, any traders that opened early, the bakers, the butchers, fishmongers, greengrocers, post office sorting depot.

  One of the postmen thought he had seen someone riding my bike. He’d been arriving for work just before dawn.

  “Looked like your mountain bike, but I knew it wasn’t you,” he said.

  “Why? Because it was so early?”

  “Nope. They were wearing one of them yellow luminous armbands so they don’t get run over in the dark. You’d never bother with one of those.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “Do you mind if I pass on that little bit of information? No hassle. Just something that confirms it wasn’t me.”

  “Sure. You tell ’em. Tell ’em I said so. Mitch Swartz. Anytime. Just ask for me.”

  “Thanks a lot, Mitch. I owe you.”

  “I’ll cash that one day.”

  I traced my steps to where I had left my bike chained to railings round the corner from the FFH showroom. I don’t know what I expected to find. The chain and padlock had been the average Woolworths purchase. Neither the gutter nor the pavement had been swept for days, weeks. The Latching street cleaners had barely glanced at this area.

  I got down on my knees and inch by inch sifted the debris with a plastic paddle once used for stirring take-away coffee. It was a disgusting mess of bits and pieces, smelly and sticky brown. I tried to concentrate on identifying the junk, pushing the stink to the back of my mind.

  My knees began to hurt from the hard pavement. Two wet stains spread roundly on my jeans. People hurried past, not looking, in case I was an embarrassment.

  Then I found what I wanted. A single severed link of cheap chain. It had been cut cleanly with a hacksaw and barely splintered on impact. I put the link carefully in a plastic specimen bag, sealing the top. A sudden rush of hope hit me. Yes! Perhaps the future was not inky black after all. It was possible I could clear myself.

  But how to find out who was putting the money into my bank account and how did DI James find out? I would not mind becoming a baggy, bundle of misery, wrapped in a sleeping bag in some shop doorway, doing a spot of surveillance. But my bank had two branches, one at each end of the town. With my luck, I’d choose the wrong one to survey.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and someone crouching down beside me.

  “Are you all right, Jordan? What’s the matter, baby? Have you lost something?”

  That voice. I would know that voice anywhere, in a crowd of a thousand voices. It cut right through to my heart. It was my trumpeter. My music man. He had appeared when I was at my lowest ebb like a guardian angel. The man who had a trumpet and a wife.

  He helped me to my feet, his kindly brown eyes filled with concern, wing of silky hair flopping over his eyes. He was my height. We stood facing.

  “Yes, I had lost something but I think I have found it.” I waved the plastic bag with the chain link. “Hopefully this will solve some mysteries.”

  “You never got that coffee the last time we met. Would you like it now?”

  “Yes, please,” I said like a little girl waiting for a treat.

  We sat over coffee in an Italian sea-front cafe that wanted to close up and we talked and talked. I told him about the fire and being accused of being an arsonist. He was appalled, indignant even, talked protests. Then he told me about the gigs he had played round the country and how the band was and repeated the current running jokes.

  I laughed, drank in his voice, his kindness, his casual appearance. Black polo jersey, black leather jacket and black trousers. Very trad jazz looking. Life slowed down and became more civilized.

  “Are you playing in Latching?” I asked, suddenly overtired, exhausted with talking, absorbing his energy to stay awake.

  “I thought I’d go along to the Bear and Bait this evening, blow a few notes, air a few tunes. Do you want to come along?”

  “Yes, please,” I said again, about five years old.

  I didn’t know where the time went afterwards. The invitation revitalized me. He had things to do. I had two baths, changed my clothes a dozen times, ate yogurt, washed my hair, plaited it, unplaited it. Eventually I arrived at the Bear and Bait, very clean, wearing white jeans and bulky black jersey, my hair braided with beads. It had taken me hours to arrive at such unusual sartorial elegance.

  A large glass of red wine was waiting for me at a table. He was waiting too. He kissed my cheek lightly. It was a butterfly’s touch. “Hello, sweetheart,” he said tenderly.

  There was a four-piece group playing in a corner of the pub. Drums, sax, guitar and keyboard. The musicians took one look at my trumpeter and they fell apart. Everyone recognized him. They knew him and his magic.

  “Mind if I blow a few notes?” he asked, taking his trumpet out of its case.

  I forgot everything in the glorious music of the next hour. It was an unstoppable torrent of improvisation that flowed from his heart. He poured out his bittersweet magic, his energy, his fun and one-liners bursting through the smoky bar like rays of sunshine. We were transported. No one wanted it to end. He could have played all night, his muted trumpet swerving through tantalising textures and melodies. I was drained just with living the music. It could have been a moment to die.

  “Where’s your coat?” he asked, wiping the mouthpiece, then removing it and putting his trumpet away, closing the lid.

  “I don’t think I brought one.”

  “It’s cold. It’s nearly winter. You need someone to look after you.”

  He draped his jacket over my shoulders, waved goodbye to everyone and pushed open the door. It was bitter outside after the
stuffy pub. Frost glittered among the stars.

  “You’ll get cold,” I protested.

  “I’m carrying a little more weight.”

  He left me at my front door, shoulders stooping. He never came in. There was a wife to consider. A wife he obviously loved. I didn’t know where I came in the orbit of his life.

  “Goodbye, Jordan. Take care and don’t worry. Everything will work out. They must realize you are innocent.”

  “I wish I could be sure.”

  He held me in a warm, sweet hug. I felt the heat of his body seeping into mine. “I wish we were allowed two wives,” he said. Then he turned and left, disappearing into the night.

  Twelve

  Trenchers to be pulled down? A small industrial complex to be built on the site? The news item on the radio was brief and depressing. Was this what Councilor Fenwick had in mind when he gave his approval to planning permission?

  What would they produce? Cheap clothes, plastic toys, garage tools, garden sheds, gnomes?

  I sat on the side of my bed, mug of tea in hand, listening to the news. I had overslept, now I was insensed with rage. That empty shell of a grand old hotel meant so much to me. How could some get-rich-quick developer pull it down? I loved every stone and window and wrought-iron balcony. It was a relic of times gone past, when elegance and quality were paramount. I thought about chaining myself to the palatial front entrance.

  Even the name. Trenchers, went deep into Latching’s history. It was an old name, probably Saxon. The Trencher family had onced owned a coaching hostelry on a crossroads near the South Downs, then years later bought a tall Georgian terraced property in Latching that grew into a popular boarding house. At the turn of the century, they built the most famous hotel along the South Coast. An Edwardian masterpiece. European kings and heads of state had stayed there. It was the first hotel to have a car park.

  “Everyone knows how you feel about the old hotel.” I heard DI James’s voice accusing me. “It adds up to a motive.”

  But a motive to kill? I didn’t think so.

  My head was still spinning with last night’s music. The trumpeter had saved my sanity and I was not going to let go of the feeling. I took the beads out of my hair, tugging at the tangles. It had not been sensible to sleep in them, but then last night I was past being sensible about anything. I had been floating on a plain where not even DI James existed.