My first call was to the local newspaper office after which I planned an unannounced visit to Latching Water Gardens. I combed through back numbers on the shelves looking for the council meeting which pushed through the demolition of Trenchers. How had I missed it? I usually speedread all the newspapers, pulse on today, etc. This was an item tucked away at the end of a lengthy report. No one had taken much notice of it. The item should have been headlines. Wasn’t it a graded building? Then they couldn’t demolish it.
“The site will be developed by Culture Conservatories who are hoping to expand business along the South Coast,” I read.
My mind flashed back to a big glass and timber conservatory, gleaming newness and status. “We could be outdoors even in the winter,” Mrs Fenwick had said. Were we also talking a nice little handout? A conservatory on the cheap. Perhaps a show conservatory very slightly used and no longer in the brochure. Pay later, old chap, no hurry.
I tried not to think bad things of the dead, especially a dead Cancerian. Especially not a Cancerian who died inside a safe. I shuddered. But it was all there, in front of me, highlighted in yellow. Councilor Adrian Fenwick had done a deal.
Had DI James traced the motivation back to me through Mrs Fenwick? He’d discovered that I had visited her, come to a plod-like conclusion about Trenchers and my mental health. Yet he was a good detective, I knew that. But even good policemen get bogged down by the paperwork and administration, sometimes take the quickest way out of a case.
But why me? It hurt. When I think of all the homemade soup and expensive coffee I’d poured down his throat. And that cozy house-warming party, dark paths and even darker landing… it all counted for nothing, it seemed. I’d stick to jazz tapes and a hot-water bottle in future.
“Jordan! Good to see you, girl. How are you? Long time no see!”
It was Derek. Long time no see because he had got nasty when I halted events and he’d stalked me with intent. Not funny. Whatever had I seen in him? He was small-minded and mean and pompous. Perhaps it was the good teeth. I was a sucker for decent teeth. DI James had perfect teeth, white and strong and even. My trumpeter on the other hand was a dentist’s nightmare. It was all that blowing and gripping the mouthpiece. It damaged the front teeth.
“Hi, Derek,” I said, face straight and unwelcoming. “How are you?”
“I’ve got a new car. A Honda Club. She’s smashing.”
“Great.” All his cars were classed female, some domination thing.
“Want to come out for a spin?”
No, I didn’t. The thought of being in such a small space with him was distasteful. But I also thought of that long climb uphill which was attack-inducing even with mountain gears. What a creep I could be. I wondered if I could manage fighting him off in my weakened state.
“I need to go out to Latching Water Gardens at Preston Hill,” I said. Always stick to the truth if possible. “It’s hard work on my bike, uphill most of the way. I should be grateful for a lift. You needn’t wait. I’ll find my own way home.”
“No problem,” he said, taking my arm as if we had suddenly made up after a row. I immediately regretted my weakness. “I might go in for a pond myself one day. A few goldfish. We could have a bite to eat afterwards.”
He had a detached house somewhere on the outskirts of Latching, inherited from his mother. I had never been to it. He had preferred my hospitality, my food, my drink. Today I’d buy him a coffee and Danish at a cafe but he wasn’t coming back to my bedsits. Oh no, those days were over. I could see I had let myself in for a sticky exit.
Derek was full of jovial good humor. He obviously thought he was back on the bandwagon, counting the croutons, feet on my sofa while the little woman slaved over a hot microwave. He was in for a shock.
I admired the new car, the radio, the automatic windows. I admired the wheelcaps, the sunroof, the motorway-style gear box. I exhausted myself admiring everything, finally got in, fastened the seat belt and realized I was paying heavily for this lift.
“Just like old times,” he said, patting my knee, cracking his knuckles. “Fancy coming out with me this weekend?”
“One thing at a time, Derek,” I boxed. “This is all very new.”
It was too late to get out. I wondered about a quick getaway when the traffic lights were red but timed it badly and Derek anticipated the change of lights. I’d forgotten he was a bad driver, impatient and careless. Serve me right if there was an accident. Perhaps I might be injured, just slightly, nothing too painful. DI James would be sorry then, upset that he had unjustly accused me, dragged me off to the police station. He might bring me flowers, hover by my bedside, consumed with remorse.
By car, it was a mercifully short journey. Derek parked in the entrance driveway of Latching Water Gardens, leaned expectantly towards me but I was already out of the car and heading down an avenue. I waved back cheerfully, relishing the feel of freedom and escape, checking that I had my bag and my camera. I walked fast down the path, crunching leaves and gravel. He was looking bemused by my ejection-seat departure.
I knew where I was going, somewhere in the direction of where I had seen those workers. I knew Derek would not follow me. He was too fussy about mud on his shoes.
By hunching down, I hoped he would soon lose sight of me. These were young trees and saplings, still verdant green, halfhiding me from view. Keeping my head down meant looking on the ground. Mr Lucan kept a tidy nursery. There was barely a weed in sight.
Go for a spin. I’d done that, gone for a spin. I’d admired his new car. I’d endured his company for ten minutes. It was not a contract. I’d fulfilled my part. So why was I still frightened of him?
Then I noticed something. The slimmest pointed petal, waxen and palely pink, beginning to curl brown at the edges. There was another petal further along, then another. I put them carefully in a plastic bag. I was not sure quite why at this stage.
In a clearing was an irregular area of newly trodden earth. It was near where I had seen the worker working on my last visit. But there were no workers anywhere today. Perhaps he had paid him off. I walked round the area, leaving footprints. It had rained recently. Come on, I told myself, find something.
I found something. It was a root, about three inches long, soft and smelly. I took a photo of the root where it was lying. It meant nothing to me but I put it in a separate bag. Not a lot for an hour’s work. I hoped Derek had given up by now and gone home. Still, I would not risk walking back up the avenues, but would find a way out lower down. I might hitch a lift back to Latching or walk.
A long way down, I found a broken fence and climbed over it on to the road, tearing my jeans on a scrap of rusty wire. I wondered whether to try for a lift. Just my luck if Derek came along. But the first vehicle down the hill was a white van. Despite all the bad press and Crimewatch warnings about white vans, I stood on the roadside and looked hopeful.
The white van slowed and stopped. “Hello,” said Fred Hopkins, my greengrocer friend, leaning out of the window. “See, I got my van back. Thanks to you. Hop in if you want a ride back to Latching.”
Apparently, the police had actually done something about looking for his white van thinking it was connected to the water-lily theft. But it was just teenage joyriders and they had found the van the other side of Brighton, full of beer bottles and crisp packets. Mr Hopkins thought it was solely due to my inquiries. I did not argue. I need success.
He dropped me outside my shop and gave me a whole basket of fresh white button mushrooms. I tasted mushrooms on toast, mushroom soup, mushroom pate. I’d forgotten that I’ve given up cooking. It’s salad, sandwiches and soup only in my kitchen area. Perhaps I could manage the toast.
“Thank you so much,” I said. “You saved my life with that lift.”
“Any time,” said Mr Hopkins. “Pop in the shop any time. Strawberries, kiwis, avocados, whatever you want, miss. I’ll find you a bargain. They didn’t even notice the tyres.”
Time to open the shop, cha
nge the windows, make coffee, write notes, sell a few things. I did everything in that order. Chinese theme today. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon style. I put out a miniature porcelain pagoda, chopsticks, fan. shawl and ancient martial arts book in one window. In the other I put a warrior, a dragon and a witch. They were good company for each other. Hope they wouldn’t cook up spells in the night.
I wrote up my notes. Something was nagging me but I couldn’t think what it was. I wanted a clear-cut route. I put the petals and root specimens in a cool place, to be transferred to my home fridge at some point soon. I still did not know why I was doing this.
The phone rang. It was DI James. I knew it was him before he even spoke.
“Jordan?”
“Yes.”
“Are you all right?”
“I have no wish to speak to you. Goodbye.”
“Are you all right?” he repeated.
“Recovering. Though why should you care? Putting me through that ordeal. It was inhuman. I could sue.”
“I had to do it. Everything pointed to you, still does. If I had not brought you in, the Serious Crime Squad would have been on me like a ton of concrete. Don’t feel bad, Jordan. I had to go through the motions. It had to be done.”
“Compensation,” I stormed. “I shall sue for compensation. I couldn’t sleep. I was shredded. It has taken years off my life. I feel practically middle-aged.”
“Lunch at Maeve’s Cafe in half an hour? My treat.”
“See you.”
I just had time to wash my face, plait my hair, put on a clean navy sweater, wipe the mud off my boots. I went like an eager teenie to the slaughter. He was blissfully straight after the smarmy Derek. I didn’t care what I ate. Chips and mushy peas on a paper plate would be a feast from heaven.
He was waiting outside, all huddled and cold, his crewcut almost frozen to his head, hands thrust in pockets. His clear blue eyes lightened a fraction when he saw me, mouth curved into what might almost pass as a smile.
“You’ve torn your jeans,” he said.
*
It was a normal eat, drink and talk lunch. What had I expected? That he’d feed me chips from his mouth? He’d classified and filed me. I wasn’t a woman eye to him. More an unreliable witness who might or might not lead him to an answer but was worth keeping a check on.
“Have they finished the PM on Adrian Fenwick yet?” I asked, mouth full of succulent sea bream. Mavis knew how to cook fish.
“I can’t tell you that, Jordan, and you know I can’t. We have found his mobile phone and are tracing all the calls he made that day. It’s a start.”
“And what was the fire investigator’s report?”
He looked at me with disbelief. “You’re asking me?”
“Of course. I’d like to know how the fire was started, especially since I’ve been accused of doing it. I hope you’re satisfied now that I had nothing to do with the fire. If not, then this delicious meal is in danger of being spoiled.”
“I had no evidence to hold you,” he sighed. “But you are my only suspect. You were seen loitering suspiciously near the scene and this is the behavioural pattern of arsonists.”
I digested this. “Tell me, James, exactly what loitering suspiciously means and I’ll remember not to do it in future. Is it a sort of little side-stepping dance, or collar up to your ears and dark glasses at dawn? Does waiting for a bus register as loitering since you never know if one is coming along. Queuing for your pension could be suspicious behaviour if you’ve a bottle of bleach in your shopping bag. Wow, life is full of pitfalls. I’ll remember to be more careful.”
“Living with you must be close to non-stop verbal torture.”
“I also do magic tricks and belly dancing on Saturday nights.”
“Sounds riveting.”
“Do you want to try it?”
His mouthful of cod and chips stopped halfway in mid air. A globule of tomato sauce slid perilously. He looked perplexed. “Try what?”
“Living with me.” This wasn’t me talking at all. It was some utterly wildly demented and abandoned creature who walked around using my body and propositioning police officers in Maeve’s Cafe.
He chewed thoughtfully. “Do you mean that?” he said at last.
I flashed him a big smile. “Not really. Just testing the water.” Living with DI James would be a cross between heaven and hell. I could not even imagine it. If I put the idea on hold, would they keep heaven open for me?
It was over cups of tea that I produced the severed chain link and pushed the plastic bag across the table. “One link from one security chain, found exactly where I left my bike. My bike, my chain, my link.”
“So?”
“And a postman from the sorting center said he saw someone riding my bike, wearing a luminous armband. I never wear armbands. I don’t even possess any. His name is Mitch Swartz. You can check with him.”
“What does that prove?”
“That it wasn’t me. Get your people to find prints, debris, oil on the chain, anything that matches my bike and shows that it was stolen. You’ll be surprised what they can do these days. They can match a hair to a head and tell you what it had for dinner.”
“Okay,” he said wearily. He took a pen out of his pocket. “Where did you find it?”
I told him the exact spot, to the inch. “In exchange,” I said, “I may have some developments for you in the water-lily saga.”
“I don’t do exchanges,” he growled.
“You will when I tell you what I’ve found out,” I bluffed.
“Tell me.”
“Not yet. Too soon. Needs developing. A couple more days and I’ll have it all tied up.”
“Sounds riveting,” he said again.
I thanked DI James for my lunch and got out while my dignity was still intact and the service was in my court.
Such was my optimism. First, I had to find an expert on water lilies. Not easy when the local expert was Mr Terence Lucan. I’d have to go further away, to distant ponds. I thought of Kew Gardens in London and Wisley Gardens in Sussex and wondered if they had a friendly press officer.
They both had. I learned all I wanted to know and enough to sink Mr Lucan in one of his own ponds. I thanked them and arranged to send the specimen to Kew Gardens for confirmation. Not that he deserved saving from a watery demise. But my ladybird hovered on the surface of my mind, making confrontation awkward. She was so nearly mine and I wanted that dream to come true.
Surveillance in a red car with black spots would be tricky. She would hardly merge into a tired street. How could I turn that to an advantage? Park and ride? I could keep my bike on the back seat, the boot being far too small. It didn’t completely defeat the purpose of having a car.
If I brought the water-lilies theft to a conclusion, then I was left almost caseless. Back to pushing junk full time. I’d closed the trashed WI display, no longer needed to pursue the vote-waving Adrian Fenwick’s extra-marital pursuits. If he ever had any. Mrs Fenwick did not seem to even consider it while the BMW Mrs Fenwick was pretty sure. Supposing the second Mrs Fenwick was herself the extra flavor of the month, and her motive for the investigation was devious. She might have been exploring whether their affair was foolproof, to make sure that no one could Find out. And what better proof than a report from a puppet PI saying there was nothing to report. It might have been a set-up. Would it stand up in court?
People were always using me. Mrs Drury had used me. Mr Lucan had used me. Perhaps I should change my advert. Add: Ideal for Scams, Double-Crosses. False Claims, Anything Devious.
I called Mrs Hilary Fenwick, the one with a brand-new conservatory and a husband who had hidden to death in a safe. She was still tearful.
“I was wondering if you’d call,” she said. “My beautiful wedding cake. Have you found it yet?”
“Er… no. Mrs Drury has more or less decided it’s not worth going on with the investigation. We aren’t going to find out who trashed the display unless they con
fess or boast about it to friends. Yobbos often boast about their exploits when they’ve had too much to drink.”
“It’s most important that you find that cake,” she said. She seemed more worried about her cake than her husband. “I’ll pay if there’s anything to pay.”
I told her my rates. She agreed. It was a lot of money just to Find a cake.
“I don’t care what it costs but I want my cake back,” she said.
I was surprised by the vehemence in her voice. Had she put arsenic in it and half-expected a whole wedding party to be rushed off to A&E with stomach pains? After the carrot-cake episode, I’d got poison on the brain.
“Don’t worry,” I soothed. “I’ll find it for you. It’s such a distinctive design. Would you mind telling me why it’s so special?”
“I made it for my daughter-in-law’s wedding. Not my son, you understand, she divorced him a year ago. She’s remarrying and I wanted to make a conciliatory gesture. No hard feelings after the divorce, you know…”
“Nice,” I murmured.
“Of course, Pippa doesn’t appreciate it. She thinks Adrian and I ruined her marriage to my son but it isn’t true.”
Images flashed across my mind. I saw cream and gold and long lacquered nails. Pippa? Pippa Shaw?
“Does your daughter-in-law own a BMW?” I asked.
“Yes, she does. A blue one, I think. She got a generous divorce settlement.”
Thirteen
There were Force 9 winds along the seafront and I could barely keep my feet on the promenade. It was exhilarating, blustery, defying the force, low clouds gathering darkly promising more rain and wind. It was blowing hard against my back, propelling me forwards, driving through the padded fabric, chilling my skin, shoulders and spine. I locked my hands behind me to anchor any heat, glad of gloves, regretting the lack of a heavy jersey.
Wave and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 2) Page 12
