Wave and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 2)

by Stella Whitelaw

  The fifty pounds was safely deposited in my bank account. It had not been employment. The money was more like a gift.

  “No, he doesn’t employ me.” There was no point in saying otherwise. “He told me about a case of mistaken identity. His name is Alfred Lubliganio. He’s a mechanic at a local garage. He’s not whoever you think he is.”

  They exchanged glances. It was all very B-movie.

  “A nice touch, lady, but not convincing. Where is Al Lubligano now?”

  “I’ve no idea.” He could have moved on to Timbuktu.

  “Then perhaps you come with us until you do have an idea. We are prepared to wait a time.”

  “Well, I’m not prepared.” I glared. “Who are you?”

  “You do not know us.”

  But I did. They were the Scarlatti brothers or relations of same. Big family. They were Italian. The looks, the accents, the clothes. A pair of bullies. I got scary suspicious thoughts about Al Lubliganio. He could have been lying to me.

  They heaved me up out of the chair like I was a sack of pasta. Things were getting out of hand. I started to make a big fuss, noise, shouts, kicking stuff, hoping Doris might hear or a passer-by. The shop next door was still empty.

  “Letmego! Take your hands off me! Get out of my shop or I’ll call the police. You’re making a big mistake.”

  One of them clapped a gloved hand over my mouth.

  I was dragged out the back way. They knew the layout of the place. A car was waiting, a dark saloon. I tried to read the number plate. I wrenched the gloved hand off my mouth and shouted loudly again.

  “What the hell do you think you are doing? This is all a terrible mistake.” Those words, the same words. I seem to have said them a dozen times before. I was bundled into the car. Bundled again. And pushed down into the back well, my wrists roughly tied with twine. Cloth was stuffed into my mouth. The car had smoked-glass windows. It was reeking with cigarette fumes. My asthma gave a double twitch.

  The shorter of the two men was a compulsive fidget. He tapped his pockets, checking his dandruff, picked his teeth. Any minute now, he’d fix my hair, do my nails.

  “Where the hell are you taking me?” I protested against a mouthful of cloth. It was coarse, revolting, oily stuff. I’d be sick any minute. They couldn’t hear what I was saying.

  And I couldn’t see where we were going. Every time I tried to sit up, Fidget pushed my head down. It gave him something to do. I was too fighting mad to panic. But panic was on its way. I thought of the poor nun who had been kept hostage in an empty hotel, and the gross orange bedspread they used. I’d demand a duvet. Make a nuisance of myself.

  We were leaving Latching. I tried desperately to track roads, traffic lights, roundabouts. We were on the main A27 to Arundel. I didn’t like this one bit. When I escaped I could cope in my own area. But somewhere strange, and I’d be as lost as any tourist. That is, if I got away.

  When I got away. Positive thinking, girl. Perhaps DI James would turn up at the shop to question me about FFH, or Doris would bring me some bi-carb or Mrs Drury would arrive with a home-made quiche. Hundreds of possibilities. Someone would soon notice my disappearance, the open shop, the chained bike… surely?

  The fumes, the bad driving, the cramped backseat and the stuff in my mouth were all making me feel nauseously car sick. My stomach churned. And it was the wrong time of the month. This was going to be humiliating and unpleasant. Sweat broke out on my skin. I was clammy and getting pins and needles in my feet and fingers. Reynaud’s disease was setting in.

  I made grunting noises to attract attention. I tried to inject the grunts with pleading rumbles. It seemed to work for Fidget leaned back and took the cloth out of my mouth. Bits were stuck to my lips and tongue.

  “Thank you,” I said thickly.” I’m feeling sick.”

  “Don’t talk,” he said.

  It was getting gloomy. Twilight was tangling the last strands of day. I could see nothing above but street lamps coming on and looming trees, branches waving in dark patterns. We turned off the main road and slowed down in a side street. Fidget leaned over again and this time tied the cloth over my eyes. It immediately made my lids itch. I’d be getting an allergy at this rate.

  The driver switched off the engine and the two men got out, then pulled me from the back of the car. My legs wouldn’t hold me up. All the feeling had gone. They dragged me across some pavement like a scarecrow, except I didn’t leak straw. I could just see cracks below the blindfold. Then we were into some building and I could smell old linoleum.

  Everywhere smelled of damp and decay. It felt cracked and peeling. A torch flickered on. Sharp edges kept bumping into the side of my right leg, calf and thigh. The intervals were identical. I was being bumped against rows of something.

  Seats! It came to me in a flash. This was an old cinema. And there was only one old, shut-down cinema in this area. And I knew, because I had been on duty the night of the VIP closure party when protesters stood outside ready to lay down their lives if one brick of the listed building was removed. It was the Picture Palace, Latching’s historic old cinema, relic of the days of regular Saturday night picturegoers. The two men had driven in a circle and returned to Latching, to confuse me en route.

  I realized exactly where I was. And I knew the inside of the building having searched it prior to the party for bombs etc. It was pure Art Deco, marble pillars and thirties wall paintings. They were taking me up the sweeping stairs, all flaking gilt paint, to the circle. The balcony was the only cinema in England to have double seats, well used by courting couples in the submarine gloom and handy for a snooze if the film was boring.

  “Will you kindly tell me what this is all about!” I yelled at them. “You won’t get anything out of me because I know nothing. I’ve no idea where this man is, or who he is. So let me go!”

  They’d given up English and replied in a torrent of Italian. I didn’t understand a word.

  They were dragging me further and further back towards the projection room. Were they going to show me a film?

  But no entertainment. I was pushed down on to a wooden seat and tied to the legs. A splinter scratched my wrist.

  “I need a drink,” I croaked.

  “You wait. When you want to talk, you get drink.”

  I heard the hiss of a match. One of the men was lighting a cigarette. My lungs went into a spasm.

  “Would you mind not smoking,” I coughed. “I’ve got asthma.”

  I got a hearty smack on the back of the shoulders and one of them laughed. Then they left, again talking in Italian. I only knew the names of ice-cream and film stars, gangster movie talk. The gist was food. They were going out for fast food. I heard their footsteps going down the narrow stairs at the back. I tried to control my breathing, slowing down the rate, thinking calming things and of peaceful sunlit places.

  When the coughing had slowed and was controllable, I was able to put together where I was and what I was going to do. This Al Lubliganio business was ridiculous. I was not going to be fazed by some vague person with such a ridiculous name. The quicker I got out of here, the better.

  For gangsters, they were not getting Brownie points for knots. One was a bit loose. They didn’t know their left over right or their Italian for it. I jogged the chair over the floor and found a sharp metal edge on the old Simplex projection unit (preserved for posterity) and sawed the knot against it. After a lot of work, it began to fray.

  I wriggled it off, rubbed my sore wrists and tore off the blindfold. There was only a glimmer of light from a skylight but I saw I was right; it was the old projection room. It was a cramped soulless cupboard-sized room with two projection units, the preserved one and a newer Phillips unit.

  Bending over to untie my legs from the chair made me cough again. I hung on to the chair back for support, leaning over to help my breathing. I did not have my inhaler, of course. I had nothing with me. Only a screwed-up tissue in my pocket. I used the shreds carefully as if it was the la
st tissue in the world.

  I stood up and went over to the door. It didn’t move. I had been coughing so hard I had not heard them lock it. I sat on the chair to think things through. I had to get out before the two Italians came back. There was a crooked shelf holding a few dusty reels of film. A coffee-encrusted mug, a broom. A clutter of crushed and empty Coke tins. And on the floor was a dirty box of matches. The smoker had dropped them. There were seven matches left in the box.

  I’d never get out of the skylight. It was too small and too high up. No way. I climbed up on to the new projection unit via the chair, balanced myself on the frame, and began throwing coke tins at the glass. My aim was never very good, not even at the seafront fair when I had two feet on the ground and only a couple of yards’ projection. The cans clattered down and around, the noise horrendous. I waited, tensely, expecting Italian expletives to come racing up the stairs.

  But all was quiet. Except for my breathing.

  I tied a can on to the head of the broom using a lace out of my trainers. It reached the skylight and I was soon bashing out a pane of glass. Bits of glass fell around me. I quickly brushed them into a corner. I couldn’t risk cut feet.

  Then I tied the crusted mug on to the top of the broom. Celluloid burns well, the old stuff almost self-igniting. I was going to burn film in the mug, poke it out of the skylight and hope someone would see the smoke and flames. I had seven matches, so that was seven goes at fire lighting. Not a lot. I needed a small reserve fire going so that I could keep the mug of film alight.

  What else could I burn? And in what? The only combustible commodity around was the film. The film canisters looked old, the pre-safety sort. I took a reel down from the shelf and peered at the label. Casablanca.

  I was stunned. I couldn’t burn Casablanca. It would be sacrilege. That film. I’d cried over it more times than I had slept on my own. It was always my jazz trumpeter that I said goodbye to on that foggy, rainswept airfield.

  But there was nothing else. It couldn’t be the only copy in existence or it would not have been left on a shelf. Perhaps I would just burn the first reel. I was not that keen on the beginning. All period gloss and dresses and funny hats and talking out the side of the mouth. I took the first reel out of the canister.

  None of the Coke cans opened further than the ring-pull hole. I made a sort of raft out of the cans, stood my trainer in the center of a lid and fed film into it. The way to sever the film was on the razor device on the projection unit, the sharp edge used by projectionists to mend broken film. No one had carelessly left a cutting knife around. Tut-tut.

  I cut masses of short lengths of film for quick replenishment of the mug. Scene after scene tumbled down, the party, the bar, the restaurant. My fingers were soon cut and bleeding. Piles of black film spiraled round my feet. Indiana Jones would be terrified, thinking they were snakes.

  I was sweating like a navvy and I’d only lit two matches. The film ignited in a flash and flared. Flames curled along the edges, burst into a tangle and ignited the pile in my trainer. I lit the bundle of film in the mug from the fire and climbed up on to the projection unit. I felt like the Olympic runner.

  My head for heights was going fast. It was not easy. I held the broom aloft, waving it out of the smashed skylight, one hand against the sloping roof cave. I was not at all steady and there was nothing more substantial to hold on to. If I fell, no one would find me. I climbed down and refilled the mug, setting it alight from my burning trainers. My cut fingers were hurting. I climbed up again, trying to stay calm. What if no one saw it? Tears of hopelessness blinded me.

  “James, where the hell are you?” I shouted upwards. “Don’t you care about this historic, graded building? Why aren’t you out, patrolling the streets of Latching, searching for lost civilians? Get out of Maeve’s Cafe and back on the beat.”

  My trainers were glowing like Christmas. I would have to sacrifice the second one. And they were almost new. I took the laces out. Laces were always useful. The mug was already slipping on the broomhead. I tied it on more firmly, filled it with film. The fire kept going out in the mug and I couldn’t understand why. Where were we in this enduring story? Had she walked into his life yet? Had their eyes met across a crowded gin joint? Was the cafe packed with all my favorite characters?

  I lost count of the trips I made. The matches were disappearing. They were not good quality. I had only one left. My trainers were a pile of glowing embers. I had to be careful. I did not want to burn the floorboards or I could be incinerated along with the last reel of Casablanca. The acrid fumes were making me cough.

  They would be back any minute. Romeo and Juleo. It couldn’t take that long to eat a bowl of spaghetti. I was almost exhausted. DI James’s ears should be burning. And why not? I was only round the corner from the police station.

  My trainers were no more. The embers almost died, flickering out. I went up with the last mug of burning film and stuck it out of the skylight. Too fiercely. It fell off and I heard it clatter down the roof and smash on to the pavement. Goodbye, mug, and thanks.

  I climbed down and sat on the chair and cried. I really had done my best. I’d never been trained by Miss Moneypenny or whatever her name was. I was tired, I felt sick and I had a period.

  I wound the last of reel one on to the head of the broom, round and round in a bundle, and lit it with the last match. The bristles flared up and burst into flame. It was difficult to hold the broom straight up and climb at the same time. I didn’t care if the whole broom caught fire. We would all go out blazing, Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman and me. The trumpeter would read about the cinema disaster in the papers, DI James might come to my funeral service if there was anything left for a service.

  It was my last climb and I was determined to make this one work. I stood holding the blazing broomhead out of the skylight, more than a bit wobbly. Flames and smoke streamed out into the air. Where were those sirens? I was past knowing or caring. It was a pole-axed time. My brain had stopped functioning, entangled communication cells out of action. I never even heard them coming up the stairs or breaking down the door.

  “Gotcher, miss,” said a voice.

  I felt my legs firmly clasped round the knees in mid air. I thought it was the Italians and started to struggle.

  “Give over. I’m here to rescue you, Jordan. Relax and come down. Give me the broom. Bloody idiot. What the hell do you think you are doing?”

  My legs collapsed again. I fell against a sturdy male body built like a wall. Strong arms caught me and I saw bulky uniform, white hard hat. Another firefighter snatched the flaming broom.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” I gasped. “I haven’t set light to the Picture Palace, have I?”

  “Not yet, you imbecile, but nearly. Can you walk?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I don’t think I’ll ever walk again.”

  Bud hoisted me up over his shoulder. It was a very strange upside-down, folded in half feeling, but I didn’t care. I stared at the burnt matches on the floor and the cinders of my trainers. He would carry me out of the building and he wouldn’t let any Italians take me away. The other fireman was dowsing the broom and my trainers with an extinguisher.

  “Don’t let the Italians get me,” I said.

  “No Italians.”

  “They’re after me.”

  “Sure. I’m not surprised. You stood me up on our date,” he said, bumping me round a corner. “I always send the Italians round.”

  “Sorry, but I don’t remember. Did we have a date? I must have a drink. My throat is so dry. Please, a drink first. Have you got some water?”

  Has a fireman got any water? I nearly laughed except I was too dry to laugh.

  He put me down outside on the pavement and immediately held a waterbottle to my mouth. I drank and drank. It slid down my throat like rain.

  “Hold on,” he said. “You’ll burst.”

  “I’m sorry about the date,” I said, my head against his shoulder. It was solid. “I’d forg
otten. Who called the fire services?”

  “Some vigilante, on duty outside the cinema in a sleeping bag, in case it was pulled down overnight. He saw the smoke, phoned 999.”

  “Thank goodness. It worked then.”

  “Jordan, the police are on their way. Sorry about that. And you do need to be checked out by A&E. Your breathing is bad and your hands are bleeding,” said Bud, slipping back the visor to his helmet. He looked down at me, his mouth set.

  “I was calling for help, don’t you see that, trying to attract attention? Don’t you understand? Tell the police that the door was locked, won’t you? Explain that I was locked in, that I was a prisoner, won’t you?”

  “I will,” said Bud.

  He went back to his team, stomping about in his big bools. I think he was mad at me. They were packing up their equipment. There was no fire. Just a nutcase who had burnt her trainers on a mound of coke cans.

  “Another fire, Jordan?” DI James was crouched on the pavement beside me. His eyes were fathomless. His hair was spiked with rain. I didn’t know it had been raining. Perhaps that’s why the mug of fire kept going out. “This is getting to be a habit.”

  “It was these two Italians,” I said weakly. “They hijacked me from the shop. Look, I’m bleeding.”

  “I understand this injury is self-inflicted.” he said, but he was wrapping clean handkerchiefs round my hands as he spoke.

  “Self-inflicted, my foot,” I said. “I was trying to cut film into bits so I could set fire to the film.”

  “So you admit to starting this fire?”

  “It’s not a fire as we know a fire to be,” I said. “I was trying to attract attention. I was tied up to a chair first. I got myself free. The bits of rope are up there in the projection room on the floor. Why don’t you get them before some idiot sweeps them up?”

  “What else shall I find there?”

  “My trainers. I had to burn them. Broken glass. Reels of Casablanca. Oh my God, I had to burn the first reel. That really hurt but I had no choice.”

  “The first reel isn’t so good,” said DI James.