Wave and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 2)

by Stella Whitelaw

  “Oh, I’m so glad you agree,” I said. “I thought I was the only person who didn’t… you know.”

  “So this could be called fire number two, Jordan.”

  “No, no… never. Not fire number two. There wasn’t even fire number one. How can I convince you?”

  “Perhaps you ought to come down to the station and make a statement.”

  “I need a lot to drink. Masses and masses. I’m dehydrated, my asthma is bad and they gagged me with this awful rag. You could collect specimens from inside my mouth. Then perhaps you’d believe me. I wouldn’t put bits of oily cloth inside my own mouth.”

  “I’ve a bottle of Australian Chardonnay cooling down at the nick,” said DI James. “It’s in the fridge, waiting for a special occasion.”

  “And this is a special occasion?” Amazement mingled with disbelief.

  “Yes, in a way.”

  “Is that why you’re carrying two clean handkerchiefs? For this special occasion?”

  DI James did not answer. He looked surprised. Perhaps he did not know he had two handkerchiefs. Perhaps he couldn’t count. A form of numbers dyslexia.

  Across the road was a dark saloon car with smoked-glass windows. I clung to his arm, terror rising in my throat. “That’s the car. It’s them. The Italians,” I croaked.

  “Pack it in, Jordan,” he said. “You’ll be seeing aliens next.”

  Fifteen

  Latching police station had never looked more inviting. I turned down the offer of an hour’s wait at an A&E. I felt safer in a police station. A fresh-faced WPC of about twelve took me to the washroom so that I could clean up. She even gave me a tampon from her locker. I would remember her cheery smile and kindness. My hands were a mess. I rinsed James’s handkerchiefs and squeezed out the pinky water. I’d give them a proper soaking in bleach when I got home. I was totally confident that I would soon be on my way.

  Another WPC brought some bandages from the first aid box and soon I had six sausage fingers. The others had escaped mutilation. My hair was a tangled nest. No way could I hold a brush even if I had one.

  They took me to the same interview room, the one with the pot plant. Two mugs of tea were waiting.

  “Where’s the Chardonnay?” I asked.

  “Later maybe,” said DI James without looking up from some papers. “If you start drinking wine now, then I’ll have to breathalyse you and you’d be over the limit. We don’t want to make it look worse than it already is.”

  “What do you mean, than it already is? You’re not seriously considering me?”

  “Jordan. It’s stacking up against you. You were on the scene of the fire at FFH, and talked your way into the fire spot, possibly to remove incriminating evidence.”

  “I didn’t remove anything! What rubbish.”

  “Please don’t interrupt. Councilor Fenwick phoned you just before the fire broke out. Your bike was found nearby with a can of petrol. We now have confirmation that six thousand pounds in cash has been paid into your bank in the last few days. Six thousand pounds, Jordan, a lot of money. Business is looking up. Hardly your normal fee? Or has it gone up recently?”

  “It’s planted money. I’ve been telling the manager, Mr Won’t-Listen William Weaver, till I’m blue in the face. It’s not my money and I didn’t put it in my account.”

  “One of the cashiers can identify you, Jordan. She says the cash was deposited by a young woman in jeans with funny-colored hair in a plait.”

  “Funny-colored!” I splattered.

  “Perhaps we should start with the Picture Palace and what you were doing there and why you were trying to set fire to it,” he said, not looking at me.

  I drank some tea, wondering when this Alice Down the Plug Hole nightmare would end.

  “Coming here is getting to be a habit,” I said, sitting on the chair opposite the pot plant for possible healing vibes. It hadn’t grown. “People will begin to talk.”

  “People are already talking. You are in deep trouble, Jordan. Two fires, big payments in cash and a councilor who was clearly murdered.”

  “What do you mean, clearly murdered? I thought he died in the fire, shut himself in the safe or something.”

  “There’s more to it than that, Jordan. Ever heard of Halcion?”

  “No. What is it? Sounds like another water lily.”

  “It’s a short-term sleeping tablet, contains Triazolam. Causes drowsiness, confusion, unsteadiness, changes in vision. Not to be taken with alcohol. May also impair judgement. Traces of Triazolam were found in Adrian Fenwick’s blood and in his vacuum flask of coffee.”

  “Spiked coffee. Very original. So how am I supposed to have spiked his coffee? With a syringe through the window?”

  “He had also consumed quite a quantity of brandy. We found a half empty bottle and dregs in a glass. A lethal combination. He probably didn’t know what he was doing by this stage. And the connecting door was locked from the outside. He certainly didn’t know that steel conducts heat and would set fire to the contents of the safe, including himself.”

  “And how am I supposed to have got the good councilor in this state and why, Detective Inspector James? All crimes have a motive. Find me one good motive.”

  “Trenchers, Miss Lacey. That’s a good motive. Everyone knows that you are obsessed by that derelict ruin of a hotel. And Councilor Fenwick was in the process of granting planning permission for it to be demolished and a small industrial business built on the site.”

  “Conservatories?”

  He looked surprised. It took a lot to surprise DI James. Point to me. My service.

  “Er… yes.”

  “And the Fenwicks have just had a new conservatory extension built on to their house. Coincidence. Perhaps it was a sample Victorian that fell off the back of a lorry. Have you checked?”

  “It’s not against the law to have a conservatory built.”

  “But it is if it was a handout. I don’t wish to speak ill of the recently horrifically departed, but it smells cod-shaped to me.”

  “I’d like you to tell me again exactly what you were doing the night of the showroom fire.”

  “This is getting so boring. Arc you taping this conversation?” He tapped the recorder box and the attendant WPC smirked. I noticed that she had loosened her shirt collar. Either getting hot or putting on weight. “Forgotten what they look like? I am taking a statement.”

  “You didn’t caution me before you started.”

  DI James did not move a single lash. I gave him full marks for self-control. But his eyes darkened and they took on that look that I hated. That blank, Titanic, iceberg looming, no survivors look. He wasn’t going to throw me a lifebelt.

  “Do I have to start again?” he said in a voice that could cut ice. “I will read you the caution. We will go through this whole ridiculous rigmarole again.”

  “You gotta get the procedure right,” I said, then turned brightly to the WPC. “I wonder if I could have some more tea? I’ve a throat like dried hemp.”

  “No,” he snapped. “No more tea.”

  I turned back to DI James and drew strength from everything that I liked about him. Nothing could change my feelings. I had a kind of rooted certainty that would last a lifetime. I would go to my grave (watery) loving the man. The crisp dark crew-cut, eyes that imprisoned me with invisible tendons, a chin that could repel invaders.

  “I might pass out right now or start wheezing. You seem to have forgotten what I have been through. Abducted by two villainous Italians, locked in and tied up in a cinema projection room. Nothing to drink. Asthma attack on its way.”

  “How did you know they were Italians?”

  “They’re part of the Scarlatti gang. Ever heard of them? Not the opera-composing lot. The Naples Mafia lot. Nasty habits. Several giant-sized chips bouncing on those Armani-clad shoulders. They think I know where someone called Al Lubliganio is.”

  “And do you?” He was trying hard to see where all this was going.

 
“He’s up north somewhere. I told him to go north. That’s all I know. Could we please have a break? I really am feeling quite ill.”

  I was feeling bad. It was the truth and no joke. Perhaps I looked a shade of green. My stomach was clutched in cramps, I could still taste that rag in my mouth, my legs were wobbly and weak. Possibly I had caught something off the Italians. Some sort of Mediterranean-based flu.

  DI James spoke into the tape. “Interview ended at six forty-five p.m. as witness taken ill.” He switched off the machine. “Could you please fetch Miss Lacey another cup of tea and perhaps a sandwich. Cheese and tomato. She doesn’t eat meat. God knows when she last ate. The day before yesterday probably.”

  I cradled my head on the hard table. Anywhere would do. “I’ve forgotten how to eat.”

  “What exactly were you burning in the projection room?”

  “Casablanca,” I sighed. “I told you. Of all the gin joints, in all the world.”

  “Cellulose-coated film, the old-fashioned kind before fireproofing… you’ve been inhaling toxic fumes. I’ll call the doc.”

  “No, please, I don’t want any fuss.”

  “If you are not attended to by the station doc, you’ll probably sue.”

  “No, never… I won’t sue,” I murmured, sliding to the floor.

  *

  I came to in DI James’s arms. He was carrying me, not exactly gently, but nevertheless carrying me like a child. My cheek was rubbing against his shoulder. I could breathe him, feel deep muscles moving. His chin was only inches away. I could see a scar.

  “Haven’t we anywhere more comfortable? Not in a cell, idiot! Can’t you see she’s ill. You don’t put a sick person in a cell, dammit. Where the hell is there a decent chair?”

  I could have told him. My place. Just keep walking, buster. Walk with me to the rainbow’s end. We might find a sofa piled with cushions and throws.

  They found an armchair from some chief inspector’s office upstairs. Reluctantly, I let them untwine my arms and lower me into the armchair, put my feet up on a stool. DI James wrapped me in a cellular blanket, pushed a deflated cushion under my head. I felt cherished and loved.

  Would he always be like this? Could he be? Was there a layer of loving lurking somewhere neath the steel shield he wore, that he eould not allow to be seen? I shut out the station walls, the gawping WPC, the hovering doctor probing my bare chest with a cold sphere.

  “A bit of smoke inhalation,” the doc said, putting his stethoscope away. “Not good with her asthma. But not too bad and no hospitalization is necessary. A few days’ rest at home will do the trick.”

  DI James pulled my sweater down for modesty’s sake. I could barely believe the tenderness of that quiet action. Thank goodness my bra was clean and white with a wisp of lace in the valley. I could have been wearing a punk-killer pull-on gray sports version.

  “James…” I whispered, very Gone With the Wind. I was going to relive and remember every second there was of this moment. My one and only cherish time.

  “Ssshh,” he said. “Just rest. Don’t worry about anything.”

  They took me home in a panda. Someone phoned and offered to bail me out but it was not necessary. It was days before I found out that it was Jack, the man who owns the amusement arcade on the pier. One of my fans. The man who once gave me a teddy bear. Who lusted after me in both a carnal and marital fashion but was a non-starter in the stakes and we both knew it. But he was prepared to stand bail. Put down good money. If only I could fall for him, my days of poverty would be over.

  I stayed in bed for several days, living on tinned soup, mushroom and tomato versions alternately. Then pottered around in an old track suit, too weak to do anything except listen to Jazz FM. I barely remembered the cases I was supposed to be working on. They disappeared into a convalescent haze. I slept and dozed. I did not answer the door or the phone. Why me? Why were the police determined to pin it on me? I’d done nothing to deserve this.

  I’d have to unsort the tangle myself. If I got the chance before they locked me up again. I found some paper and wrote down all the relevant points that needed investigating. This would be my checklist and I had to prove, without doubt, that each point was flawed in its thinking.

  My first furtive somnambulant steps were taken on a cold windy morning. Winter had arrived with a vengeance during my brief absence, stacking clouds in the sky like brooding medieval castles with ramparts and ruined keeps. They were gray and glowering, darkly menacing above the horizon. The sea churned steel-tinged waves that lapped the shore with arthritic stiffness. The gulls tiptoed the wet sand with frozen feet.

  I huddled my chin into my collar, pulled a scarf across my mouth and stuck my hands in my pockets. Shopping list: gloves. It was some time before I realized I was walking towards Mrs Fenwick’s all-weather villa in the sun. None of the windows were open. The house looked as if it were hibernating.

  I set the chimes going. Mrs Fenwick came to the door in lavender twinset and pearls, gray pleated skirt. She had a floral pinny clutched in her hands.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Are you busy?”

  “Not too busy to be interrupted,” she said. “Come in. You look frozen.”

  “I am,” I said, stepping into the warmth of the hall. She led the way to the kitchen. Another wave of heat hit me.

  “I’m making a wedding cake,” she said. “Something to do, keeps me occupied. Anything to keep my mind off Adrian’s death. Pippa hasn’t been round to sec me or written to me. I can’t understand that young woman. You’d think she’d come. We were quite friendly, once. She might have telephoned, a few kind words.”

  “Pippa? Your son’s ex-wife? The one who is remarrying and you made the WI cake for?”

  “That’s right. Didn’t I tell you? Would you like a cup of tea? I don’t seem to buy coffee any more. Adrian drank coffee all the time.”

  “Tea’ll be great,” I said, unwrapping my scarf. I know this will be painful for you but I wonder if you’d mind telling me a few things about that evening, the evening your husband worked late.”

  “I know so little…”

  “Well, for a start, he phoned you, saying he’d be working late?”

  “That’s right. He phoned in the afternoon to say he would be working late at the office and not to wait up. It wasn’t unusual.”

  “And he didn’t have a thermos of coffee, made by you, with him that evening?”

  “No, because he didn’t come home for it. But funny that you should ask because I haven’t seen the thermos since… since that day. It seems to have disappeared. He didn’t take it with him in the morning because I remember washing it up after he’d left for work.”

  “And what else did you do that day?”

  “Heavens, I’ve no idea. It’s difficult to remember what one did on any exact day. I went shopping, I suppose. Library… I don’t know.”

  “Did you have any visitors?”

  She shook her head and poured out the tea. “No, I don’t think so. Oh yes, Pippa called in but only for a few minutes. She wanted some addresses but I couldn’t find them. I don’t know why she thought I’d have them. Very odd.”

  “And did you leave her alone at all while she was here?”

  “Alone? Well, I suppose so while I looked in my husband’s desk. Then I went upstairs to my son’s old room and had a quick look round for an address book but I couldn’t find one.”

  “So she had some minutes on her own downstairs?”

  “Yes, I suppose so, but is it important?”

  “Not really,” I said, changing the subject. “Your mobile phone. Can you remember when you last had it?”

  “Oh dear,” she said, starting to look flustered. “You must think I’m very stupid. But no, I don’t remember when I last had it. You see, I use it very rarely. It’s just for emergencies. Adrian said I should always have it with me in the car.”

  “So it could have been missing for some time, several days in fact? Did you report it?”
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  “No, are you supposed to?”

  “Never mind. So it went missing some time before the agricultural show?”

  “Oh yes.” She brightened. “It might have been stolen or I lost it, any time. Tell me, Miss Lacey, do they know any more about my husband’s death? That nice DI James has been round to see me. He’s very sympathetic.”

  “I’m sure he’ll come again if there’s any news.”

  “I always told Adrian that he’d work himself to death and he did, didn’t he?”

  It was an odd way to put it but I had to agree. Except that he didn’t put sleeping pills in his coffee or lock the door from the outside so that he couldn’t get out. I was sure this Mrs Fenwick was not involved. Setting the regulo on her oven was about her limit.

  “But have you found my stolen cake yet, Miss Lacey?” Now she was anxious. She knocked over a jug of milk in her haste to wipe the table top clean. “I do want that wedding cake back. It means a lot to me.”

  “But you are making another one now.” Stolen… stollen cake. Same bell began ringing.

  “I know…” She flustered again.”It’s just in case she’d like it. But the first one was special. I’d really prefer to give her that one.”

  “Sorry, no sign of it yet. Probably eaten.”

  “Oh dear, I do hope not.”

  “They enjoyed it, I’m sure, whoever they are. Mrs Drury says you are a very good cook.”

  “Er… yes.” She was all at sixes and sevens again. She could remain calm talking about her husband’s recent death, but mention the wedding cake and she was as nervous as a candidate for a Stars in Your Eyes audition.

  There was nothing more I could do here. I finished my tea and thanked her, wrapping up well for the arctic conditions outside. Mrs Fenwick insisted on lending me some gloves, hand-knitted, WI pattern. It was more than I could bear.

  “The tea was lovely, thank you. By the way, can you give me Pippa’s address? I’d like to have a word with her.”

  “I can’t. I don’t know where she lives. She wouldn’t give it to anyone. Quite strange. I mean, I wouldn’t visit her or anything. Perhaps send her a card at Christmas, that sort of thing.” Thank you again. I’ll keep in touch.”