Wave and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 2)

by Stella Whitelaw

  Someone was cycling round Latching on my bike, looking like me. Someone was depositing large amounts of cash in my bank account without my permission. Someone was turning my friends against me. I hoped they’d get saddle sore and bashed shins.

  I felt very lonely. Jack was my only friend but he could not really help me. There was Bud, the sub officer at the fire station, firefighter with a bad dose of grievance. He might be sympathetic. But what would it cost me? I had no intention of paying either man in the currency that they wanted.

  I rang the fire station. “Can I speak to sub officer Bud Morrison.”

  Voices consulted against a background of activity. “Is this a personal call?”

  “Yes.” I decided not to lie. Odd. I could have said it was in relation to two recent Latching fires and that would also have been the truth.

  “Sub officer Bud Morrison,” he said briskly.

  “Jordan Lacey,” I said. “How are you? I wonder if we could meet? I’d like to apologize and buy you a beer.”

  I could see the grin. He thought he was going to score. I knew it was a line he’d like.

  “Sounds up my street,” he said. “I approve of women who are prepared to grovel.”

  “This groveling is only in the pursuit of information, for picking brains.”

  “Pick away, lady. Be gentle with me. I’ll tell you when to move on down lower.”

  Save me. I wasn’t into this cavorting. Another sex-starved male on the make. Shopping list: chastity belt; spray hair lacquer for use in emergency.

  “Shall we meet this evening? After your shift? Say, at the Bear and Bait?”

  “Say any time you like. Eight o’clock. See you, kiddo.”

  I’m a few years past the kiddo stakes, but I preferred it to sexy and lewd. What made men think it was okay to call you anything that reflected their mental state? I would never dream of letting any man get the merest inkling of what was going on in my head. They might run a mile. Except DI James. It would take him a week before the tenpence dropped and by then I’d be on a surveillance the other side of Sussex.

  I was mellowing on my second glass of Cabernet Sauvignon before Bud turned up at the Bear and Bait. He looked scrubbed, hair still wet from the shower. He wore a navy polo-necked jersey, a fawn leather blousson jacket, jeans. Sharp. I got him a pint of Speckled Hen bitter.

  After we had bandied a few polite remarks, exchanged pleasantries and found a corner table, I came straight to the point.

  “I’m being set up for the fire at Fenwick Future Homes,” I said. “It’s circumstantial. There was someone, looking like me, riding my bike, seen near FFH before the fire. A can of petrol was planted with my bike. Petrol was used to start the fire, they say. You, mistakenly, letting me wander about said scene did not help.”

  “I thought you were still on the force.”

  “I know, not your fault. I should have told you but my curiosity got the better of my good nature. And now this Picture House incident. No connection, I assure you. I was only trying to attract attention after being locked in and tied up by two thugs. Foreign thugs.”

  “Pre-safety celluloid is very dangerous,” said Bud. “It can self-ignite.”

  “Might have saved me a few matches. I only had seven.”

  “Let’s get this straight. They think you set fire to FFH because you were seen near there beforehand, your bike carried a can of petrol, and you were seen behaving suspiciously afterwards on the scene of the fire. And I suppose you had a motive?”

  It sounded bad. “It’s hardly a strong motive. Councilor Fenwick had given planning permission for Trenchers to be pulled down and a small industrial plant built on the hotel site. I have protective feelings about the old hotel.”

  Obviously, it didn’t sound like much of a motive at all to Bud. He dismissed it immediately. “Some arsonists don’t need a motive. It’s the feeling of power they crave. Got a screw loose. This can of petrol? What size?”

  “A gallon, I suppose.”

  “How much petrol was left in the can?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Find out. There was some petrol splashed about the offices and showroom but not necessarily to start the fire. We think a small fire had already started. If the can was full or fullish, then it wasn’t used to start the fire. If it was near empty, then maybe it had.” Bud finished his beer. “I cleared you in my report, sweetheart. Said I invited you in by mistake. Maybe that’ll ease the suspicion.”

  That was kind. I felt a stirring of gratitude. Not a lot, but enough for me to give him a genuine smile. He was encouraged.

  “But what were you doing there, at that ungodly hour, when you should have been tucked up in your little bed?”

  “I couldn’t sleep. I was so cold.” No bets on how he would respond.

  “I’d have kept you warm,” he smirked. But he smirked with genuine admiration. He thought I was a little woman in need of male protection. “Find out where your bike was found. A true arsonist would have left it close to the blaze, so that the can heated and blew up, destroying the evidence.”

  “So if it was left at some distance, it was meant to be found?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Thanks,” I said, buying him another beer. “At least I’ve some ammunition. I can start fighting back.”

  A trio was arriving; keyboard, bass and guitar. The jazz evening was about to begin. The pub was crowding up. A couple joined our table and Bud did not look pleased. When the jazz broke into improvised sound, he looked even less pleased.

  “Can’t stand this racket,” he said, standing up, pulling on his leather jacket. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

  He meant my place. Some minds I can read. I ran through a few excuses… rat infestation, infectious diseases, invasion of aliens… Instead, I stayed with the truth.

  For once, I blessed the discomfort, the cramps, the relentless hygiene rigmarole. I hushed my voice modestly. “Sorry, Bud, wrong time of the month,” I said.

  Seventeen

  It was time to wind up these cases. Their convolutions were strangling me. I wanted to be free of them, to get back to missing persons and serving subpoenas. I had to get tough with these people, show them that I meant business.

  But who first? I fancied alphabetical order. But before I left my office I got together all my notes, all the bits and pieces I’d gathered from the cases and laid them out on the floor. I stared at the collection then began to swirl them around like a magician, hoping that something would click.

  “Come on, baby,” I breathed. “Come to mama.”

  They moved while my back was turned.

  I put up the notice saying CLOSED FOR LUNCH even though it was only 11 a.m. Lunch can mean anything in my book. Doris was hurrying past, arms full of shopping bags. She’d obviously been to some discount store to stock up. She winked at me.

  “Too busy to eat last night?” she asked. “Saw you with the hunky fireman.”

  “You only saw me with him,” I said. “Nothing happened.”

  “That’s what they always say.” She winked again and disappeared into her shop to restock the shelves.

  Nothing went unnoticed in this town. I couldn’t even breathe without someone noting the time and place. Yet no one had seen a mob of youths trash the WI marquee and carry away a three-tiered cake.

  As I cycled to Mrs Drury’s solid Edwardian villa the other side of Latching, my knees began to feel round my ears. I got off and inspected my bike. The saddle had been lowered. Whoever had ridden my bike was shorter than me. I nearly punched the air, except I don’t let my feelings take over. I unscrewed the bolt and raised the saddle to suit my long legs.

  Mrs Drury spotted me from a window and opened the door immediately.

  “Come in, Jordan,” she said, beaming like an old friend. “I was hoping you’d drop by and tell me how you were getting on with your investigations. Have you found the cake? It’s all so fascinating. Would you like some tea or coffee? I was just go
ing to make a pot.”

  “Coffee would be fine,” I said, any courage rapidly sliding down into my boots. How could I hurt her? She was such a good soul at heart.

  I followed her through to the kitchen. It looked as if an Exocet missile had hit it. She must have used every saucepan, mixing bowl, whisk, rolling pin and chopping board that she possessed. They were everywhere, on the table, on the draining board, in the sink, on the floor, liberally doused in flour. I took off my anorak and rolled up my sleeves.

  “I wondered why you had done such a lot of shopping,” I said, turning on the hot tap and clearing the sink. “I thought it was rather a lot of food to buy for one person. Are you throwing a party?”

  “I’m past my party-giving days,” said Mrs Drury, trying to find the kettle among the debris. “I just… er… just felt like doing a bit of cooking.”

  “Lovely smell of fennel.”

  “Oh yes, I’ve made one of my fennel quiches. I promised you one, didn’t I?”

  “And all these profiteroles? Cheese straws and vol-au-vents and stuffed mushrooms and latticed sausage plaits… liver pates and salmon mousses. You have been busy. Looks to me like a re-run of the WI wedding display.”

  There was a hung silence. The room took on the wrong shape.

  I swished in some washing-up liquid. I couldn’t look at Mrs Drury. She was having some sort of coughing fit, holding her side and leaning over the table. Not asthmatic coughing, more something gone down the wrong way. My words in fact.

  I filled a glass with water and gave it to her. She sipped slowly until her coughing was under control.

  “Oh dear me, now what was I doing? Oh yes, making some coffee for us. Here’s the kettle. Now, how do you like your coffee, Jordan?”

  I nearly said wet. “Black, please, Mrs Drury.”

  “There’s no need to be doing all that,” she fussed, trying to stop me washing up. “I can do it later.”

  “Enough washing up here to incite deep depression,” I said, carrying on. “Let me get on with it.”

  It was my peace-offering, my white flag, my twig with white flowers. Any minute now I was going to have to say something about conscience cooking and she would hate me. Perhaps she would hate me less if I left her kitchen neat and pristine.

  “So you’ve had lots of new members applying since all that publicity in the newspapers,” I said casually. She fell in the trap.

  “Six definites and two possibles. Very satisfactory,” said Mrs Drury, spooning coffee grains into cups and starting to stir even though she had not boiled any hot water. She was clearly distracted but managing to hide it quite well.

  “Almost like putting an advertisement in the newspapers, wasn’t it, Mrs Drury? You know: WANTED: NEW MEMBERS FOR INVIGORATING ORGANIZATION. All those press stories. Wonderful publicity and every one for nothing. Quite a bargain when you think what they charge for space.”

  “Well, yes, if you put it like that,” said Mrs Drury, filling the kettle. “Still, it’s all over and done with now. History, as they say. We can forget all about it, can’t we, dear?”

  She was trying to look at me, catch my eye but couldn’t quite make it. She bustled around, doing unnecessary things, putting unwashed bowls away. Her guilt was almost visible. She’d organized it like an army maneuver, getting rid of everyone in the marquee on some pretext, trashing the display, removing the wedding cake and then running round, shouting for help.

  It was difficult to imagine the well-built Mrs Drury throwing food in the air, stamping on meringues, breaking plates. Perhaps the cake had even been in the boot of her car when she had come to collect me from the shop.

  I nodded slowly. “I guess when I find the cake for Mrs Fenwick, we’ll be able to forget all about it. Quite possibly, maybe even definitely,” I added, using her words.

  “Well, that’s splendid, then, isn’t it?” she said at last, recovering. “Come and sit down. You deserve it after doing all that washing-up. What an angel you are.”

  She carried the tray through to the front room and we sat down and drank coffee and chatted as if nothing whatsoever had been said in the kitchen. It was hardly real. Any moment I would wake up and find I’d fallen asleep over the counter. Perhaps Bud had slipped me a dream pill last night.

  “I hope your friends in the WI enjoy your cooking,” I said, as I got up to leave. “What a lovely surprise for them.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, flustered.

  “Aren’t you taking all these goodies to your next meeting as a good-will gesture?” It was obvious she was staging a re-run.

  Never at a loss for long, Mrs Drury nodded. “What a lovely idea, Jordan. I’ll do just that. They’ll be so amused.”

  We said goodbye amicably but I noticed that she did not think I was enough of an angel to be given the promised quiche garnished with fennel.

  *

  “Whoever borrowed my bike, lowered the saddle,” I said to DI James on the phone later. “So that makes them shorter than me.”

  “Everyone in Latching is shorter than you.” he replied.

  This was way unfair to my almost 5 foot 8 inches but I let it pass. I liked being tall, especially in the maddening crowd. It gave me a head start.

  “And I should like to know how much petrol was in the can you found attached to my bike,” I went on. “Was it nearly full or nearly empty?”

  “You sound like a politician.”

  “And you sound as if you’re hedging.”

  “We didn’t measure it.”

  “You didn’t measure it?” I put ringing indignation into my voice. “But you should have. The volume makes a difference. I got this from an expert.”

  “You mean sub-officer Morrison.”

  “Is nothing of my private life private any more? You’ll be taking bets next on what color pants I’m wearing.”

  “White,” he said instantly.

  I was glad of the length of the BT cable network between us. At least, he couldn’t see my cheeks coloring. It was a lucky guess. He had no way of knowing that I never wear pink. My only pink undergarment is the dreaded, passion-killing stretched winter knit vest. My pants and bra drawer is a tumble of white and black with an occasional glimpse of blue. I have been known to mix and match.

  “The broken bicycle chain, the fluorescent armband, the lower saddle and the fact that my bike was found intact, all add up to a set-up. If I had been the arsonist, I’d have left the bike and the petrol right outside the showroom where it would have heated up and exploded.”

  There was a silence. I hoped DI James was writing it all down.

  “You were seen leaving your flat at five forty a.m. by an observant postman on his way to the sorting office. You have a lot of friends at the post office. The brigade was called at five thirty-five from a public phone box. The distance from your flat to the showroom is thirteen minutes fast walking time. I suppose you could have started the fire, got back to your flat, cleaned up, and gone out again by five forty a.m. But it doesn’t seem likely. You’re not exactly an Olympic runner.”

  He’d been doing homework, calculations. My voice disappeared somewhere down my poloneck. Was the man trying to save me?

  “But the fire had a delayed start,” I croaked, honest to the point of stupidity. “A candle in a bin to burn first. A trail of petrol-soaked shredded paper.”

  I heard his sigh of frustration. “I had hoped you would not remind me of that.”

  *

  I carried a clipboard and put on gold-rimmed spectacles. I’d long ago discovered that if you carried a clipboard and waved it at receptionists, you could get in anywhere. There was a caretaker at Horizon View fiats but it seemed to work just as well on him.

  “Number five you say? From the council? I suppose it’s all right. Miss Shaw is out but I’m sure she won’t mind.”

  “Community charge tax, you know. Residential premises can’t be used to run a business, so, if you’d just let me in. I shan’t be more than five minutes.
It won’t take long to check. Such a fuss, all these regulations. New ones every day.”

  “I don’t think Miss Shaw works.”

  “Computers, internet, that kind of thing.”

  “Oh, I see,” he agreed, knowing all about them, of course. “The internet. Damned council. Always interfering.”

  “Sorry. I don’t make the rules.”

  The caretaker took me up in the lift and opened the door of No 5 with his pass key. It was a big fiat and five minutes was hardly long enough for what I had to do. As everywhere was white, even the carpets, I took off my boots. We didn’t want to leave footprints in the snow.

  Systematically, I went through every cupboard and drawer. Pippa Shaw was so tidy it made me feel inadequate. There was not a scrap of rubbish or litter. No tights on the floor, no screwed-up tissues, not a hair, not a pin out of place.

  She was a compulsive tidier. She had containers for containers, plastic bags for plastic bags. Maybe she employed someone to do it for her. Maybe she was rarely there, preferring the anonymity of country hotels with pools and beauty spas.

  There was no imprint of her character. It was like a show home with a few tasteful ornaments on display, the token avocado in a cane basket, wine in a rack, a string of garlic.

  It made me feel insecure, a slob, disorganized. But she had the one thing that I had little of plenty of spare time. She could spend a morning rearranging her cutlery. I just flung everything into a drawer and hoped to find what I wanted later.

  If I’d had a toothcomb. I’d have used it. There was not a letter, a bill, a file, a bank statement in sight. She kept nothing. No appointment cards, no diary, no address book. Miss Shaw was a creature from another planet. I bet she didn’t even have fingerprints.

  My sweep went from room to room; my invisible search did not disturb a mote of dust. I wouldn’t find a thing in this immaculate conception. There was nothing out of place. Not a shred of evidence that might be construed as suspicious. It couldn’t be so. No one was that impossibly lily-white. There must be something I had missed.