“No, I wouldn’t be surprised. I know several of them.”
The month was fading fast into winter, chilled into brisk settlement. A bite was in the air, nipping every uncovered nose. My pockets filled with water in daily downpours. The fields were sodden. Rivers overflowed the towpaths, lapping against garden steps. Sandbags appeared like boils in front of low-lying cottages.
I was not surprised when I got the report back from the Public Health. The cake had been heavily spiked with a strong, proprietary brand of chocolate laxative. Mrs Fenwick’s conciliatory gesture towards her daughter-in-law’s remarriage had been phenolphthalein. She had planned to make that wedding one to remember.
It seemed right to put Mrs Fenwick out of her misery, even though she would not have to pay me any fee. I could only charge her if I was returning the cake. No cake, no bill. I phoned her, knowing it would be a difficult conversation face to face.
“Mrs Fenwick. It’s Jordan Lacey. I’ve some news for you,” I said.
“Oh my goodness. My cake… have you found it?”
“Not exactly. But I know where it is.”
“Tell me, tell me, quick. I must go and fetch it.” She sounded agitated. No wonder.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Mrs Fenwick. A few slices have been eaten and you can imagine how that person is now feeling.”
There was a silence. “Oh dear… I don’t think I understand. I don’t know what you mean…”
“I think you do, Mrs Fenwick. However, when this person recovers, as I’m sure they will, I think I can assure you that the rest of the cake will be destroyed and nothing will be done to take the matter further. It’s best, for both of you, that the whole episode is forgotten.”
“Yes. I do agree, if you say so. Miss Lacey. I should be very grateful. Can you arrange for the cake to be… er… be destroyed?”
“I will make the necessary arrangements. But you must promise me that you will never, never do anything like this again. If you do, then I will produce the report from the Public Heath Department who have analysed a slice of your cake.”
She could barely speak. The shock waves came over the wire. I hoped she wasn’t going to have a heart attack. Breaking bad news gently is an art they teach by rote at the cop shop.
Both Mrs Drury and Mrs Fenwick recovered but were shaken by the experience. Mrs Fenwick paid a modest bill for expenses only promptly, and added a generous bonus for “Extra services” as she quaintly described getting rid of the evidence. It took time for their confidence to return. Mrs Drury even started driving her car with some consideration for road rules.
Strangely enough, they remained friends. I never said a word and they never asked. Neither ever knew what had really happened.
Twenty-One
The slate was looking cleaner round the edges but the center was still a muddy blur. Unresolved: who locked Councilor Fenwick in the safe and thus accelerated his death; who was putting wads of cash in my account causing me immense embarrassment; who murdered Waz Fairbrother? She was hardly a piece of artwork gone wrong.
“Nothing to do with me,” I told Waz’s cat who had decided to live with me. He came to work in a cat basket, chewing the corners to while away the tedium of the journey, inspected the premises for rodent infiltration, then went to sleep in the warmest spot. Once he went to sleep in the shop window and a woman offered me £5 for him. I was annoyed. You can’t put a price on a cat.
I’m not being paid for any of these cases, I thought. DI James is the man in charge. I can forget them. I’ll go back to serving subpoenas and customers.
A firm of solicitors in Chichester kept me supplied with routine bread and butter work. Serving documents was boring but occasionally required ingenuity. The recipients were often reluctant to accept legal papers, especially any writs issued by a court of justice requiring said person to appear in court at said time.
The response ranged from refusing to open the door, slamming the door shut in your face, setting the Rottweiler on you. Pass me a dog-proof vest quick. But after the Scarlatti brothers episode, I fancied a quiet life for a few days. Call it an overdue holiday in sunny Latching. I practised being a shop owner, selling first class junk.
Sunny Latching was pouring with rain, a curtain of water streaming down the windows of my shop. Umbrellas down, no one stopped to look at my classy displays. Today’s theme was musicals. One window reflected The Merry Window with a black lace fan, a silk rose and a champagne glass with a coffee-stained musical score; the other depicted Oliver with an old wooden bowl, a battered spoon that had been used for a century and a threadbare black undertaker’s top hat. Gruesome. I thought briefly of high-stepping black horses with plumes and a creaking carriage. Give me a linen shroud, please, and a heap of wild flowers from the Downs. Was I getting depressed?
While I waited for customers, I wrote up my notes and closed a few files. I sorted the photographs which I’d taken and labeled them. Part of the success of any PI was meticulous notes. It was often something tucked away in the memory which opened a new door of enquiry.
The shop door opened. Leroy Anderson, smartly dressed in a belted navy raincoat and red waterproof hat, swept in, her make-up unsmudged by the rain. How did she manage it? She shook out her umbrella and folded it. Then she looked at me dubiously.
“Don’t I know you?” she asked.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I said. “You may have seen me somewhere…” I did not care to remind her of Mrs Barbara Hutton or the morning of the fire.
“I thought we’d met somewhere before.”
“We may have. After all Latching is not such a big place and we may go to the same events. Can I help you?”
“I’d like to speak to the private investigator, please, the lady detective.”
“Jordan Lacey?” I liked the lady bit. Tried to look like one.
“Yes, please. Her office is here, isn’t it?”
“Come this way.” I ushered Leroy into the back room. “This is my office,” I said. “I’m Jordan Lacey. Please sit down. Would you like some coffee? It’s coffee time.”
She looked surprised. “De-caff?”
“Of course,” I said smoothly, hoping she couldn’t read the label on my jar of plain-jane instant. “How did you hear about FCI?”
“You left a card with my sister, Waz Fairbrother,” she choked. Suddenly, it was all too much. The sophistication cracked. She did her best to control her feelings; first her boss, now her sister. “Did you know that my sister is dead? She died a dreadful death.”
“I know, I heard,” I said, wishing I did have some de-caff for her. “I’m really sorry. It’s awful for you. Were you very close?”
I made some coffee for both of us while she blew her nose and repaired her make-up. Her wet raincoat was making my velvet chair damp but how could I complain when her sister had been suffocated with plaster and glue.
“She was twelve years older than me so she’s always seemed a a bit distant. And then she got married, of course. But she started getting very weird once she discovered she had some sort of artistic talent.”
“So she wasn’t always… so artistic?”
“Oh no. She was perfectly ordinary and normal once, just like you and me. She was a typist at the bank.”
I’d hardly describe Leroy as ordinary or me as normal, but I knew what she meant. I handed her a bone-china mug of coffee and offered survivors biscuits. She smiled her thanks, admiring the cornflowers painted on the mug. She was obviously bursting to talk to someone, anyone. She had been on her own ever since her sister’s death.
“Tell me about her,” I said. “Your sister was such an interesting person.”
Leroy took a deep breath. “She was always a bit vague, about me anyway, used to forget I was there. Sometimes she was left to babysit while our parents went out and suddenly she’d go out too, completely forgetting that I was upstairs, asleep. But she didn’t mean any harm. Then she married Leslie and became the usual sort of housewi
fe, shopping and ironing. She didn’t have to go out to work after they got married.”
“What happened to make her change?”
“I’m not sure. I wasn’t living with them then. It was when I got a job with Fenwicks that I came to Latching and needed somewhere to live. It was something pretty traumatic, I think. She never really said. But she changed all right. She didn’t cook any more; didn’t clean the house or wash or iron. She shopped in an erratic, tin of sardines sort of way.”
“Tin of sardines?”
“Once she went out to do the weekend shopping and all she came back with was one tin of sardines. Life was devoted to creating her pieces, messing about in the kitchen till all hours.”
“Did she sell her artwork?”
“Sometimes. There was a gallery in Brighton, some avant-garde sort of place, that used to take things to exhibit. She never had much money so I doubt if she sold many items. Just enough to cover the cost of the paint, I expect. She bought all her clothes at charity shops, never ate anything beyond a few raw vegetables. Strange sort of life. And again, she forgot all about me being there, hardly knew I was in the house.”
“And they never had any children?”
“I’m not sure. I think they lost a baby years ago. No one really said.”
“What about the day your brother-in-law, Leslie Fairbrother, disappeared? What can you tell me about that?”
Leroy still hadn’t said why she had come to see me but I was too fascinated to stop her talking. Closed doors, drawn curtains. No one knows the secrets behind the most ordinary of houses.
“I don’t really know much. Leslie was leaving for work at eight a.m. as usual. I was in the bathroom. They had some kind of row. I heard shouting and a door slam. And he never came back that evening. It was weird. Waz didn’t seem to notice at first. It was me who eventually reported him missing to the police. I think she was quite glad that he had gone.”
“Did he take anything with him?”
“I’ve no idea, sorry. I rang the bank and he hadn’t turned up for work that day. They thought he had early appointments in London. Apparently he often went to London for the bank. It was nothing unusual. But, of course, he never returned. Perhaps he’s dead, too.”
She sniffed and took out her handkerchief. Fate was certainly dealing her underhanded blows. She was not all that grown-up underneath the make-up. Her lashes wore navy mascara. Probably a young twenty-five. I felt ancient by her side, zimmerframe about to be delivered.
“So, Miss Anderson, why have you come to see me? How can I help you?”
“I want you to find out who killed my sister,” she said, looking anywhere but at me. “I don’t want the police digging into her strangeness, making fun of her, thinking she didn’t count as a person because she was unusual. I know you won’t do that because she liked you and trusted you. She told me so. She said she wanted to use your face.”
“But this is a police investigation,” I said gently. Use my face? Barbed wire and sellotape? “Your sister was murdered. They have to find the person who did it.”
“But not if you find him first!” She seemed galvanised out of her grief. “Please, Miss Lacey. I want you to find the murderer and then just hand him over to the police. I don’t want the police involved. You wouldn’t be like them. You’d understand…” she searched for the right word “…her strangeness.”
I knew what she meant. The police would sweep through the kitchen and pile Waz’s life work into bin liners. If they had not done it already. Waz may not have been a good sister but Leroy wanted desperately to preserve her dignity.
“I don’t care what it costs,” Leroy went on. “I’ve savings. Mr Fenwick paid me well. I can afford you.”
What a dilemma. How could I work on a murder case which was already in the hands of the police? Besides… murder! I was barely experienced enough to find a stolen wedding cake. Yet I had found it, sort of. Small beginnings.
“I will try to help you,” I said, much against all common sense. It was flattering to be asked. “But please understand that I cannot hamper the police investigation in any way. Yes, I might be able to do things which the police cannot. And, of course, having met your sister, I am most sympathetic to all aspects of this case.”
The navy mascara was running now and there was nothing I could do about it. I must go on a counseling course.
“Thank you. Miss Lacey.”
“Jordan.”
“Thank you, Jordan. Here’s a key to the house. You will no doubt want to have a good look around. I haven’t done any cleaning up. Clues, you know. Anyway, I’m staying with friends now. I can’t go back there.”
“Leave me a contact number and address,” I said, straight-faced. Hypocrite. The floor wouldn’t swallow me. It had too much self-respect. “I’ll do everything I can to find out who killed your sister. You really have had a terrible time. We could meet some evening if you like, have a meal or a drink. You do need to take it easy.”
“And you can go into my bedroom, too, if that’s any help. Waz might have put something there before it happened.”
“Okay,” I said, hiding a guilty face. I got her to sign a client contract. It was business after all, but in the circumstances I wasn’t having DI James hauling me off to the station for trespassing on the scene of a crime.
I did a rapid mental run of the initial crime procedure. Artist sketches of the crime scene – too late for the Monet touch. Bag and tag evidence – possible the cops might have missed something. Check previous twenty-four hours of victim’s life.
“Can you remember what your sister did during the previous twenty-four hours?” I asked, producing a notebook.
“Not easy. She always shut herself away in the kitchen, working all hours. I heard her make a few phone calls, that’s all. We spoke briefly about who would do the shopping. She said she would, but I don’t think she did. I don’t think she went out at all.”
“Are you aware if anything is missing from the house? Anything valuable?”
“No, nothing.”
“Anything special or nostalgic?”
“No.”
“How about works of art?”
“You mean her things?” Leroy did not know what word to use. “I haven’t a clue. I did notice when I went with the police that the big piece she called ‘Ruin’ had been smashed. But she could have done it herself. If she was dissatisfied with some work, she would destroy it.”
“What about forced entry? Had anyone broken into the house?”
Leroy shook her head. “There were no signs of that.”
“Then your sister must have let the intruder in. Maybe she knew the person.” I sounded like a WPC. It was all policespeak. “Or they had a key.”
“I don’t know.” She was getting distressed again. I made her some more coffee and talked about something else for a few minutes. The cold weather. It’s easy to talk about the weather in Latching. It changed every five minutes.
I couldn’t dust for prints or estimate the time of death. I could only get that information from DI James. If he’d tell me. I’d more chance of getting the information out of a whale.
“I’m sorry I have to ask all these questions, but it’s crucial that I have a clear idea of where I’m going. Now, Leroy, can you suggest any suspects? Did your sister have any enemies? Rivals? What about at the bank?”
“No enemies, I’m sure. Rivals… in the art business you mean? Maybe… she might have had competition but then her work was so unusual…”
“No one could produce anything similar or in the same class,” I suggested.
“Yes, that’s what I mean. She was a complete individual.”
“Did you have to identify your sister?” It was an awful question. I remembered the figure on the bed covered in glue and paint and plaster.
Her face glazed over, stunned again. “It was awful. I couldn’t believe it. To do such an awful thing to her. It was the work of a maniac.”
I’d asked her because
I wanted to see the reaction. It was genuine.
“I wonder why she didn’t struggle,” I said, not thinking. “After all, one would resist, strongly, to having paint and glue poured over one.”
Leroy looked at me peculiarly, wondering how I knew these details. Big mouth. I’d forgotten that only the police knew.
“I heard about it,” I added hurriedly. “Down at the cop shop.”
“I thought they were not going to make it public. Copycat crime and all that. But I suppose they might tell you. In a way it helps that you know. She was tied down, you see, with twine. She couldn’t struggle. It was horrible.”
I didn’t ask the next question. It would hardly help to know if anything else had happened to the poor woman. By now, they would have issued an APB, an all points bulletin, on the victim; questioned witnesses (what witnesses?), taken photos and a video, and the first officer on the scene would have made his report. I could find out who he was. Not DI James, because I was with him when the phone call came through.
“So I have to search for a motive. Find the motive and that often leads you to the killer,” I said with more hope than conviction. And I’d heard that before somewhere. One of the WI members. “Thank you for being so patient with all my questions.”
“Thank you for taking such a professional approach. I know that you’ll do your best,” she said, standing up. My Victorian chair was rain-smudged. Still, I guessed it would recover. It could not have been the first time anyone sat in it, all wet. “It has been an awful time, but I feel much better now that you are going to help with the investigation. Waz was so taken by you. Perhaps it was a premonition… anyway, I trust her judgement. She knew people.”
It was me who was speechless now. I couldn’t remember saying anything significant to Waz. There was nothing remarkable about my face. Maybe… the eyes. My trumpeter was always saying things about my eyes but then he saw stars everywhere.
“It has been terrible.” She was still going on, tightening her belt, looking around vaguely for her umbrella. For a second she looked like her sister. “And to cap it all, I’ve lost my cat, Blackie. He’s just disappeared. I’m so worried. Something must have frightened him, perhaps the person who killed Waz. I miss him so much. I’ve had him since he was a kitten.”
Wave and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 2) Page 21
