Hide and Die (Jordan Lacey Series Book 4)

by Stella Whitelaw

  It had indeed. DI James was all attention. I didn’t tell him about finding the key, or about the regular standing order into Mrs Frazer’s account. No need for him to know about that. He let out a low whistle.

  ‘Very fishy, Jordan.’

  ‘But the trail is colder than a polar bear’s posterior.’

  He half smiled. ‘A vivid metaphor. You can always be relied on to colour the English language.’

  Mavis came over. Her face was flushed and her hair straggling down. It was a new colour, not exactly flattering. ‘I haven’t time to do a honey tea,’ she said. ‘Sorry. I’m really pushed, Jordan. Can’t complain though. It’s good business.’

  ‘I’ll eat anything,’ I said. ‘When you’ve got time. I don’t really care.’

  She was back in a mega-moment with a glass of chocolate milk and a roll and an apple. ‘Perfect,’ I said. I made myself an apple and chip sandwich. It was different.

  ‘Fancy a few of my chips?’ James said, watching the last of them disappear.

  *

  It was time to do some real work. So I cleaned out my shop, rearranged the window displays, checked the empty till, made fresh coffee, sat at my desk writing up recent notes and waited for customers to arrive.

  Nesta came in. She was furious. She slammed her canvas bag down on the counter, her barely covered 32B bosom heaving. She was wearing a strappy cotton top of dubious dimensions.

  ‘You’re a bloody detective,’ she shouted.

  ‘It’s not my fault. That’s my job,’ I said.

  ‘You were bloody investigating me and my Dwain.’

  I didn’t know what to say. She might have a knife. She had been happy to drink all the free vodka.

  ‘It was for the good of your son,’ I said. ‘You want everything to be right for Dwain, don’t you? It’s his future.’

  She calmed down, marginally, basic streetwalking fury on hold. I thought of the bouncers at The Cyprus Tree and longed for their support. This was nothing like WI wedding stand trashing or Joey wandering about looking for a long-lost love. For a two-second moment, I was frightened. No one gave me a bulletproof vest. Who would mourn a slashed small-town PI?

  ‘So,’ I said. ‘What are you going to do? Have the DNA test or spend the rest of your life wondering?’

  She clearly did not understand the options. I did not care to explain. Their squalid sexual passion meant nothing to me. I did not care who was the father of Dwain. It was their problem. They could sort it out themselves. I’d send in my last invoice soon and leave it to them to work out.

  ‘What’s he trying to do?’ she asked suspiciously, teetering on absurd heels, hip thrust out.

  ‘My client does not believe he is the father of your son. He’s been paying maintenance all these years for a child that’s not his.’

  ‘Dwain is his,’ she shouted. ‘I ought to know, shouldn’t I? I’m his mother.’

  ‘But you did have another boyfriend at the same time. You told me so. He’d gone away to do some work.’

  ‘He’s a chef. But, yeah, he’d gone off and I wasn’t pregnant when he went. I know that. I know my dates. You may think I look stupid, but I ain’t.’

  Was she telling me that she’d had a period between the two lovers, if you could call the weekend’s drunken romp anything to do with love. Nesta was nodding vigorously.

  ‘That’s it, Miss Clever Clogs. The full works. Eve’s curse. I ought to know, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, you ought to know.’ She could be lying. How could anyone ever prove to the contrary?

  ‘So, will you tell that low-down buster to stuff his investigation and keep the dosh coming? Dwain needs new football boots by the weekend.’

  ‘Football boots.’

  ‘And the shirt. He’s gotta have the shirt. Arsenal.’

  ‘You tell him,’ I said. ‘He won’t like it.’

  ‘Don’t I know him. Tight-ass.’

  She was wandering round my shop, picking things up, putting them down. She picked up an album on football stars and thumbed through the pages.

  ‘How much is this?’

  ‘Six pounds, but you can have it for free,’ I said, suddenly overcome with ridiculous generosity. ‘If it’s for Dwain.’

  ‘Ta. He’d like it a lot. Football mad.’

  She sauntered out, then looked back over her shoulder. ‘I suppose I owe you a drink after the other night.’

  ‘That’s a date,’ I said.

  There was the oddest look on her face, a boldness and an audacity. I wanted to paint that look but I couldn’t paint. Thinking back, that glimpse told me something. But I didn’t understand.

  Fifteen

  I’d had the feeling before, that the day was the wrong shape. I was getting it again and it was not pleasant. Perhaps it was my head. Ben had unsettled me and now I was getting the feedback.

  It was difficult to know where I was with Ben. James did not care about me so what was I losing? Nothing. Man in hand, not exactly in a bush, is surely worth two out chasing villains.

  The solicitors in Chichester, where Cleo worked, had sent me a Process Serving. It was my bread and butter. I was more than a glorified postman. I had to make sure that the person concerned actually received the document. I had to be disciplined and efficient. The family owed over £600 for electrical equipment, ordered, delivered and never paid for. I had to give them sufficient warning of an impending court appearance. It had to be served in person. Always tricky. These people seemed to be able to spot a server a mile off.

  I put on a distressed check shirt, i.e. creased, old jeans and trainers, pulled my hair into an elastic band, knowing I would pay for it with split ends when I tried to take it out. What could I carry? No baby to borrow, no dog (Jasper in training), leaflets (no election), forms (no census). Find a street map. That’s it, I would be lost in Latching. I checked all the documents and the letter of instruction. There were a lot of rules. I was the legal go-between.

  It was a run-down street in the back of Latching near the main line station. Cars were double parked. Many of the terraced houses were boarded up with ‘For Sale’ signs propped up in the rubbish-strewn front yards. Number twelve’s yard was littered with boxes filled with junk, old engine parts, sinks, microwaves, sewing machines. Perhaps they ran a secondhand business. My curiosity was growing. After all, First Class Junk exists on other people’s throwaways. This was an intermediary stage.

  The front door was open so I did not have to knock or ring. It lead straight into a sitting room, although as far as I could see there was nowhere to sit. The room was packed from floor to ceiling with boxes and cartons and piles of stuff. Somewhere, submerged under the junk, were a sofa and a couple of padded armchairs. I could see only that much sagging structure. There was no floor space, only a narrow walkway between the door and a television set perched unsteadily on several boxes.

  ‘Hello,’ I called. ‘Is anyone at home?’ There was no answer.

  ‘Hi there … can you help me?’

  A woman came through from the outback. One of those built-on kitchen extensions. She was towelling a tumble of wet hair. She was small, stout and blonde but a weathered blonde. The kind of blonde whose hair is daily tormented with undiluted peroxide. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you but I saw the open door. It looked so friendly.’

  ‘What do you want?’ she said, not friendly at all.

  ‘I’m lost.’ I waved the street map. ‘I’m trying to find Beech Lane.’

  ‘Dunno. Never heard of it.’

  ‘OK. So could you show me where I am now on this map? That would be a start.’ She peered at the map but the lines meant nothing to her. She could not read a map any way round. It’s wonder she could read the small print on a hair dye bottle.

  ‘I’ll get Reg,’ she said, wandering off somewhere back along a corridor of more piled-up junk.

  My eyes glazed over. I had never seen a room so packed with stuff. There was no obvious reason for it all. This
was not a mania for collecting books or videos or sporting trophies, which I could understand. The mania was for stuff itself. Object mania. I saw bits of wood, iron, metal, plastic … old, new, clean, filthy. Debris from a dozen takeaway meals, empty bottles, beer cans, chocolate wrappers, and strewn clothes littered the floor. No carpet visible. My bedsits were a serene floor of Buckingham Palace compared to this chaos. How could this woman, any woman, live here?

  Reg appeared. He was short and stocky too, a sort of double of the woman, in torn oil-stained clothes, swigging beer from a can. He stood in the doorway, swinging the can from one hand.

  ‘What do ya want?’

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ I said, accelerating the lost and wavering vibes. ‘But I’m not sure where I am. Could you just look at this map and tell me where I am now?’

  I stepped inside the room. It was a positive step. My hand closed on the order in my pocket which I had to serve. The papers were folded in two and out of sight. No envelope. He peered over my shoulder at the map and I could smell his breath. His bald head was sweating ribbons of sweat. A few hairs sprouted from his ears.

  ‘Mr Reginald Gibson?’ I said. I had to identify the right person. I had a description and a photograph.

  He looked surprised. His uncombed hairs twitched.

  ‘Yes? Howja know me name?’

  ‘I have officially to serve this order on you from the county court,’ I said, putting the papers into his hand. ‘An outstanding debt, I believe, for electrical goods.’

  He dropped the papers as if they burned his fingers.

  ‘Sorry, but it’s been served,’ I said. ‘You have legally received it. You should see a solicitor if you are unaware of what you should do. Goodbye and thank you.’

  ‘’Ere! Where are you going?’

  ‘I’ve done my job, so I’m off.’

  ‘That’s what you think. Not on your nelly, missus.’

  He was like lightning, quick for a heavy man. He slammed the front door shut and flung across the bolt. His wife was on me in a flash, pushing me down on three inches of sagging sofa. My head hit the corner of a box.

  ‘Let me go,’ I shouted. ‘I’m only the server. I’m nothing to do with this.’ I had no time to dodge or walk away.

  ‘You ain’t going nowhere,’ he said, with some satisfaction. He picked up the papers and tore them in half, then half again. ‘That’s what I think of your county court, missus.’

  ‘Tearing them up doesn’t mean anything,’ I said, struggling to get up. ‘They are legal and they have been properly served.’

  ‘Who says so? Who says they saw you coming here? No one. No one saw you come in here and no one will see you go out.’

  ‘Masses of people know,’ I said, trying to think of masses. ‘The solicitors for a start. They instructed me. And my husband,’ I added valiantly. ‘He knows.’

  ‘You ain’t wearing no ring,’ said Mrs Gibson, sniffing. ‘You ain’t married.’

  ‘People don’t always wear rings these days,’ I gasped.

  ‘Married people do.’

  I was being pinned down in the most awkward way. Space was nonexistent. Sharp corners were sticking into my ribs and the back of my neck. I had to get myself out of this fast. It was not funny. The papers were laying on the floor but they had been touched.

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘Please be reasonable, Mr Gibson. This isn’t going to work. Let me go and I’ll say nothing about it.’

  ‘You ain’t going to say miffing anyway.’

  ‘Let’s get her upstairs. Someone might come in.’

  The pair of them were strong. There were muscles in them there arms. They started dragging me towards a staircase at the back but I was struggling like mad. It was one of those narrow, straight-up staircases, made even narrower because every tread had boxes sitting on it. If I kicked out enough, the whole lot would come tumbling down.

  I began pushing like a tormented dervish. I had grown four extra arms and legs and several elbows which I put to good use. But the pair were not gentle. They were cuffing my head and the woman winded me with a vicious punch to the chest. I gasped with shock.

  But it made me even madder.

  ‘Hey, you’re not supposed to attack me. You won’t get away with this,’ I shouted, wasting good breath. ‘This is ridiculous. The summons will still go ahead, whatever you do. You’ll see. I’m totally independent. I’m simply doing a job.’

  ‘Get her in here,’ Reg wheezed.

  They dragged me into an upstairs room. It could hardly be called a bedroom. I couldn’t see any bed. It was full of boxes and crates and bulging bin bags. I was thrown down on to the floor. My head hit a hard edge of iron. The pain tore down the back of my neck, scraped the roots of my teeth, lodging somewhere across my right eye. I hoped I still had the eye.

  ‘Now, don’t you move,’ said my charming host. ‘We’ll be back to see that you don’t.’

  ‘And while you’re here, you can have Bonzo to keep you company. He’s a nice, gentle soul as long as you don’t move.’

  Mrs Gibson cackled with laughter. Out of my good eye I could see why. Bonzo was a huge bull mastiff, saliva dripping from his jaws, sweat glistening on his short brown-black coat. He growled with evil.

  ‘Nice dog,’ I said faintly.

  I had no intention of moving while Sirius, the dog from hell, was watching me with malevolence, Bonzo stood squarely on his four thick legs, planted wide as if they were rods of iron. How had they trained him or did it come naturally? Blood was trickling down my face. I hoped he didn’t have a taste for blood.

  I lay where they had left me and tried to focus on recovering my energy, of thinking of a way out, of trying to outwit canine guard. The ceiling was miles away, stained with nicotine fumes, cracks like old eggs zagging across from the window. There was a window and it was barred.

  Whoever would think of putting iron bars across a window in the back bedroom of a small terrace house? Why? A stately home, maybe. A museum. A bank. But a two up, two down terraced house? They must have something to protect.

  The room was waist high with boxes. It was like a warehouse. Many were unopened, with stencilled information on the outer lids. They were goods of some sort. Could be they were electrical goods like the £600 worth the Gibsons had not paid for. Or was this part of a bigger scam, buying goods, not paying for them, selling them off?

  Or was it a mental illness? I had read of people who collected things for the sake of collecting, with no intention of using, selling or disposing of same. It probably had a long Latin name. Collectusphobia?

  Cramp was attacking my legs. I’d have to move soon.

  ‘Nice Bonzo,’ I said, shifting a foot a few centimetres at the same time. Spiteful barbs bored into my muscles.

  The dog lunged forward and stood over me, growling, wet dripping from his drooling mouth, his bloodshot eyes telling me he was only an inch off clamping his jaws on my arm or ankle.

  ‘Hello, gorgeous doggy,’ I said softly. ‘Who has got beautiful bloodshot eyes?’

  Bonzo looked suspicious. He was mystified by prone idiot human talking sweet nothings. He was more used to kicks and screaming oaths and howls of anguish. He backed off, not trusting me.

  ‘I think you and I could get along really well if you would just get over this negative attitude,’ I said. Bonzo was growling under his breath. I could see his massive throat throbbing. I wondered what I had in my pockets that might be a doggy treat. Bull mastiffs were not likely to be addicted to polo mints.

  I knew nothing about dog psychology. I had no idea how to reach his mind, peanutsized as it might be. At least the low tone of my voice seemed to have him perplexed.

  ‘Shall we go walkies?’ I offered seductively. ‘I know a lovely pond where there are hundreds of stupid ducks to chase. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Lots and lots of ducks?’

  Not a tail or ear twitched at the word walkies. I guess he did not get taken for many walks. Who’d want to walk him? He was prob
ably under a house arrest civil rights order.

  ‘I think that’s a real shame,’ I sympathized, appealing to his better nature. ‘All dogs should be walked regularly. Seagulls are great fun to chase, too. And up on the Downs there are rabbits everywhere. Hundreds of them.’

  Nothing reached him. He did not know rabbits. He led a restricted life. He was as much a prisoner as I was.

  ‘Poor baby,’ I said. ‘Don’t they ever let you out? What a shame. And you are going to put on weight, if you haven’t already. Extra weight is not good for the heart, especially doggy hearts.’

  He sank down onto all fours, bored by this meaningless babbling. It was mesmeric. The non-activity was tiresome. His heavy lids lowered over his eyes, shutting out the light. It was the first time I had ever bored anyone to sleep.

  I waited, hardly daring to breathe, moving my legs with caution. Bonzo began a hearty snore. It was a sand-blasting vibration.

  This was fast-thinking time. There was no way I was going to get out of a window that was barred. My only escape was the door and down the stairs. And Bonzo was laying across the doorway. I began scrutinizing the room and its contents, inch by inch. There must be something I could use. Like a sledgehammer.

  But I would not be able to use it, not even on a dog as revolting and threatening as Bonzo. No way could I brain a dog. He had life immunity as far as I was concerned. And it wasn’t his good looks.

  There was an abundance of black dustbin liners, those big bags made of heavyweight plastic. Very useful for bodies. Might be useful for a dog.

  Bonzo was sound asleep, lost in the land of doggy dreams. I checked by moving slightly and there was not a twitch of canine muscles. I double-checked with a few silent leg stretches to ease the cramp. Not a rumble.

  A nearby black bin bag seemed to have little in it. My hand explored in slow motion and brought out a hairdryer. New, price label still attached. I put the item aside and opened up the bag, cursing each crackling sound.

  It was now or never. Stay and die or jump and run. I did not trust the Gibsons. I struggled to my feet and rushed towards the door, the bin bag held wide open at knee height.