Hide and Die (Jordan Lacey Series Book 4)

by Stella Whitelaw

  I put it carefully into a plastic bag, sealed the top and let myself out. It would have been useful to have a good look round the house but this was not the time. I did not want to be caught.

  On second thoughts I dashed back into the house, raced through to the kitchen and took the bottle of Highland water carefully out of the refrigerator, holding it by the neck. Lydia Fontane was going to be really puzzled. Bottles of water don’t walk by themselves.

  ‘The things I do for him,’ I said, talking to myself as I hurried away from the scene of the crime. ‘DI James, you definitely owe me one.’

  Twenty-Two

  It was all going to depend on matching arches, loops and whirls. I delivered the items to Latching police station clearly addressed to DI James, both labelled and dated, packed in a box marked ‘FRAGILE’.

  And if that wasn’t cooperation, then I didn’t know the meaning of the word.

  It was back to the drawing board with the Fontane case, that is the mass of newspaper cuttings. I laid them out on the floor of my office, corners weighted down with pebbles stolen from the beach and unpacked my brain. I had missed something and it might be staring at me.

  Lydia Fontane and her husband had certainly led a very active social life. Most of their photographs were shots taken at various prestige events in West Sussex. Edgar Fontane had been a man of some standing in the county and although several years older than Lydia, they looked a happy couple.

  I took my magnifying glass and began an inch by inch search of the photographs. It was a playback from my training days when we had to identify sets of fingerprints. Not that I was looking for fingerprints on newspaper cuttings. But I was looking for something identical.

  The background detail was fascinating but before I got too engrossed in memorabilia, a slightly blurred face appeared in the crowd several times. I started to scribble:

  a. Know this face. From past. Whose past?

  b. Face always looking towards Mrs Fontane.

  c. Significant other?

  The third note wrote itself. My hand was guided. Joke … there is nothing spiritual about detective work. It is slog, followed by slog, often boring and mainly unrewarding.

  I’d seen that man’s face somewhere before. Tall, grey-haired, distinguished, upright bearing. I began category thinking, that is, all the places and groups beginning with an A first … art gallery, Americans, local associations, antique shops, Admiralty. Then B … beach, barbecues, banks, birthday parties, burials, bachelors, businesses and so on.

  Time was consumed by this lengthy process. I made coffee when I got to C. Visited Doris for soya milk when I got to D. Kicked myself awake when I got to K. By the time I got to P for pier, I was nearly comatose with boredom. Jack was hardly tall, distinguished with an upright bearing. He was the total opposite. I could remember none of his clients, not even the shady ones at the barn boot.

  Police station. The answer hit me with a small electrical shock. There was a framed photograph upstairs on the wall near DI James’ desk. The same distinguished face and bearing, in uniform. He was part of the West Sussex police organization. I could not recall his rank. But some time ago, this man may have been in charge of the area.

  Naturally he would have been invited to all these official functions but why was he looking at Mrs Fontane? Why does a man look at a woman? Once, twice perhaps. But every time? I counted the shots in which he was somewhere in the background. There were eleven. A bit over the top for normal interest. Or was he on surveillance? Was he guarding her?

  That was a creepy thought. But a high official would not take on such a duty. It would have been dished out to some lower rank.

  There was only two people I could ask. Mrs Fontane herself or Gill Frazer. I decided on reverse alphabetical order. It seemed sensible in the circumstances.

  I walked to St Michael’s Road, stiff after sitting on the floor for so long. As I went to the front door, a curtain twitched. She was in, even if in hiding. I set the chimes going and I was not going to go until I saw her.

  Eventually Gill Frazer opened the door. She looked dishevelled. Her cardigan was on inside out. For some reason this reminded me to do some shopping for my holiday.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘May I speak to you for a moment?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  She was packing. The hall was stacked with half-open boxes. The rooms were in a shambles. Not that there was much to pack but she was making a right mess of the job. Things all over the floor. No organization or method.

  ‘Are you moving?’

  ‘Yes, I can’t stand this place a moment longer. That woman was round this morning, ranting on about me telling the police about some dress she gave me. Oh, it was ages ago. I never wore it. What would I do with a dress like that?’

  ‘I know that you didn’t tell the police,’ I said. ‘It was me. I told them. I spotted Mrs Fontane wearing the dress in an old newspaper photograph and recognized that it was the pink dress that your husband was wearing when he was killed. I thought the police might be interested in this very small item of information and passed it on.’

  ‘It was you? Then, do you think they may know who killed Brian?’ Gill looked relieved and a couple of degrees of face frost thawed.

  ‘It might help with their enquiries,’ I said, using the well-worn spokesperson phrase. ‘May I come in? I have a few private things to ask you. And you don’t want Mrs Fontane to see me on your doorstep, do you?’

  ‘Come in, then. But I am busy.’

  ‘So I can see.’

  There was nowhere to sit down. All the chairs were piled with items brought from upstairs, linen and towels and loo rolls. So I stood.

  ‘I want to ask you in more detail about the night that the two boys were suffocated,’ I began.

  ‘I’ve told you all this before,’ she blustered.

  ‘But you didn’t tell me about when Mrs Fontane came back to the house and let herself in,’ I said. ‘You didn’t mention that, did you? There was no sign of a breakin so the person who came back had to have a key. It was Mrs Fontane, wasn’t it?’

  Lucky guess. I could have suggested Edgar Fontane. But I went for the lady first.

  Gill’s face went pale, then blank. ‘I never said so.’

  ‘But she did, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, she came back. It was quite late. I’d already gone to bed. Then I heard something and thought perhaps it was the wind rattling one of the window ventilators. They are old-fashioned and can make a noise. But it wasn’t the wind.’

  ‘It was Mrs Fontane. She had left the mayoral party?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And …?’

  Gill was having quite an internal tussle. I could see she wanted to tell me and yet she did not want to tell me. Her face was twitching and her hands plucking at the mud-coloured skirt. She had changed since she first came into the shop. Gone to pieces. No longer completely in control. I felt sorry for her.

  ‘So Mrs Fontane had left the mayoral charity event on some excuse and had come home.’

  ‘She said she had a headache.’

  ‘So she took an aspirin and went to bed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What did she do?’

  ‘I-I don’t know. I didn’t see.’ But she had seen. Gill was now quite agitated and it was pretty alarming. I didn’t want her to start screaming again and the neighbours to call an ambulance. We’d all had enough of that. She sat down on a pile of blankets that threatened to topple her on to the floor.

  I cleared a chair at speed. ‘Sit here, Gill. That doesn’t look safe.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she murmured, hanging on to the arm of the chair. I went through to the kitchen. More chaos. There was no method in her packing. Half the cupboard doors were open and their contents stacked on the floor. I filled a glass with water and took it through to her.

  ‘Drink some water,’ I said. ‘I won’t ask you anything more if it’s going to distress you. I’ll just make sure you are all
right and then I’ll leave you to your packing.’

  She nodded, taking sips of water. Her mouth was not quite in control and dribbles ran down her chin.

  ‘Where are you going to move to?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I should stay here for a while, till things settle down. It won’t be so bad,’ I said hopefully. ‘You can’t move if you don’t know where you’re going.’ I am not one of life’s natural counsellors. It was the best I could do.

  ‘I don’t know what to do …’

  ‘Then it’s easier to have a good night’s sleep and think about the future again in the morning or next week. There’s no hurry and it’s such lovely weather. You should be out on the front, walking the beach and enjoying the sea. It’s quite calm now.’

  ‘That would be nice,’ she agreed vaguely.

  ‘Promise me that you will have a nice, relaxed day tomorrow. No more packing for the moment. Have a cup of coffee at the pier cafe. Go and see Maggie at the theatre. She’d be pleased to see you. You might think again about doing some voluntary work at the theatre. They always need people.’

  ‘I suppose I could. Brian would be around there, in a funny way.’

  Gill was calming down. Her hands were steadying. It was time for me to go. At least I had confirmed that Lydia Fontane was the person who had returned to The Limes late that night. But it didn’t solve the murder of the two small boys. That was still a mystery.

  I went to let myself out of the door. Gill was taking off her cardigan and folding it neatly. She was beginning to look more her usual self. Any minute now she would fix her hair.

  ‘Take care, Gill. Look after yourself. You don’t have to tell me anything more. I’ve worked it out. Lydia Fontane was not alone, was she? She had brought a man friend back to the house with her and you saw them together. And he was pretty high up in the West Sussex police force, wasn’t he?’

  Gill said nothing. She was intent on folding a pair of plain white pillowcases.

  ‘And that’s why she’s been paying you £250 every month ever since, isn’t it? To keep your mouth shut. She did not want this man’s career destroyed. She must love him quite a lot.’

  She shot me a look of pure malice. ‘She doesn’t know the meaning of the word,’ she snarled.

  Twenty-Three

  I asked Dr Sprightman to check out the sprig of parsley that I had picked from Gill Frazer’s garden. The tests came back that it was the hemlock plant.

  ‘It grows wild all over Europe and North America,’ he said. ‘You had a very lucky escape.’

  Mrs Niki Shiko, the Asian cook, was genuinely upset that I had been taken ill. She had made my supper that night and delivered it to my room, she told me. She could not remember if the salad had parsley on it.

  ‘I was short of parsley that day,’ she said. ‘But Mrs Fontane said she’d bring some from her garden. She’d been visiting Mrs Frazer. She’s such a nice lady.’

  I’d been talking to Gill at supper time, before my short visit to the TV room. Long enough for a quick addition to my supper plate. Had Mrs Fontane meant the hemlock for me or for Gill? Maybe she got the room numbers mixed. Easy enough to do in the stress of murdering. One first floor room looked very much like another.

  *

  ‘Mrs Fontane has gone away,’ said Max, opening the door. He grinned. He obviously remembered me. ‘I’m looking after the house. I do lots of things for Mrs Fontane. Do you want to come in?’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, following him into the kitchen. ‘But will they let you stay on in the house on your own?’

  ‘Who do you mean? I don’t see why not. It’s my home. Mrs Fontane looks after me.’

  ‘Don’t you live with your mother in the house next door?’

  ‘My mum doesn’t like me much, so I live here. She keeps getting ill. Mrs Fontane likes me. That’s why I do things for her.’

  Max was happily scratching the wounds on his arms. It did not seem to worry him that his arms were a weeping battlefield. I wondered if he cut his legs as well.

  Max was making two lemonade drinks. He added ice and a slice of lemon. I hoped he wasn’t using the same knife.

  ‘Here you are,’ he said cheerfully, popping in coloured straws. ‘A Max lemonade special.’

  ‘Thank you, Max. Well done. This is lovely for a hot day. Tell me some of the things you do to help Mrs Fontane.’

  Max began reciting a long list, from finding her glasses to saving the crossword in the paper, making tea, watering house plants. It was a catalogue of small tasks that he could cope with.

  ‘And I grant her wishes,’ he went on, stirring his lemonade with the straw. ‘Once Ben and Izzy were crying late at night, after some party, and Mrs Fontane was upset and saying she wished they would stop crying so I made them stop. I went into their bedroom and made them stop. It was very late and very dark. Of course, she didn’t know it was me. I never told her. You won’t tell her, will you?’

  I looked at the boy with his young, innocent face but I was unable to smile. ‘No, I won’t tell her.’

  I decided to do nothing. Mrs Fontane was already being questioned about Brian Frazer’s death. Max could not stay on in the empty house on his own now. Soon the welfare machine would gather him in and harvest another lost soul.

  *

  A card arrived, covered in old-fashioned blown garden roses and bold gold writing. He’d remembered my birthday but not the right date. My birthday was late next week. Still it was near enough not to matter. And inside the card was a ticket to the Watermill Jazz Club at Dorking. My trumpeter was guest playing with the Don Weller Big Band.

  It was a long time since I had heard him play in a big band although he toured the world with the famous BB Band. And so many other great players were to play that night as well as the legendary sax player, Don Weller. He of the bushy beard and immovable black beret. It was unmissable.

  I looked at the date. It was the day I was flying out to Cyprus on this holiday with Ben. The holiday that I was not sure when I had agreed to. The flight was scheduled for 22.30 from Gatwick airport. We would arrive at some unearthly time in the early hours of the morning but this was the price for a cheap flight. But in Cyprus the night would still be warm and balmy.

  Dorking was not far from Gatwick. I could make it. I’d go to the jazz, already packed, and leave in time to drive over to Gatwick. Meet hunky Ben at the checkin desk and fly off to paradise beach hotel.

  It looked good on paper but the reality scared me witless. Shopping list: new T-shirt, new bikini (modest), new pants, new jeans, new mascara, SF30 tan protection, book.

  Book? I’d got a shop swamped with books. Help yourself, Jordan.

  It was while I was in Marks & Spencer, dithering over plain cotton, high-cut pants in white, fuschia or cornflower blue, that I noticed a couple round the corner buying undies like they were going out of fashion. The woman was taking hanger after hanger of brief lacy pants off the rails with matching wired bras and camisoles. Her arms were piled with every colour in stock, black, blue, lilac, buttermilk, white, pearl grey.

  Then she moved on to the nightwear section and was becoming ecstatic about satin nighties, long and short, with matching wraps. This was serious honeymoon shopping.

  ‘’Ere, Phil, what about these crazy striped satin nightshirts? Do you think they’re sexy? They’ve got Foxy Lady embroidered on the pocket, smashing.’

  I knew that voice. I ducked down behind some matronly flower-sprigged creations, keeping out of sight, fascinated with ghastly growing curiosity.

  ‘And you’re one foxy lady,’ said another voice I recognized. ‘Get two, babe. The black and the red. I’ll buy you anything. You deserve it.’

  ‘I’m having a really smashing time,’ said Nesta, tripping to the counter with her arms full of goodies. ‘I usually buy my undies down the market.’

  ‘Nothing’s too good for you now, dollybird baby,’ said Phil Cannon, getting out his wallet and following
her.

  Dollybird baby. I’d read that phrase before on a scrap of paper that I’d thrown away in a rash moment. In my bin bag raiding days.

  I watched as Phil paid cash for this loot. And loot it was. It was his use of the word now that made the connection. This was a very clever scam and I’d aided and abetted in the scheme. I did not know where to look as the truth sank in.

  Phil Cannon had come to First Class Investigations with his honest face, asking for help in proving that he was not the father of Dwain. He had had a nagging doubt for years, he’d said. He’d hinted at a new girlfriend.

  I knew who she was … Nesta Simons and not so new. The two of them had thought up a very neat swindle. Phil Cannon was the father of Dwain and had been dutifully paying for the child’s upkeep. Till he got fed up with paying. He’d got me to investigate the paternity, supply written reports while he had, in a very gentlemanly manner, delayed having a DNA.

  My detailed reports had proved to some degree that his doubts were genuine. He had probably sent copies of them, and my invoices, to the CSA.

  The eventual DNA test had proved he was not the father. I’m not sure how they’d fixed that one because the DNA factor has to be supplied with a witness present. OK, so Dwain’s had been a legitimate sample taken in the presence of a doctor. Somehow, Phil had fixed his. Sleight of hand. Dodgy witness. Samples switched. I couldn’t prove it but I was sure that’s what he’d done.

  But however he’d managed it, the result was what they wanted. He was not the natural father and the order was overturned. Child Support Agency kindly refunds him all the maintenance he has paid in the past, out of taxpayers’ money.

  The CSA officials would not ask Nesta to return the payments. She named him the father of Dwain in good faith, she would say.

  Hence the celebratory shopping spree. Phil was due a hefty five figure refund. Dwain was twelve years old. Phil had been paying for twelve years, that’s over 600 weeks. My maths could not cope with the final sum.

  I took my multicolour packet of pants to a different counter. I felt chastened and sick. I did not like being set up and taken for a fool even if I was one. Then I remembered the cigarette end which I had saved in a specimen bag. It was in my filing cabinet, labelled Phil Cannon. Someone at the CSA might be interested. Some official.