Ring And Die
Stella Whitelaw
© Stella Whitelaw 1999
Stella Whitelaw has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2005 by Severn House Publishers Ltd.
This edition published in 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
To Edwin Buckhalter,
friend and publisher, who had faith in Jordan Lacey
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
One
The wind was too strong for me to round the end of Latching pier, even head down and nose forward. My breath was snatched away in gulps. The forecasters had warned to expect a gale force six but I had not believed them. Gale force six is twenty-two or more knots per minute. Pretty blowy.
I believed them now. The sea was churning like cappuccino in torment, the froth a dirty cream slewing the top of each crashing wave. It was mesmerizing. Never understimate the power of the sea. It could swallow the strongest swimmer, rapacious as a beast, suck down an Olympic champion as easily as removing an irritant fly.
I hung over the railings as the wind unraveled my thick plait with determined fingers. My hair flew across my face into my eyes, my mouth, bent on choking and strangling me, both at the same time. My asthma went into howling indignation.
“’Ere, Jordan. Need a hand?”
An arm snaked under my elbow, fingers digging into soft flesh. For a moment, I froze. There were too many villains after my blood for my liking, even in Latching. But few of them used my first name.
“Friend or foe?” I gasped.
“Come off it, Jordan, you know me. Get inside. Or are you going to jump off the pier? Strewth, I’m in no shape to jump in after yer.”
True. Jack was in no shape to do more than chase a black coffee. His eyes were rimmed red. He had not shaved for days. His clothes smelt of stale tobacco and beer. And this was the millionaire owner of the amusement arcade on the pier. The man who raked in a sackful of coins every day, ran a flashy blue Jaguar, would have laid down his life for me in normal circumstances.
I let him guide me into his arcade, where the flashing lights and jingle tunes almost drowned the gale outside. It was warm and steamy, his security-coded booth a haven of awful instant coffee and serious money. All the usual people were feeding coins into his machines, determined to shake a wall of ten-pence pieces into the shute and into their greedy pockets. Except that the coins, fivers and watches clung to the moving shelves. I swore that Jack used Blu Tack. The punters rarely won but they had fun.
“You look worse than I feel,” I said, plugging in the kettle. The jug had not been washed for years, grimed with fingerprints and splashes. I hoped the water was fresher. If Jack got it from the public loo, then I was going to be sick. He read my mind.
“I use bottled water,” he said, wearily.
“Sunshine,” I said.
“What are you doing on the pier in this weather?”
Now, I have a thriving private-eye business called First Class Investigations. Thriving as in flourishing and fortunate, not necessarily prosperous. Not a lot of people know that. They think I run a junk shop called First Class Junk. The private-eye office is behind the shop, which is a perfect cover. I don’t exactly make ends meet but I am working on it. I get the odd strange little case that does not warrant police investigation. Sometimes I get a murder. I don’t like talking about the murders.
“Someone is stealing fishing rods off the pier,” I said.
I could anticipate the reaction but Jack was too hungover to react to anything. He was trying to find unwashed mugs among the clobber on his desk. Crumpled crisp bags slithered on to the floor.
“So what? Is this a crime?” he said.
“It is to serious sea anglers,” I said. “I have one irate fisherman who has lost several rods recently, and is ready to pay me coin of the realm to find out who is doing it.”
“Not in this weather.”
“Yes,” I said. “One got thrown into the sea this very morning.”
“Blown over more likely.” Jack was not impressed.
I made two coffees, using caked instant milk. I had to bash it with a spoon. He made the worst coffee in Latching. This offering was one degree better than usual because I was making it. He lay back in his leather chair, eyes closed. I had never seen him look so bad.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Tell me.”
“You know the barn I took you to?” he mumbled. I remembered the midnight barn boot with mountains of dubious items on sale that had no ready invoice history. Jack had bought me a leather baker boy’s cap that I wear often. “Well, it got raided. The police rushed in, sirens blaring, lights flashing. Your boyfriend was there.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.” DI James was in and out of my investigations but not in the role that would have made my life perfect. My craving for his company had to be held firmly under control. Pride has a way of helping when you are not loved back.
“I only got away because I was parked in a good spot. The best getaway. I always make sure I park there.”
“Here’s your coffee,” I said. “What happened?”
“I went the wrong way. It was sheer panic. I found myself going towards Portsmouth, of all places, lost in the side roads, driving through torrential rain, couldn’t see, didn’t get any sleep, no grub, sick with nerves. You name it, Jordan. I got it.”
“Sounds like a bad conscience,” I said lightly, trying not to be judgemental. Jack was a good friend. He had helped me out several times, even saved my life.
“Don’t get mixed up in this, Jordan. Don’t ask me nothing and then you won’t know nothing.”
“Then you’ve nothing to worry about.”
“Look, Jordan. Don’t come in here for a bit. Stay away.”
“If you promise to shut up shop and go home,” I said. Maybe they had something on him. He was obviously worried. His amusement arcade was above board. Perhaps he had been innocently laundering money for some villain. “The customers won’t mind. They’ll understand. Say the arcade is in danger of being blown over.”
He drank some coffee and switched on the tannoy system. “In the interests of safety, this arcade is now being closed,” he said. Dribbles of coffee snaked through his stubble. “Please leave in an orderly manner. Do not panic. The pier is safe but this building is not. It could get blown off.”
“Very reassuring announcement,” I said. There was a rush for the exits but some still continued their games, determined to score the maximum points for a win. They crowded round the machines, feeding in money, hoping the force six would dislodge a mountain of cash into the shutes.
“In the interests of safety,” Jack began again.
“Start closing up,” I said.
“I can’t leave all this money,” he said. “I’ve got to empty the machines.”
The machine emptying ritual was an eye-opener. I knew that a lot of change transactions went through his booth, but I had never seen the machines emptied. Cascades of coins came out of the buckets, bronze and silver. Did he expect to count it all now?
A
sudden huge wave hit the arcade and the whole place shuddered. Sea water surged through the open doors, wetting the floor space. Addicted old ladies in belted raincoats and plastic rainbonnets screamed and clutched their skirts.
“Time to go home,” I said, turning them in the direction of the landward exit doors. “Off you go. Hold on to each other. The wind is getting stronger.”
There was no way I could escort each one of them back to the promenade on Latching front. My priority was Jack. He was heaving buckets of coins into his booth, sweat pouring off his skin. He looked like a near heart-attack victim. It was all that junk food he ate.
“For heaven’s sake, leave it,” I said. “It doesn’t matter. Come back tomorrow and collect the money. No one is going to make a night raid in this weather. No one with any sense, that is.”
“Do you know how much money is here?”
“I don’t care.”
“Several thousand. It could get blown into the sea.”
“So what? Are you going to stay here and count it?”
“Jordan, it’s important. The punters lose their money, I collect it, I count it, pay the bills. Regular as clockwork, every night. It’s routine.”
Jack was determined. He was stacking notes into a battered old leather briefcase. I helped, trying not to look impressed.
“I can carry that,” I said. “If you trust me.”
“I’d trust you with my life,” he said without blinking.
At least he had another hand free for carrying the bags of coins. Once on land, he could dump them into his blue E-type and count the money at his leisure. I was not inviting him back to my two adjacent bedsits. He might be horrified at my basic living style and go out and buy me a villa.
The gale was thrashing the waves into powerful crescents of water that rolled on to the beach, pounding the shingle. I walked crabwise, crouched behind Jack’s body to lessen the force. Spray was drenching the decking closest to the shore.
Jack did not seem to care if he got wet. He did not even seem to notice. He trudged on, weighed down by the money. I hoped he varied his route and routine. Some nasty mugger would relieve him of his earnings one evening if he was not careful.
“You need an armed guard,” I said.
“I am armed,” he said, gritting his teeth.
I did not ask. I didn’t want to know. He probably didn’t have a licence to own a gun. If he had bought it at one of the midnight barn boot sales, then it would have a dicey history.
He hurried against the wind, worried now about the state of his car. A door might be torn off its hinge by some almighty gust if he opened it for Jordan to get in. Yet he could not leave her in this weather. She looked as if she might be blown away.
I could read his thoughts. “I’ll walk from here,” I said. “The wind’s not so strong in the backstreets. It’s not far to walk.”
I put the leather briefcase on the pavement beside the bags of coin. Jack was wrestling with the boot. I helped him steady it while he put all the money in and closed the lid.
“Thanks,” he said.
I was disappointed in him. It was the first time that Jack’s chivalry had been found wanting. And for a car. It was illuminating. I rated second, but then I had never given him any encouragement so perhaps it was not surprising.
“Thanks for the help,” he said, pausing and revising his thoughts. “Okay, you’d better get in.”
I shook my head. “No, thanks. You might get your door blown off.”
Jack leaned against his car, catching his breath, rain dripping off his face. “One of the punters was pretty upset yesterday. Her dog got nicked or something. I told her about you and how you floored that robber in my place. She gave me her address on a bit of card. I got it somewhere.”
He was searching his pockets.
A lost dog. My heart contracted. Not another pet. But I was good at finding lost pets. I had a string of successes, including Joey, the famously lost tortoise. I could have a scroll naming successfully found pets to hang in the office with some tasteful photos along the edges. I was going for the idea.
“Here it is,” said Jack. “A bit crumpled.”
“Still readable,” I said, putting it deep into my back pocket. It seemed the safest place in a gale. “Cheerio, Jack. See you sometime.”
The side roads were like wind tunnels. Crossing the road was a hazzard of some dimension, i.e. near impossible. I clung on to a lamp post, waiting for a lull when I might launch myself across the road. My nine stone was a mere straw in the wind. My feet were having trouble meeting the tarmac, or even finding it. There was no way I was going back to Jack for help. By now, he would have driven away to wherever he lived. I didn’t know. He might have a big house on Kingsdown Gorse for all I knew.
The two bedsits are side-by-side rooms over an empty estate agent’s. I took on both, not because I wanted two keys, two kitchen sinks, and two bells, which was what I got, but because my preference is to sleep in a different room from where I daily live. I do not want my undies perpetually on view.
The front bedsit is neatly divided into areas. The kitchen area: sink, microwave (new purchase), calendar, string of garlic. Leisure area: moral chair (small, stiff-back sofa), black and white television, books. Work area: desk, typewriter from charity shop, books, radio. There were more books and plants everywhere. It was fast turning into a literary jungle.
The back bedsit was smaller and housed a sink, now styled closely to look like a feminine Vanitory unit, bed, cupboard, chest of drawers and yards more books. It looked on to someone else’s garden, the back of the church and a nice apple tree. Sometimes, a tortoiseshell cat sat on the old pebbled wall and gazed up at me. Seagulls sat on the roof and peered down at me. I was pretty much on view.
I was drenched by the time I got in so I shed my clothes and changed into a dry tracksuit. My clothes are simple. Jeans and weather-wise tops. Tracksuits. I have one posh black dress donated by Guilberts Store, when I worked there on a case, a year back.
A cup of my brewed coffee took away the taste of Jack’s instant. I took out the crumpled card and phoned Mrs Daphne Gregson. I did not really want to start looking for another lost dog, but partly I felt sorry for the dog, and anyway I needed the money.
“Hello?” It was a blunt voice.
“Mrs Gregson?”
“Yes?”
She did not sound like a friendly dog owner but perhaps she was upset.
“This is Jordan Lacey, First Class Investigations. I understand that you have lost your dog.”
“Lost my dog? Indeed, I haven’t lost them, young lady. More like stolen. Stolen from right under my nose. The nerve. These amateur breeders will stop at nothing. Thieves, that’s who they are. My dogs have pedigrees. I’ve cups ceiling-high to prove it.”
I let Mrs Gregson rant on for a few moments. She sounded as if she had an ample chest to get things off. It sometimes helped.
“Would you like me to come round and we’ll see if I can help?” I said in my best client-soothing voice. A stolen dog would lot up more work hours than a lost dog wandering the streets of Latching looking for its next meal.
“Yes, Miss Lacey. Please come this afternoon, say in half an hour? Number fourteen Walbrook Grove.”
“That’s fine. What kind of dog did you say it was?”
“I didn’t. I breed short-haired and long-haired chihuahuas. And it isn’t a dog, it’s dogs. They’ve stolen four of my pedigree dogs. It’s an outrage.”
The cash bells tinkled nicely. Four pedigree dogs. I must remember to thank Jack when he had recovered from his low spirits. I’d buy him a pint at the Bear and Bait. That might cheer him up.
Latching library has a good selection of books on dog breeding. I found a chair and made some notes. Chihuahuas were small, diminutive. I gathered that. The short-haired ones looked all eyes, big worried eyes. The long-haired ones like bundles of wool. They were perfect for flat-owners, only needing short walks on their short legs.
Mrs Gregson lived in a large house surrounded by a high beech hedge. She was moated by hedge. No one could see what was going on behind that hedge. I wouldn’t fancy trimming it. Perhaps she had to hire the fire brigade and one of their ladder lifts.
I parked my ladybird (ancient Morris Minor with spots) outside and hurriedly opened the gate and rushed up the path to the porch. It was still raining heavily but I made it without getting too wet. The house was fake tudor, beams and timber and plaster and a heavy slate roof. The porch was cluttered with muddy boots and other walking gear. I could hear dogs barking somewhere, a small high-pitched barking. She seemed to have the kennels out the back. I pressed the bell.
Mrs Gregson came to the door. She was indeed a large lady wearing cord trousers and a big green jersey. Her straight brown hair looked as if it had been cut with the kitchen scissors. But her face was like a Native American carving, high beak nose and full lips, brown eyes as deep as some river ravine.
“Miss Lacey? Come in. I didn’t expect anyone so young.”
“Getting older by the day,” I said. “I’m working on it.”
“You want to put it on and I want to take it off. And neither of us can do a thing about it,” she said, shutting the door.
I followed her through to a kitchen. It was full of pots cooking on an Aga stove and the hot, greasy smell was disgusting.
“I can’t stop,” she said. “I’m cooking supper.”
Their supper, I hoped, not her supper. It smelt very carnivorous.
“Home-cooked,” I said, trying to look knowledgeable. “Nothing out of tins.”
“Absolute rubbish,” she said. “I only use tins of dog food in an emergency. Otherwise my dogs get the best. I go to a butcher in Findon. Buy half an animal at a time, all the bits.”
I shuddered. I could not see the merit in feeding one animal to another. Cheese was the nearest I got to eating an animal. Sometimes fish, but I was even going off farmed salmon after reading how they lived in recycled water.
“Tell me about your dogs,” I said, taking a seat nearest a window. It was half open, rattling like aliens trying to get in. Mrs Gregson was not into central heating, nor did she seem to feel the cold w ind.
Ring and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 6) Page 1
