“Where is everyone?”
“We don’t need so many now to man the front,” he said. “The shifts have been cut.”
“It’s very… clean,” I said. “Do you like it?”
“No. I liked the old place. It had character. Okay, it was ramshackle and draughty and in need of a make-over, a few licks of paint. But it fell homely.”
“I’ve never heard of a police station being called homely before. It does seem strange, all this glass.”
“Don’t get too near. We’ve got terrorist shutters too,” said the sergeant, eyes alert. “I’ve only got to press a button and, watch out, your fingers are off.”
“Sign of the times,” I said.
“CID offices are upstairs,” he said, telling me what I wanted to know. “But you can’t get there without going through several coded doors. You have to know the code, Jordan. And it gets changed regularly. No more slipping past me and using our data system.”
“As if I would. Slip past you? Never.”
“How can I help you?”
“It’s about a man being reported missing. A man called Dick Mann. Does it ring a bell?”
“Is he local?”
“Yes, but I’m not sure where he lives, somewhere north of Latching. I don’t have many details.”
“Recently missing?”
“Yes, since yesterday afternoon. He went missing off the pier.”
Sergeant Rawlings is used to hearing odd things from me. This was nothing unusual. He did not blink but retreated to a bank of computers at the far end of the room. I couldn’t see what he was doing but I guessed. He was accessing the Police National Computer. All the latest software. I wanted to know if anyone had reported Dick Mann as missing. It was possible that he had taken off of his own accord, but it seemed strange, leaving all his belongings behind on the pier. No one had seen him go.
The other anglers had not known much about Dick’s private life. No one knew if there was any family around. He turned up regularly with his rods and his thermos and no one asked any questions.
Yesterday, we had all searched the pier, inch by inch, looking for torn anoraks, any clue. We found nothing. His expensive fishing rod had gone, so had Dick Mann.
“Jordan, I don’t know what to make of this,” Arnie had said, perplexed. “He’d never just go off like that. It’s not like him. We all go for a pint together after fishing. Never misses it. Dick likes his pint. We’re all mates.”
Sergeant Rawlings came back with a printout. “Nothing, no one,” he said. “Sorry, Jordan. What about this Mann person? Did he jump off the pier?”
“No, he disappeared off the pier. Quite suddenly. One moment he was fishing with his friends, and the next he had gone. Completely disappeared. No one saw him go.”
“Lost his bait?”
“Left his bait box behind, full of horrible squirming things. Revolting.”
“And is this one of your cases?”
“Not really. I’m investigating the disappearance of fishing rods. Now, don’t laugh, Sarge, please. It’s serious. Some of them have very expensive equipment. You can pay thousands of pounds for state-of-the-art gear.”
“I remember them coming in here,” said Sergeant Rawlings, leaning on the shelf, then finding the sheet of glass was in the way and having to stand up. He looked weary. “We couldn’t do much to help.”
“Too busy spending your resources on a brand new police station. How much did this building cost?” I asked.
The automatic door opened, allowing a chilly draught to blow in. A man hurried in and stood beside me, fairly cold and distant.
“That tongue of yours will get you into trouble one of these days, Jordan,” said DI James, flicking through his notebook.
“Going to put me in a cell?” I said.
“We haven’t got any cells here. We’d have to drive you to Durrington. It’s called centralization.”
“What a shame,” I said. “I’ve always counted on getting an overnight bunk here if I ever lose my house keys.”
DI James looked tired. His face was drawn. Maybe he had been working all night and the last person he wanted to see was me. I know I annoy him. It was unfortunate, especially when I felt so differently about him. Ben’s death had sobered me somewhat, but my passion for James was now laced with fear. I could lose him as well. It could happen so easily. I did not want to think about it.
He shook my sleeve with a rare familiarity. Maybe he had seen that fleeting fear in my eyes. “Come and have a guided tour, Jordan, while I’m in a good mood. Everywhere is still tidy, but not for long.”
“When did you move in?”
“Over the weekend. It was diabolical. We’re still living out of boxes. It’s all high-tech.”
He patched in some numbers on the door code, too fast for me to remember them, two. three, something, something.
“We change the code every month,” he said as the door swung open. “No point in you trying to remember them.”
“I’d soon work it out. Try me.”
“Come upstairs to the CID suite. All mod cons. Even a shower and walk-in locker room. Percolated coffee in the kitchen. Same old instant drinks machines in the corridor.”
“To make you feel at home,” I murmured.
“You haven’t been to visit me recently,” he said, striding down the well-lit corridor to a door at the end.
“You haven’t asked me.”
“You don’t need an invitation, Jordan. Come any time to Marchmont Tower. I can’t guarantee that I’ll be there.”
“No point in making the journey then,” I said briskly.
It was open-plan upstairs, but so different from the old building. Far more space and walking room between the desks. They had been overcrowded in the old police station, barely room to close a filing cabinet. I recognized several officers. They were unpacking boxes in a fairly disorganized way.
“Why don’t you employ civilians to do that?” I asked. “It’s a waste of manpower.”
“Classified files.”
“I could help,” I heard myself offering.
“Thank you, but no. You’d be reading everything and making notes. Besides, everyone knows that you used to work here. An ex-WPC might be bearing a grudge.”
“Only against the rodent who got me suspended,” I said. “And he’s not here anymore. Waving his brand of justice for rapists somewhere up north, I understand.”
James ignored my remark. I knew he had looked into the case and thought I had been unfairly treated. It was mud under the gangplank now but it still hurt. I’d always wanted to be in the police force, a girlhood ambition. But my life now was one surprise after another. First Class Junk paid the bills. First Class Investigations paid for the jam and the cream, or, in my case, the yogurt and the brie.
“These are much better working conditions,” I said, trying to sound judicious and encouraging. “Pretty good.”
“We never complained.”
“It’s called progress.”
“They are going to put up flats on the site of the old police station. A block of eighteen round a central courtyard.” “Sounds like a developer’s dream. I shall campaign for a tree, a single tree in the courtyard, to encourage the birds.”
“Excellent idea, Jordan,” said James, taking off his black leather parka and hanging it behind a desk. “Invite me to the ceremonial planting. I’ll hold the shovel for you.”
“Do you know anyone called Dick Mann?” I asked. “He’s an angler who fishes off the pier.”
“No, sorry. Should I?”
“He seems to have gone missing.”
“Probably nipped across the Channel to buy some fresh lobsters. Quicker than hanging off the end of the pier for hours.”
“Anglers take their fishing very seriously,” I said, defending my clients. “And his disappearance is a mystery.”
“Ah, the dreaded Latching Munching Monster emerges from the depths of the sea again,” said a uniformed joker from the othe
r side of the room. “Nothing it likes better than a juicy angler.”
“This move has obviously unhinged some of your team,” I said. “They forgot to pack their brains. Perhaps you ought to go back to the other station and rummage around the rubbish.”
“What have we got on the Burns case? Coffee anyone?” said DI James, already forgetting I was there. I turned away, hiding the ache. One day, it might heal.
Fortunately, the way out did not require the door code procedure. I waved to Sergeant Rawlings and thanked him for his help.
“Take care,” he said, looking more miserable than ever. Sunny Latching was in hiding behind a dark roller-coaster cloud. It was going to rain again. I shivered and double-tied my scarf round my neck, dug my hands in my pockets. My gloves ought to be strung through my sleeves, like a toddler. I was always leaving them around. This time on the coffee counter in the CID suite.
Dogs, four, small. It was time to visit the Rowland Kennels armed with photographs of Jodie, Jude, Mel and Angel. Shopping list: disposable camera, doggie snacks, disinfectant. This last item was purely in case of doggie accident.
The ladybird had not been out for days. She started up first time like the grand old lady she was. I’d planned my route and arranged appointments, filling up the tank at the first petrol station on the way. I’d learned my lesson about leaving it till the last drop.
This was a moment I savored and enjoyed to the full, driving out of Latching in my classy Morris Minor. Those early months of cycling everywhere had been healthy but damp. Nor did my arrival, soaked and out of breath, make a good impression. But my ladybird was the tops. She broke the ice. Her black spots on red were a sure-fire talking point with young and old.
“My goodness, that’s some car you’ve got there. She’s pretty old, isn’t she? What year?”
“J-registration. Classic. I call her my ladybird.”
“Not difficult to see why, Miss Lacey!”
*
Rowland Kennels were full of yapping animals. I should have brought earplugs. The little creatures were prancing around, all hopeful of a doting owner. I produced my photos and spun a yarn.
“These were the puppies of a very dear friend of mine and I want to buy some exactly the same,” I said.
“You want to buy four puppies?” I was asked. The owners were seeing megabucks changing hands.
“If I can find identical puppies. You said you had a longhaired.”
“These puppies have passed on?” They nodded sympathetically.
“You could say that.”
I was shown yards full of gambolling puppies. They all seemed to be well looked after and the puppies were bright and intelligent-eyed. At first, they all looked the same. Then I began to notice the differences in coat and face, a dark patch here, a more pointed ear there. It was pretty exhausting. I made notes of near misses. All the owners confirmed the value of these little creatures. We were talking a lot of money.
“About the long-haired female,” I said. “Could I see her?”
“I think we’ve sold her. Yes, late yesterday. An impulse buy by a couple moving into a seafront flat in Brighton.”
I wondered if they would give me the address. Probably not.
“There’s a great demand for chihuahuas,” they went on. “In these days of flats and apartments, people want a small dog. Much easier to look after.”
“Shorter walks,” I added.
“You’ve said it.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, with a big theatrical sigh. “But none of your lovely puppies are quite right in size or coloring. It’s a shame. I really like this place and feel that puppies from such a good home would have been delightful.”
This was my parting speech at each of the kennels I visited. It went down well. I felt that none of these people had crept in at dawn and stolen Mrs Daphne Gregson’s valuable foursome. I did not see any creature resembling the ball of fluff that she called Angel.
I drove back to Latching, deep in thought. I did not know where to go with this one. Perhaps I needed to dig around the underworld, ask about a bit. I sniffed at my sleeve. It smelt decidedly doggy.
Pub crawls are not normally my scene. A glass of a good red in pleasant company is a welcome relaxation, but this was going to be different. A drink in every pub that I passed on my way back to Latching. It would need stamina.
The first pub en route was obviously popular because the car park was full. I hung around, then grabbed a space when someone backed out pretty fast. A blue Mondeo missed me by inches.
“Hey buster!” I yelled, perfecting my road rage. “What’s wrong with your eyesight?”
The bar was full. I had to inch my way between burly shoulders to get served. I will never understand why men have to drink leaning on the bar when there are ample seats and benches around. Perhaps the bar represents some solid maternal support, which is now missing from their life.
“A St Clement’s please,” I said at last.
The barmaid went blank. “We don’t stock it,” she said.
“Yes, you do.” I went on to explain. “It’s orange juice and a bitter lemon. The nursery rhyme… oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement’s.”
She was still blank. “Oh, you want an orange juice.”
“And a bitter lemon.”
She still had not got the hang of it and served the bottle of bitter lemon separately. Maybe I was going to have this trouble everywhere, I thought, as I mixed the drink myself.
It’s not easy to start chatting to strange men in pubs. They are always in close groups, turning their backs on any stranger who intrudes. And chatting is difficult even in the best of circumstances. It’s always an act. The perfect opportunity came when the door flew open and in burst a tubby man being pulled by a black labrador on a lead. The dog went straight to the bar and sat down, grinning.
“On time, Bert!”
“That dog knows your habits better’ll you do.”
“Lovely dog,” I said while the barmaid was letting his brimming Guinness settle. “What a beautiful head. And such intelligent eyes.”
“My Maggie,” said Bert. “She’s the best. Wouldn’t change her for the world. I’d give up the missus before I’d give up Maggie.”
So I knew where I stood with Bert. We talked dogs for ten minutes. At least, I listened to dog talk for ten minutes. Bert did all the talking.
“I’m looking for a small dog,” I said when I could get a word in. I was part of the group by now. “One of those tiny dogs that people have in flats. What are they called? I’ve only got two rooms.”
Time to look petite and vulnerable and helpless about choosing a dog.
“King Charles spaniel?”
“Jack Russell?”
“No, much smaller.”
“What about one of them pedigree chihuahuas?”
“That’s it. A chihuahua. Anyone know where I could get one? I’m not interested in pedigrees or papers. Just a nice little dog. I’d pay, of course, but not the top price.”
“Now you’re asking.”
“Loopy’s the man you want. Whatever you want, he’ll get you. Dog, microwave, swimming pool. He can get anything.”
“We don’t know his real name but he’s loopy about dogs. So we call him Loopy.”
“When can I meet this Loopy?” I asked, finishing my St Clement’s. I’d made it last.
“You just missed him, miss. He just left. He drives a blue Mondeo.”
It was time to move on. Perhaps I’d come back, check on Loopy. I gave Maggie a farewell stroke. She had sat there with more patience than a human and her head was like velvet.
“Goodbye nice dog,” I said.
*
That evening I went for a meal at Miguel’s, the expensive Mexican restaurant in the same row as my shop. Miguel is a brilliant cook. He looks like Omar Sharif and acts a bit like him too.
“Jordan. I have missed you.” He came straight over, took my hand, kissed my fingers. I was wearing the ponch
o he’d given me.
In moments, he had found me a table and was pouring out a large glass of his best red wine. He had beautiful glasses, more like crystal goblets. He never measured a drink, poured by instinct.
“So, you eat with me tonight?”
“Yes, but I am paying for it. I insist.”
He had brown eyes, deeply flecked with gold, all glowing with admiration. He liked me. If DI James had not been around, I would probably have given him some encouragement.
“So, shall I chose a meal for you, Jordan, something special? Shall I sit with you when the customers have gone? It is too long since we talked.”
“That would be nice, Miguel. You decide, something light. I’m sure it will be superb. I’ve not eaten all day, so not too much. And one more thing
“Yes, anything for you. You know that.” Those eyes were smiling.
Miguel was so charming, I don’t know how I can resist him. He would pamper me, take care of me, feed me, take me to South America.
“Please don’t talk about dogs.”
“No dogs,” he agreed, nodding, not asking why. He was like that.
Five
“Excellent, excellent,” she murmured. “You see, I couldn’t have done this. They all know me. They’d get suspicious, wonder what I was doing. But you… ideal. You say that you didn’t see any puppies that resembled my babies?”
“None, although I didn’t search inside the kennels. Your puppies could have been kept out of sight but I doubt it. The owners seemed very open and genuine and I had a good wander round.
“It was a gang of thieves, I’m sure,” said Mrs Gregson. “There’s a black market trade in pedigree breeds. My babies are probably halfway to Amsterdam by now.” She was near to tears. I passed her a tissue. Amsterdam seemed an odd destination.
“Have you found out how the thieves got in? I presume the police brushed for prints and things like that. Tell me again.”
“There was nothing exceptional. No one had broken in as such. They had used a key to unlock the padlock on the gate into the kennel yard. It’s a five-foot-high gate.”
Ring and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 6) Page 4
