A man was sitting on a bench outside the arcade. He was so ordinary-looking, it was hard to describe him. Usual uniform of jeans and anorak, short brown hair sticking up like a brush, anonymous face, neither trustworthy nor shifty. He had a cardboard box at his feet. It was punctured with airholes.
“Hello,” I said. “Are you Mr Ford?”
“That’s me,” he said, grinning yellowed teeth. “You’re the young lady after two puppies for her sister? I’ve got the perfect pair.”
“That’s right,” I said. “May I see the puppies?”
He half-opened the lid and two puppies immediately sensed the fresh air of freedom and tried to scramble out. One was short-haired and the other was a ball of fluff.
Now I didn’t know a chihuahua from a spaniel till I got a book out of the library, but these two looked genuine chihuahuas. I checked the pointed ears and big eyes.
“They’re lovely, lovely,” I gabbled as I looked them both over and tried to stroke the soft heads. “And I must take a photo of them.” I did my David Bailey impersonation, bobbing about on my knees. Mr Ford was well in the picture. The long-haired looked like a prize winner of the future. An absolute poppet, trying to lick the camera. But did it belong to Mrs Gregson? “And you have their pedigree papers? Can I see them?”
They were photocopied papers. It was obvious from the thin darkened edge where the original had not sat on the glass properly. These had been doctored with new names and birth dates.
“Why aren’t you going to show them or breed from them?” I asked, fondling the small ears. “They’re nice puppies.”
“I told you, my kid’s allergic to them.”
“Didn’t you know that when you started your kennel business?”
The shifty look came into focus. Mr Ford didn’t know how to answer. I could see his brain cells changing gear.
“It’s summat new. I’ve recently got together with this divorced woman and its her son, not mine. Sneezes summat awful he does.”
I didn’t believe a word. “Well, I’ll certainly have both puppies,” I said, diving in at the deep end, so to speak. Supposing Mrs Gregson didn’t want them? “I’ll give you forty pounds for the two.”
“No way, miss,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “I’d be cutting my own throat. Thirty pounds each. They’re worth it.”
“Fifty pounds for both puppies.”
“Done.”
He wanted cash, of course. I knew that before I even got out my cheque book. He was hall way off to the pub already. Five brown ones changed hands and I took the documentation even though I knew it was false. It was lucky that I had got some cash out of the wall. I hoped I had got the right longhaired. It was a pretty little thing.
“Thank you very much, Mr Ford. Perhaps you’d like to give me your card so that I can recommend you.”
He patted his pockets. “Right out of cards, miss. Henry Ford. I’m in the phone book.”
As soon as I heard the hesitancy in his voice. I knew he wasn’t Mr Ford or in the phone book. We’d have a job tracing the founder of the Ford Motor Company.
I took the puppies back to my shop and let them run loose in the back yard, making sure they could not get out. They loved it, sniffing everywhere and leaving a few calling cards of their own. I didn’t know what to feed them on so bought a tin of spiced meatballs in gravy from Doris and they thought it was wonderful, scoffed the lot, panted around for seconds.
I phoned Mrs Gregson. “Could you come over to my office,” I said. “Please don’t get too excited, but I have some puppies to show you which may be of interest.”
She arrived at the shop before I could even write up my notes. She had hurried and was out of breath. I took her through to the back. She stood in the doorway, emotionally stunned, her hands clasped to her breast. Then she scooped up the little long-haired chihuahua and held the bundle of fluff against her face.
“Angel,” she sobbed, with an intensity of love. “My baby Angel.”
*
The other puppy was not hers, she said, after examining it. But we were obviously on the right track. She offered to give the short-haired a temporary home, but as there were no pedigree papers, she could not show it or sell it and the puppy legally belonged to someone else.
“Poor little thing,” she said. “Perhaps you can find its real owner. He looks pedigree. Nice little face.”
I did not explain that I was not running a charity for lost or stolen dogs. If I could find her other puppies, then I might do something. But this new puppy was not my responsibility even though I had bought it. She was more than happy that I had spent fifty pounds of her money. I said I would give her a detailed invoice. Case finished?
“Worth every penny to have my Angel back,” she said. “I’m going to get her microchipped straight away.”
After she had gone, I hosed down my yard. I was never going to make a breeder. Cats, perhaps, but not dogs.
Suddenly I had no cases, or rather only half a case. There was little hope of finding Mrs Gregson’s other puppies. Mr Ford could have sold them on via the Internet.
The only other work on the horizon was the fake car crashes, Mr Brook and family, with their various whiplash injuries. I might be able to save myself my no claims bonus. Dick Mann’s death was nothing to do with me, yet I still felt obliged to find out more about the circumstances. Now that I knew who he was, or thought I knew who he was.
I phoned DI James. He answered himself, which was unusual. He was doing paperwork or crime was down. One of the two.
“Are you looking for someone who steals pedigree puppies, or handles stolen dogs?” I asked.
“Not at this moment.”
“I have a name and a photograph. The name is probably false but the photograph is genuine.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Let me know when you are impressed enough to want a copy of the photograph."
“Will do. Jordan. I’m making a note."
There was a pause and a rustle of papers.
“Have you any further news about Derek Brook and the car-crashing scam?” This conversation was hard going. Like getting the last of a Pepsi out of an empty bottle, drip by drip.
“As it happens, there was another one last night, out on the A27. On the roundabout before the turn-off to Latching. Similar to your crash. A blue metallic Jaguar got a bent bumper, but the other car was far worse. A write-off. Went into a wall. The occupants, a couple, name of Smith, were taken to hospital with whiplash injuries.”
“How do you know that it was a fake crash like mine?”
“Because the driver of the blue Jag gave a detailed account of what happened. He also has some very up-to-date equipment installed in his car which records exactly what the car is doing, as and when, speeds etc. The perfect automated witness.”
Bells rang. “Jack?”
“Yes, your friend, your bit of rough, owner of the amusement arcade.”
My loyalty immediately split in two. Jack was not my bit of rough and I objected to this description of him. He was not exactly out of the top drawer, but he was a kind man even if he did not have a clue about what made coffee halfway decent.
DI James had no right to talk about him this way, and I did not like it. What was happening to me? I was at some kind of divide and it made my ribs hurt.
“Jack is not my bit of rough,” I said, in a voice as cool as pond water. “But thank you for the information. I’ll go and see him immediately. We have a crash in common. Is the dress safely back in the museum?”
“Yes,” said James. He paused, as if wondering whether to apologize. “I’ve put your name forward for the reward. They forgot to mention it. They were so delighted to get the gown back.”
“What?”
“They put up a modest reward for the return of the dress. It’s not a fortune, so don’t go mad, but it should pay a few bills.”
He rang off before I could thank him.
I sank back in my chair. A reward, even a mod
est one, would save me from capsizing. Life was too complicated at times. And I wanted to buy Doris a present.
It was time for a walk, maybe even along the beach. I stumbled down the shingle and on to the wet sand. The tide was out, far out, nearly as far as France. It stretched seamlessly a long, long way. There was a nice crop of seaweed. The horizon was awash with mist and low-moving clouds like Gulliver’s traveling islands. I could not see the Isle of Wight, or Beachy Head or anywhere in the distance. It had all disappeared. It would be easier to stack shelves in Safeways, or Waitrose, as it had now been renamed. I wanted a simpler life. Jordan, give up, crawl under a duvet and go to sleep.
But it was not to be. My existence was about to be shot to shreds. Tell me about it. Give me a warning. At least let me know when to duck.
*
The pier was on fire. I saw tendrils of black smoke, curling into the air, as if from the stacks of an ocean liner. The wisps were coming from the nightclub building at the end of the pier, above the anglers’ double decking. The ship-styled premises were closed during the daytime. There might not be any staff about. It came to life around eleven p.m. when the youth of Latching converged en masse to consume vodka and dance to deafening music.
I shouted uselessly. I was half a mile away and only the gulls responded, rising in waves, flapping in protest. Thank goodness I had my reserve mobile with me. Sometimes I don’t take it on walks, especially beach walks where I am prone to dropping it into the sea. Shopping list: another mobile. A second spare reserve.
“Jack, Jack!” I was still shouting.
“Jordan, babe…” he drawled. He recognized my voice. “What’s th’matter? Stuck under the pier again?”
“The pier is on fire. At the end where the nightclub is. I can see smoke coming from it.”
“Okay, I’ve got it. You phone nine-nine-nine. I’ll shut the arcade, evacuate the punters and go along to see if anyone is in the club. You never know. Someone might be sleeping off a heavy night. Bye, honey.”
He was so calm about it all. I had to hand it to him. I called 999 and was put through to Fire Services in the ten seconds that they advertised. They were very efficient. I could almost hear the sirens already.
I ran and jogged along the beach, my breath coming in gasps, cutting my feet on sharp stones, not caring about the pain. My pier, my beloved pier was in danger. It had a long, chequered history. A disastrous storm in 1913, a fire in 1933. It had been blown up during the Second World War, then badly damaged again in a storm. And this was the second fire. There was so much new wood, new resin, all that new decking, everything was flammable.
And there was Jack’s livelihood. The arcade was his whole life. He lived and breathed the clink of coins running down little gullets into his bank account.
Flames were licking round the outside of the nightclub, searing the paintwork, climbing the wooden facade, dancing along the upper walkway to the make-believe bridge. I could not see Jack anywhere. He’d gone into the nightclub.
I staggered up the shingle slope near the lido, pulling on my trainers, laces untied. The front area of the pavilion was already cordoned off. Four fire engines were parked on the promenade, hoses snaking along the pier.
“Sorry, miss. You are not allowed anywhere near the pier.” said a sturdy fireman, helmet obscuring his face.
“But my friend runs the arcade,” I began.
“I’m sure he has had the sense to leave the pier by now,” he said, waving back a group of gawping schoolboys. “Get away, you lot.”
“He was going to the nightclub to see if anyone was there,” I gabbled on. “He might be in danger.”
“I’m sure he’ll have been escorted off by now.”
The tide was far out. There was no way I could climb the girders of the piers from the sand below. How did they know if Jack was safely out of the nightclub building?
I bit my lip. A sign of anxiety. I took a wander round the vehicles parked close up to the pier entrance, police and fire, cheek by jowl, a mass of vehicles and hoses and people. I was easily lost in the crowd.
No one noticed me cruising the fire tender cabs. I waved my notebook and said, “Press.” It worked. I was now a reporter for some paper. You name it. The Daily Whatsit.
This astute reporter spotted a mauve flame-resistant jacket and yellow helmet under one of the driver’s seats. It didn’t fit but who cares about appearances at a time like this? I snapped the jacket fastening fast and pulled on the helmet, tucking my plait of hair out of sight.
“Let me through,” I said, shouldering through with authority. I was carrying a piece of equipment, also taken from the driver’s cabin. Don’t ask me what it was for. It could have been for sawing through steel.
I clomped along the pier, dodging the hoses. The fire fighters were spraying the nightclub premises with four hoses. Flames were spluttering and throwing out sparks. The smoke was dense, billowing. My asthma protested. But they were keeping the fire back from the amusement arcade.
“Hello, I’m a reporter. Where’s the owner of the arcade?” I shouted to whoever I thought was in charge.
“Who?”
“The chap who went into the nightclub to see if anyone was there. I know because he told me where he was going. Jack. I’m a reporter.”
“Don’t know’ what you’re talking about. We were not told about anyone going into the building.” The fireman looked genuinely bewildered. It was the uniform which confused him. “Are you sure?”
“Jack, the owner, said he was going to see if anyone was asleep in the nightclub,” I insisted. “I’m going in."
“You stay out of this, miss. I’ll go.”
Hero material. Follow hero time.
I followed the fire fighter because he was bulky and tall and knew; what he was doing. I’m also tall but was totally at sea. If you can be at sea in a fire on a pier.
I tried to be macho and not cling on to his bell. But it was almost impossible to see in the swirling smoke. The southerly wind was not helping. The flames had not yet taken hold of the new decking, so we could walk on it but the heat was fierce. Inside the blackened building, glass windows were cracking and exploding. Bottles of alcohol were flying off the shelves. Flames were licking at the plastic seats, melting them.
“Bloody hell!” said the fireman. “He’s over there.”
Jack was crumpled in a corner between the bar and the disco area. He was barely breathing. The fireman dragged him out on to the decking and told me to use the oxygen apparatus I had with me. So that’s what it was. I fumbled with the contraption, trying to remember my first-aid training.
We fed oxygen into Jack’s lungs. He spluttered, coughed and started to breath. We carried him away from the burning building on a makeshift stretcher made of a couple of deckchairs, his feet hanging off the end. He looked awful. He was not a handsome man in the best of circumstances, but now he looked even worse. No one took the slightest notice of me, which was how I wanted it.
Even James did not appear to recognize me. And he was there, investigating the possibility of arson probably. Yes, he was there. I backed off, helmet down.
“Cor, we would have missed him if it hadn’t been for that reporter,” said the fireman.
“What reporter?” I heard James ask.
“That girl reporter. The one with reddish hair.”
“Oh, that reporter…” I could almost imagine the resigned sigh.
Fifteen
The paramedics slapped an oxygen mask on Jack. He was in good hands with the team at the head of the pier. I slipped away, helmet down to my eyebrows. It looked as if they were getting the fire under control. I didn’t want to be shouted at and told to hold a hose or anything physical.
The pier was shrouded in smoke. The gulls abandoned it with wild flapping wings and assorted shrieks, rising above it like white ghosts. They keeled off towards Brighton’s tower blocks and unpolluted air.
I started coughing. The smoke had got to my inflamed airways. I needed a
whiff of Jack’s oxygen and hung over the rail, hoping to find some clean sea breeze down below.
“Is there anything you won’t do to be part of the action?” said DI James, sauntering alongside the rail. He was not looking at me, so I could not see if there was any concern in his eyes.
“I’ve just saved a man’s life,” I said, choking on the words. “I’m emotionally stressed out so don’t h-hassle me.”
“See anything unusual there?”
“What do you mean, unusual? Are you talking arson?”
“Yes, I’m talking suspected arson. Jack is involved in the crash scam. They are not above removing a witness who might blow their lucrative trade. What did you see?”
This was not nice. They could have confused the nightclub with the amusement arcade. “I saw smoke curling from the nightclub when I was walking the beach, about half a mile away. I phoned nine-nine-nine and the amusement arcade but not in that order.”
“What an upright little citizen you are, Jordan.”
“I’m not that l-little… I choked.
His hand came under my elbow and practically hoisted me off the rail. “Let’s get you out of here before you choke to death. And get this clobber off. Don’t you know it’s against the law, impersonating a fireman?”
I love it when he’s masterful, but not in front of a hundred gawping spectators. I was not part of the show. If they wanted a soap, they could go home and watch the box.
“Did you know that spring is here and summer’s a-coming?” I said, making ridiculously small talk as he hauled me to the front entrance of the pier. The tourists craned forward, their cameras clicking.
“Is that Wordsworth? I’ve no time for poetry,” he said. He stripped the fireproof jacket off me, removed the heavy helmet. My thick hair fell down, wet and tangled. “I should charge you.”
“Oh, James,” I said, exasperated, at the end of my tether. Time went warped. “Surely you’ve got better things to do? For goodness’ sake, come down to earth. Concentrate on the real criminals, not a small seaside-town private investigator, trying to make an honest living and get ends to meet. How often do you have spaghetti without cheese sauce because you don’t have any cheese? And you have a pension. Don’t you know that I will help you. do anything that makes your job easier? I still have a lot of loyalty. I was a WPC. remember? Before they got rid of me for being too bloody honest.”
Ring and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 6) Page 14
