“I’d better make a note of that,” said James with heavy sarcasm. “The whole evil thing…”
“You must know what I mean, James. You’ve seen enough criminals, big and small-time crooks.”
“And some are little old ladies that you would trust with your last penny, who can use their knitting needles like sabers.”
“That’s him, anyway,” I said, gulping down more wine. A voice in my head told me that I had had enough to drink, but I didn’t seem to care anymore. Yorkshire… how on earth was I going to get to see James? It was difficult enough when he only lived a couple of miles away. I couldn’t see myself driving up to Yorkshire on his days off. The depth of my affection was about two inches when it came to negotiating motorway signs. “Do you want to charge him?”
“What with? Waving a knife at me? No, I want to forget it and him. Don’t do anything, please, James. Let him go.”
“I can’t believe you’re saying this, Jordan. You can’t be serious. That man was going to attack you. He might attack someone else.”
“But I got away and he didn’t get a chance. So you can hardly charge him with intent.”
“I could and I would. He had a knife.”
“Perhaps he was going to sharpen a pencil.”
“They’re moving. They’re leaving. Jordan, I’m going to call for assistance. We can’t do this on our own. They could split off. Can you get yourself home? I’ll call a taxi.”
“I’m coming with you,” I said, as sober as a High Court judge suddenly. I drank the rest of his glass of orange juice. “I’m good on surveillance. Pretend we are a couple, an item. Put your arm round me and I’ll gaze up into your eyes with adoration. Make like we are heading for the car park and some serious snogging.”
“Snogging? I’m surprised at you, Jordan. Where did you learn such language?”
James put his arm round me as if he had been doing it all his life. It felt so right. I could smell his scent. Not just aftershave and deodorant, but the smell of his body. I tucked myself against his arm as if I was tailored to fit. We walked out of the pub, eyes only for each other. I could dream. “Keep walking,” said James.
“Will they recognize your car as a police vehicle?”
“No. It’s my own car. No police marking.”
“Shall we get in then? You’ll have to pretend to kiss me.”
Any moment, I was going to wake up. This must be a dream. Smoke inhalation might have induced hallucinations. If so, I liked this one. James might not kiss me with intent but I was going to kiss him. I was good at my job.
I had barely noticed the make of his car, only that it was fairly new and a dark navy, some silver touches somewhere. A line, like a streak of moonlight. It was tidy inside, not a sign of litter, no crumpled crisp packets or beer cans. Quite different to the casual disorder inside Marchmont Tower.
He had to sit beside me in the car because he was still the driver. It was dark and leathery. Neither of us knew what to do next. All my good intentions evaporated. There was no way I could kiss him now. He was remote, but then he turned and smiled at me, that funny smile.
“Not so easy, is it, Jordan?”
“I’m no good at this.”
He leaned over in the darkness. “I think you are very good at this,” he said.
Then he kissed me. And it was all sweetness and warmth. I floated away into some starlit sky where angels sang and cherubs played harps. Or was it a soft blues jazz player taking a melody up into another octave, higher than the one before, finding notes that radiated emotion and joy.
Could a kiss really mean so much? One single, light kiss on the mouth? But it was James and his mouth was firm and sensitive, something I had dreamed about for years.
The touch of skin on skin was feather-light, warm and soft, but there was a sincerity that was unmistakable. The cover was blown. This was for real. My arms crept around his neck.
For a moment, my cheek rested against his cheek and I could breath him in. I felt the brush of an eyelash. It was like a whisper that can barely be heard. Any moment now I was going to kiss him again.
But then he moved and the moment was gone. We were back into the woods. We were sliding down to earth, not in harness but two separate people. I felt tears welling in my eyes. I’m such a softie.
“Don’t cry, Jordan,” he said, touching my cheek.
“Sorry,” I said. “I don’t get kissed very often.”
“I don’t believe that,” he said. “You have a string of admirers from Latching pier to South America.”
“They can admire but not touch,” I said, quite unable to explain these unusual relationships. “They are my friends.”
“Loving friends, I think perhaps.”
Loving friendship… that’s what I wanted from James. I wanted him to be a loving friend. The phrase was near perfect. It summed up all I ever wanted from this man.
“We are supposed to be following a dodgy car salesman,” I said, arriving back to earth with a bump.
“The two men are coming out of the pub, but without the woman. Careful, Jordan. Don’t let them see you.” He pulled me close to him, holding my face against his shoulder, but there was no affection now. It was purely professional. We were a team on surveillance, acting a part. I could go along with that.
“Are they going separate ways?”
“No. They are getting into the same car.” He was watching them over my shoulder. My nose was buried in his neck. I hoped he would not get mascara on his shirt. It was hard to wash out.
The other car, a red Suzuki, began to ease out of the pub car park. We waited, not wanting to be observed. James made a quick call on his mobile, repeating his request for back-up. The Suzuki turned right and James immediately shot his car into gear and we were away. To where, I did not know. I didn’t care. He could have driven me to the moon, craters and all.
I put on a pair of tinted glasses. James looked at me without comment. It was a token cover.
The other car began to head towards Brighton using the back roads route. A rabbit’s eyes were caught in the glare of the headlights. The little creature froze, half hidden in the grass verge, ambushed by the sudden spate of traffic.
“Brighton isn’t your patch,” I said.
“Let me take care of that.”
“I’m not sure why we are following them.”
“The fake crashes, remember? We may find where the cars used in the crashes are kept. They may lead us to a garage or repair workshop, wall to wall with old bangers that can be crashed without compunction. They get these cars from somewhere. They’re not stolen vehicles. The paperwork is bona fide. They may even get patched up after a crash and used again. It’s the insurance claims that are suspect.”
I was barely listening. “Will you get promotion if you move to Yorkshire?” I asked.
“Yes. It’s a step up.”
“You’ll need a stick.”
“What?”
“To help you up the next step.”
“Don’t talk such nonsense. Watch where they are going and tell me. This is the outskirts of Portslade. We could easily lose them in these backstreets.”
“I don’t know this area at all,” I said, peering along the rows of terraced Edwardian houses. They were solid and well built, although with run-down gardens, many cemented over for parking. The Suzuki had slowed. James stopped and let another car overtake. He did not want to be too close. He kept the engine running, pretending he was consulting a street map.
The Suzuki was turning into a yard next to a double-fronted gray-stone Victorian villa with tall windows and an impressively pillared porch, but close to a line of shabby lock-up garages that had been built in its garden. There was hardly an inch of grass left. A few straggling shrubs struggled for survival in the remaining patches of earth. Some moron had graveled over the entire garden.
James put the car into reverse and eased back a few houses into the shadowy darkness between street lights. I released the seat belt an
d waited for instructions. Something was going on. I could sense it. There was an uneasy gloom, undeclared and unnamed, that seeped out of the barrenness of the house. “What do you want me to do?” I asked.
“Nothing. Sit tight. We’ll wait till back-up arrives.”
“But they might get away. We ought to have a look round and see what’s going on. The curtains aren’t drawn. I could have a look. We might catch them red-handed at something.”
“Catch them at what? Dividing the spoils between them? Don’t be daft, Jordan. Even if the lock-up garages are full of old cars, we can’t prove anything until one of them is in another crash.”
“At least we could take the registration numbers and run them through police computers.”
“They probably change the plates.”
I was starting to fidget. Something was happening in that house and I wanted to know what it was. Waiting outside was not going to produce any evidence. I wanted to know if there was a daughter, another wife, people hobbling about with injuries.
I knew why I was fidgeting. It was all that wine. My body was protesting at the heaviness of the liquid and wanted to relinquish the burden. Oh dear, this was hardly the time to tell James that I needed to find a loo. But although my control is excellent, I could not last forever.
“James…” I began.
“There was a pub on the corner further back. Be quick and don’t look at the house.”
I was out in a flash, slinging my bag over niy shoulder. The night air was cold and I didn’t have a coat. The street was empty and I hurried towards the lights of the pub. A sign swung eerily over the door, depicting another Rose and Crown. I pushed open the door with relief.
A few people were leaning on the bar, talking and drinking in a smoky haze, their voices low and muffled. It was not busy. The fire in the grate was smoldering coals, not enough to warm the place. I nodded at the landlord as he wiped the counter with a cloth. I bought a bottle of sparkling water and a packet of cheese and bacon crisps. He charged the earth. Perhaps that was why the pub was half empty.
“Meeting someone,” I said, heading for the loos.
The toilets were shabby and running out of paper. The hotair dryer didn’t work. But I would have been thankful for a hole in the ground. As I washed my hands and shook the water off. I moved towards the doorway to the bar. A man was buying a bottle of whisky over the counter. I recognized him instantly and cringed back as if adjusting my clothes, brushing specks of nothing off my shoulders.
He paid the landlord and went out, the bottle tucked under his arm.
My instincts were to stay close. I knew something was going to happen. Perhaps he and Brook were organizing another fake car crash right now. Maybe the woman was painting an ivory foundation on to her checks and hollowing under her eyes with a faint smudge of bluey-gray shadow.
I untwisted the scarf from round my neck and tied it over my hair, tucking most of it out of sight. I slipped outside and crossed over the road, as if home was in a different direction. James’s car was still parked ahead but he was not in the driving seat. That was strange. I tried a bouncy new walk, a hurry-home-to-Easlenders sort of walk, swinging the water and the crisps.
I passed the Brook house and went on further up the road. The man with the whisky had gone inside, a burst of light lit up the front door as it opened, and then darkness again. A light went on in a downstairs room and someone drew the curtains. I wanted to know what was going on. There was no sign of DI James. Where was he?
This was time for action, despite the worry. Without stopping to think what I was going to say, I went back to the villa and walked up the front path. I rang the bell. It sounded shrill and cheap. The door opened.
The man stood there, still in his outdoor coat. I tried not to look at his lace, but concentrated on the second button lower on his shirt.
“Hello,” I said cheerfully. “Have you been at the pub? The landlord told me he’d given you the wrong change.”
“What change?” the man growled.
“He didn’t give you enough,” I prattled on. “He was distracted by something and didn’t give you enough change. So, as I was passing, he asked me to drop by with it.”
I rattled a handful of change. “I only live up the road, so it was no problem for me. This is a lovely house, isn’t it? I’ve always admired it from the outside. Is it very old? Looks old.”
“It’s Victorian,” he said. “All the houses in this road are Victorian.”
“Well, I’m no expert.”
“Want a quick look round?” he offered. “The rooms downstairs… my brother and his wife won’t mind. It’s their house.”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t know.”
“Come on in.” He opened the door further. “I’ve got a minute.” I could not bear the thought of seeing this man again, but I’d started it so I had to go on. He stepped back as I went in.
“Just a very quick look then,” I said merrily.
I admired the high ceilings and the dentil cornices and original wood doors and marble fireplaces. It was well furnished. Insurance money? I looked around without really looking, anxious to get out now. This was not a good idea. A small controlled panic was starting inside me. A girl was bent over her homework at a gale-legged table. She looked about fourteen.
“My niece,” he said. “Always studying.”
“She’s got the right idea,” I said. And I knew without a doubt that she had not been in the car in that roundabout crash. She was a tall gawky fourteen-year-old with lots of floppy fair hair and not easy to miss.
“Hello,” I said. “What’s your name?”
“Miranda.”
“That’s pretty. And what school do you go to?”
“It’s a convent actually.”
“There’s an original Victorian sundial out in the back garden,” the man interrupted. “I could show it to you.”
“Oh don’t worry about that," I said. There was no sign of Mr or a Mrs Brook. I was starting to get anxious. I was alone in this house with a fourteen-year-old girl and a maniac with a knife tendency. I needed to get out. “It’s too dark to go outside. Thank you very much. I’d better be going. My husband will be wondering where I am,” I added for good measure. I wanted to say he was a six-foot-two, black-belt judo-lighting fireman, but thought that might be overdoing it.
“Won’t take a sec. I’ve got a torch.”
“Just a quick look then…”
I followed him out into the back garden. It was unkempt and untidy, with a few straggling overhead branches and perimeter shrubs. I couldn’t see any sundial or garden.
It happened so quickly, I didn’t have a chance to fight or yell. My arms were pulled behind me and my head pushed down. Another pair of hands yanked up my knees so I was off my feet and crushed between two men like a sandwich. I heard the clang of a boot lid opening and I was being bundled inside, head first.
I started yelling and shouting. A hand clapped over my mouth.
The lid clanged shut. I struggled around and began banging on the inside with my clenched fists.
“Let me out!” I yelled. “Let me out. What’s this all about? You’re making a terrible mistake.”
“You made the mistake, sister.” The man was jeering now. “You see, I gave the landlord the right money for the whisky, so there weren’t no change. Got it?”
They were talking but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I stopped drumming for a moment and tried to listen.
“Is that the one?”
“Yes, that’s the one. She’s been making enquiries, I’m sure. At the hospital and everything. Nina said, asking questions. Too bloody nosy for my liking.”
“Far too nosy. Let’s take her for a little ride, somewhere nice and quiet. See how she likes it.”
The car jolted forward and I was thrown against the lid. It hurt.
Seventeen
It was a nightmare journey of panic and fear. I was thrown from side to side in the small spac
e, joggled against rope and boxes and tools, all the usual junk carried in boots. I’d given up yelling and banging, conserving the oxygen. I tried prising open the boot from the inside but it was a waste of time and energy. I could hardly breath. The shuttered air was petrol-fumed and stale.
There was no way I could tell where we were going. I tried memorizing turns and traffic lights but got confused. We had left Brighton and the main roads and were spending along lanes, some very bumpy. Once I thought I heard water, river water, not the sea. We might be nearing Arundel.
And where was James? I tried using my mobile but could not get a signal. They would take it from me if they knew I had one. I could hardly hide it in my bra or jeans. The bottle of water and crisps were miraculously still with me. There was an old crumpled Safeways carrier bag under the rope and I put all three in the bag, the phone underneath. I groped about and added a pair of pliers, some wire and a handful of rusty nails. They might come in useful but I could hardly make a bomb out of them.
Cramp was knotting my twisted legs. I rubbed the hardened muscles, my head down, brow damp with perspiration, sweat trickling down between my breasts. I could barely move for the excruciating pain. I didn’t care where we were going as long as I got out soon before my legs were paralysed.
It seemed like a good thirty minutes of agony. It could have been fifteen. I’d lost all sense of time.
The car turned into a short driveway and slowed down. I heard the mechanism of a garage door opening automatically and the car inching inside. I braced myself for what might be ahead. Bluff was on my side.
The boot opened and the air was almost sweet. I could smell river again. It must be the Arun. They heaved me out and I folded down on to the ground, quite helpless, unable to stand. My legs were not working. They lifted me up in the half light, dragging me indoors and then down some wooden stairs, my feet clomping on every step. It smelt damp. I held on to the plastic carrier bag as if my life depended on it, as it did. They were in too much of a hurry to notice my luggage.
“Get her down here.”
“Is she conscious?”
Ring and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 6) Page 16
