“Hardly. Her eyes are closed.”
I closed my eyes.
“She needs air.”
“Don’t worry. There’s enough air.”
“We don’t want her dying on us.”
“She won’t die. She’s a tough cookie.”
They threw me on to a damp stone floor, my head hitting some boxes. I sprawled in whatever pose I landed, the bag hidden under me. Crushed crisps. My face was against something hard. This was hardly the Holiday Inn.
“What are we going to do with her?”
“Dunno. Let me think about it. We don’t want her interfering no more. No more snooping around, asking awkward questions.”
I heard their footsteps retreating up the steps and a door slamming and being bolted. Darkness descended on me. There was no light, not a glimmer. I squeezed my eyes and tried to find some light from somewhere. It was imperative that I could see what I was doing and where I was.
The cramp gradually retreated as I was able to stretch my legs. The relief was an oasis of calm. My breathing eased too. It was a moment of tranquility before the next nightmare began.
I began to explore the area, feeling around. It was a wood and stone cellar, about five foot square, somewhere near a river. Maybe one of those old warehouses along the riverbank that had been converted into desirable flats. I felt along every wall and crevice, looking for a means of escape. I could just stand up. There was a very small trapdoor in the sloping roof, hardly big enough to push a cat through. I could not see the purpose of such a small trapdoor. I had a go at it with the pliers, hacking at the wood round the hinge, and managed to open it. The night air was beautiful, a dancing sense of space. There was even a star, winking at me. I drank in deep gulps before moving on.
Yes, the river was flowing quite near, dark water and gentle. I imagined I saw the ghostly shapes of swans, homeward bound to some sanctuary.
There was no way I could get out of the trapdoor. It was far too small. I could barely force my head out. I slid back to the floor and had a drink of water and ate four crisps. It was WWII ration time. The cheese and bacon flavor was more-ish but I knew how to discipline myself. They had to last.
DI James. I still had the mobile phone. I climbed on to a crate and held the phone out of the trapdoor up into the night air. I got a signal. The relief was overwhelming. The tears arrived but I wiped them away.
“James?” I said after keying his number.
“Where the hell are you?” he snapped.
“I don’t exactly know. Sorry. I’m in a cellar, somewhere near a river. Locked in.”
“Are you all right?”
“Not exactly.”
“Why didn’t you come back to the car?”
“I did, but you weren’t there. I couldn’t see you.”
There was a grim silence. I heard him clear his throat. My heart steeled itself against further recriminations but none came.
“I was checking the cars in the lock-ups at the back. There are some interesting number plates. Several have been involved in accidents.”
“Good, well done. Time not wasted then,” I said hurriedly. “But what about me? I’m being held prisoner.”
“Stick with it, girl…”
This was a different voice. Apparently, a former colleague incarcerated in a cellar somewhere in West Sussex was somewhere on his list of priorities.
“Are you in any danger?” he went on. “Can you wait?”
“How do I know if I am?” I hissed. “Those two evil men brought me here, angry that I am being too nosy, want to put a decisive end to my enquiries. So what do you think? Are they going to slap my wrists and send me home without any supper?”
“Can you get out?”
“Not unless I lose at least a stone in the next ten minutes. There’s a trapdoor above but it’s only phone-size.”
“Can you barricade yourself into the cellar so that no one can drag you out? It’ll take us some time to track down your signal.”
“There’s some wood and boxes lying about and I have some nails I took from the boot of the car.”
“Are you sure you are in danger? I don’t really have the resources for this.”
I nearly blew a gasket. “I’m a rate-paying citizen. I was kidnapped, thrown into the boot of a car, bundled in with excessive force and am now locked in a cellar against my will. If that doesn’t warrant some of your resources… but, of course, if they had gone through a couple of speed cameras, parked on a double yellow line, half the force would be down on their heels by now.”
“I don’t make the rules,” said James grimly.
“But you interpret them.”
“To a degree.”
“Isn’t that why you are being promoted?”
It was below the belt. James was always fair, had come to my rescue many times. Long, long ago. But I was crippled by disappointment and was working myself up into a terrible temper. This sort of passion is dangerous. I knew I would regret it but there was no control left to me in this cellar-based abyss.
“I could send out a patrol car with a tracking device. They can follow a mobile phone signal these days, as long as your battery lasts.”
“Yes, I do want you to send out a patrol car. Yes, I do want you to find me before I am hacked up and dumped in the river. Yes, I demand my rights.”
“I’ll contact Arundel. They might be nearer. Meanwhile, do what you can to barricade yourself in. And put something out of the trapdoor that can be spotted easily.”
“Okay, like I always carry around a Union Jack.”
“Ring off now but leave the phone switched on. You’ve got to conserve your battery.”
This was where the wire came in useful. I twisted it round my mobile and put it outside on the cellar roof, attached firmly to the catch which I had broken with the pliers. I levered open some of the boxes. It was impossible to tell in the faint patch of moonlight what was inside, but I did find a bundle of books.
Now it goes against my literary grain to tear up books. All that hard work. The sweat and tears of the author burning his particular midnight lubrication. But my need was the greater.
I found the whitest non-print pages and tore them out and stuck them on a wire spike like receipts in an old-fashioned office. It had a Christmas tree look. Then I put the arrangement outside the trapdoor and somehow fixed it upright, or almost upright. It leaned over like a paper Tower of Pisa. I hoped it would last a few hours before the wind blew it away. My reward for ingenuity was four more crisps and a gulp of water.
I was clambering down when I heard the bolt being shot back. I fell into a huddled heap on the floor, hoping they would not notice the open trapdoor above.
“Water, water,” I moaned faintly.
The two men were standing at the top of the steps. One was Derek Brook and the other my attacker from the Sow’s Head.
“What are we going to do with her?”
“Get rid of her. She knows too much.”
“How do we know what she knows? She might have been asking questions for a different reason.” This was Derek Brook. He sounded reluctant to get rid of me. “It’s only guesswork on our part.”
“Look, mate. We got a nice little craft going. You and the missus and the girlie daughter. We’ve made a quarter of a million this year already, bought two houses. Who knows what we’ll make next year? Then you can retire to that villa in Spain that you own. And I’ll be off to Las Vegas.”
“But you said nothing about killing anyone, Les.”
Ah, a name at last.
“Who said I was going to kill her? How about a few little minor alterations to her head so that she can’t remember anything? They got nice homes for people like that these days, and if you feel generous now and again, you could send them a donation.” Les chuckled but there was no mirth in it.
“Water, water…” I said again feebly.
“I don’t like this at all,” said Derek Brook, retreating. “This is going too far.” I heard his fo
otsteps going somewhere and then the sound of a tap gushing upstairs. He came back with a glass of water and knelt beside me.
“Drink this,” he said.
I drank. “Thank you,” I murmured with a degree of shaking. “Why am I here? Please t-tell me, mister. I’ve d-done nothing wrong. I don’t even know you. You’ve got the wrong person. I’ve never seen you before.”
“You’ve been following us,” said Derek. “In a car.”
“Me?” I coughed and spluttered. “I been at Tesco’s all day, the big one on the main road. I work there, shift work. I’m in supplies, stack shelves. You can check on it. I ain’t been in no car.” My voice rose a few octaves, very Eliza Doolittle. This was Oscar role-playing.
“She’s lying,” said Les, at the top of the steps.
“We could check it out.”
“This is the girl, I tell yer. I’ve seen her before somewhere. I’m not stupid. She’s trying to fool us.”
“Believe me, guvnor, you got the wrong girl,” I sobbed. “Lemme go home and I’ll say nuffing about this.”
“I think we ought to be careful. We might have the wrong girl,” said Derek Brook, sitting back on his heels. “I don’t like it.”
“Didn’t she come to the house with this cock and bull story about change from the pub?”
“Perhaps she mixed you up with someone else. Easily done, in the dark. She’s not very bright. Maybe there was some other chap buying whisky.”
“Sometimes I wonder who is the brains of this outfit,” said Les, clearly irritated. “Leave her. We’re late already. The traffic is piling up. We’ll deal with her when we come back.”
They shut the door and bolted it again. Les obviously didn’t recognize me from the Sow’s Head episode, which was a blessing. I’d been wearing the big hair-do and slinky dress. I felt light with relief. We’re late already. They were due somewhere else. I had time to barricade myself in.
I heard a car drive off and silence descended. They had gone. Was it to fake another crash, a multiple crash?
I pulled down my mobile and keyed in James’s number. It clicked to answerphone. “They have gone out to fake another crash,” I said clearly. “They said they were due somewhere, as if it was planned.”
“Roger,” said James, breaking in. “We’ll follow up.”
At least I had done something useful.
My attempts to barricade myself were pathetic. The nails were bent and wouldn’t go into the wood. I hauled boxes up the steps and put them against the door but they wouldn’t stop a mouse. A diagonal plank propped against the door might delay them for a minute. That minor alteration to my brain did not sound at all pleasant. My brain was my own business.
In another box, I found an old battery radio. It wasn’t working. But then I found an alarm clock and the battery out of that fitted the radio and lo and behold, we had a station with a tinny, clamorous noise. It was foreign-sounding, blaring out music and foreign voices gabbling in a dozen tongues. I stuck it outside the trapdoor on the roof, wedging it with a bit of wood so that it did not slide down.
I rewarded myself with some more crisps, drank a little water, wondered what else I could do. I was starting to shake for real. It was very damp in the cellar. Water was seeping through the floor bricks. Was the river tidal? There was nothing to wrap round me for warmth.
Perhaps this was the end of Jordan Lacey. Years loomed ahead in a home for the mentally retarded. My shop would gather dust until the lease ran out and then the stock would be sold or given away. My friends would wonder where I had gone. Doris and Mavis would be bewildered and baffled by my sudden disappearance. I hoped my ladybird would go to a good home. Thank goodness I didn’t have a cat.
I was sitting in the dark, helpless, angry and weepy. It was some minutes before I was aware that people were clambering about outside and banging on things. Someone banged on the cellar roof.
“Is anybody there?” a voice called out. It sounded miles away.
“Of course I’m here, I’m here,” I yelled, coming to life. I stood up, clumsily, almost falling over as I got to my feet, i’m in here, down here, in the cellar.”
I stuck my hand out of the trapdoor and waved it about frantically. Suddenly a big hand caught mine and held it firmly. “Don’t worry, miss. Weil get you out of there.”
I heard them breaking down doors and then battering the cellar door. My barricade held up pretty well. It took several minutes before it gave in.
I couldn’t move. I was quivering like a half-set jelly. DI James was kicking debris out of the way as he came down the steps, flooded in light from upstairs. He looked pale and disheveled.
“I didn’t say barricade yourself in like it was Fort Knox,” he said, lifting me up. I leaned against him for one moment. Did he never know how his nearness affected me? He was reaching into the trapdoor and pulling down my mobile, the radio and the shredded book.
“Didn’t know you listened to Radio Luxembourg,” he said. “Any good?”
“Passes the time,” I said, my teeth chattering.
“And look at this book,” he said with sharp disgust. “That’s scandalous, Jordan. Ripping up a book. You’re turning into a vandal.”
Somehow, my breathing steadied itself. I was safe. I was with him but it had not registered.
My hands were trembling as I opened out the crumpled packet. “Would you like a crisp?” I asked politely.
Eighteen
My jeans were damp and the clinging cuffs wet and I wanted to take them off. Not a good idea. All that undignified wriggling in a car. A WPC wrapped a blanket round me, to contain what was left of my body warmth. I was about to thank her but she got into a different patrol car.
“Have they caught them?” I asked, my teeth chattering. “Have they got them yet?”
“We will,” said James. “Every vehicle is out and that’s the Arundel police as well. If they make any kind of move, they’ll be spotted. I checked those plates. Some of them had been used before. Very careless.”
“I can’t get warm,” I said, shivering.
“Not surprising. That was a pretty damp cellar they put you into. I should imagine it Hoods with a high tide.”
“They were going to alter my brain.”
“Pretty difficult.”
I think he was being sarcastic.
“It’s been a wet few weeks,” I said, still shivering, remembering the rescue from my watery perch under the pier. “It’s all this fishing and piers. This is the last time I take on any water-based cases.”
“Have you still got a fishing-rod case?”
“No, the thefts seem to have stopped.” I didn’t mention Dick Mann’s amazing stock of fishing equipment. It wasn’t relevant now. “Have you any news about Dick Mann?”
“The post-mortem report reckons that it was a suicide attempt that went wrong. No case for us. The enquiry has been closed.”
“A suicide that went wrong? Odd way to put it, but it worked, didn’t it? He achieved the desired effect. He died, didn’t he?”
“They said he meant to hang himself but somehow slipped and the noose went round his foot and he hung upside down until he drowned of fluid in his lungs.”
“Why didn’t he pull himself up?” Jordan asked. “A sort of vertical sit-up?”
“These was an abrasion on his forehead. As the rope swung, maybe violently, he hit his head on a beam and knocked himself unconscious.”
“But why should he want to kill himself? He seemed to have a fairly contented life with his fishing and his drinking mates, even if his job at the hospital had packed up.”
“Maybe he thought someone was on to his previous identity and that made him nervous.”
A degree of warmth was seeping into my bones. James had put the heater on and the inside of the car was beginning to feel comfortable and pleasant. “What had he got to be nervous about?”
James did not answer. He was not going to tell me. There was a lumbering forty-four-foot container truck in front
that needed careful overtaking. “You tell me.”
“Maybe he knew something no one else knew?”
“Maybe.”
“Perhaps it wasn’t suicide. Perhaps it’s murder and someone made it look like suicide.”
“You have a suspicious mind. I’m glad you don’t work lor me. You’d be chasing red herrings every day.”
“At least I’d get paid for having a suspicious mind. No one pays me for brain time in my present capacity.”
“Call it paperwork,” he suggested kindly.
“Was he?”
“Was he what?”
“Was Dick Mann a bell-ringer?”
“Yes, apparently, that part is genuine.” said James. “He was learning. Anyone can learn. It could have been an accident in the bell chamber itself. If he was up there amongst the bells when they were down, that is facing mouth downwards. If someone downstairs, either mistakenly or deliberately, began to ring one of the bells, the person upstairs could be seriously injured.”
I was confused. Upstairs, downstairs. “So that might have happened?”
“Maybe. The other bell-ringers were very shocked. They played a special grandsire in his memory.”
“How kind. He’d have liked that,” I said drily.
“Where am I taking you?”
“Home, please.”
“I will take you home only if you promise to come to the station in the morning and make a statement this time.”
“I promise.”
“Do these thugs know where you live?”
“Derek Brook would know my address from the insurance claim. Oh hell, that complicates things, doesn’t it? No, it doesn’t. He hasn’t connected me with the woman in the ladybird crash yet. This particular incident was tied up with following them and making enquiries at the hospital with the woman who later had a meal with him at the Mexican.”
DI James swung the wheel, taking a left turn. “I don’t understand that. They might have connected you with the crash by now. I guess you aren’t going home. It’s Marchmont Tower again, Jordan. You might as well move in with me and pay me rent.”
I wish.
I dozed off at this point. Out like a flickering nightlight, fear vanishing. It was the warmth and an easy sort of giving up. Maybe I was trying too hard, too hard at everything. Someone once said, wear life as a loose garment. I’d belted a notch too tight. Time to let go and start to float with the wind.
Ring and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 6) Page 17
