Ring and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 6)

by Stella Whitelaw

  Then the chemise dress… I was going to get a reward for its safe return. Brilliant. I spent a happy ten minutes planning how to spend it, whatever the sum. A lick of paint for the shop – essential, barely-white with saffron trim. Valet service for the ladybird and new seat cushions. New trainers for me. Decent haircut at Hair Affair, those split ends. Glittery eye make-up. Hang on, it might be thousands… world cruise, New York, Australia.

  “Ouch.” I stubbed my toe on a sharp rock and bit back the pain. Perhaps it was time for me to wear plastic footwear on the beach. I was always hurting myself. Plastic sandals were ageing, I thought, and I didn’t feel that old. But only one more birthday and I would be facing the big three zero. Nearly half my alloted span and where had it gone?

  The sounds of the beach cut into my drowsing thoughts. Barking dogs, children crying, voices calling, waves slapping, seagulls screeching, a police helicopter droning overhead. I waved airwards in case the officers knew me.

  By this time, I was deciding that I should be taking the whole day off. The world could continue without me. There was a Don Lusher Big Band concert tonight at the pier pavilion and that would be a treat of mega proportions. It was a long time since I had heard the world famous trombone player, and he, like me, was ageing. But his music never aged. It was fresh and timeless.

  I had time for a late supper at Maeve’s Cafe. A day off included no cooking, no shopping, no fasting. I had a freshly caught Dover sole with new potatoes and peas.

  “Did Bruno catch this?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said Mavis. “He still doesn’t like you.”

  “I’m worried,” I said putting a pat of butter on the Dover sole. It melted elegantly.

  “He doesn’t like you even more now,” she went on.

  “That’s not fair,” I said. “Why doesn’t he like me even more now?” I got round the grammar somehow.

  “You know when he rescued you from under the pier? Well, his boat bashed into one of the pier girders and now there’s a crack in the hull. It’s going to cost thousands to repair. And that boat is his livelihood. He can’t exist without it. So, natural, ain’t it, he don’t like you even more.”

  I saw my reward for the period dress disappear into a boat. I would have to offer him a major contribution to the repairs. To hell with the glittery eyeshadow.

  “Don’t worry. Mavis. Tell Bruno that I can help out. I’ve something coming to me, an unexpected reward. However much it is, and I don’t know how much yet, I’ll see that Bruno gets enough to pay for the repairs. You will tell him, won’t you, Mavis? Now, this fish is wonderful. I’m going to enjoy every mouthful.”

  Mavis grinned at me. Her hair was a vibrant cherry-red this week, cascading like Cher, but clipped back for hygiene in the kitchen. “I knew you’d come up with something, Jordan. I’ll phone Bruno right away. He’ll be relieved. Perhaps he’ll like you a bit more now.”

  It was beginning to blow a bit as I walked from the cafe to the pier. The afternoon warmth had soon faded. Crowds were converging on the Pavilion but it was too early to go in. I strolled the pier and was unexpectedly faced with nine black creepy crawlers ahead on the deck.

  They were huge, too big for spiders. First I thought they were locusts, but they were gray-backed crabs, marooned on the decking, metres above the sea.

  They were so lost, being ignored. It was horrible to watch the poor creatures, crawling about. Alien country. No one helping them.

  Now, I have never handled a crab before and have no idea of the best way. Those claws looked lethal. Their backsides appeared less vicious. Timidly I grasped one by the back, ran to the railing and dropped it into the sea below. I hoped it could stand heights.

  Eight more to go. I began with the smallest, hoping the fall would not kill them. The last crab was a monster daddy crab, the size of a bread plate. Its claws were waving in the air. I wished a shovel would materialize.

  I grabbed it from the back and began my run. It fought sluggishly, sinking a claw into my fourth finger. Ouch. I dropped it over the rail and watched it sink into the waves. My good deed for the day. St Peter, please note, no blood.

  *

  Don Lusher and his Big Band were drawing an enthusiastic jazz-mad crowd of fans from the deepest corners of Sussex. I got one of the last seats, right at the back, but I didn’t mind. No one would be upset if I jogged about a little to the rhythm of the music.

  I’d changed into top jazz gear. Black with a touch of pink. Black jeans, black shirt, pink scarf tying back my hair. Pink doesn’t go with my color hair but sometimes the outrageous works. This was an outrageous night. I even wore earrings, which shows how serious I was about my day off and this special night out.

  Don Lusher is every jazz woman’s dream. Slim, dapper, immaculate dinner jacket, silvery hail, sparkling eyes behind his metal-rimmed glasses. And he could play like an angel. His trombone was melodic, mellow, mellifluous. He played the old favorites. It was drifting on clouds, trading on dreams, rainy days that were warm and forgiving.

  His energy was amazing. I could not believe he was eighty or anywhere close. But that’s what he told the audience he was. Now he was announcing a change in the programme.

  “One of my lead trumpets has had to back out because of a family problem. But instead, I am proud to present one of this country’s top trumpet players. And the piece lie’s going to play is ‘Memories of You’. Please give a big welcome… at very short notice, he’s only just arrived from Gatwick, having flown in straight from the United States. Ladies and Gentlemen! Here he is!”

  I knew who it was before Don Lusher had finished his announcement. My spine was already tingling, hardly believing my luck. I could sense his presence. My trumpet player walked on, his tie already at half-mast, but the black suit was pure Savile Row, brown hair flopping over his heart-throb eyes. He put the trumpet to his mouth and blasted his way back into my life with a sound that could split an atom.

  I barely remembered the rest of the concert. My eyes were only on him. It had been so long since I had seen him. Months and months. I would never have James because he did not want me; this man, I could never have because he was already married.

  The audience did not want to let him go either. They knew they were listening to a genius, dynamics that were too subtle to remember. Those pure, soaring notes, dipping down into roots of melancholy, astonishing interpretations of classics.

  They shouted for more and more. Don Lusher gave in with a grin and they played number after extra number, but at some point, they had to stop. Their energy had spiralled and the musicians were exhausted. They trooped off the stage, waving to the audience. The red curtains closed and the last echoes of their music lingered in the glass dome of the roof.

  I did not move. He might look for me. He might have forgotten me. He might have to rush home. He might be jet-lagged.

  But he came out of the side door from beside the stage, carrying his trumpet case, a coat over his arm, and he walked straight towards me. He seemed to know instinctively where I was in the theater.

  “I knew you would be here, sweetheart,” he said, kissing my cheek. “I knew you would wait. I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you,” I said.

  “Tell me what you have been doing in sleepy old Latching.” His eyes were smiling behind his glasses. He had a new pair, a neater shape and without rims.

  “Do you really want to know?” I asked. “What you’ve been doing in the States sounds much more exciting.”

  “Films, television, the same old stuff,” he said, dismissing his career. “I want to know about you.”

  “Well, I got marooned under the pier and had to be rescued by a boat,” I began. “I was deliberately crashed into on a roundabout and am being taken for a ride with false injury claims. I was threatened by a man with a knife in a pub but escaped. Later I was kidnapped by the same man, bundled into the boot of a car and locked in a wet cellar that occasionally gets flooded.”

  He took my arm
and we walked out of the theater, out into the breeze-chill of an early spring night. He put his coat round my shoulders.

  “So nothing much has changed,” he said, grinning.

  *

  We had coffees at a nearby late-night cafe. It was almost empty and the staff wanted to close but we talked without stopping, and ordered more coffee. Then reluctantly, he had to go. He had to go back to his wife. I tried to print his face on to my mind. He was looking older, a little worn, a slight sagging of the skin. He was tired but he still walked me home. He had always walked me home, whatever the churchyard hour.

  We walked passed Christchurch, the old church with flint-stone walls. A white mist was rising from the fallen tombstones and I shivered. I was crushed between the past and the future.

  “I hope it won’t be so long, next time,” I said, trying not to sound pushy or nagging. I gave him back his coat and he shrugged into it, taking my warmth with him. My key was in the lock.

  “Every time I play ‘Memories of You’, it will be only for you,” he said, not giving me a proper answer. “Never forget that.”

  Then he kissed my cheek like a touch of thistledown and was gone. Again.

  *

  It was another day and the dream was still with me. But the trumpeter had gone, back to his fame and travels over the world, back to the jazz-playing that heralds the credits of many major films. Back to his family and a life that only had moments in mine.

  There were some loose ends to tie up. Derek Brook and his evil associate, Les, were still around, searching for me. They had not been caught in Arundel. Would they get to me before James got to them?

  Hold on Jordan, I told myself. You’re supposed to be a detective. Go out and do some detecting. Resolution: find dodgy car dealer Les, whose car boot needed cleaning and disinfecting. Why wasn’t I following the Brook family? Surveillance is my ace skill. I knew where they lived now.

  My ladybird was too conspicuous and they would remember her spots from the crash. I took a train to Portslade with my bike in the guard’s van, and cycled to the Rose and Crown. My cover for the day was traffic warden supreme. Supreme because no one got a ticket. I had borrowed a spare uniform from a friend who doesn’t ask questions, and spent a long, tedious morning patrolling the same street, putting DRIVE CAREFULLY stickers under windscreen wipers. I had lifted these stickers at some road-safety exhibition and they were coming in useful. I also made notes in my notebook, such as “this car is parked badly” and “needs a wash”. I waited hours before anything happened, at one point leaning languidly on the wall opposite the Victorian villa and yawning.

  Then everything happened at once. Derek Brook and his wife came out of the house and got into a different car, a grimy old green Renault. No neck braces, no sticks, no slings, no limps. They were both carrying tennis rackets and bags. Next came Miranda in skinny pants and crop top with a coltish hop, skip and a jump, hair bouncing, normal teenager.

  Lastly came Les, looking as dodgy and chirpy as always. He was carrying a wodge of newspapers under his arm. He opened the driver’s door without looking around. He did not notice me. I had merged with a tree. And it had started to rain, a fine misty drizzle swept in from the sea.

  “Let’s try this banger out,” he was saying, quite loudly. “See how it goes for a start. Got it for a song, an absolute gift. Could be useful. I’ll try it out for a few miles, then you can take over.”

  There was no time to take photographs. The Renault was already backing out on to the street. It was time to move. My bike was chained to a street lamp a hundred yards back. It took minutes to unfasten the padlock. The Renault was going slowly along the road with noisy gearchanges. Les was having trouble getting the hang of his latest vehicle.

  The car was picking up speed cautiously, taking corners in an unsteady way. I didn’t like what I was seeing. Their slowness gave me a chance to get nearer. Perhaps the steering was faulty. I am not the world’s expert on cars but it looked to me as if the suspension mountings were adrift, maybe the result of incomplete repairs after a previous crash. I’d picked up the jargon from Bert, the whizz mechanic.

  Something wobbly was going on. I hoped they’d call off this trial run. I remembered the tennis bags and gear. They wanted to get to some indoor courts. I had no idea where we were in these streets, but peddled furiously to keep up, the fine rain blurring my sight.

  Les had a reputation for dealing in dodgy cars and this was without doubt one of them. It did not look good. The steering was unpredictable. The wheels on the right side were not properly aligned and the car was vaguely feeling its way down the middle of the road, the driver not paying much attention. He was talking.

  I caught sight of Miranda’s face in the back of the car. She did not look happy. Les was getting more confident, putting his foot down. The car was taking a dangerously erratic course, wheels scraping the kerb. Houses and parked cars were passed. There were no trees, a few bare hedges. Les must decide soon that the car was too dicey to drive any further. Surely, he had some sense? I might get my photographs after all. Come on, stop, stop…

  They were in the middle of a small industrial estate of warehouses and small factories, junkyards hidden behind brick and concrete walls. It was a bleak place, no obvious activity, the rain distorting the edges of the buildings.

  I saw it coming before they did. Einstein said that time slows down before you are about to have an accident. Time slowed down for them. I saw it all in slow motion.

  A large, high-sided lorry was reversing out of a yard. The Renault was in the wrong place, the wrong side of the road. Les spun the steering wheel violently but the car did not respond as intended. The wheels went outwards instead and took the car straight into the side of the lorry.

  *

  The crash was horrendous, the sound deafening. The Renault reared up like an animal, rolled over on to its roof with a sickening crunch, then over again, slewing sideways across the road and jamming straight into a lamp post and traffic sign.

  I forgot everything that they had tried to do to me. I could only cycle as fast as I could, stagger off my bike, throw it down and then run towards the steaming car. The bonnet was crushed back into the front seats. The driver was stumbling out of the lorry cab, staggering, running over to the scene.

  “I never saw them… I never saw them at all,” he was crying. They came right at me.”

  “I know, I know. I saw it happen.”

  “I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t stop.”

  “I know. I know…”

  My training as a WPC came instantly to my aid. I’d attended many accidents and there was no time to waste. First I made a 999 call. There was a ten-second response. I checked the name of the street with the lorry driver, gave it to the responding officer and asked for help.

  “We need an ambulance and rescue equipment,” I said urgently. “The car is badly smashed up and there are four people trapped inside.”

  I could see Miranda. She was trying to open a door, tugging frantically at the handle, her face white and panic-stricken, banging on the splintered window, soundless with fear. She was mouthing words that I could not hear.

  “Help me, help me,” stretched the shape of her lips.

  Twenty-One

  Derek Brook and Les were both staring into space, eyes fixed and glazed. I think they were dead, crushed by an engine catapulted into the center of the car by the force of the crash. The woman was pinned under metal wreckage. She was moaning and bleeding. It was a job for the fire fighters to cut her free. It looked like very nasty multiple fractures. She was bleeding from numerous cuts but was still conscious.

  “Miranda? Miranda…” she was saying. I leaned into the open door.

  “Miranda is fine. We’ve got her out. She’s with me,” I said, but I don’t know if she heard anything. “Your daughter is all right.”

  Miranda was weeping by the side of the road, wrapped in a blanket, her injuries minor, cuts and bruises. I sat with her and talked, tried
to keep her mind off what was going on as the paramedics attended to her mother, putting in lines, giving her oxygen. Miranda was shocked, shivering, trying to talk. “Why d-don’t they get my d-dad out?” she wept.

  “Your mother needs help first.”

  “They gotta get my dad out. He’s hurt.”

  “They will… they will,” was all I could think of saying. Totally inadequate. “Do you have any relations, anyone I can call? You need looking after.”

  “My Aunt Daphne,” said Miranda. “She lives in Latching.”

  “Perhaps I should phone her.”

  The noise of the cutting equipment was horrendous, then the paramedics were swiftly lifting Miranda’s mother on to a stretcher to carry her on board the ambulance. They came over to Miranda.

  “You come along too, missie. You need checking out, just in case. Anyway, your mother would like it. She’s asking for you.”

  Miranda climbed aboard the ambulance without a backward glance at me. She was staring at her mother and all the life-saving equipment galleried around her.

  “What’s your aunt’s name?” I called out.

  “Gregson. Mrs Daphne Gregson. She breeds dogs.”

  Little dogs. Some little therapeutic animals might be what Miranda would be needing after this accident. This one was real, tragic, fate taking a hand. No false claims after this accident.

  The driver of the lorry was sitting on the pavement, his head in his hands, white-faced. A police officer was talking to him. I did not recognize him. He was new and even to me they are getting younger every day.

  “Did you see what happened, miss?” The officer turned to me.

  “Yes, I did. I was right behind.”

  “Are you willing to give a statement?”

  I nodded. “Yes. Not willing, but I will.” I was becoming a professional witness. Not exactly a good career move. I shed some of the traffic-warden image, putting on my own anorak, then went to the Brighton police station and gave my statement. It took ages. The WPC couldn’t spell. Later, I cycled to the train station and put my bicycle in the guard’s van, sat on the tip-up seat provided and returned to Latching on a tedious train which stopped at every station along the route.