Ring and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 6)

by Stella Whitelaw

  James phoned as I knew he would. His voice was an enigma. I was not sure if he was annoyed or relieved.

  “You saw this accident then?"

  “Yes, I was right behind. Well, not right behind, because I was on my bicycle, but near enough to see what happened. There was something wrong with the car but I’m not sure what. It wasn’t steering properly. The lorry driver never saw them.”

  “We’ve got experts who can check the steering, even from what’s left in the wreckage.”

  “Great. Fine. So what are you phoning me for?”

  “To see if you are okay.”

  “I’m OK.”

  “They won’t be making any more claims. Both the men are dead. Instantaneous, by the look of it.”

  “No more claims. It’s all finished then.”

  He put the phone down. For a moment, I absorbed his words, burdens lifting, then I rang back immediately.

  I cleared my throat before speaking. “James, can you spare five minutes to come with me and look at Dick Mann’s shed? I have a theory I’d like to share.”

  I thought the share line might hook him.

  “Five minutes? Is that all? I’ll give you ten and I’ll even give you a lift there. I hope this is not going to be a waste of time, Jordan. My shift is nearly finished. Your theories are pretty hare-brained.”

  “This is special.” I said, hoping it was. “There’s a link, something I feel.”

  “I’ll pick you up outside your flat in five minutes.”

  *

  This was all happening rather fast. I only had time for a quick wash before putting on my own clothes. Uniform jeans and checked shirt, extra sweater slung over my shoulders. James arrived outside while I was still tying my trainers. My hair was crumpled from wearing the cap but he did not seem to notice. I climbed into his car.

  “So what’s with the shed?” he asked.

  “I have a theory.”

  “So you said.”

  Dick Mann was in the Witness Protection Program because he gave evidence which lead to arrests in the Gaskon Street security box raid? Right? And the loot has never been found. It follows that perhaps Dick Mann knew where the loot was because he had put it there.”

  “I’m amazed at the way your brain works.”

  “Now, rods were disappearing off the pier. The other anglers knew that Dick Mann was taking them but didn’t want to confront him. They wanted me to do that. He even pretended his own rod was stolen. Weird logic but then they were paying. Or rather, I hope they will soon be paying me. But before I could talk to him again, he disappeared off the pier, only to be found dead in the bell tower.”

  “I’m still with you.” He was driving steadily through the lanes to Tan Cottage.

  If only.

  “So Dick Mann was stealing rods for a reason. And he had a good reason. Rod bags are fairly big. They can take two rods, I’ve checked. Supposing he went on to the pier with one rod in his bag, but left with two. It would be simple for someone as experienced as him to dismantle a second rod and pop it into his bag when no one was looking. The anglers are a sociable lot, eating, drinking, chatting around. They are not watching each other.”

  “Very sociable.”

  “The question is why did he want the extra rods?”

  “I am completely mystified,” said James. He could be really sarcastic without saying a word.

  “The extra rods that Dick Mann has been acquiring are in his shed. But at one point, he stopped. Why?”

  “Yes, indeed. Why?”

  “Because he found the rod he wanted.”

  “Lead the way.”

  I could feel that James was interested but he was thinking along mundane lines. Jordan off on a limb, as usual. I gripped my hands. I hoped I was right. There was very little to go on. It was a fishy hunch.

  “So we are going to look at these rods?”

  “Yes. We are going to dismantle rods.”

  “My idea of a perfect evening.”

  James had a key for the shed at Tan Cottage. Nothing had changed but the yellow scene of crime tape had been removed. At what point did they decide it was no longer a crime scene? I followed him into the shed. The air was stale. I propped open the doors and switched on the lights. The weak bulb lit up the rods and the cobwebs. The spiders had spun their magic again.

  “What are we looking for?” said James.

  “A rod that is different.”

  “Okay,” said James taking off his jacket and hanging it on a nail. He rolled up his sleeves. There were thirty or forty rods. “You start this end and I’ll start the other.”

  James did not need telling how to examine a rod. I watched him at first and then got the hang of it. Most of the rods were split into two pieces or three. They were made of carbon fiber and uniformly hollow. The pieces fitted together with folddown eyes. It was a long and tedious examination. There were so many different makes and styles. I should be dreaming of rods at this rate. I hoped that wasn’t Freudian.

  Then I found the Beachmaster. It was a thirteen-foot rod that broke down into three pieces. It was gray and blue in a swirly pattern with a sturdy black handle. The third and largest segment did not feel as light and hollow as it should. I shook the lowest part, the widest segment leading directly from the handle.

  “James,” I said. “This rod is different.”

  He was over in seconds. “Show me.”

  “It doesn’t feel as hollow as the others.”

  It was nothing to go on. Just a feeling. I looked down the shaft but there was nothing to see, all blackness. No light at the other end, because it led to a handle. I had nothing with which to probe the hollow. James was searching on the workbench for some kind of instrument. He found a piece of bent wire.

  “There’s something there,” he said, poking about.

  Slowly, he drew out some foam packing. Perhaps rods were always packed with foam. How would I know?

  He shook the rod and a plug of foam reluctantly fell out. Then, without any warning, a slim packet of bubblewrap followed. It was small, barely larger than a matchbox. The bubblewrap had been folded inwards and sealed with sello-tape. We both looked at it.

  “Shall I open it?” I asked, not wanting to be thrown into a cell for unofficially opening evidence.

  “Please.”

  We could hardly see in the light and moved together under the hanging bulb. And I was afraid of what I might find. Bubbles popped as I mishandled the package. I opened out the folds so carefully, and there in the palm of my hand lay a small scattering of uncut stones, a dozen or more, white, pink and blue. Beautiful, catching shafts of light. I felt measured, precise and very chilled.

  “Here they are,” I said quite unnecessarily. “The loot from the security box.” I peered at the tiny stones. “They don’t look very pink or very blue to me. But they are diamonds.”

  They glinted in the light, sparks of radiance catching the dust motes, frozen crystals. It was only a handful but I could see that they were beautiful gems. No wonder Dick had wanted to find them. No wonder Beano Johnson was keen to get his hands on the loot.

  “The experts will look at the collection. They can be identified from the diamond trader’s report,” said James. He was folding up the bubblewrap and putting the package casually into his inside jacket pocket. “Thanks, Jordan. You’ve been a real help. Your theory was spot-on. Clever girl. I’ll drop you home now.”

  I was so tired I did not really care that I was being dumped off home. I wanted to sleep, let James climb the paperwork mountain.

  “I wonder how Dick Mann lost the rod in which he had hidden the diamonds,” I said. “It seems pretty careless, doesn’t it? He must have known which rod had the loot. Then he would not have had to steal all the others.”

  “Perhaps someone took it home by mistake. Or he lent it to a mate or he forgot where he had put the diamonds in a panic. He must have been in quite a state. These were new friends, not old friends, remember. Maybe he had two rods of the sam
e make.”

  “So he brought the loot down with him to Sussex after he had been rehoused?” I had to ask before James put up the barricades.

  “So it seems. Don’t know how he did it. But it is very small. It would have fitted into a packet of paracetamols or a packet of cigarettes. They don’t bring many personal belongings.”

  “Where was he from originally? Surely not London? Sussex is too close to London.”

  “No, he was from the Tyne area. Brought down to London for this particular job. Recruited along the grapevine. Planted as a security guard.” Crime was a continual education.

  “We’ll never know. We can’t ask him.”

  “We shall never know.”

  We did not talk much on the way home. He dropped me at my bedsits, thanked me again, slid his arm across to open the door.

  “You look awful, Jordan,” he said. “Get some sleep.”

  “Thank you. I’ll write myself a note.”

  *

  The phone woke me. I was stretched out on the bed, nothing on except the duvet. It was almost a spring day outside. The herald of summer was blowing a few notes through a light breeze and the branches of the church tree were dipping in chorus.

  “Hello,” I said sleepily.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “You told me to get some sleep.”

  “Jordan. We should go out this evening and celebrate.”

  Excuse me? Did he say celebrate? Did he say we? Had something happened that I knew nothing about? Maybe I had been awarded the Nobel Prize… my fame may have spread from Latching. The world is not always blind to kindness, sensitivity and truly noble feelings.

  “Great.”

  “You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”

  “I’m being wary. James. You’ll buy me a glass of claret and then arrest me for some misdemeanor that I know nothing about."

  I could hear a low chuckle. “You don’t trust me, do you?”

  “Why should I? You’ve thrown the law at me so many times. I am bruised mentally and physically. If you say we should go out and celebrate, then fine, but I want to know what it’s all about first.”

  I sat up in bed, covering my skin with a T-shirt in case anyone could see. How did I know? There could be a camera planted behind the Monet print on the opposite wall.

  “Those diamonds. Yes, they are the ones stolen in the security box raid. They have all been identified and authenticated. None missing. The company are overjoyed to have them returned.”

  “Good,” I yawned. “I’m glad they are overjoyed.”

  “So that’s why we should go out and celebrate. How about that new place along the A27? The old barn that has been recently converted to Tudor. It’s supposed to look like a medieval hall with a gallery and suits of armor.”

  “But is the wine medieval?”

  “I suggest we go and try it. You’re the wine expert.”

  James was running out of patience. It was something that he was asking me out. But he was not one to persist. If I sounded reluctant he would put the phone down. And that would be that. Another lonely evening walking the front, watching the tide turn.

  “You’re on,” I said quickly, with a degree of pumped-up enthusiasm. “I will put on a damsel in medieval distress type outfit and you can pick me up at half past seven.”

  “Don’t overdo it,” said James. “It’s only a pub.”

  Twenty-Two

  The day went in a daze of activity. Don’t ask me what I did. Then it was shower, shampoo, deodorant, clean jeans, classy blue linen shirt with flowered yoke embroidery, very line dancing, nearest to medieval in my wardrobe and one of my favorites. Feet in open-toed sandals, toenails painted red, wanting this new summer to arrive. Waterproof mascara.

  I had not eaten. Who wants to eat when you can’t think? I was doing a Mother Hubbard. My cupboard was bare. Perhaps James will buy me a bag of crisps.

  James was waiting outside for me. He too had changed but into his off-duty uniform. Black-belted jeans, black shirt open at the neck, rolled-up sleeves, usual gangster gear. His neck was brown and muscular. I looked away.

  “You look better,” he said.

  “That’s a first.”

  James actually seemed relaxed and happy. His shift had ended on a high note. Finding those diamonds had been an amazing plus. He was riding on the acclaim from head office. His career was moving. For once, he was at peace with the world.

  “So am I going to meet my long-awaited knight on a white charger?” I asked with a tinge of sarcasm.

  “Of course,” said James. “I’ve made all the arrangements. He’ll be there.”

  “And why are we celebrating?”

  “Be patient. I’ll tell you soon enough.”

  “I hope it’s worth waiting for.”

  “It is. Believe me.” He smiled so I had to believe him.

  This converted pub was way out on the fringe of West Sussex. I lost track of where we went, winding lanes, overhung trees, old farmhouses, but when James drove into the car park, I could see the shape and slope of the barn’s close-thatched roof. Music was coming from the open doors.

  “They’re playing music,” I said, car door half open, astonished.

  “You like jazz, don’t you? It’s their jazz evening. I heard you liked jazz. So we’ve come here, very special. Just for you, Jordan.”

  I went in on a dream. Not my famous trumpeter class of jazz, but blues and beat enough to stir my effervescent blood. Not the quirky beauty and blazing tone of classic jazz, but a fifteen-piece local band playing their hearts out in rehearsal, all the old favorites, Glenn Miller, Count Basie, Stan Kenton. It was a heaven of sorts. The soprano sax was good.

  We moved to a corner of the downstairs bar. It was packed to suffocation. The band was playing on the other side of an ivy-decked baronial fireplace. Oak stairs led to an open gallery also packed with people. The staircase was standing room only.

  The new owners had called it the Medieval Hall and there were sixteenth-century recipes etched on the walls, ancient scrolls and coats of arms stenciled on the plasterwork. But dominating the room was a knight in shining armor. It was a full-size suit of armor with the helmet visor down. He sat on a canopy over the bar, feet sticking out, his scissor-sharp pointed steel shoes daring anyone to misbehave.

  “Do you like it?”

  “I love it,” I said.

  “Red wine?” James asked, when we’d found seats on the other side of the room, ready to launch himself on to the crowded three-deep bar.

  “No, thank you. It’s too hot in here for red wine. White – medium, sweet or dry. I don’t care what kind, please, with some ice. Red would be too heavy.”

  I should have been warned by my change of taste. It was like an impending sense of pain. No one changes their taste in wine without reason.

  The music was fun. They did not play each piece for long, no reprises, not many solos, keen on quantity rather than quality. It was one standard after another and they were good, full of enthusiasm and ancient in-jokes. The jokes were truly dreadful but people still laughed. No wonder the bar was crowded.

  James returned, several numbers later, with a brimming glass of white wine and his usual shandy.

  “That’s a very large glass,” I said dubiously.

  “I told them we were celebrating.”

  “It’s at least half a pint.”

  “Don’t exaggerate. Three-fifty mills.”

  I didn’t want to hear that he was being posted to Yorkshire next week or even earlier. I didn’t want to hear that this was the last time I would see him. That this was goodbye.

  “So,” I said with forced gaiety, swallowing the first icy sip. It was delicious even after years of red. The perfect grape. “What are we celebrating?”

  James was clearly enjoying this, his eyes smiling. He took his time.

  “Let’s go back a few hours,” he said. “It was your hunch that took us to Dick Mann’s shed, wasn’t it? Your hunch that made us search th
rough the hollow base ends of the rods. You linked Dick Mann with the missing diamonds and you, Jordan Lacey, found them in my presence. The insurance company are sending a courier down for them tomorrow. In the meantime they are locked in the safe at the station.”

  The chilled Chardonnay was excellent. It cleared my brain. “I’m glad it has all worked out well.” I said, savoring the pure taste. “You must be pleased.”

  “I am but I haven’t come to the best bit,” said James. His dark-blue eyes were full of light and hidden laughter. Something I rarely see. “I won’t tell you what the diamonds are worth now, but years ago the insurance company offered a reward. Ten per cent of their value for their return intact. The reward still stands, Jordan. And guess who is going to get the reward?”

  I went quite weak. They were playing “Moonlight in Vermont”, a Sinatra standard, and my brain wouldn’t function against the plaintive music which I loved. “The Police Benevolent Fund? Widows and Orphans?” I suggested lamely.

  “No, you, Jordan Lacey. Idiot girl detective in person. You’re getting the reward. Private investigator supreme. Every single penny.”

  *

  His words barely sank in. Another reward? A reward for returning the chemise dress had been prize enough, but now another, even bigger reward? This was the lottery twice over, rolled into one, Christmas every day. But I did not want money, I only wanted him.

  “I don’t believe it,” I said, dry-mouthed. I took a big gulp of wine. “More money?”

  “You’d better believe it when you meet their representative tomorrow. He’s coming down to Latching to present their cheque to you personally.”

  A smile started on my face and wouldn’t stop spreading. “You really mean it? I’m getting another reward for following a hunch?”

  He nodded. He didn’t seem to mind that it was me and not him. There was nothing stingy about my James. He was generous in heart and spirit.

  “What are you going to do with it?” he grinned.

  “What am I going to do with it?” I repeated like the idiot he’d called me. I repeated the same shopping list. “The shop needs repainting. The ladybird needs new front seats. I need new trainers and, oh yes, there’s a fishing boat to repair. A present for Doris is a must, something special. I’d really like a computer, internet and databases, email, be a high-tech PI. There’s so much I could spend it on…”