Jordan Lacey Mystery 01 Pray and Die

by Stella Whitelaw

  “That was a thank-you for the soup,” he said.

  If he kissed like that for a bowl of soup, I wonder what he’d kiss like if I had cooked him a four-course meal.

  I listened to his footsteps going down the stairs then went to wash up the bowls and spoons with hot water, apple scented detergent and a few tears. The tears made them really sparkle. It was very dark now and time to draw the curtains and shut out the night.

  My doorbells rang again and I flew downstairs. James had come back. He wanted to talk, perhaps apologize, and I flung open the door, my face glowing.

  “And who the hell was that?” Derek grabbed my wrist in a vice-grip, almost jerking me off my feet. His eyes were narrowed, his mouth working in a baby’s gummy machinations. I’d never noticed how thin his mouth was before. The trade on his face sent fear racing through me.

  “As soon as my back’s turned, I see my girl making up to another man.”

  This was not the time to point out the physical impossibility of that statement.

  “Don’t be stupid,” I snapped, straightening my spine. I would not be frightened by this jerk. “That was not another man. I was not making up to him and I am most certainly not your girl.”

  “I thought we had something going,” he snarled.

  Well, we certainly didn’t have now, I nearly said aloud, even if there had been one or two moonlight moments when I had been off guard. They’d been nothing more than moments because despite’s Derek’s soaring testosterone levels; he was a drag. He was all promise, bluster and no go.

  I tried twisting out of his grip but he flung his other arm across me, pinning me to the wall. I gasped at the suddenness.

  “Don’t think you can treat me like this,” he went on, tightening his grip and pushing hard on my wrist. I froze, waiting for the bone to snap. It didn’t but my patience did.

  “Let me go at once, you idiot. You’re hurting me,” I said furiously, wrenching myself free. “And stop acting like a fool. This is so stupid.”

  “You’ll be sorry,” he ranted, hurrying down the street. He was a coward. I just had to stand up to him and he was off. “You wait and see. Mark my words.” He flapped away like an out-sized bat.

  I slammed the door on him and leaned against it weakly, rubbing my sore wrist. I’d had enough of men for one night. No wonder Ellen Swantry became a nun.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Police speak is a conveniently condensed code to bemuse both villains and citizens of the realm, but I had got the message. Detective Inspector James was giving me the push. My pride dissolved into a puddle. There was a longing inside me so achingly strong, so desperate to be recognized, yet it was still being denied existence. I must hold some kind of world record for non-consummation.

  Another six years of celibacy stretched directionless. It was enough to send anyone heading for the Prozac. I looked at my hands, searching for liver spots.

  All my instincts said make for the beach, the sea, talk to the gulls, listen to the waves. But Derek was prowling outside somewhere and I didn’t trust him.

  It was time I stopped thinking about myself. Ursula Carling was home from hospital now. Tomorrow I should go and see her. After all, she was still my client, paying for my bread and soya spread. It was time for hard speaking.

  I put on some vintage music. Simply Red washed the walls pink.

  Ursula’s face was pale with nothing much written on it. Something had happened to her metabolism. I recognized the state. She was in shock. The carbon monoxide poisoning had rocked her suburban complacency. The hair was in reverse spin, all tangles; her pale skin looked dry and flaking. It hadn’t seen a moisturizer for days.

  “Come in, Jordan,” she said with unusual civility. She was wearing a pink jumper with pleated grey skirt, pearl necklace. “The ambulance men told me that you saved my life. I guess I owe you my thanks. I could have been in my grave by now if it hadn’t been for you.” Tears shot into her eyes. “Do you believe me now? That someone really hates me enough to kill me?”

  “It could have been an accident,” I said gently. “A bird’s nest or something.”

  “The gas board said the flue was blocked with rubble. Don’t tell me that the gulls dropped a couple of buckets of rubble.”

  “Funny things, birds. I’ve seen seagulls throwing shells onto rocks but, of course, never down chimneys.”

  “I tell you, someone is after me. At first it was the junk mail, then the hate messages and the dead cat. Now they really want to kill me. I’m too scared to even go out. I may even have to cancel my appointment at the hairdressers.”

  She was in no state to even pour boiling water, so I made instant coffee, being careful how I handled the delicate china. Crunch time for effort.

  “Drink this,” I said. “You’ll feel all right in a few days. You’re still in shock. After all, it was traumatic for the system. Is there anyone who could come and stay with you? How about your sister, Rosie?”

  Ursula’s look sharpened for one instant. It heartened me. She would recover, in time. She was one tough cookie, underneath.

  “Rosie? How do you know about Rosie?”

  “I’m a detective, remember? I’m supposed to find out about things. I’ve been to see Rosie. She’s a nice woman.”

  Her brain was fast-forwarding over this information. She stirred the coffee till I was sure the pale rose pattern would come off the cup.

  “If you say so. I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen her for years. We had a few words.”

  “I should think you had more than a few words. You went off and married her gentleman friend. Why don’t you tell me what happened.”

  I got up and looked out of the window. A burly man was standing outside The Beeches, legs planted like a prospective buyer. He had a developer’s demolishing look. Surely not another block of boring flats?

  Ursula was obviously embarrassed. It might help if she wasn’t been watched by me so I kept looking outside. I only hoped she was going to tell me the truth this time and not a pack of lies. I was sick of her lies.

  “Rosie …” I prompted.

  “She’s my elder sister but we never really got on. I don’t know why. Perhaps I was a difficult young woman. I had a lot of bright ideas for getting on and Rosie didn’t. She was happy with her library books and her job at the post office. I wanted to improve myself.” She seemed disconcerted. Memories bugging her.

  “Nothing wrong with that.”

  “I went to stay with her. I’d got a nice job in a big department store in London. It was a really posh, up-market store. I was in millinery. Women wore hats then. Everything was so smart. It felt really weird going back to her little terraced house in Clapham every evening. I didn’t belong.”

  She sounded lonely and tired and lacking in hope. Was she remembering those heady days of falling in love, when suddenly it was spring in winter? I waited, letting her remember. I knew all about seasonal longings. It was always spring in my winter.

  “Of course, I fell for Ted Burrows. He had such wonderful manners. And he was quiet and handsome looking, lovely thick dark hair. He was too good for Rosie and anyway she didn’t need him. She’d already had one husband. Wasn’t that enough for her?”

  Her words chilled me. I could well imagine that Ursula made a dead set for him. She’d been pretty, younger. Rosie didn’t stand a chance. Nor would she have put up a fight. She wouldn’t have known how. I wondered how many books Rosie had read in the intervening years. Thank goodness she had Bill and Ben now. God bless therapeutic cats.

  “It was true love and a happy marriage,” Ursula was saying but she didn’t sound convincing. Her voice was measured and precise. “Cleo arrived very quickly. She was a gorgeous baby, all her daddy’s dark hair.”

  “And what happened to daddy and all his lovely dark hair?”

  Was she going to tell me the truth? She seemed to say whatever suited her. She was smoothing the arm of her chair like an iron.

  “He died. It was an accident
at work, a shocking accident. I was very upset for a long time. Then I met and married Arthur Carling. He really loved me until Cleo grew up and stole him from me.”

  I wasn’t going to go into that. “What sort of accident?” I asked more sympathetically. “Can you tell me?”

  “It was a car accident. His car skidded and went into a river. The car wasn’t found for nineteen hours.”

  “I thought you said it was an accident at work?”

  “He was on his way to work.” She could twist anything. It was a skill. Was someone with him? Was that the unacceptable truth?

  “I know it must be painful for you, reliving all these memories. By the way, who collects you from the hairdressers now that Arthur has passed on?”

  “I can’t see what that’s got to do with anything but I get a taxi. Tell me, Jordan,” she went on, straightening her pearls, her confidence returning by the minute. “Are you any nearer to solving this case? Every day is costing me a fortune.”

  I didn’t point out that she hadn’t paid me a penny yet. Perhaps I ought to send weekly invoices. At this rate I’d need a secretary.

  “No, I haven’t solved it. Everything points to Cleo, I must admit, but none of the facts fit. It’s purely a personal instinct but I don’t think she’s capable of such idiotic behaviour.”

  “Rubbish. You’re being sentimental. Taken in by her naive charm as everyone is. Miss Lacey, if you don’t get a move on, I shall go to the police station and put the facts before them, including the blocking up of the chimney with the intention of killing me.”

  “I do agree,” I said. “I think you should go to the police. I’ll give you all the information I’ve gathered and you can take it with you. But think first. Remember the facts could then become public. Reporters hang around police stations like fleas. It could be in all the newspapers.”

  Bold words. I wish I felt that confident. I was eye-washing myself. I didn’t have a clue. Every avenue had come to a dead end. I was left with no one but Cleo. But I liked her. How could it possibly be Cleo?

  “Take care. Look after yourself,” I said, rising to go. There was something about Ursula. I could only stand so much of her even when she was on the floor, unconscious.

  I took Ben Frazer’s photo out of my pocket. I didn’t know why I did it. “Do you know him?” I asked.

  She took the photo from me. “Oh, yes. That’s Ben. He used to do some gardening for me after Arthur died. Then he stopped coming. Didn’t say anything or let me know; not a word, no apology. These young men—easy come, easy go. Nothing matters to them, no loyalty to an employer. And I paid him well.”

  “He’s missing.”

  “I’m not surprised. He didn’t like gardening.”

  Two hours of searching at the Family Record Office and my arms were fit to break. Those record books weighed a ton and I’d been heaving the quarterly tomes, four to each year, from shelf to desk top and back again all afternoon. Even the pages were heavy, burdened with the deaths of so many millions of people. More recent years were computer recorded.

  I paid for a copy of Ted Burrows’ death certificate. He died from drowning. Nothing much to go on. Yet Cleo had said something about mysterious circumstances. It didn’t seem particularly mysterious to me.

  Oliver Swantry was less straight forward. I’d gone backwards and forwards in time searching for possible dates but there was no record of Oliver Swantry’s death. I’d covered twenty years but found nothing. I came out into the street, confused, deafened by the noise of traffic, coughing in the dust and fumes. My Ventolin wasn’t in my bag. I’d left it in a different pocket.

  I ducked into a sandwich bar in a local market street and ordered a goat’s cheese and sliced tomato sandwich in brown granary bread, had it made up for me at the counter. The coffee was good and strong and I thanked the boy in a white overall and cap. He gave me a toothy grin. I took my sandwich to a high stool and hoisted myself up to think.

  Was Oliver Swantry still alive? If so, then he was breaking records. My maths would put him at knocking a hundred plus. He’d been a middle-aged Civil Servant when he’d married young Ellen, perhaps his secretary. This afternoon I’d checked their marriage entry at a Marylebone Registry Office. Maybe they had a London honeymoon. It was all so vague.

  Was he even important? I felt sure that his War Office activities and the printing of millions of notes had something to do with the death of his wife, a kind and harmless nun, planning to spend her last years helping others.

  The Hospice was on my visiting list. That generous offer to sell The Beeches and give the money to the Hospice might be relevant. Supposing someone didn’t want her to do that? Supposing The Beeches was stacked to the rafters with these collectable notes and she had to be stopped. Did killing her stop the sale? There were a lot of imponderables. No wonder I was confused. Perhaps I should stick to lost tortoises.

  The train journey home was slow and boring. I hit the rush-hour, had to stand till Gatwick where back-packed air travelers disgorged themselves for a warmer climate. I could never commute, become a rail prisoner. And people paid for the privilege. I was sick of luggage in my face, people barging through compartments, tinny music players thumping base discord through my ears, and having to listen to other people’s conversations. I was developing phone rage. Call me anti-social but I spent the journey trying to think up something really nasty to say to people who constantly use their mobile phones on the train. Leave the office at the office.

  Even though it was late and black aired, I heard a seagull screeching as I came out of Latching Station. The gull welcomed me back. Once I had loved London, now I never wanted to see the place again. The history was great but I couldn’t breathe there and the crowds were horrendous. Perhaps it had always been so. William Hogarth painted the teeming hordes, brawling, drinking gin, uncouth. Nothing had really changed; only cars for carts, bikes for horses, take-away cartons for sewage, noise and fumes.

  I wasn’t thinking straight as I walked home. This was Latching, a time-warped seaside resort trying to catch up with the present. Nothing could harm me here. The fresh night air opened my airways. I could breathe again. But suddenly I was spun off my feet, a hand hard across my throat, a sweetly pungent pad pressed against my nose. My nostrils gasped.

  It was all so sudden. I was completely off guard, focused on getting home and pulling myself together. A radius bone pressed rigidly on my windpipe, half throttling me. I thought my neck was going to break, windpipe snap. There was too little flesh on my neck to cushion the pressure.

  Was this how Ellen Swantry died? Chloroform, strangulation and then the meat hook? I smelled death in the air.

  My senses reeled, my head caved from inhaling the volatile liquid. But self-preservation galvanized me into action and my body bent forward, twisted sideways sharply and a knee came up in one coordinated movement. He doubled up in pain, groaned from the pit of his stomach. The odour fell from my nose. It was a pad of chloroform. Panic surged through my veins. Another smell wafted from his clothes … tobacco.

  I tried to see who it was but the man was staggering, turning away, out of my grasp. I tried to grab at his covered face. He looked like nobody, nobody I knew. But then how could I tell in the dark, winded, terrified and damaged by pain.

  My WPC training took over. I tried to register height, build, clothes. One half of my brain programmed to make a sober analysis while the other half concentrated on fight or flight. A tobacco smell clung to him. He had strength, muscles. This was no wimp. This was fit.

  He straightened up and made a futile grab for my wrist, catching my sleeve. I thought better of hanging about and began to run. I knew more twittens, side streets and alley ways than a whole shade of eighteenth century ghosts.

  Down Holbert Street, through Field Alley, onto the seafront promenade, sprayed by the waves from a high tide. I crouched among upturned fishing boats drawn up on the shore, my footsteps drowned by the crashing of the waves. Then I lost him in the darkness ev
en though he knew his Latching too. A tall, crow-like figure, fit, lean, muscled. It wasn’t Derek who was my height. He couldn’t run, not even after a take-away Vindaloo.

  I was nearer my shop than anywhere else. The Mexican restaurant was open and I made for its bright lights, flinging open the door to the welcoming wafts of chilies and nachos and the sound of South American salsa music. I bee-lined to a table in a far corner, sat facing the door, held the leather-covered menu in front of my face. The restaurant was busy for once. I always thought it was on the point of closing. The waiter was small, brown-skinned, wearing a green waistcoat and tight boots.

  “I’ll start with corn chowder soup,” I said hurriedly, hardly reading. “And a cold beer. I’ll order the rest later.” This meant I could still hide behind the menu. The waiter brought the cold beer straight away as I knew he would. I don’t like beer but this was medicinal for my bruised throat. I drank slowly, to make it last, hid my torn sleeve. Another torn sleeve. My hallmark.

  There was someone outside on the pavement but I couldn’t be sure who it was. It was an odd thing to do anyway, stand outside a restaurant. The figure did not consult his watch or scan the street for a late date. The glass of beer was slippery in my hand. I couldn’t control it.

  The waiter brought a steaming bowl of corn chowder and it was a meal in itself. I was not hungry. I had to force down each spoonful. Soup and beer, what would my stomach think of that mixture? Serve me right if I was up all night, hung over a basin.

  I put money on the table and slipped into the Ladies Room, then, when the staff were otherwise occupied rushing in and out of the kitchen, sidled out by their back door. There was no problem in hoisting myself over the fence into the next door back yard. It was one of the empty shops. I’d been there a couple of times before, just to look. I knew there was a window which didn’t fasten properly, opened it and climbed inside.

  The empty shop was creepy and musty; heaven only knew what it had once sold. I hoped it wasn’t an undertakers. I kicked over an empty coffee jar and a pile of telephone directories. A narrow passage led to the front of the shop. My eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom. The street lights threw some illumination into the shop and I ducked down behind the counter, crawling along until I had some sort of diagonal view of the street.