Jordan Lacey Mystery 01 Pray and Die

by Stella Whitelaw

  Rick rubbed his chin. “Gonna burn ‘em. Like the tables?”

  “Lovely.”

  “Do you want ‘em?”

  “I’ll think about it.” I was acting weak.

  “Gotta go.”

  He drove off, sure he’d made a sale. I watched the van till it was out of sight, trying to make sense of what I had seen. What did a secondhand furniture dealer want with an extending ladder and a shovel? Then there were the two mattresses. Surgical thoughts sliced like cold steel. Had he put them on the ground as insurance in case he fell? But why? What had he against Ursula, if Ursula had been his victim?

  Or had he made a mistake and put the rubble down the wrong chimney? There might be some point to torching The Beeches. Light a fire in the grate, fill the rooms with black smoke, set the chimney on fire. Difficult to sell a house blackened with smoke. That kind of thing could put a purchaser off.

  But there was no way anyone could mistake a house, especially a client’s house, even in the dark. It was a theory without a motive.

  I wheeled my bike onto the road and fastened my helmet. I could cycle to Lansfold Avenue on auto-pilot these days. It didn’t take long to find a neighbour who remembered seeing a white van parked in the road late at night on the Sunday. The woman at number 38 was observant.

  “I thought it was funny. But we were watching a repeat of Match of the Day at the time and forgot all about it. Was he up to something?”

  “I’m not sure. But thank you for your help.”

  “Anytime, miss.”

  That put the time after 11 p.m; hardly a good time to be buying furniture or delivering a sale. Why did I feel so sure that Rick was involved? It was all circumstantial. Had he come across Ellen burning currency in the grate and got greedy? Had he found a bundle of bank notes tucked away in some old chest of drawers from The Beeches? But Rick was not particularly bright and might not know their value. And why Ursula? She had no connection with The Beeches. She only went to Ellen’s funeral. That was hardly a threat.

  My blood ran thinner. There was someone else behind all this. A drenching silence invaded my head. My nose remembered being crushed against a jacket that reeked of tobacco. No ordinary cigarette smoke. Cigar smoke.

  I was annoyed with myself because I could not think properly. A chorus of voices was clamoring in my head, fragments of information floating in a vortex of muddy water. DI James had to be told. It wasn’t just urgent. This was my life. He had to know all these new facts but my skin remembered his fingers lightly touching my bruises and I slipped, unresisting, into a golden dream while I waited for some personal word that did not come. How could I face him again with these rampant thoughts surely visible in wanton-neon across my brow? I breathed his name into the air, momentarily forgetting the smoke.

  I would have to follow Rick Weston myself, keep tabs on him. What a surveillance, from one dreary house clearance to another. He might spot me. He was used to bag ladies, knew most of them around Latching. What line of business would be legitimate on the streets, in daytime, that no one took much notice of? And I wasn’t going to fool around in a mini skirt with black fishnet stockings as I had in my beat days.

  A contact lent me her second-best uniform. It didn’t really fit but we did a bit of safety-pining. The hat looked quite fetching.

  “Just keep walking about, peering at cars. People don’t look at you, hoping you’ll go away, take off. We’re bogie-men. You don’t actually have to give anyone a ticket.”

  “This is absolutely perfect,” I said, grinning. “I’ll wear thick glasses, do something to my face. Freckles perhaps.”

  “Spots. Spots are easy. Give yourself acne. Try to make yourself look infectious.”

  “How can I repay you?”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  I spent the next day following Rick round the streets of Latching, getting on and off my bike, strolling streets and checking parked cars. It did not seem to click with anyone that most of these roads did not have parking meters and a traffic warden was totally out of place. I spotted several out of date licence discs. This is what our police force should be doing; out on the patch, checking on Joe Public.

  He did nothing out of the ordinary. It was a very dull day. He moved a lot of junk. He was going to get lung cancer, all that smoking. There was no eye contact. You need the patience of a saint for surveillance … the boredom, the bum-ache, the sweat, the creeping lethargy. I couldn’t stop yawning. Then I saw Sergeant Rawlings walking home in civvies. He barely glanced at me. I caught him up and adjusted my pace to his steady stride.

  “Don’t look surprised. Just keep walking,” I said out of the side of my mouth. “I want you to give a message to DI James.”

  “Jaws, when are you going to grow up? You look ridiculous. What’s the matter with your face?”

  To his credit, he kept looking ahead and walking at the same even pace. His voice was low and conversational.

  “I’m tailing Rick Weston. I’m pretty sure he put the rubble down Ursula’s chimney and that it was he who attacked me that evening. He smokes and he’s got a ladder in his van.”

  “Clear as mud.”

  “Tell DI James. Please.” I sounded desperate and I was. “Remember the nun who was murdered in Trenchers? Somehow it’s all connected and I’m mixed up in it. Please, Sarge, just this once. Take me seriously.”

  “Seeing it’s you and I’ve always fancied you, I’ll tell him tomorrow.”

  “No, tomorrow might be too late. Haven’t you got his mobile number? Can’t you ring him today?”

  “You owe me.”

  “I’ll buy you digestive biscuits, milk-chocolate, a jumbo packet. Two packets.”

  “You certainly know how to tempt a man.”

  I stopped to examine a blue Ford Escort. The disc was three months out of date. “Look at this, disgusting.”

  “Careful. That’s my son-in-law’s car.”

  I pretended mock horror and peeled off in a different direction. Rick was humping a wardrobe out of a house. He was impressively strong. I hadn’t noticed the hard muscles before.

  I remembered those muscles and cringed. I knew, instinctively, that they had pinned me against a wall, crushing the breath out of me.

  Now I was free of Ursula Carling and her nasty squabbles and turbulent marriages. If I wanted a few days off, I could have them. I’d earned the time. If I wanted to follow up any Ellen Swantry leads, there was nothing to stop me. The death of the nun had quilted me but the attempts on Ursula’s life and mine, trying to scare me off had only made me more determined.

  One way of dealing with unpleasant things was to pretend that they were not so, as the heroine did, so sensibly, in Cold Comfort Farm.

  It had taken three attempts to alert me to the danger I was in. I’d been lulled into thinking it was coincidental or accidental because I’d connected them all to the Carling case. Now, having met Arthur Carling and heard his story, I knew he had nothing to do with them.

  God would not mind if I arrived at the St. Helios Hospice on my bike. He couldn’t possibly be a snob.

  The hospice was two large double-fronted, four-storied Victorian houses joined together by a glassed-in covered walkway. The in and out drive was wide enough for ambulances and hearses, and there was a parking area for visitors’ cars. There were pots of winter pansies flanking the shallow steps to the entrance door and a wheelchair ramp alongside.

  I parked my bike beside a Daimler. All men are equal. I pressed the entry phone button and announced my name and business.

  A peachy-cheeked young nun unlocked the door mechanism, took my card and glided away on saintly feet to the Mother Superior. I waited in the hall, inspecting the cheerful, spiritual pictures (no naked martyrs riveted with arrows and bleeding here). A lot of people passed through the hall as if it was Clapham Junction to Eternity. It was a busy and bustling place.

  The nun reappeared, just as silently. “Sister Lucinda will be pleased to see you,” she said. “
Please, follow me.”

  I’d expected Sister Lucinda to be a round jolly person and not the professional looking nun who rose from her desk to greet me. Her robes were immaculate, the white bits pristine, her beautiful face and porcelain complexion the envy of any woman. She looked vaguely familiar.

  “Come in and sit down, Miss Lacey. How can I help you? I’m afraid I don’t have very long.” Her voice was low and modulated.

  Sister Lucinda looked as if she worked out. Perhaps she lifted weights in the privacy of her cell, or sneaked out to the gym in trainers and track suit.

  “Thank you,” I said, glad I was modestly dressed and my wild hair tamed into a plait. “I won’t take up too much of your time.”

  “Poor Sister Ellen. We were all so distressed by the manner of her death and that she had so little time here, doing the work she loved,” said Sister Lucinda calmly.

  “Can you tell me something about her background and how long she had worked here?”

  “If I can. Sister Ellen had been doing voluntary work here for several years. She was a lonely widow and felt the need to commit her remaining time to our cause. She had some secretarial skills, rusty of course, but everything is useful in a place like this. She came to me, explaining she could no longer cope with her big house and would like to become a nun. I explained that it was not as simple as that. She had to receive religious instruction from Father Raymond, but she was happy to begin at once.”

  “And in return she would give you the proceeds of her house sale?”

  Sister Lucinda’s smile stiffened. “Not exactly in return, Miss Lacey. It was what Sister Ellen wanted to do. There was no coercion. How did you know about this?”

  “I have some of her papers. I was wondering if this commitment still held now that she has died. She might have previously left the house to a relation in a will.”

  “I understand there are no relations. Our solicitors are looking into the validity of her letters of intent to see if they constitute a will in our favour. They seem to think there will be a favourable decision.”

  I nodded. “I’m sure it’s what she would have wanted. I’m trying to get a clearer picture of Sister Ellen. Weren’t you worried when she went missing? She had been dead twenty-four hours when she was found.”

  “Yes, we were concerned when she didn’t return. She had been away on retreat for religious instruction. We thought she had stayed on. Some people do.”

  “Can you tell me what she might have been doing in Trenchers?”

  “The hotel? I have no idea. She hated the place and often said it should be pulled down.”

  “Why should she say that?”

  “I believe she had some kind of phobia about empty places.”

  It didn’t ring true but you couldn’t argue with a nun.

  “You’ve been very kind,” I said, rising. “By the way, what has happened to Sister Ellen’s personal effects? Are they still here?”

  “On joining the order, we give up all worldly possessions. Of course, we are permitted one or two small items,” she added graciously. I noticed she was wearing a good, modern watch - one of her small items. “I cannot think Sister Ellen’s few belongings are of any interest. In fact, I was about to dispose of them.”

  Sister Lucinda delved into the lowest drawer of her desk and brought out a plastic bag tied with a label marked Ellen Swantry. It was a pathetic collection: a fountain pen, a small cheap silver-metal crucifix, her glasses in a spectacle case, a pair of good leather gloves, a heavy brass key, packets of hairpins, brush and comb, tatty toothbrush.

  “Not much,” I said, making to hand back the bag. “Do you think I could borrow the key for a day or two? Just an idea.”

  “Sorry, that must be a mistake. I don’t believe the key should be among Sister Ellen’s effects. I’m sure it belongs to the hospice. I’ll remove it.”

  “I should still like to borrow it.” I could be stubborn.

  “I’m sure the key is ours.”

  “Just a silly idea,” I tried smiling. “Humour me.”

  “I don’t understand why, but if you insist.”

  “Thank you. I will return it.”

  I knew where it fitted. I’d already seen a similar one in DI James’ hand on a rain-lashed, wind-swept evening that had taken my breath away. I was ninety-percent sure it was a key to Trenchers. Ellen Swantry might have hated the place but it hadn’t stopped her keeping a key. I wondered how long she had had it. How many years? It followed that she hadn’t had the key on her when she was murdered or the key would have been in police possession, not with her personal effects at the hospice.

  Someone else also had a key or had broken into Trenchers. I’d found the basement door open. Perhaps the murderer had forced her into the hotel, waylaying her as she returned from the retreat - or even before she went to it. That fortune in notes was a strong motive. Perhaps it had all gone terribly wrong. Maybe the chloroform had been merely to keep her quiet while she was held prisoner. Maybe the strangulation had been a threat that went too far. And the meat hook? A macabre way of throwing the police off scent? But somebody had done it. Impaled her.

  I needed air, and the air outside was fresh and living despite the cold wind. Although I approved of everything the hospice was doing and the way they maintained a happy, cheerful atmosphere, the place still had that underlying promise of death. Sister Lucinda was like an angel of mercy—a merciful angel of release—with her face of flawless perfection and calm unhurried manner. No one was in a hurry to get to Heaven.

  A name popped into my head. Lucy Grey, luminous and dewy eyed. That’s who she was. Sister Lucinda had once been on the cover of every glossy magazine, one of London’s top photographic models. I remembered newspaper stories of her high-living social life. What had made her give up such a glamorous and lucrative career?

  The key fitted the back entrance of Trenchers, turning stiffly. I didn’t bother to cover the entry. I had a key, it spelled entitlement. My flashlight lit up the interior of the hotel and there was plenty of daylight creeping in through cracks. The police might have missed something because they didn’t know what they were looking for. I was looking for signs of enforced habitation.

  There might be something left behind, something overlooked when the murderer fled, leaving Ellen Swantry to prematurely meet her Maker.

  The police had swept out the ground floor and filled bags full of debris for forensic. They had not touched the grand staircase and elegant, high-ceilinged bedrooms. I crept up, slowly and carefully, my eyes crossing on extensive scrutiny. In the far corner of a front bedroom were signs of occupancy. A squashed pillow, a dingy orange satin bedspread, a pail, empty cartons of milk, crisp bags and sandwich containers. The officers probably thought some vagrant had been dossing down for the night. I searched around the sorry litter and found what I was looking for, a single hair grip still gripping a strand of grey hair. I put it in a plastic specimen bag. Ellen Swantry must have shed hair grips all over Latching. She kept the industry going single-handed. Fine hair does that.

  “I’ve got to speak to you,” I said at the station desk. James had come down from his office. He glowered at me, twitching a pen in ink-stained fingers.

  “Speak then. I haven’t much time.”

  “About Ellen Swantry …” I began.

  “Jordan, for heaven’s sake, leave it alone. Not the nun again. Get on with your own case and leave the police to the serious work.”

  “I’ve solved the Ursula Carling case. Job done. Report filed, case closed. And I’m not far off from solving your case too.”

  DI James slapped the counter in exasperation. “Success has obviously shifted your brain off axis. I’m glad you’ve resolved your hate mail case. We can now all sleep more safely in our beds. Who was it?”

  “Arthur Carling. Her dead husband.”

  “The phantom poster.”

  “Not dead. Faked it. Been driving the mini-train all summer along the front. And he didn’t put the rubble do
wn Ursula’s chimney, shut me in Trenchers, try to chloroform me on the street or lock me in the steam room at the Health Club. No sir, not guilty, not the type. Whoever murdered Ellen Swantry kept her prisoner in Trenchers for at least 36 hours, maybe longer. I haven’t touched the evidence. It’s still there for your boys. But I have brought one item of interest which I found on a bedroom floor. A room with a view.” I produced the grey hair and grip in the bag. “Get a DNA fix on that.”

  He looked at me with a brief glance of admiration. “I’m glad you haven’t forgotten everything the Force taught you.” A thought struck him. “How did you get in?”

  “I used Ellen Swantry’s own key. That speaks for itself. She must have had a connection with Trenchers.”

  “Let’s go,” he said, pulling on a coat and turning up the collar. Energy surged into him. My heart volunteered an extra beat.

  “Am I coming, too?” I couldn’t keep the amazement and hope out of my voice.

  “I’m not letting you out of my sight, but don’t read anything into it.”

  The words were like kisses on my ears. We went out to his car. It was tidy inside, no litter or crisp bags. Immaculate man. I told him the rest of my theory about Ellen’s death. He seemed to agree with me, if silence and nods meant a degree of agreement. He parked at a distance to Trenchers, no need to draw attention. We went in the back way, using my key. The sprawling cream building was eyeless like a mausoleum, the colonial influence more apparent by day in the Indian-style ironwork. I still loved the old place but now my affection was tempered with fear.

  James was angry that his officers had missed the pillow and pail. Their search had concentrated on the ground floor where the body was found.

  “Bloody fools,” he growled.

  “They probably thought it was some dosser,” I said, excusing his mob. “Like trying to find a needle in a Council tip, especially if you don’t know what you are looking for. Sister Lucinda from the Hospice told me that Ellen Swantry, or rather Sister Ellen, could have been missing for 36 hours. They thought she had gone on a retreat but it was only when she didn’t return that they became alarmed. The key was among her personal possessions.” It all came out in a rush.