Jordan Lacey Mystery 01 Pray and Die

by Stella Whitelaw

  Rick obviously lived for flying. Strange how I had know him and his shop for years, seen him driving around Latching unloading junk from his van, never realizing that this secret longing was breeding under his T-shirt slogan. In a way I approved but I was also afraid. I did not know him at all.

  “These are the planes I fly,” he said showing me round a group of Tiger Moths and Piper Cubs. They looked like toy planes. I’d seen them buzzing over Latching a hundred times, totally unaware that Rick might have been at the controls of one of them, dreaming his dislocated dreams.

  I tripped over my own feet. I was becoming uncoordinated. It was all that craning skywards. My neck felt funny.

  “Wanna look at the stands?” He was trying to put me at ease, steering me jauntily through the crowds. It was hard to cope with this change of relationship. I wasn’t his girlfriend but I had to pretend. “There’s books, memorabilia, flying clubs, joy rides, uniforms. Wanna go up in a helicopter? I’ll see what the queue is like. Not feeling cold, are you?”

  “No.” I thought the weather was right for a crowded show. Too hot and the St. John’s Ambulance tent would be packed with heat exhaustion cases, any cooler and everyone would have stayed at home and watched a video.

  He’d disappeared into the crowd before I could say no to the helicopter. He was getting tense but it was not with passion for me. The object of his infatuation didn’t have legs, skin or use blusher; only wings and props and landing gear.

  The first drops of rain sent the crowds scurrying into a big refreshments marquee. I bought two beakers of tea and balanced them awkwardly, looking around for Rick but he did not seem to be anywhere. I stood, sipping my drink, wondering how much longer he would be. If this was as far as the date went, another two minutes of hanging around and the date would be off.

  The marquee was packed with people escaping the rain. The smell of wet clothes, alien deodorants and pungent hair lacquer irritated my airways. I felt a familiar clamp across my chest. I had to get out. I was gasping for air, groping for my Ventolin. My arm jerked like a puppet and I spilt the tea, down my front and drenching a woman pressed against me.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I tried to say, mopping her coat with my scarf. “My fault …”

  She glared at me and muttered to her companion about some women being clumsy. I had to agree with her. I needed new lungs and three arms for coordination. And some women had no sympathy when it was obvious I could hardly breathe. We were packed so tight, yet my knees were buckling.

  An arm pulled me through the crowd, pushing people aside, half lifting me off my feet. I staggered into the fresh air, rain spattering my face. I hung onto his arm, coughing. He took the slopping tea out of my hands.

  “Use your inhaler,” said DI James, tossing the tea away with scant regard for the litter notices. He was glaring at me. “Then get the hell out of here. I told you not to come.”

  I exhaled, inhaled the steroid held for a count of eight. My breathing calmed. The rain was sticking to his cropped hair like a film of dew. His shoulders were wet too.

  “The hell I will,” I said, once I had enough breath to speak. “He’s beginning to trust me. I’m getting somewhere.”

  “I’m in no mood to pick up pieces of you scattered all over the airfield. Go home or go dust your shop … do something else.”

  I started wiping rain off my face with angry swipes. There were so many things I wanted to say but couldn’t, so many things I would liked to have done with him. He was immovable like the far Downs. I was impatient with the frustration of only being on the fringe of his life. It was no good. I needed a vaccination to cure me of this restless pox. I had to find some stability; this emotional seesaw was playing havoc with my hormone level. My endocrine glands were in a twist, turned in on themselves, pole-axed with rejection. It would be his fault if I had to have a hysterectomy.

  “Go play cops and robbers,” I said, stalking off. “That woman put a teaspoon in her pocket. Go read her her rights.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” said DI James, going in the opposite direction.

  I could have hit him for what he wasn’t saying. But he’d gone.

  The rain eased and a great Flying Fortress took the air with magnificent dignity, engines roaring. I shook rain-washed tea off my jacket and as I did, Rick appeared out of the crowd, thumbs in his belt.

  “Wanna see inside the Catalina? She’s a beaut. Lands on water, y’know.”

  “Sure,” I said, strolling after him. We went between stalls and tents, taking care not to trip over the wet guy-lines. The spiky grass glistened with rain, pathways turning muddy. I must have missed a low-slung rope, for suddenly I found myself falling, arms flung out, unable to save my dignity.

  I wasn’t sure if I hit my head.

  When I came round, something was happening to the ground. It seemed to be moving with a jerking, rumbling, stomach-shaking regularity underneath me. It couldn’t be an earthquake, I thought, shaking my head but I had trouble moving it. And it hurt.

  I tried to put out a hand to steady myself but found both wrists were in cuffs behind my back. A tight harness banded my chest like a straight jacket, fixed at the back, keeping me upright. It was made of wide straps of grey fabric, another strap was bolted across my waist like an airline safety belt.

  I couldn’t move yet I was being jolted bodily over the ground. My feet were leaden. I managed to tuck in my chin and look down. The tops of my boots were encased inside steel shoes and these contraptions were bolted to a sheet of metal, painted a gaudy yellow. Glimpses of grass and spinning trees and tops of tents came in and out of a blurred vision.

  Under my feet there was a sudden roar and shuddering vibration and terror flashed to the roots of my hair. It was the roar of a propeller turning. I screamed and screamed but nobody heard. I knew where I was now. I was standing on the top wing of a plane, strapped and bolted on and the earth was moving because the plane was slowing taxiing towards the tarmac runway for takeoff.

  I was wing-walking.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Something hard was suctioned across my eyes, blurring my vision, the rim biting into my eye brows and cheek bones. I fumbled with the cuffs, recognized that they were soft-metal toy caliber from the joke shop on the seafront and soon found the catch to get them off. My hands flew to my face and fingered the heavy rubber goggles. I prised them off and twisted my head round as far as I could go.

  I was standing on the top of the wing of a yellow painted Tiger Moth single-engine biplane, strapped into a harness which was attached to a two-legged metal support with back rest and arm bars and bolted to the wing. Behind me and below the top wing I could see the fuselage, painted with advertisements for chocolate, the cockpit and the pilot’s head and shoulders. He was wearing a flying helmet and goggles. I yelled at him, waving my arms. He waved back cheerily, gave me the thumbs up sign. He obviously thought I was all right.

  What I could see of his face was weathered, forties, dark moustache. I didn’t know him. It wasn’t Rick Weston.

  His hands went to the controls and he turned the rumbling plane, skittering at the end of the runway. I shouted until I was hoarse, waving my arms to attract attention. The crowds thought it was for dramatic effect and waved back, clapping the desperate Pearl Buck performance.

  He opened out the throttle, engine snarling, and the plane began to gather speed along the runway. The wind blinded me. I hastily put the goggles back on. If I was going to get out of this alive, I had at least to see what was coming.

  The pilot pulled up the nose of the plane and we were airborne, gaining height, skimming over the tops of show tents and nearby houses. The South Downs loomed ahead like ridged green pancakes; Chanctonbury Hill was a sparse crown of stunted trees. The River Adur was a smear of silver to my right. My stomach went sick with terror.

  Part of my brain was registering that the pilot, whoever he was, knew what he was doing with my added weight on top. This was not someone still taking lessons. H
e had minimized the back-shattering takeoff with skill and got the plane smoothly into the air as quickly and deftly as possible. But it was terrifying. I shut my eyes to the roads and cars and streets below. I clung onto the side bars, my knuckles going bone white, aware that only the shoulder harness and metal shoes were keeping me safe aloft.

  The plane banked slowly and circled back over the crowded airfield. I hardly dare look down, but I had too. Rows of toy planes were parked in a far corner, the beer tents fluttered like crumpled rags, a fuzzy hedge of people lined the runway paths behind the security fences. Sand and sea stretched beyond. My hair loosened and began streaming in the slipstream. He wheeled over the shore and I caught a glimpse of white horses riding the dazzling waves and tiny sailing boats, their coloured sails like scraps of tissue paper.

  This pilot, whoever he was, was not out to kill me. It was the one reassuring thought. The only reassuring thought. He was flying with great care. But Rick—for I was sure that it was he who had trussed me up onto the wing—either meant to scare me to death or warned me off the case once and for all.

  I closed my eyes and prayed to Someone or Something Up There for the flight to end. It was no joy ride. I knew nothing about heights, guessed at a low 200 feet, to give the paying customers a thrill and video view. Some thrill. I was trembling so much; I felt my knees knocking. The wind was cold against my face, drying the clammy beads of perspiration on my brow. My mouth was like the inside of a sack. I was beyond wailing or screaming. The pilot took an occasional glance upwards, craning over the cockpit edge. He probably thought he had his regular wing-walker girl.

  We were flying at about 100 mph, a trail of coloured smoke like a bridal veil belching from the exhaust. I tried judging the speed against a patrol car chase on a motorway.

  Suddenly, the plane began climbing, the horizon dropped away and I hung onto the bars for dear life through a shiver of turbulence. I nearly passed out with fright but the harness held me firmly in place, although all I could see was a changing canopy of blue ahead and scurrying clouds laden with rain. A few stinging spots hit my face. My swollen tongue tried to lick them in. I opened my mouth and a scattering hit the palate like spray of soda.

  The pilot shut off the engine. I screamed at the empty nothingness, the silence, the limbo. Panic rose in my throat in a wave of bile.

  The little plane slowly rolled over. The engine burst into life again and we went into a sequence of loops, spins, tipped into dives, stalled turns, rolled off the top … it was aerobatics plus wing-walking. This was taking personal ambition too far. Was he insured? I screwed my eyes shut and concentrated on surviving. The wind screamed in my ears like banshees, a pervasive white noise.

  I knew I was going to die as the world turned upside down and the ground came rushing up to meet me. I’d never been one for funfairs. My head was spinning, bursting with pressure, body sweating out life’s moisture, sweat trickling down my body. Excruciating pins and needles were attacking my legs. Hang in on there, girl, I told myself desperately. This can’t last forever, though it seemed like forever. The pilot would want a cup of coffee soon. I tried to mentally transfer the aroma and taste of fresh coffee into his thoughts. It didn’t work.

  He pulled back hard, blasting away on full power and a minute jerk alerted my traumatized body to some new experience. The harness felt fractionally looser across my chest. My stiff fingers explored the fabric straps. The tips found a disturbance on the edge of the smooth webbing. It was a cut, a tiny straight cut. Someone had tampered with the harness.

  For a moment I felt amazingly calm. I knew the worst now. There was nothing more to scare me. At some precise moment in the near future, the harness was going to rip apart and I was going to fall.

  Funnily enough, I wondered who would look after my shop and I was glad I didn’t have a cat that would pine.

  I closed my eyes, waiting for each jerk, waiting for the end. The engine of the Tiger Moth roared in my ears. I’d go deaf if this went on much longer.

  Then I became aware of a much louder phut-phutting noise and squinted vaguely in the direction of the new sound. It was a helicopter flying alongside, its rotor blades chopping and batting the air. I recognized the military markings and a wave of relief engulfed me. Someone must have found the real wing-walker tied up somewhere and commandeered the helicopter. They were flash signaling to the pilot to land. They must be in radio contact too. It wasn’t the Middle Ages.

  Another millimeter of strap gave way. I knew I didn’t have much time, might not be able to stand the impact of landing and braking. I began an elaborate pantomime, worthy of my many dramatic school performances, pointing to the harness and then miming a violent ripping apart. My drama teacher would have been proud of me. I hoped someone on the helicopter was watching and understood.

  We were losing altitude, turning again. A blast of torrential rain hit my face, blinding the goggles like a car wash. The plane was circling the airfield, losing speed, everything was a blur of colours and shapes. I was beyond tired. Another plane roared past and straight up into the sky. It was a giant Blenheim Bomber like a throbbing airship out of Star Wars.

  The right shoulder strap snapped and the end flew up and caught me sharply across the face. I gripped the arm bars, desperately hoping that what was left of the harness and the lap belt would hold till we landed. The wind was strengthening and I was nearly bent in half against it. I couldn’t hold on much longer.

  The helicopter was rising, moving sideways, positioning itself above the Tiger Moth. The noise of the rotary blades were puncturing my ear drums and I was pummeled by the down draught. A man was being winched out over the side and lowered, helmet and goggles obscuring his face. He was like an angel in green combat fatigues descending from Heaven. It seemed like hours, but could only have been seconds before he was swinging level and was standing on the wing beside me.

  The little plane began to labour under the extra weight. The commando strapped a light harness under my armpits which was attached to his heavier contraption. He leaned down and wrenched my feet out of my best boots. I stood barefooted on the cold, wet wing, shivering, buffeted, feeling I was going to be swept off at any moment.

  He put his mouth close to my ear.

  “Hold onto me,” he yelled. I didn’t need telling twice.

  Then he slashed the two remaining straps of the wing-walker’s harness with a knife and we swung into the air, sailing upwards like puppets on a string. I pressed my face against the rough cloth of his fatigues and emptied my mind.

  The journey up seemed to take forever, even though I know it was only seconds. I dared to look up as we reached the open helicopter door. James was there, worry etched across his face. He stretched out his hand and hauled me into the helicopter cabin, instantly pulling me into his arms. I sank against him.

  “How come you’re always soaking wet?” he growled. A witty retort was out of the question. I couldn’t say a word. I was glazed dumb with shock.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Rick Weston and his mother, Betty, were taken to Latching Police Station and charged with the murder of Ellen Swantry and attempted murder of Jordan Lacey. The charge sheet read like the plot of a novel.

  At Mrs. Weston’s bungalow on the Fareham Estate they found traces of Trenchers debris on both mother’s and son’s shoes. The police also found a container of chloroform solvent which Rick used to clean secondhand refrigerators. It could be bought at any chemist’s shop if its proposed use was accepted as genuine.

  Also in his storeroom, they discovered an old chipped bone china Derby tea-pot in which he’d hidden nineteen half-crown Bank of England notes destined for the Armed Forces in the Second World War. The serial numbers followed that of the note which Mr. Arkbright reluctantly had to withdraw from the London coin auction. He was understandably upset.

  The police wouldn’t even let him keep the note as a souvenir. No heart.

  Rick and his mother vehemently denied killing Ellen Swantry. They admi
tted taking her against her will and keeping her prisoner in the hotel, but killing her, no.

  “I gave her a whiff of chloroform to keep her quiet, that’s all,” Rick protested. “I didn’t kill her. No way. She was no use to us dead.”

  “We went out to get some fish and chips and when we got back we found her strung up and very dead. We panicked,” said Betty Weston. “It was awful but it wasn’t us that done it. I swear. We were only after the notes. It was money, for Rick’s future. His flying.”

  It was all about greed and money and ambition. I was fed the fitted pieces like a toddler at a picnic.

  “Mrs. Weston was ambitious for her son. She was the brains behind their scheming. Rick’s ambition was for himself and his simple dream of a flying operation. He thought his dream was close when he found a small cache of the notes stuffed in the back of a desk he’d bought from Mrs. Swantry’s house. He knew it wasn’t Monopoly money.” DI James felt he owed me some explanation.

  “It was as if he sniffed a possible fortune within his reach. He didn’t know what the notes were or their true worth, but he could not rest until he found out. Ellen Swantry had to be persuaded to tell him if there were more notes and if so, where the rest of the hoard was hidden.”

  “So overnight they became villains,” I said to James. “Do we know why Ellen Swantry was burning notes?”

  “No idea. Conscience perhaps, before she became a full-time nun.”

  “A tricky career move.”

  “The cut on your cheek is healing,” he replied with what almost passed as tenderness. He’d come to see me after his shift. My asthma had not enjoyed the trauma of wing-walking and the doctor on A & E had insisted on a few days at home.

  “They had not intended to murder Ellen Swantry, only to frighten her into telling them where the rest of the notes were.” I was staying cool, despite the heady intoxication of being visited. The nurse in casualty had closed the face wound with a butterfly strip of adhesive. She said there shouldn’t be a scar.