Turn and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 7)

by Stella Whitelaw

  “Do you ever dream?” I asked him curiously.

  “Are you feeling all right? Have you got a fever?”

  “I was wondering what your mind did when you were asleep, whether you ever dreamed of women in flowing white robes.”

  “With wings? All the time. Angels frequent my dreams with regularity. We are on first-name terms. Patsy, Gina, Sharon.”

  He was laughing at me. I was not sure if this was a good sign or a bad sign. I hoped he wouldn’t tell me to relax. It was the tension that was holding me together.

  “I have to go now,” I said stiffly. “I’m on duty at six.”

  “If you must. Give a full measure and draw the Guinness slowly. Too much head can spoil the first mouthful,” he said with what was almost a regretful sigh. He missed having a drink with his mates. A beer in a feeder was not the same.

  “Shall I give you a ring when I come off duty?” I sounded like a wife. “So you’ll know I’m all right?”

  James paused, summing up the implications. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Jordan,” he said. “But they pump me full of nighty-night pills around eight o’clock so that they can play poker at the nurses’ station. I’ll be asleep, brushing up on my two-step with Sharon,” he added.

  “By the way, the suit of armor is very similar to one that Holly Broughton bought way back last year. English Civil War, around 1642-9. She paid a lot of money for it. What do you make of that?”

  “Some women have a funny taste in men.”

  *

  I was exactly one minute late and the day barmaid was already fuming. She came over to me in the staff locker room, yanking off her white shirt and flinging it into a laundry basket. She was blonde and florid. Her 42DD white extra support bra was gray and the strap needed mending. I’d seen her somewhere before. But my ragbag memory couldn’t place her.

  “What time do you call this?” she said. “I’m not paid to work overtime.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “You can go a minute early tomorrow.”

  She threw me a spiteful glare and struggled into a shrunken pea-green T-shirt. “And I want to find everything spick and span when I come in tomorrow morning. If you leave a single ashtray unwiped, I’ll report you. I’m not paid to do your work.”

  She was sure putting out the welcome mat. She didn’t like me. Jealous? But of what? 36B wired cups?

  “Naturally,” I said. “Same as you won’t be leaving me trays of dirty glasses left over from the lunch trade.” I could see them out of the corner of my eye, hidden under the bar counter. I fastened the white shirt buttons and put on the elasticated bow tie. The shirt almost fitted. There were three sizes, small, medium and large. My hair had disappeared under a black turban. It looked a bit as if I’d had a dose of chemotherapy, but that was not my intention.

  Carlo waved to me from the bar. “Hi, Pollee…”

  “Hi, Carlo. Sorry I’m late.”

  “Prego. Did you meet Lorraine?”

  “I did. She gave me a lovely welcome. I didn’t see her when I came for my interview.”

  “She was on her lunch break. You get a coffee break, if and when there’s time. We’re pretty busy every evening.”

  Pretty busy was putting it mildly. It was three deep at the bar and no music apart from the endless tape of wallpaper guitar and bass beat. Carlo had me wiping tables, collecting and washing glasses and making and serving coffee. Learning the till could wait. It was an endless round. I barely had time to gulp down a cup of cold coffee. But I did learn how to stack the industrial dishwasher. It only took three minutes to wash a load. Magic. And they came out sparkling.

  “Where’s the owner?” I asked in a ten-second lull. I was putting clean glasses on shelves in rows. “Have I seen him yet?”

  “No, he’s moving to Spain. Having a villa built. Gone out to check on his property. Yes, sir? Two ginger-beer shandies coming up. Pollee, put on a fresh filter. See the couple coming through the doorway? They always have coffee and appreciate if it’s almost ready to serve them, piping hot.”

  I got a tip. A whole fifty-pence piece for serving two large coffees. I didn’t know what to do with it. There might be a tipping box that was shared out. I wondered if the luscious Lorraine put her tips in it.

  A property in Spain. So he was moving and so was the Medieval Hall, if the owner got his own way.

  “What’s going to happen to the rest of the pub?” I asked as I went past him to collect more dirty glasses. “Has it been sold?”

  “Don’t ask me,” said Carlo. “I only work here.” I detected a disconsolate note in his voice. Either he didn’t know what was going on or he did know and didn’t like it. This wasn’t the time to probe. I had to earn his confidence first.

  “Is there another owner?” I asked. “Or another barman? A round, jovial man, in a white apron. I thought I saw someone else.”

  Carlo shook his head. “There’s only me. We don’t wear aprons.”

  The best sound of the evening was when Carlo rang a ship’s bell and called out, “Last orders, please.” No one moved or even appeared to listen. It took another call, ten minutes later before anyone started to leave. I was so tired. I’d run my legs ragged. I ached everywhere and I still had the taps on the pumps to clean. My bed called loudly. I wondered what time I would get home. There was still the clearing-up to do or I’d have to answer to the luscious Lorraine.

  Carlo paid me out of the till. “I’ll pay you cash for tonight,” he said. “We’ll do the paperwork when the boss comes back. You done good, Pollee… see you tomorrow, pleeze?” He sounded hopeful. Perhaps temporary bar staff never came back.

  “Sure. Six o’clock. I got a tip from the coffee couple. Where do I put it?”

  “Si, signorina, in your pocket,” he grinned.

  It was not a fast walk back to my car. I dragged my legs along. They were wobbling. I hadn’t worked that hard for years. My appreciation of barmaids and barmen soared. I pulled off the turban and found my hair was drenched with sweat and stuck to my head in knotted lanks. I was not a pretty sight. And I was still wearing the white shirt and necktie. The roads were dark and empty with fearsome shadows.

  The ladybird started up like the gem she is and took me home, almost without me driving her. I parked her behind my shop and had to walk to my bedsits. This last midnight walk was agony, although the air was cool and the sky bright with stars. All my joints had seized up. The drunks had passed out in various doorways although I heard voices shouting and laughing along the front. I hurried indoors and closed the door, putting down the catch.

  It was too late to phone James. He’d be off in the land of Nod now with Sharon and Gina and Patsy. I had to laugh. He wouldn’t know an angel if it handed him a gold-engraved business card.

  But I would, if I ever saw one. He could be wearing jeans and a navy duffle coat, not your flapping-white-wings category. I might not recognize him at first, but he would be tall with a gentle smile and eventually I would know.

  I rolled into bed and slept deeply, the aches warming and easing with every minute. If I dreamed in the night-time wastes, then the dreams were light and flimsy and wafted through my thoughts like feathers. Sometimes, I flew and became a bird, nearing the sun or round the moon, swift and graceful. I woke in drifts, surfacing then falling back into the warm pillow, pulling the duvet up to shoulder height for a few more precious minutes.

  The strong sunshine filtering in refused to let my eyes close again. It was time to get up to a beautiful morning. The cold spring had fled at last and an early summer was knocking at the door and this time it would not be denied. Every leaf was dancing with light. The sea would be a carpet of gold dust.

  I scrambled into clean clothes and ran down to the shore. The morning was washed with dew, every pebble a gem, the sea the most perfect sparkling blue. The coming summer filled my veins with strength and healing in my bones.

  The moment of elation passed and I hurried to Maeve’s Cafe, longing for caffeine. Mavis was sweeping the
floor. I took a damp J-cloth and spray-cleaner and began wiping the table tops. Mavis raised her eyebrows.

  “What’s this? Work experience?”

  “I’ve been practising,” I said.

  “I can see that. Nice action.”

  “Shall I fill the cruets?”

  Mavis nodded. “Why this enthusiasm for menial tasks?”

  “I’ve had a brief look behind the scenes in a pub. How we take all the work for granted.”

  “You’re right there. Would you like to take another brief look behind the scenes here and put the coffee on?”

  We sat together having the first coffee of the morning. Mavis could sense a busy day ahead. The sun would bring coachloads of pensioners not straying too far from the pier. I could sense customers for my shop: hopefully, there would be day-trippers wanting a modest souvenir of Latching, something which was not factory-churned. I needed to dress the windows of First Class Junk, with an emphasis on souvenirs.

  I was hurrying back to my shop, going inland along Amos Street, when I felt a sharp pain to the side of my eye. I had no idea what had happened. It was a sudden sharp pain. I put up my hand to my face and there was blood.

  It must have been a stone, kicked up. Perhaps I’d kicked it up myself, but there was nothing on the pavement, nor was there anyone around who might have kicked it up. Tissues to the rescue. Blood trickling down my face was not going to soothe the customers.

  A police helicopter zoomed overhead, glinting in the sun, but I could not look up. My eye was squeezed shut. I tried not to think what would have happened if it had been even closer to the eye. I still thought it was a stone.

  Doris was cleaning her shop windows. She took one look at the soaked tissue. The blood was running between my fingers and down my arm.

  “For goodness sake, what have you done now? Been in a scrap? Come in and I’ll clean you up,” she said.

  “I’ve done nothing. It happened, suddenly. A sharp pain and then all this blood. I can hardly see.”

  “I’m not surprised. Sit down and hold this pad against your eye. Do as you are told. Don’t move. Somebody ought to take a look at this.”

  “I’m not going to hospital. I’ve got a job to do.”

  “You do argue, Jordan. I’ve never met anyone so awkward. What did you say did this?”

  “I think it was a stone. I don’t know. It was so sudden. This sharp pain, then all the blood.”

  I sat down. I was beginning to feel faint. Doris changed the pad. The blood was beginning to congeal. She put the kettle on.

  “Shock,” she said.

  “Double honey,” I said.

  “I’m not opening a new jar for you. I sell the stuff, I don’t eat it. It’ll be two spoonfuls of sugar.”

  The tea was welcome, sweetened her way. I was thirsty, but I was also anxious to get back to my shop. I’d be all right once the bleeding stopped. Heck, it was only a stone.

  “It’s stopping,” I said.

  “Yeah, you’ll live. But you ought to let the hospital have a look at it.”

  I shook my head. “I can see fine. There’s no damage to my eye. It’s back to work.Thanks for the tea and TLC.”

  *

  Carlo was pleased to see me that evening. Perhaps the bar staff didn’t last long. Maybe the luscious Lorraine scared them off. He didn’t remark on the bit of plaster by my eye. I’d rinsed and ironed the shirt so it looked good. And the black bandeau-turban was faultless. Polly was in place.

  “You can clean the optics this evening,” he said.

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll show you how. You quick learner, Pollee.”

  “Grazie.”

  “Ah, you speak Italian! Magnifico.”

  I learned fast. The optics sparkled. I discovered I was a dab hand at cleaning. And I remembered what the customers ordered. I remembered the two coffee drinkers. They tipped me fifty pence again and gave me a smile.

  The evening was carried away on a tide of trade. I needed some time to find out things. I asked for a break and fled to the ladies’ loos then slunk round a corner and headed for the boiler room. I nipped down the stairs in the half-light and found the suit of armor propped drunkenly against a wall. I put my disposable camera on flash and waited till the red light came on and took photos of the medieval knight, especially the finger-width dents. I dusted all the surfaces with a small paintbrush and put the debris into a specimen bag.

  Carlo nodded as I returned. “Scusi, more glasses, pleeze,” he said. “We are running out.”

  People got through so many glasses. It was as if they used two glasses per drink, pouring it over for a clean rim. The Zanussi worked overtime, tray after tray of steaming glass. I was getting clammy dishwasher’s hands.

  The legs were giving up again, aching. I leaned against the bar to take off the weight. Did barmaids get varicose veins? Ten to one on the nose, they did. But I’d refuse to wear those khaki support stockings before I was fifty.

  It was a long evening. I was never sure when it was closing time. It seemed a movable feast these days. The government had made the drinking laws flexible and the Medieval Hall seemed to have different times every century.

  But it did end and Carlo was paying me out of the till again. He said to keep the tip.

  “Grazie. When is the boss due back?” I asked, wondering which aching bone to think about.

  “Tomorrow, I think.”

  “Shall I meet him?”

  “I doubt it. He doesn’t mix. We don’t see a lot of him, paperwork and that. He’s got a lot of rich friends.”

  Like millionaire Russians? I pulled off the shirt, now damp and stained, and put it in the laundry box. Head first into my own plain navy T-shirt, careful of the bandeau.

  “You’ve ripped the plaster off your face,” said Carlo, peering. “Mama mia, let me look at that. It’s nasty and bleeding. Ouch. How did you do this?”

  “It was a stone. It hit me as I was walking home.”

  “That ain’t no stone,” said Carlo with some authority. “That air-gun-pellet wound. I seen hit like that before. Kids playing. You’ve been shot at by someone with an air gun.”

  “A sniper?”

  “Sniper, kids? Some lunatic was trying to blind you. You’d better get to a hospital, pronto, Pollee.”

  Thirteen

  Carlo insisted that I went straight to hospital and I agreed it would be sensible. He didn’t offer to take me there as he was running round in circles, clearing up, cashing up, locking up, putting the money in the safe. I said I’d phone for a taxi but didn’t. I drove my own car carefully, holding a wodge of tissues to my eye.

  A nurse in A & E cleaned the wound and picked out the pellet, dropping it into an aluminium dish. She was careful and efficient. She put a butterfly plaster crosswise to hold a flap of skin in place.

  “Your skin had nearly started to grow over the pellet,” she said. “You came in time. Who did this?”

  “I don’t know. I was walking along the street.”

  “You ought to report it to the police. Someone shot at you.”

  “A bit late to do that. He’ll be halfway to Edinburgh by now and I hope he is.”

  “I doubt it. Probably taking pot shots at some other young woman. You should go to the police.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. Thank you.”

  I continued to drive carefully. It was a sobering thought that someone had taken a shot at me. Latching has a few vodka-fuelled idiots roaming around, so it might not have a sinister meaning. A half-dozen pints and he might have mistaken me for a seagull limping home. Or maybe he was practising for the 2012 Olympics.

  It was later than I thought. No time to phone James. A hot drink and bed. I peered into a mirror and saw that my cheek was bruised as well. I seemed to be wearing a perpetual black eye. The latest fashion statement. Extra work with the make-up box tomorrow. A bashed-up barmaid doesn’t get tips. The coffee couple would think twice.

  My flimsy dreams of pleasure disappeared that
night. They were laden with fear as my world cracked into pieces, but none of it emerged from the liquorice dark of sleep. I fell in and out of dreams and still couldn’t remember a thing when I woke up.

  Breakfast was a nourishing muesli with a sliced banana and chopped apricots. Is it feed a black eye or starve it? This thought kept my mind occupied while I leafed through a book on collectable suits of armor. The more I knew about armory, the better. The prices were sky-high. A three-quarters cuirassier, made for a horseman riding a horse in 1640, would set you back about £8,000 to £12,000. And that didn’t include the horse.

  Polish armor with screwed-up balls of newspaper, I read. What a useful tip. Always wanted to know how to polish armor. One of those women’s magazines might take it as a household tip.

  I found I was scraping an empty bowl. The appetite had returned. Time to go places with a brisk walk.

  The allotment was bristling with new plant life. Arthur had planted ragged rows of onions, runner beans, potatoes and leeks. He was not into salad. Not a rocket leaf in sight.

  The rabbit hutches and hen runs were empty. Arthur had not replaced his precious brood.The doors still swung open and inside was a wreck of straw and feed. He had trampled over the surrounding ground and the impression was of neglect and abandon.

  I trod over the mud. I would never be a gardener or whatever allotment holders were called. A window box was more my style. Pansies and nasturtiums trailing creatively.

  There was no sign of life from the garden shed. I stood back, out of view, and waited. Surveillance on an allotment is a doddle, no make-up required. I shrank into my own skin and tried to look like a runner bean on a pole.

  There was no way I could watch plants grow. I pinned my glance on the surrounding allotments, the clusters of sheds, poles, cloches, water barrels, rose arches and tangled raspberry bushes, varying degrees of green-fingered proficiency. It was a ramshackle collection of hopes and wreckage.