Turn and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 7)

by Stella Whitelaw

  A curtain twitched. It wasn’t a rat or a bird. More like nervous fingers. My stiff legs almost refused to move. Call me a scarecrow. I might even have straw in my hair.

  I went up to the shed and rapped on the wooden door. There was no answer.

  “Hello, Mr Spiddock. I know you are in there. It’s Jordan Lacey. I’d like to talk to you.”

  The air hung with an earthy just-dug smell. Some cherry-blossom petals blew across from the next allotment. They were like snowflakes. The curtain was stilled.

  “Hi, there, Mr Spiddock? Open the door, please. I want to talk to you. It doesn’t matter to me where you are living…”

  The door opened a crack. It was Arthur Spiddock. He peered out, blinking as if daylight was new. He was wearing a threadbare brown cardigan over a shirt, brown cords and slippers on his feet. His seamed face was a mask.

  “I was making a cup of tea,” he said. “That’s all. Not breaking any bye-laws.”

  “Of course not. Anyone can make a cup of tea in their shed,” I said, pushing the door further open. It was obvious he’d been living in the shed. There was a reclining deckchair with a sleeping bag on it, a bucket in a corner, a small Primus stove, some sliced bread, packets of cornflakes and a carton of milk. Some cans of dogfood and beer. It was so sad. Poor Arthur Spiddock. I had no idea why he had been evicted from his home or what had happened. I didn’t even know where he had once lived.

  “How long have you been living here?” I asked.

  “Only making a cup of tea,” he insisted.

  “In a sleeping bag?”

  “Some months,” he mumbled.

  “Did you lose your home?”

  “Yeah. I couldn’t pay the rent. The old-age pension is a laugh. Do them toffs in Whitehall really think we can live on it? They’re all right, looking after themselves.”

  “I understand,” I said. “But if you are living in the shed, then perhaps you were here when the hens and rabbits were stolen? Where were you that night? Did you hear or see anything?”

  He looked confused. “I didn’t see or hear nuffink.”

  “But you were here?”

  He nodded, rotating his head. “I was here, but I was asleep. Sound asleep. I didn’t hear nuffink. Then I found them all gone in the morning.”

  “But there must have been a lot of noise, a van or a cart or something? You couldn’t sleep through all that.”

  He shook his head. “I’d had a bit too much to drink, you see. That’s the only way I can get to sleep. Have a few pints at the pub, and then another pint or two back here. I passed out, I suppose. Dead to the world. Out on the piss.”

  It sounded plausible. He had a florid look, tiny thread veins on his nose and cheeks.

  “But what about Nutty? Surely he heard the intruders? He’s a very intelligent dog. He would have barked. By the way, where is he?”

  Arthur Spiddock stumbled about, putting a battered kettle on the Primus, lighting the stove. His hand was shaking as he found a mug and a carton of milk. He had trouble getting it open, stabbing it with a trowel. I wanted to help, but decided not to go further into his murky, ashy shed.

  “I dunno. He went off for a run round, I think.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know where he is? Doesn’t he live here with you? He’s your dog.”

  Arthur Spiddock looked close to tears. He spilt sugar over the mug of tea, slopped milk on the counter.

  “Course, he’s my dog. But I don’t know where he is. Gone off somewhere on his own.”

  “Do you mean he’s run away?” I didn’t believe it. Nutty was ridiculously devoted to his owner. There was no way he would run away, even if Arthur was living in a shed. Nutty might actually like it. Rural, and all that.

  “So he wasn’t here when the rabbits were stolen?”

  “That’s it, he wasn’t here.” Arthur looked relieved that I’d got the message.

  “But he was with you when you came to my office to ask me to take on the case,” I added quickly.

  “That’s right. He’d come back.”

  “And now he’s gone again?”

  “Like I said.” Arthur’s face took on a shuttered look; the brackets round his mouth got closer, as if he wasn’t going to say any more.

  “I don’t think you are telling me the truth,” I said.

  Arthur was stirring his mug of tea. “Poor old Nutty. I don’t half miss him. He were a good dog. A good friend.”

  “Are you telling me that he’s dead?” I had to ask him even if it was painful.

  He nodded, spilling his tea, dripping it on to the ground. “Poor old Nutty. Copped it. Road accident.”

  “You told me he’d run away.”

  “He ran away and then got knocked over.”

  “But he was fine when you brought him into my office. And that was after the hens and rabbits were stolen, wasn’t it?”

  Arthur Spiddock was pretty confused by this time. I could see his brain trying to sort it out. I took pity on him and started to leave. There was no hope of finding substantial clues now it had rained several times.

  “I’ll have another look round while I’m here. Is there anything you need? My shop has lots of odds and ends that haven’t sold yet. I could let you have a few things.”

  He shook his head. “But I wouldn’t mind a cushion. My back hurts something rotten.”

  First Class Junk didn’t sell cushions, but I would find him one. I wondered what else he needed but was too proud to ask for. There were friends I could approach for help, but what kind of support would actually help Mr Spiddock? I could hardly resurrect Nutty.

  It was a sea of mud. Even the weeds didn’t stand a chance. It was like stepping through sludge. His rhubarb looked healthy, the stalks a rosy pink. No one was picking it. I didn’t know how to make crumble but my mother had known. She’d made it crusty golden on top, moist beneath, sugar crystals sparkling.

  That had been a depressing visit. Investigation: nil. Clues: nil. Red herrings: dozens. I didn’t know what to believe. Poor old Nutty. I took a short cut down to the coast road.

  The rain was sweeping along the promenade and a mist was creeping up over the sea. It rolled landwards swallowing anything recognizable. The Latching pier had disappeared as if airbrushed out of the picture. I hoped Jack had battened down the hatches with plenty of coffee. His coffee might survive the mist as it had a head start on murkiness.

  My asthma did not like it much – too ticklish. I began to wheeze and as usual had left my inhaler at home. It might be passed its sell-by date but they still worked even when unreadably old. The wheeze turned into a coughing fit and my bottle of water was back at the allotment. It was a long walk to any shop or cafe or pub. This was bleak, uninhabited seaside. I was surrounded by water and not a drop fit to drink.

  I staggered over the pebbles to a group of rocks and sank down on to the flattest top. They were not a natural rock formation but part of the Council’s strategy to stop the shore slipping into the sea. I leaned over to catch my breath, trying to slow down the breathing rate. No one would find me here, lost in the mist. And it was damp. A wet asthmatic is not a happy sight.

  No phone either. Jordan, you are well prepared for all emergencies. It will be your own fault if you have an asthmatic attack away from all civilization. The NHS don’t answer calls in semaphore.

  “Are you in trouble? Can I help you?”

  It was a nice deep voice. Did I have a guardian angel? Where were the wings? I couldn’t hear any flapping.

  “It’s asthma,” I coughed. “I need some water.”

  “Got your inhaler with you?”

  “No. But water helps…”

  He was unscrewing a bottle. “Untouched by human mouth,” he said. “Here you are, drink.”

  I drank and drank. People who don’t touch water don’t know what they are missing. It is so soothing, slipping down the throat. Delicious, perfect, healing. Half of his bottle had gone before I was able to straighten up. I thought I knew t
his man but I didn’t know where he had come from. He was not a policeman, or jazz player, or junk buyer. Yet I knew his voice.

  “Thank you,” I said, starting to breath normally. “Do I know you?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. He seemed to have some mysterious private thought. “Maybe you do.”

  “Maybe I do,” I repeated.

  “Are you feeling better?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Would you like me to walk with you back to Latching?”

  “How do you know that’s where I live?”

  “That’s the way you were going.”

  This was too much for me. I nearly freaked. It was as if I’d taken a great whiff of oxygen. I felt light-hearted. I straightened up to take a look at my Samaritan. He was rather tall, in dark jeans and a dark reefer jacket. His hair was a longish, curly gray but the face was young and unlined. He helped me up.

  We talked as we walked but I have no recollection of what we talked about. It was easy talk but everything he said was pleasant and uplifting. He seemed to fill me with hope and determination for the future. Anything could happen. Everything was possible.

  The mist began to lift, swirling up on thermals, and the pier loomed into sight, familiar and solid, straddling the waves. A cup of Jack’s awful mud coffee seemed very desirable. The clink of the money machines would be music. I could shut my ears to the bangs and explosions of the games boards, however loud. The noise would be tolerable… to a degree.

  Clouds sailed by in ghostly forms, streamers trailing like whispers of smoke, shapes changing as I watched them carried by the wind across the sky. It was fascinating, a landscape laid end to end, bandaging the rents in the atmosphere.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” I said. “All these clouds.”

  I expected my companion to agree with me. But there was no one there. He had gone without my noticing. It was a surprise. I had not been aware of him leaving, so busy looking at the sky and marvelling at the clouds.

  He was nowhere in sight, not in either direction. I ran ahead and then back again but the man had disappeared down a twitten or perhaps picked up his car, parked along the front. I felt let down. I’d have liked to thank him again for helping me, asked his name.

  Jack was in his usual cubbyhole in the amusement arcade, a booth behind thick glass, door security-coded. I smiled at him through the glass and he punched out the code.

  “Com’in, Jordan. Haven’t seen you for donkies. Where you been? Wotcha done to yer face?” He was already putting on the kettle jug, searching for two clean mugs or what passed for nearly clean. There were half-a-dozen crusted mugs around. I wanted to wash them all in deep, soapy water.

  “Oh, nothing. Got a couple of new cases. I like the blue,” I added, looking around at the newly painted walls. “Snazzy.”

  “Good cases, eh?”

  “Except one of them died.”

  “Not good news then?”

  “Not exactly. I really liked her.”

  Jack was stirring instant coffee with instant creamer into his usual brown gruel. He piled in the sugar. “Ah, the woman on the stake. I heard about it. Rotten thing to do to a woman. Below the belt. Sorry, not a joke.”

  “It’s horrible. But we don’t know how she died yet. I haven’t seen the autopsy report.”

  “But will they show it to yer? Now that DI James is out of the picture, so to speak. It won’t be so easy for yer, will it?”

  “He still trusts me. And I’m working on something for him, a bit personal, so he owes me.”

  “Ah, the Medieval Hall. You better watch out there, Jordan. The boss of that place, the guv, Pointer’s his name. He’s one nasty piece of work. I wouldn’t trust him to give me change from twenty pence. You stay away from that place. He’ll cut you down sooner than—” He stopped abruptly, remembering the injuries from the lethal suit of armor. His face went stiff. “Sorry, Jordan. I fergot about wot ’appened.”

  “Coffee’s lovely,” I said, gulping. “I needed this. Bad moment on the beach. Couldn’t breathe.”

  “Your asthma?”

  “Worst for months.”

  “You need properly looking after, gal.” Jack was as grubbily dressed as ever. Once-white T-shirt, scuffed boots, torn jeans. Ragged hair cut by himself with nail scissors and without a mirror. And when had he last shaved? The stubble was not designer.

  “That would be lovely,” I agreed. “Find me a millionaire.”

  “I’m a millionaire,” he said.

  I laughed and grinned ridiculously as if it was a joke. He probably was, dammit. But this I did not want to know. I couldn’t be bought with a flash Jag and moneybags. The trouble was, Jack had a kind heart under all that tat.

  “Can I use your phone, please, Jack? I’ve left mine at home.”

  “Sure. Help yerself.” He passed me his mobile. It was thick with dust and grime. I wiped it carefully with a bit of screwed-up tissue found in the depths of my pocket. I phoned James.

  “Jordan,” he almost shouted. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to get to you.”

  “I’m on the pier, having coffee with Jack.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “Busy.”

  “I have to see you.”

  “Okay. Keep your hair on. I have a life, you know, and my own investigations to do. You don’t employ me. I can’t come this evening as I’m working.”

  “No, Jordan. That’s not good enough. You come over now. At once. I have to see you now.”

  James had rung off, leaving me in mid-sentence. He had a nerve. I looked at Jack. He was grinning with a mocking look.

  “You’d better do what DI James says. He’s still the boss. Do me a favor before you go?”

  “Of course.”

  “There’s a mad dog rushing about on the pier. He can’t find the way off – y’know, the exit. Keeps coming in here and upsetting my customers, jumping up and barking. You’re good with animals. Take him to a rescue home. I’ll give you the taxi fare.”

  “Got any biscuits?”

  *

  It was Nutty, without a doubt, fur wet and bedraggled. He was rapturously pleased to see me, gobbled the biscuits and pawed all over me. Then he drank from a puddle of rainwater.

  “Sit,” I said. He obeyed, his tongue lolling. A sense of power filled me.

  I made a lead out of my scarf and tied it round his collar. The scarf was not one of my favorites. We went to the nearest charity shop and I bought two cushions and an old blanket for Nutty. Then I picked up one of the taxis waiting in the Clock Square.

  “Don’t take dogs,” said the driver.

  “He’ll sit quietly on this blanket and I’ll pay you extra,” I said. Funny how that always works.

  “Sit,” I said again.

  “I am sitting,” said the driver.

  Fourteen

  As Mae West said, I’d like to get out of these wet clothes and into a dry Martini. My jokes are not as sophisticated as hers, but a glass of a dry red would be more than acceptable. I called in at a Threshers on the way to Brighton and bought some decent Australian Shiraz and some mineral water. “Good with meat and BBQs”, it said on the label. I forgot it needed a corkscrew. How many things had I forgotten today? It must have been up to double figures. Clearly early-onset Alzheimer’s.

  Mr Spiddock had been pathetically grateful for the return of Nutty. They were all over each other like long-lost lovers. I left a fiver pinned to a cushion.

  “Buy Nutty a good dinner,” I said. “He’s hungry.” I hoped Arthur wouldn’t spend it on beer.

  James was sitting in an upright chair, rather stiffly, near a window. He looked furious, not ecstatically happy as he should have looked, having been promoted from bed to chair. It meant all was going well. That nasty sharp piece of bone had not pierced anything vital. It was a relief, but I wasn’t going to talk about it if he wasn’t going to talk about it.

  “I can’t let you out of my sight for one day and I find yo
u are up to no good.”

  That was a great start. I waved the Shiraz at him. It was my happy wave. “So we’re celebrating,” I said. “Where do you keep the glasses?”

  “So what are we celebrating?” he said, his tone of voice simmering down barely one decibel. “The fact that you are working at the Med, the pub where we were both nearly killed? That you are getting yourself involved in one of the nastiest murders in West Sussex this year? That you got shot at and a pellet lodged near your eye? It could have blinded you.”

  “Oh dear,” I said. “How do you know all this? Oh yes, I forgot: you’re a detective.”

  “I suppose we should be celebrating that the pellet missed and that Pointer hasn’t bumped you off yet. And that the sadistic murderer of Holly Broughton hasn’t decided you are a threat too and devised a similar demise.”

  “Doesn’t sound good,” I said, pretending not to understand a word. “Do you think the nurses would have a corkscrew?”

  “I’m sure they have. They collect weapons of torture.”

  I went out to the nurses’ station. Yes, they had glasses and a corkscrew. They thought it would cheer up DI James and were all for some alcoholic encouragement. They called him Dishy James, but not to his ears. There was enough wine for us all.

  DI James is a beer man but he had the civility to taste the red. He liked it and took a few more sips. I could imagine it slipping down his throat and easing the pain and frustration. I did not want to spoil the mood, but I had to ask.

  “So how did Holly Broughton die? Do you know? I presume you have had the path report by now.”

  “You’ll be surprised. She was poisoned. Digitalis. The leaves of the foxglove to you and me. And where do you find foxgloves growing? In gardens, especially at Faunstone Hall. You said it had lovely gardens and a wild corner. The leaves are the most toxic, containing digitalis and two other compounds, digoxin and digitoxin.”

  “How weird. Foxglove?” My conversational talent had almost disappeared. “She was poisoned?”

  “The purple flowers are toxic if eaten. You can be poisoned if you drink the water these flowers have been standing in. It causes headaches, nausea, blurred vision… Does this ring a bell?”