Hide and Die (Jordan Lacey Series Book 4) Read online

  Hide and Die

  Stella Whitelaw

  © Stella Whitelaw 2003

  Stella Whitelaw has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2003 by Severn House Publishers Inc.

  This edition published in 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  To Anna Telfer, dedicated editor and friend

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  One

  The weathered capstan had been embedded in the shingle on Latching beach for almost a hundred years and yet this was the first time I’d really noticed it. Call me bat eyes.

  A brass plaque told visitors that local fishermen had once used it to haul their boats up the steep bank of pebbles. Now they used motor driven winches. The capstan had been made from the boom of a ship wrecked off the coast in 1896 during a violent storm.

  I needed a walk to shake the day into the right shape. The sea would light windows in my mind. The air felt strange, disordered.

  The promenade was strewn with debris after last night’s storm. Pebbles, driftwood, plastic bottles, upturned supermarket trollys. A couple of poorly secured boats were skewed sideways across the promenade, their youthful owners without the experience to know that a very high spring tide plus gale force winds adds up to disaster.

  Even the gulls were walking.

  It had been some storm in the night, the sky the colour of dark slate. The sash windows of my two bedsits had rattled for hours until I had the sense to get up and stuff them with folded cardboard. The wind blew the drenching rain horizontally along the road. Gutters became swirling rivers of debris. As I looked out of the rain splattered window, I was glad I wasn’t night-working on some case. This was time off for good behaviour. Mine.

  Mavis would be biting her nails, worried for the safety of her current fisherman lover. But he would have the experience to know not to launch his boat from the beach. They all listen to the weather forecasts, are addicted to every isobar nuance. Her bronzed and brawny fisherman might lose a few hundred pounds worth of nets overnight, but he would not lose his life.

  So I walked the promenade, a landscape of desolation, stepping over piles of stones, skirting ropes and nets and the tarred planks they used for runways down the shingle. Planks tossed about like matchsticks. It was a mess, pebbles halfway across the road, littering the decking of the pier, strings of lights hanging in broken clusters, cans and drums rolling around the seafront.

  Still, spring was coming and my feet were slowly getting better. Slashed feet pounded by an old watermill take a long time to heal, especially when they get stood on most of the time. I am no couch King Edward and cannot accept the role of invalid.

  I wanted to keep active. DI James might get seduced by a female WPC in black seamless if I prolonged the hobbling. That was definitely not on. Feet do not inspire sympathy, especially male sympathy. Walk if it hurts like hell, girl.

  My cases had run down but I was not alarmed. New ones had a funny way of arriving on my doorstep like homeless cats. I only had to wait and they appeared out of thin air. This was mental recovery time. And for feet healing. Sometimes I did not know where to put them. My feet, that is.

  It was not long before a client arrived at First Class Junk, my corner shop. She pretended to be interested in an antique fan in the tiny window display, but actually she was wondering how to broach the subject of First Class Investigations, my undercover private investigations business. She came in.

  ‘Are you the detective? Can I speak with you? It’s very personal,’ she began, wringing her hands. Her nails were painted a vibrant Royal Red, a bit chipped. The liver spots were a testament to time. Nothing works, not even lemon juice. ‘My husband is, er …’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘That sounds ominous. Would you like to come into my offfice where it is more private?’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, heaving a sigh of relief. ‘I was told you are very discreet.’

  By whom? I could not think who might have recommended me and this was mega-think time. ‘Please come in. Would you like some coffee? I make good coffee.’

  ‘Thank you. This has been very stressful.’

  ‘Yes, I do understand. Please sit down and make yourself comfortable. There’s no rush, no hassle. Take your time.’

  She sat on my Victorian button-back, a beautiful pink velvet chair that had cost me a lot but had been worth every penny. I loved every inch. And my Persian rug was all blue and red muted colours. It sat on the floor of my back office like something from another world. I’d never tested whether it would fly me across the sky but the thought was there.

  ‘My name is Gill Frazer,’ she said, still hesitating over the words. ‘My husband is Brian Frazer.’

  Oh shucks, not another errant husband/wife case. Latching is a hive of domestic drama. I prayed for something different. Was there ever anything different? Life kept repeating itself.

  I smiled and asked how did she like her coffee? She was small, brunette and compact. Her clothes were ordinary and hung on her without appeal. I did not like her skirt and jacket. Taupe does nothing for me as a colour. More like being dipped in mud.

  ‘It’s not the usual sort of thing,’ Mrs Frazer began. ‘No liaisons with blonde secretary, hotel receipts in pocket, weird phone calls in the middle of the night. Oh no, nothing like that. And yet, I do want him investigated and followed, and I want proof.’

  I nodded knowingly, still at sea.

  ‘Things keep disappearing, you see.’

  ‘Really? What kind of things?’

  ‘Unless I’m imagining it all. It might be early dementia setting in. I look for something at home and it’s not there.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ I smiled. Mrs Frazer looked about forty plus. Too early for brain cell loss. ‘What sort of things are disappearing?’

  ‘Clothes mainly, my clothes. Make-up sometimes and jewellery. Mostly earrings, bracelets. Nothing valuable. I’ve only got paste jewellery but I’ve got some pretty pieces. And I couldn’t find my cashmere sweater this morning and I really wanted it. The colour matches this suit exactly.’

  More mud. ‘How strange,’ I said. ‘Do you have a teenage daughter?’ I asked. ‘Daughters have a way of borrowing things without asking.’

  ‘We only have a son, Max. He’s grown up now.’

  ‘Do any of the things ever come back?’

  She nodded with a sort of resignation. ‘Yes, they do and that’s strange, too. Months later. When I’ve almost forgotten them. And I know what you’re thinking. And it’s what I’m thinking, too. And I want to find out and stop it before everyone knows. It’s so humiliating.’

  ‘So you think your husband is cross-dressing?’

  Mrs Frazer was blinking back tears now. Her eyes were a watery blue for a start. ‘Maybe. But I don’t know why. He’s such a good-looking man. There’s no need to be anyone else other than himself. We’ve always been very happy, but obviously our marriage is not enough for him. I don’t know what’s going on.’

  ‘I’ll find out,’ I said confidentially. ‘And I promise I’ll be very
discreet. The neighbours won’t know a thing.’

  ‘I didn’t say anything about neighbours,’ she said, quite sharply. Her tone took me back. It had just been a throwaway remark. ‘I’m not worried about my damned neighbour even if she is a stuck-up madam.’

  Ah, so she was worried about the neighbours. People who deny things with such vehemence are usually hiding something. It wasn’t only the husband who had a secret life wearing his wife’s dresses and earrings. Perhaps mud-coloured Gill Frazer was also hiding something.

  I got out my contract form and trotted through my charges. ‘I charge £10 an hour or £50 a day. You can choose. But I feel the hourly charge would be right in this case, since it’ll be mainly evenings. What does your husband do for a living?’

  I imagined stockbroker, banker, insurance, something nine to five.

  ‘He’s the manager of the new Community Shore Theatre. You may know it. It used to be the old Odean cinema.’

  Know it? I practically live there when there is any big band jazz playing. Save me a seat please, row J, I’m paying. Save me two. DI James might come with me if he hasn’t been called out. Come with me? He hasn’t been anywhere with me, except to Skyliner’s. That memorable late evening at Christmas when he took me to the rooftop Skyliner Club and ordered the best red wine. My knees went weak at the memory.

  ‘Sure, I know it,’ I said. ‘One of Latching’s most valued assets. They put on some great shows. I love the place.’

  Gill Frazer seemed to relax. My enthusiasm was genuine. I love all the theatres in Latching almost as much as I love the beach, the sea, the shore, the shingle. Sorry, there I go again. A sea freak. My hair will be turning greeny-blue any minute. Seaweed coming out of both ears.

  ‘The hourly rate then …’ She hesitated. ‘It would be mostly evenings, I suppose, but then he also works evenings. You know, down at the theatre. It could be any time.’

  Tricky hours. ‘Let’s try a week at the hourly rate and then make adjustments if necessary. I will invoice you each week but I need you to sign this contract first. It’s easy to read. No small print.’

  She took out glasses to read the contract and signed it straightaway. ‘That’s fine,’ she said, very matter of fact. ‘I agree to everything. Just let me know what you find out about Brian. And soon. I’m really worried.’

  I filled in the rest of the contract with her name and address and phone number. The actual details of the case I would put in when she had gone. My memory was good for details. I always write everything down.

  ‘How did you find me?’ I asked. ‘I don’t exactly advertise.’

  ‘It was through a firm of solicitors in Chichester. One of the secretaries on the staff mentioned you as being reliable and discreet.’

  Cleo Carling. My first case. Bless her. I must give her a ring and thank her. Perhaps we’d have lunch together, but no carrot cake, please. That last slice had been poisoned.

  I took a few more details then Mrs Frazer left. She looked longingly at the antique fan but the £6 price tag put her off. I put £6 on everything. It makes life easier.

  So I had a new case. Great. Evenings only, by the look of it. But … Brian Frazer might have a different persona during the day. That was a possibility and I would soon find out.

  Research, Jordan. Library: find books on cross-dressing deviations. Avoid looks of librarian.

  I shut up my shop. We were still in the post New Year sales paralysis even though it was early spring. No one wanted to buy anything. Most people never wanted to see a shop again. Shop overdosing.

  This style of surveillance did not need charity box dressing. I could wear my own laid-back, plain and workmanlike gear. Jeans with everything. Stroll about taking in the evening air. The clocks would change soon and the evenings become lighter. That’s always a magical time, my time of the year. Skies shot with the setting sun, rays of orange and rose stabbing the sea, turning it to quicksilver.

  The Frazers lived in St Michael’s Road at number three. I averted my eyes from the church. My friend, Oliver Guilbert’s funeral was still too fresh in my mind. Number three was a small detached house, fairly new, a brash red-brick, built in the garden of a sprawling Edwardian villa. The big house was old and elegant, white stone with a pillared porch and bay windows and carved lintels. They had sold off a parcel of land and some developer had put up the Frazers’ house. It was like a red carbuncle growing on a fold of lily-white skin.

  I pretended to read the notices on the board outside the church. I made it last half an hour. Slow reader. I tried reading the notices from the end backwards. They still made sense. I wondered if they knew that.

  A man came out of number three, closing the gate behind him. He was short, slim, and nicely made. Not my type, of course. I’m pretty choosy. My men have to be topping six foot, with crew-cut dark hair, broad shoulders and called James James. This cuts the numbers down pretty quick.

  Brian Frazer wore a belted fawn raincoat over a normal dark suit. Not a wisp of frock or jangle of bangle. St Michael’s Road was walking distance to the theatre, a long walk but not more than ten minutes. I followed him leisurely, keeping a few other pedestrians in front of me but never letting them block my view. He walked with an easy swinging rhythm.

  The box office was already open and people were queueing to buy tickets. There was some big pop group on stage tonight with pounding amplification. Pop Idols with chin growth. Mr Frazer nodded to his staff and went through a door marked Private. He looked as if he was gone for the evening. Goodbye work.

  Still, I hung around in case Mr Frazer emerged dressed as a female programme seller. They might be that short of staff. They were. I spotted a notice asking for volunteers for front of house at shows. Volunteer seriously means no money involved. Perhaps they gave you a free ice cream instead. Make mine chocolate chip flavoured.

  The last of the punters had their tickets inspected and the perforated bit torn off and were ushered into the auditorium. I was still in the foyer, reading everything in sight. A crescendo of clapping greeted the arrival of the rock musicians. Then the pounding music began. The walls shook.

  ‘Are you really short of help?’ I asked the girl in the box office, having to raise my voice. She booked seats on screen these days, and printed out the tickets with name and customer number.

  ‘Always,’ she said. ‘We get lots of volunteers but they don’t stay long, or they don’t want to sit through shows they don’t like. Why, are you interested?’

  ‘Could be,’ I said cautiously.

  ‘Would you like to have a word with our staff supervisor, Maggie?’

  ‘Why not.’

  ‘She’ll be free in about ten minutes. I’ll tell her you are here. What name shall I say?’

  I hate this bit. Lies again. ‘Lucy,’ I said, using my alias as the young woman who went round looking at graded fisherman cottages with a clipboard. She had served her apprenticeship.

  I sat on a plush bench reading the programme of events. It looked good although I was not much into wrestling or clairvoyance. Could one pick on which nights one volunteered? I did not want some medium pointing at me in the crowd and saying loudly, ‘My guide says you are not who you say you are. You have another life.’

  I could say I was allergic to plasma.

  Maggie, the staff supervisor, was an efficient no-nonsense woman in her early forties, crisp manner, crisp, tinted henna hair, name badge on her white blouse. Her eyes swept over my casual outfit and they said, no way, buster, get going.

  ‘You know it’s unpaid, don’t you?’ she said, thinking state benefits, homeless, vagrant.

  ‘I have a regular job,’ I said, digging up dignity. ‘And I have my own shop in Latching.’

  She thawed two degrees, her hair defrosted. ‘Oh, that’s a bit different. Do I know it?’

  ‘I don’t suppose so. It’s a specialist shop.’ Let her think what she liked, herbal, optician, disability aids.

  ‘I’m very short tonight,’ she remembered
, more talking to herself. ‘Two haven’t turned up. I’ve no one at all to sell ice cream in the interval at the back.’

  ‘I can do that. I handle money all the time.’ Slight exaggeration. I only handle money on a good day.

  ‘You’ll need a white blouse and black skirt,’ said Maggie dubiously, as if I might never have heard of these garments.

  ‘I can go home and change. It’s only a short walk.’

  ‘OK, I’ll give you a try out tonight. Come back and we’ll see how you shape up. You’ll have to stay on afterwards and help clear up. Litter and stuff. Lost property.’

  ‘No problem.’ I hadn’t bargained on cleaning.

  I hurried back to my shop. My charity box had a long narrow black skirt trimmed with braid, very classy, designer label. There must be a white blouse of some sort. I could only find a man’s shirt, but since it was minimum iron, it was wearable. My hair went up into a knot. It looked quite stylish. Mascara. My appearance was improving by the minute.

  Maggie was clearly surprised when I returned. ‘OK,’ she said. That phrase was the mainstay of her conversation. ‘Load your tray from the icebox five minutes before the interval. Stand at the back of the stalls. This is your float. Everyone offers notes. The ice creams are all priced at one pound each. Makes giving change easier. OK?’

  I nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘There’s a staff room at the back. You can make tea or coffee while you wait. You don’t have to watch the whole show.’ She had mellowed. It must have been mentioning my shop or wearing the expensive skirt.

  ‘This is a bit noisy for me. I like jazz, smooth soul.’

  ‘You’ll get used to it. A lot of people like loud music. We’re sold out tonight.’

  ‘Whoever runs the theatre must be pleased.’

  ‘That’s Mr Frazer. He’s the new manager. He’s very nice. But it’s owned by a company called CC Entertainment. The faceless ones with the money.’

  I smiled. ‘There’s always a few of those.’

  ‘Fill in this form before you go. Name and address, phone number, so we can get in touch.’

  Maggie hurried away and I was left holding the float. I could have walked out with it. She was trusting. It was definitely the expensive skirt. Memo to self: clothes talk.