Turn and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 7) Page 15

  “I’ll be mother and pour,” said Duke. The cups were blue-rimmed china, differently patterned, good quality. My 206 bones and twenty-three pairs of chromosomes sank into the soft, upholstered sofa. Duke sat forward so that his weight would not tip the sofa into another less comfortable angle. He was a heavy man.

  “Thank you.”

  “Sugar?”

  “I prefer honey but you wouldn’t know that.”

  “Sorry, no honey. Sugar?”

  I nodded. “For the shock.”

  “Definitely for the shock. One spoonful.” The detective sergeant was kind, like a big teddy bear. He didn’t try anything on. He was quiet, not talking too much, drinking his tea, giving me time to accept what had happened. He made a few calls on his phone. He had brown eyes, intense and lit with golden specks, behind his glasses. A bit like Miguel, but not with a dark Latin look. Duke was very English. I wondered how he’d got his name.

  “Were you christened Duke?” I had to ask.

  “No.”

  “So it’s a nickname.”

  “Sort of. My parents christened me Windsor.” He suppressed a groan and I didn’t blame him. “The kids called me Duke at school.”

  “Parents have funny ideas. I’m named after a river.”

  I began to think that it was fitting that the ladybird should have gone in the line of duty. No failing her MOT or humiliatingly rusting away, back of the shop, like a decrepit old pensioner clinging to her last breath. She had gone out in style.

  Duke poured out a second cup of tea, adding hot water. How did he know that I preferred weak tea? Perhaps he had a sixth sense, or was it another DI James briefing? Eventually, he had to drive me back to Latching. The tea ceremony couldn’t be prolonged any further.

  Sergeant Rawlings was on duty behind the posh new reception area. He looked up and grinned.

  “What they got you in for this time?” he asked.

  “Someone blew up my ladybird. My lovely car. She’s gone, burnt out.” I couldn’t help sounding pathetic. I sniffed and straightened up. “Obviously another attempt on my life, only their timing was out. I’d turned back for a bottle of water.”

  “To put out the fire?”

  “To drink.”

  “Narrow escape,” he said, offering me a box of tissues. “I’ll put you in interview room B. It’s got the best view. Very sorry, Jordan, about your car. Know how you liked it.”

  DS Morton was decoding the door to the inner sanctum. They’d changed the digits. I memorized the new ones and when I got a private moment, wrote them in the palm of my hand. Could be handy. DS Morton switched on the tape.

  “Detective Sergeant Morton interviewing Miss Jordan Lacey, time—”

  “Your watch is slow,” I said.

  “Please don’t interrupt.”

  “Sorry.”

  We were five minutes into the statement when Sergeant Rawlings came in with two mugs of tea. It was the usual strong station brew but I tried to look pleased and grateful.

  “How kind, thank you. Sergeant Rawlings, can you tell me why someone would throw out a dog they loved? You might have some ideas. It’s a dog called Nutty.”

  DS Morton switched off the machine with a resigned look. He stirred his tea and studied his notes, silently praying for patience. “Does he answer to his name?”

  “He answers to anything. He’s seriously deranged.”

  “Sounds my kind of dog. No, I don’t know but I’ll give it some thought. Is it a retriever? Brings things back?”

  “Could we get on with the statement?” said DS Morton. “We don’t have all day. Jordan, go back to what you were doing in Faun-stone Hall.”

  “I didn’t break in if that’s what you are insinuating. The back door was open. I was looking around, trying to find some sort of clue as to why or where Holly Broughton was murdered. Something that the police might have missed.”

  “And had the police missed anything?”

  I nodded mysteriously. “As a matter of fact, I believe they did. I need to know what she was wearing when they found her. I need to know exactly, every article of clothing, nothing left out for modesty’s sake.”

  “I can get you a list,” said DS Morton. “Though I don’t suppose I should. It won’t take long. Then what happened?”

  I described the rest of my search and the moment when I went outside to my car and opened the door. “I turned to go back for my bottle of water. As I turned, I heard this explosion and the car burst into flames. My ladybird was on fire.”

  “Did you see anyone when you were in the house?”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t see or hear anyone. But someone must have been there. They booby-trapped my car while I was in the house.”

  “And that takes a few minutes, even for an expert.”

  “I didn’t see a soul. The house was deserted.”

  “They were outside waiting, or maybe they had followed you to the Hall.”

  “Not a happy thought. I didn’t notice anyone following me. There was a tractor ahead at one point, pulling a trailer of hay, going at about four miles an hour until I could get past.”

  “Whoever it was won’t be there now. We had a look round. No tractor or car tracks.”

  “A bicycle wouldn’t leave any tracks. Motorbike?”

  “Not if it was dumped in a ditch.”

  I was tiring. I was losing the thread of the statement I was making and wanted to go home. No wheels. I would have to walk. If I went to see DI James now, it would be by the new high-speed, automatic-doors train. Back to train strain again. I remembered once sitting up half the night in a Brighton hotel bar, waiting for the first train back to Latching.

  “They sell our laid-off patrol cars, y’know,” said Sergeant Rawlings, as I left. I would have to go back later to sign the typed-out statement. “They get auctioned off at a depot. Usually only a year old. I can find out for you.”

  “I’ve no wish to drive around in a bright psychedelic yellow-blue-green-and-orange-patterned vehicle.”

  “No different from spots.”

  “Thank you for the thought,” I said, exhausted by the whole idea of having to find something new. I couldn’t bear to think about the hassle. The ladybird had been love at first sight. It couldn’t happen twice.

  “Here’s a print-out of that list of clothing that you asked for,” said DS Morton. “I want it back.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”

  I needed to walk the pier and clear my head. And clear the smell of burning from out of my nostrils. The wind had freshened in the last hour. The flags streamed southerly, poles rocking and creaking, and the sea was churning into mud-colored froth. It was almost too difficult to breathe as I struggled round the far end, deep out at sea. The water was dark and fathomless.

  I nipped into the amusement arcade to lean against a wall and catch my breath. Jack strolled over, juggling some tools. He’d been repairing a faulty machine, a high-powered rocket-propelled car-drive game which was apparently refusing to go anywhere.

  “So I hear you lost your wheels,” he added.

  “Is nothing private? How did you hear?”

  “Dunno. It was a fireman, I think. Came in off duty to throw away some money. Blown up, was it?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Please yourself. Wanna borrow the Jag? You can if you like – suits me. About time I had a new car. I fancy a Roller,” he said. “Something flashy.”

  His silvery-blue Jaguar was twice the length of the ladybird. I’d never be able to park. I shuddered at the thought of all that power throbbing under the bonnet. It would not take kindly to my careful thirty miles an hour along the leafy lanes.

  “That’s very kind of you,” I said, struggling to be polite. “Let me think about it. I need a couple of days to get my head together.”

  “Wanna lift anywhere, I’ll drive yer.”

  “Now that would be helpful,” I said, warmly. “I may take you up on th
at.” But I knew he would not care to drive me to Brighton to see DI James. Certain things were beyond his kind heart.

  My feet dragged as I walked to Latching station. My clothes smelled of the fire. There’d been no time to wash or change. I needed a hose down. I wanted to look foxy for James but there was no convenient time. He’d have to see the worn-out version.

  The countryside flashed by, past the airfield at Shoreham dotted with tiny private planes, then over the river Arun, which was at high tide, water lapping the banks and small boats rocking at anchor. I knew the walk to the hospital on autopilot. Shop windows reflected back the stressed-out me, accentuating every wrinkle, every downward droop. Brighton had great shops. I looked awful. A cat wouldn’t even drag me in.

  A skinny shop model stared back through her inch-long black lashes, disdainful and emaciated. Her white jeans shimmered with silver leg embroidery and a belt hung round her hips in layers of plaited white fringing. The top was bright poppy-red cotton, a clingy camisole style with a collarless cropped jacket in navy. I had to have it. It went against the grain to pay with plastic but I had no option. I needed that outfit. Red, white and blue. Very patriotic. It even fitted. I walked out of the shop wearing it, security tags carefully removed, my own clothes bundled into a shiny posh designer bag. Call me a shopaholic.

  It was only a few hundred yards from the hospital when I went into a corner cafe, drank two cups of black coffee, then washed my hair with liquid soap under the cold tap in the ladies’ loo and dried it under the hot hand dryer. Tricky maneuver in a cramped space. No conditioner.

  The nurses hovering round the nurses’ station nodded to me, not entirely sure if it was the same visitor who’d brought the bottle of good Shiraz. I knocked on the door and went into James’s room.

  James was standing stiffly by the window, looking down at Brighton’s myriad rooftops. He looked like a caged bird of prey. He was longing to get out and test his wings. His dark-green shirt looked bulky as if he was wearing a bullet-proof vest. Ah, the spinal waistcoat.

  “Look who’s standing?” was all I could think of saying. Prime idiot remark. He turned slowly as if he was afraid he might crack or fall over. I’d forgotten how tall he was. His skin had lost its healthy tan. He needed to get out and about.

  “Excuse me?” he said. “Do I know you?”

  “I’m a journalist from Hello magazine,” I said breezily. “We want to do a promotion on the NHS and medical vogues. Would you say that your current Incredible Hulk image is likely to catch on with the inmates – sorry, I mean patients – of the NHS?”

  “What have you done to yourself?” James asked, peering as if he was short-sighted. “Is this you? You don’t usually look like a fashion plate.”

  “I had to buy some new clothes. I smelt like yesterday’s barbecue, not very nice.”

  He came over and fingered the jacket. “It’s not finished,” he said. “They’ve forgotten to put on a collar.”

  “Collarless is a fashion,” I said.

  He nodded. “Sorry about your car, Jordan. Neat little vehicle. Were you insured?”

  “Of course, I was. What do you think I am? Driving round like a criminal?”

  “You’ll need a replacement car pretty quick.”

  “I know. The walk from the station nearly killed me. I swear it’s got longer.”

  “I’ll be out of here soon. I’m booked to go to the police convalescent home – very informal, residential for officers and pensioners, at Goring-on-Thames. I’ll be there for a couple of weeks.”

  “It’s all going well then?” Second idiot remark.

  “The doctors are very pleased. By the way, my mother has sent you a gift. She’s taken a shine to you.” He took a small packet wrapped in lilac tissue paper out of his pocket and handed it to me.

  I unwrapped it. A small silver brooch lay in my hand, a silver thistle. “It’s lovely,” I said, delighted. “What a kind thought. I like your mother very much.”

  “She obviously likes you. Let me pin it on your jacket. The clasp might be a little tricky. It’s got a safety catch.”

  He pinned the brooch on my new jacket. It matched the silver embroidery on the new white jeans.

  “Thank you. I’ll write her a little note. Can I visit you at Goring-on-Thames?”

  “I shouldn’t bother, Jordan. You’ve got enough on your plate at the moment. Anyway, you should keep a low profile till we’ve caught whoever is after you.”

  “Do you know who you are looking for?”

  “How should I know? I’m stuck here. I’m not looking for anyone. It’s not my case.”

  “That’s not the answer I want to hear.”

  “That’s all the answer you are getting.” He looked at me closely. “Are you wearing a bra under that skimpy red top you’ve almost got on?”

  I blinked. It was the closest James had ever got to a personal remark. I wished I could have recorded it to play over and over again. And I was wearing a bra.

  “By the way, that’s what I came to tell you.”

  “What?”

  “Holly Broughton wasn’t wearing a bra when she was found on the beach,” I said. “She wasn’t completely dressed. No one seems to have noticed that.”

  “And what do you deduce from that fact?”

  “That she was murdered by a man who couldn’t put a bra on. Men are pretty deft at taking a bra off, but ask them to put a bra on and they are all fingers and thumbs.”

  James’s face was without expression. “I wouldn’t know,” he said.

  Sixteen

  It was difficult to hide the small wave of happiness that took me by surprise. It was almost too much. James was thrown by my remark, too. James was standing, at last. James had noticed my new look. Three bulls-eyes in one go. Hallelujah.

  He took on board the information about Holly being bra-less and that a man had been the last person to use the bathroom. He said he would pass it on in case no one had noticed the significance. No jokes. It was not a jokey case. Holly had died. But I could not see or understand why.

  “I can’t see the motivation,” I said.

  “It’s complicated. The husband had won his case. He was riding high, safe as houses, or so he thought. What we need to know is who sparked the police investigation which led to the trial? That name, as yet, is unknown. She or he is the mystery person.”

  “Why do you say it’s a she?” I asked.

  “I think there’s a woman in the case.”

  “Maybe you are right. Men don’t usually split on each other, but another woman might.”

  “A woman who is interested in Richard Broughton. After all, he is very rich.”

  “And also very nasty. She needs her eyes testing. That man is totally unpleasant.” I remembered the look in Richard Broughton’s eyes and the way they had threatened me. Then I remembered something else. “James, I think you’re right. It’s a woman. A woman with an evil sense of humor. I found one of Holly’s earrings in the wooden beach garden. Only a woman would think of dressing a corpse with earrings.”

  “But Holly married Richard and apparently loved him.”

  “Love is blind.” There was no other answer. I didn’t think James would know anything about love being blind. True, he had once been married, but I did not detect any of that magic in his relationship. Whereas I was one of those people walking cloud nine every time I was near him.

  I slipped off cloud nine as I went to Brighton station and caught a slow-stopping Class 720 train back to Latching. Food? What was that? Had I had any? I couldn’t remember.

  There was another long walk from the station in the ebbing hours of the day. Damp air clambered up my ankles like fingers. Summer was still unsure of its welcome. The skimpy vest top was letting in draughts. But drifts of blossom touched me from one of the houses that still had trees. Trees were ruthlessly destroyed to make room for parking cars in front gardens.

  Parked cars. It was sitting in the drive of a large, double-fronted white Edwardian
house. It looked forlorn. Racy, low two-seaters do not take kindly to cardboard For Sale signs prominently on the windscreen. Humiliating. Okay if it was a Ford Fiesta.

  It was a 1999 two-seater BMW, so low-slung it would be like sitting on the road. I liked the color immediately – not navy, not blue, but sort of indigo. The bodywork matched my best pair of jeans.

  The number plate was eye-catching. At first glance it was V 10 ILA, numbers and letters, but read it even quicker and it became VIOLA. Viola was a character in Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night and I had played her at school.

  A blank, my lord. She never told her love,

  But let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud,

  Feed on her damask cheek.

  I remembered the words so easily. It had been one of the parts that stirred a recumbent, reluctant acting ability which occasionally I use in my work. Viola… like the ladybird, she had a name. This was appallingly fickle of me. Surely, I ought to mourn a little longer for my ladybird?

  A racy two-seater was not exactly top of the charts for comfort. But a new PI image was irresistible to my damaged ego. Dark-leather interior, those classy alloy wheels. The price was £7,500, which was staggering for a PI whose current caseload was stolen hens and rabbits, a case for which she was unlikely to charge a penny. Since the reward money was firmly untouchable in a pension, I would have to get a bank loan.

  I knocked on the heavy front door, another brass lion’s head. Lions were rampant in Latching.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m here to make you an offer for your BMW. Are you interested?”

  My local fame helped. No Latching household ever forgot the rugby tackle on the two robbers in the amusement arcade, even though it was a couple of years ago now. The owners of the BMW beamed at me. The idea of their son’s BMW being used for surveillance was tempting after-dinner talk. And I was still wearing the smart white embroidered jeans and cropped jacket, which was a big plus. I looked successful and one hundred per cent with it.

  “So what is he driving now?” I asked.

  “A kangaroo killer. He’s gone to Australia.”

  “Can I make you an offer? Knock it down a bit?”