Fold and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 8) Read online

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  I phoned Joanna Carter before I could change my mind. It was touch and almost no-go. I nearly put the receiver down especially when she asked me to go round to her house that very moment.

  ‘There’s someone in the garden,’ she said. She really did sound scared. ‘You’ve got to come. Please. I need you. I can hear them moving about.’

  ‘All right,’ I said, trying to disguise my indifference. She gave me her address and how to find it. But I knew where her house was immediately. It was The Beeches, Lansfold Avenue, the beautiful double-fronted Edwardian house which had featured in my first ever case.

  It was the home of the late Ellen Frances Swantry, the nun. The house had been turned into four spacious flats and Joanna Carter must have the ground floor flat. One day I might tell Mrs Carter what the police had found in the disused air raid shelter in the garden. Or maybe not. It had been demolished and levelled over.

  I took short cuts through various twittens. They were the narrow alleyways between rows of houses, the escape routes of smugglers in past times when Latching was the centre of the smuggling industry. The Beeches had certainly seen some changes. The stonework had been repainted white, double glazing in the big bay windows, the heavy front door varnished and brass knocker polished.

  The first development had been a rest home for retired people but they went broke and the next lot of developers turned it into four flats, two in the main house, and two in the new extension built on in the garden.

  Memories came flooding back. I had bought Ellen Swantry’s Victorian button-back chair, her Persian rug and her filing cabinet from a second-hand dealer. They were all still in good use in my office. They gave it style.

  The beech tree in the garden had been pruned and there was now a manicured lawn and regimental flower beds. So different from the first time I had seen the house, empty and neglected. On that first visit I had climbed into the larder, after loosening a faulty catch on a window. This time I knocked using the lion’s head knocker. Quite an improvement. I heard bolts being drawn back and a chain unfastened.

  Joanna Carter opened the door a crack. ‘Come in, come in. Be quick,’ she hissed. ‘Hurry, hurry, please. There’s someone out in the back garden, creeping about. I can hear them.’

  She almost pulled me into the house. At first I was disorientated. The hallway had been divided and a double-size glass door portioned off the stairs that led to the upper flat. She ushered me into the front room and I immediately recognized the shape of the bay windows and the ornate ceiling cornice. The ugly cast-iron fireplace had been removed and replaced with a marble Italian copy.

  I only had time to glance at the thick white carpet on the floor and two three-seater sofas facing each other across a long, pale-wood coffee table. She was dragging me towards the back of the flat.

  I guessed that the small back sitting room where Ellen had spent most of her days knitting and reading magazines had been turned into a bathroom. It made sense.

  The grimy green kitchen and larder, with enamelled gas stove and brown earthenware sink, had long been banished to the municipal dump. This was the latest in kitchen designer ware, more pale-wood panels and cupboards, marble surfaces and eye-level oven and microwave. On the pristine mottled surface was a ceramic tray with two cut-glass tumblers and a decanter of whisky. Or it might have been brandy. I was only an expert on red wine. Had Mrs Carter been entertaining?

  She switched off the light and we stood in the dimness. Moonlight filtered through the window with long silver fingers. The window was fitted with blinds and she had not closed them.

  ‘Listen,’ she said, pulling me forward. ‘What can you hear?’

  Silence is funny stuff. The more you shut out everyday noises, the more you realize that the atmosphere is breathing space. There was a sort of low hum from a hot water system, rustling of leaves from nearby beech trees, maybe the howl of a distant fox cub calling for its mother.

  ‘I can’t hear anything,’ I began. But I stopped. I had heard something. Not sure what it was. Then I heard it again. It was a footstep, quite definitely a footstep on the patio outside.

  Half a shiver ran down my spine. There was someone out there. A stray cat doesn’t wear shoes. I was not going to investigate. Mrs Carter hadn’t paid me a penny yet, so I was not exactly employed by her. I was here more or less as an observer and I could observe safely from behind the kitchen door.

  ‘Do you believe me now?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes.’ I nodded. I found myself whispering back. ‘There’s certainly someone out there. Could it be the tenant of the upstairs flat? Putting out the rubbish or doing a spot of late-night gardening?’

  ‘No, an elderly couple live upstairs, the McDonalds. They’re away visiting their grandchildren in Dorset. It’s not either of them.’

  ‘What about the tenants in the annexe?’

  ‘Both retired ladies. They don’t go out after dark.’

  There was an array of bolts and chains on the back door, all securely fastened, brass glistening.

  ‘Let’s leave whoever it is to their nocturnal wanderings,’ I said, moving Mrs Carter back to her elegant white sitting room. She had drawn the ivory velvet curtains. It was a very white room. The only colour was from the velvet scatter cushions and even they were the palest lemon and gold.

  ‘Beautiful room,’ I murmured, sitting down without being asked. The sofa enveloped me in softness. I pushed a cushion into the small of my back for support.

  ‘It was designed by Estelle Warburton,’ said Joanna Carter. ‘You may have heard of her. She’s a very up and coming interior decorator.’

  No, I hadn’t heard of her and she certainly wasn’t going to design anything for me. I liked some colour around me. Then I thought of the black evening dress I had bought today and wondered if there was some contradiction there.

  ‘You may recall that we were discussing payment for two weeks of personal bodyguarding,’ I said. Not exactly true, as we had not reached the financing of the work. I thought adding the word personal was a nice touch.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, suddenly brisk, her composure recovered. ‘I shall pay you half at the start and half at the end. That way I’ll be sure that you do your job properly and efficiently. I don’t want you propping up a bar all evening with the ship’s officers instead of looking after me.’

  ‘I don’t prop up bars,’ I said icily, suddenly not liking her again. ‘And since I should like to deposit the money in my bank before we leave, I shall expect you to write me a cheque this evening, now, before I go.’

  Joanna Carter looked surprised at this show of no nonsense from someone with a reputation of undercharging or even completely forgetting to charge a client who couldn’t afford me.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said, going to a French lacquered writing desk in the corner of the room. ‘Twenty thousand?’

  ‘Half of fifty is twenty-five.’

  ‘How silly of me. I’m still feeling a little upset.’ She drew up a chair and wrote out a cheque. Even the pen seemed reluctant and she had to shake it several times. ‘There you are, Miss Lacey. All signed and sealed.’

  ‘And I have a client form for you to fill in. It is a simple form. Just a few details. Nothing too complicated, but I need to have some information. Mobile phone number, email, etc. And I’ll give you my card.’

  ‘Of course, Miss Lacey. I’ll do it now.’

  ‘And I think you could call me Jordan, if we are to be travelling companions. Perhaps we should cook up some story to cover the situation. I could be a long-lost cousin from New Zealand, or the daughter of a school friend, recovering from a life-threatening illness. Sea air and all that.’

  She looked a little faint. ‘Yes, I suppose we’ll have to have some sort of cover story about why we are travelling together and who you are. People do ask a lot of questions on cruises. It’s an occupational hazard.’

  I pocketed the cheque and heaved myself out of the softness. The sight of all those nou
ghts had cheered me up immensely. ‘That’ll be my first job,’ I said. ‘I’ll think up something really watertight and plausible. Goodnight, Mrs Carter. Lock up behind me.’

  ‘Do you really have to go?’

  ‘Yes, I do. You’ll be all right now. Whoever it was has gone, I’m sure. And I have to get home. You’ve only given me a day to pack.’

  ‘If you are sure he’s gone … ‘

  ‘Quite sure. Not a sound.’

  She opened the front door cautiously. The neat path was luminous and looked safe enough. I was not being threatened. I would be safe. My client was the target, not me. Suddenly I realized how difficult this job was going to be.

  I should have to give it some thought. Perhaps DI James could help me. I’d email him tomorrow in York.

  Suddenly Mrs Carter grabbed my arm and pointed to the beech tree. She was trembling, her mouth hung open. I looked towards the tree. A low bough was swaying in the breeze. There was something hanging from the branch. Something pale and long with a looped and knotted end.

  It was a hangman’s noose.

  TWO

  Southampton

  I was treacle-eyed with train lag. Latching to Southampton Central was a straightforward train journey, vaguely downhill, but with so many station stops, I began to wonder if I was taking the scenic route via the Lake District. Nor was I used to taking care of luggage. The expanding beige on brown Louis Vuitton suitcase which Mavis had lent me had a foreign look, nothing to do with me, guv.

  It obviously impressed the taxi driver who drove me on to the cruise terminal from Southampton Central. If I could afford a case like that, and was a passenger on a cruise ship, then I could afford a few pounds extra on the fare.

  ‘And don’t think of overcharging me,’ I said, as he drew up outside the vast departures hall. It looked like a corrugated aircraft hangar. Somewhere behind it loomed a huge white ship shape with portholes. It seemed to go on forever, like a block of flats. It didn’t resemble a ship, not the kind of ship shape I was used to. ‘Your tax disc is out of date.’

  I said it in my best ex-WPO voice and it threw his attention. His wheels bumped the kerb stone.

  ‘Sorry, miss,’ he said. ‘The meter’s not working properly.’

  ‘It’s not working at all.’

  Joanna Carter’s cheque was safely in the bank so I could afford a decent tip. She had said nothing about expenses, but I preferred to pay for some things myself. It would give me an element of independence. She might think she owned me, body and soul, but I had other plans for the separate parts of my body.

  The formalities of checking in were easy. Joanna had travelled overnight to Southampton, refusing to stay in The Beeches another minute after the noose in the tree incident.

  It was pretty scary, I’ll admit. She was already packed and ordered a taxi. I stayed with her till it arrived.

  ‘If I’ve forgotten anything, I can b-buy it on-b-board,’ she said, downing another brandy in one. I removed the noose from the tree so she didn’t have to look at it again. I put it in a plastic bag, forensic training, just in case, and it was lodged in a safe place. Back room of my office.

  Cruise card in hand I climbed up the steep gangway on to the ship, the aluminium steps clattering. The MV Orpheus Odyssey soared above me, a great sweep of white wall, dotted with cabins and portholes and red lifeboats. The decks towered like a huge building, only the red funnel and the shape of her bows giving away that it was a ship. I was stunned by the size and the stillness despite the noise and bustle on the quay. I couldn’t see any water. But I could hear it, lapping away somewhere.

  At the top of the gangway, security checked the cruise card, now called a swipe card, through a scanning machine. It was all very high tech.

  ‘Do you know where my case is, please?’ I asked the uniformed steward who came forward in reception. He looked as if he was about to whisk me away to some far-off place. I would never see land again.

  ‘It will be safely delivered to your cabin, madam. It will be there very soon. You have your cabin number? I will show you the way.’

  It was among all the bits of paper I had been given. Mrs Carter had booked adjoining staterooms on A Deck, interconnecting doors. This meant nothing to me. At least I wouldn’t have to sleep in the same cabin, endure endless frantic chat.

  ‘No, thank you,’ I said hurriedly. I wanted a few last minutes to myself. ‘I think I’ll go on deck. Last glimpse of England and all that.’

  ‘Yes, madam. Promenade deck or lido deck. The lift will take you.’

  I escaped his attentions. I half expected him to escort me to the lift and press the button. Any top button would do. It couldn’t go any further than the top deck. Unless there was a lift going to the funnel.

  The docks were a forest of cranes and ships, cruise and cargo, clustered round an industrial area. It stretched for miles, coping with a double tide. Southampton had tower blocks of housing and offices, like any other thriving city, but somewhere there were the crumbling stone walls of an ancient city threading their solid way through today’s commercial areas. What would those merchants of long ago have thought of this bustling place with its one-way streets and endless blinking traffic lights?

  For the first time today I relaxed against the rails and absorbed the drama of the docks and the lapping water. The sea looked so far down below and fathomlessly dark. I had never seen it from this viewpoint and it gave me a tremor of vertigo. The highest viewpoint I ever got in Latching was from the pier.

  If I could still see the sea, I might enjoy this cruise after all. The sea was my life, my hope, my joy. Maybe I could lock Joanna Carter into her cabin for the duration, sorry, stateroom.

  Something about the ship, Orpheus Odyssey, grabbed me at that moment. She was big, so majestic, yet she was tethered to the dock like a prisoner, unable to move. Those heavy tethering ropes held her prisoner. How could I feel empathy with something so gigantic? But I did. She was a sea-sailing, floating colossus, enormously powerful, ready to battle oceans and winds and tides, yet at this moment, she was floating by the quay, helpless.

  I felt a shiver. A sweet-faced Thai girl appeared at my side. She was holding a tray of drinks. ‘Champagne? Sail away party?’ she asked.

  ‘Lovely,’ I said.

  The flutes were champagne shaped so that must indicate the sparkling contents. A brass band was playing somewhere. This must be what they called a sail away party. I couldn’t see any party happening.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, thinking they were free.

  ‘Cruise card, please.’ She produced a bill pad and a pen.

  New procedure for me. I duly signed, remembering to be warned in future. Nothing was free. This was how they made their money. Cabin prices might be reasonable for the distance and the lavish life style, but once on board some cruise ships wanted you to spend, spend, spend.

  The band on the dockside was playing a stirring Sousa march. John Philip, American composer and band leader of marches, still being played all over the world. Then they turned to the heart-wrenching ‘We are sailing, we are sailing … ‘ and I suddenly realized that things were happening. It was too late to jump off.

  It was a few minutes after five o’clock. Those huge ropes were being thrown off the quayside and a tug called Bentley was pulling the ship out into the water. It seemed a tricky manoeuvre because I could feel there was a strong current astern. We were heading towards the Fawley Oil Terminal. I had never seen it from this aspect or distance before. We were travelling along the Southampton water in a stately manner. The Southampton Patrol were making sure the small, curious pleasure craft kept out of our way.

  All this part of the coast was achingly familiar to me. After leaving Calshot Spit, we went along the narrow Thorn Channel before turning around Brambles Bank, and setting course along the Solent. I thrived on the feeling of being on a big ship, powerful and dominant, ploughing through the sea. Sea everywhere but still land in sight. Or perhaps it was the bubbly sail-away ch
ampagne giving me a false sense of security.

  I recognized the forts off Portsmouth. A lot further along the coast, but out of sight, was Latching. My home town. But I wouldn’t be seeing it for two weeks. I got a lurch of homesickness and gripped the rail tighter.

  I didn’t know where we were. I didn’t even know exactly where we were going. One thing was sure. Orpheus Odyssey and I were already in sync. We were a team. This big ship and I.

  ‘So you’ve found your way up on deck.’ It was Joanna Carter. She looked more relaxed than the last time I saw her. She was wearing a tailored white trouser suit, gilt trimmed buttons and belt. I felt quite scruffy beside her despite clean black jeans, new white T-shirt and my faithful black leather jacket. ‘Impressive, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Our last view of England.’

  ‘Goodbye, England.’

  ‘Your luggage has arrived. We’ve adjoining staterooms on A Deck with an interconnecting door. It’s normally used for families but it suits us perfectly. I shall expect the door to be kept open at all times.’

  ‘Great.’ I was going into incommunicative mood again. What was it about this woman that built the Berlin Wall single-handed?

  ‘It’s only two decks down from here. We ought to hurry. I think we should dress for dinner, although it is informal tonight. We’re first sitting. Let’s go.’

  ‘First sitting?’

  ‘There are two sittings, first and second, in the Delphi dining room. First sitting is at six thirty and the second at eight thirty. It has to serve two lots of diners and we are first sitting.’

  ‘It’s too early. I’m not hungry,’ I said. Six thirty felt like barely tea time, scones and sponge cake round the nursery fire.

  ‘You’ve no choice,’ she said.

  I wanted to stay on deck. I wanted to watch the coast line slipping away. The Isle of Wight was familiar to me. It was about walking tours along the coast and Carisbrooke Castle and Osborne House. I’d once been climbing up Alum Bay cliffs and got stuck halfway. A seventeen-year-old boy rescued me. My first crush. His name was Michael Thorogood. Nothing came of it. My usual luck.