Turn and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 7) Read online

  We went up the wide, easy-flowing staircase with cast-iron balustrade. It was one of those staircases that cried out for long swishing dresses. Jeans would not make the same impression.

  Holly took me to her bedroom. It was spacious with windows on two walls overlooking the garden. Her bed was king-sized with a draped pink-silk canopy and everything was crystal and pink and breath-takingly beautiful. My futon began to look less than functional.

  “And I have a dressing room for my clothes,” she said, throwing open another door. We walked in.

  It was like a shop, sided with wardrobes and mirrored sliding doors. I had never seen so many clothes, some still with price tags swinging from them. Holly chattered on about where she had bought this and that. There was a whole cupboard full of shoes, ranged on shelves, color-coded and photographed. Photographed? Who would photograph their shoes? I barely had time to clean mine.

  “Is there anything missing?” I asked.

  “Funny you should ask that. But there is. Look, a pair of Christian Louboutin heels. Here’s the photo. Look at them, like the curve of a woman’s body. But they are not here any more. I can’t even remember when I last wore them.”

  “Who would steal shoes?”

  “Don’t ask me. It’s a mystery.”

  Holly stopped the tour suddenly. “There was evidence in court about finding my shoes at some man’s flat. I had to identify them at the trial. He wasn’t a lover. I didn’t know him and I don’t leave my shoes around. It was rubbish. And the earrings evidence was pure nonsense.”

  “If you were leaving some flat, you’d put your shoes on, at least,” I said, making a statement for the first time in seemingly hours. “Wouldn’t any woman?”

  “Of course. It makes sense. No one leaves anywhere without their shoes.”

  “You said earrings. What earrings?”

  “A pair of my earrings were found in this man’s flat, little gold dolphins with diamonds for eyes. Very pretty. I liked them, one of my favorites. But I hardly ever wore them because they hurt.”

  “Are they missing?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never bothered to look. It seemed unimportant.”

  “I think you should look for them.”

  It was like searching a haystack for a hat pin. Holly didn’t know what she had, or what she hadn’t any more. The gold earrings, despite the diamonds, were apparently kept in a jumble of jewelery in a mother-of-pearl box. She scrummaged around, tipping it out on the bed.

  “No. They’re not here.”

  “So someone might have taken them?”

  She was right with me. “Those burglars? Those louts who took all my favorite CDs? I see what you are getting at now. Was that a fake burglary, in order to lift things to incriminate me? Perhaps they took the shoes, too. I think you’re absolutely right. You know, that makes me feel so much better. There is some chance, then, of finding out who did it. So I can clear my name. So that Richard and I can be together again.”

  “It’s a long way from that,” I said. “But there’s a chance. You need to go through your home and your possessions very thoroughly and see exactly what is missing, make a list, even the most trivial thing. Most of us don’t know exactly what we have.”

  “The ironing went missing once.”

  “The ironing?”

  “Lots of undies and things, waiting to be ironed. Just disappeared. And there were some letters, from long ago, before I even met Richard. It was someone I knew before I went to work at Broughton Bank. I don’t think they were dated – probably not. He was a poet sort of person. Out of work. His name was Darrell. He wrote the strangest poems.”

  “Why did you keep them?”

  “They were sweet and funny letters. But I hadn’t looked at them for years. It was all over.”

  “And they’ve gone?”

  “I thought they must have been thrown out by accident. They meant nothing. It didn’t bother me.”

  “And were they used in court as evidence?”

  “They produced love letters at the trial. I was asked to identify them as mine, but they were years old, nothing to do with the situation now. They were old love letters, poems too. Jordan, what am I going to do? It’s all been rigged against me. Sometimes I wonder if Richard thinks I’ve gone back to my old life. You know, the glamorous high-class escort.”

  “But why should you?” I asked. “You have all the money you need now.”

  “For the excitement, perhaps. It isn’t true, of course. But Richard doesn’t trust me any more.”

  Holly’s face broke and she sat on the bed, shoulders drooping, her hands clutching each other in a sort of torment. If it was acting, it was good acting.

  “I think I need to read the court evidence,” I said slowly. “If you’ll give me the date at Chichester Crown Court, and the case number, I’ll be able get a verbatim copy. It should only take a few days.”

  “Thank you, thank you. Do you think I should tell Richard about the missing things? He might believe me then,” she wept.

  “I think we should wait,” I said. “Until we have some solid evidence. It’ll be hard for you, but we need to have real proof. Insist on your innocence, by all means, but for the time being don’t tell him what we have discovered today.”

  She did not seem so sure. “All right, if that’s what you think I should do, Jordan. I’ll go along with it for now, but only for a few days.”

  A phone rang and Holly picked up a receiver. “Hello?” Her voice changed tone. “Adrienne? I don’t think you should ring my home. Richard isn’t here, you know that. If you have to talk to him, ring him at the office.” There was a long pause. “I’m sure he’ll give you the advice you want. And please don’t ring here again.” She put the receiver down but did not explain the call. She went over to a mirror and did things to her hair.

  Adrienne? Perhaps I should follow that up.

  Holly had not sounded too pleased. Her face had closed up, eyes blanked out. She did not like this woman.

  I thanked her for the coffee and left. But as I drove away from Faunstone Hall, I saw that Holly was already on her mobile in the porch, talking animatedly. That seemed a bit strange for someone who was upset. Perhaps she was phoning Richard against my advice or perhaps she felt she needed to book a facial before Richard came home.

  Four

  Topham Hill was a half-hour cycle ride on my mountain bike, gears and all. There was no point in taking the ladybird as the tracks were too narrow and bumpy for a car. The view from the top of Topham Hill was spectacular: distant sparkling sea, the Seven Sisters, Isle of Wight and acres of sky. But I wasn’t there for the view. I free-wheeled down to the allotment site.

  It was the usual ramshackle collection of sheds and vegetable-growing. Some grew plants in tidy lines, not a weed in sight, shipshape, ex-merchant navy. Other plots had reverted to the wild with only a line of giant sunflowers nodding to each other.

  Arthur Spiddock’s plot was easy to spot. There’s that rhyming thing again. Empty hen runs and rabbit hutches. His cabbages were countable. I didn’t know why I was here, because I wasn’t making any money out of this. Arthur and an invoice were total aliens.

  It was my conscience. For getting all that reward money for finding the diamonds.

  Somehow, I felt I didn’t deserve it. I’d only followed a hunch.

  Snow was now a distant memory. Today was touched with spring. The breeze wandered in and out of the allotments, like a tourist who doesn’t quite know where to go. I foraged around the runs and the hutches. It was all as Arthur had said. Everything had gone. Not a wisp of straw left. They would have needed a vehicle.

  I found some horse droppings. A horse and cart? Would the West Sussex Police officer have noted horse droppings? Not exactly on their training course. Wheels, yes, but not hooves. Instant camera at the ready, I took a photo of the droppings. What would the young girl at Boots’ photography department make of it? I drew a line at taking a sample. The DNA databank had not progress
ed to horses. Or had it?

  There was nothing else to note. You can’t fingerprint a cabbage. Cigarette ends littered the plot but Arthur Spiddock was the smoking type. Nutty had left a few clues as well. This case was going nowhere.

  But I took a few good breaths of the view before I left.

  I cycled back to Latching, enjoying the exercise. For the first time, I began to feel that I was recovering. But not enough to go to the pub and find out how the suit of armor had fallen. Not my remit. DI James might think he was running the force from his bed but I knew differently.

  “Jordan?” Jack shouted. His flashy blue Jaguar drew alongside, engine roaring, brakes screeching. “Whatcha doing out here, girl?”

  “Eleven hens and four rabbits stolen from an allotment,” I said. “New case.”

  “Always the big time,” he said. “Hop in.”

  “I’m on my bike.”

  “Shove it into the back.”

  The amusement arcade on the pier was a steady gold mine for Jack. People love losing their money. Jack spent most of it on his car. He seemed to wear the same clothes day in, day out. Maybe every night as well. I had no idea where he lived, nor did I want to know. If he took me home, he might lock me in an ivory tower with catering-size jars of instant coffee and crisps and throw away the key.

  “You’re looking better,” he said. “You gave me a fright in the hospital.”

  “Gave myself a fright,” I said, tying my hair back with a scarf. Hint: always carry a scarf. Useful for tying back, tying up, tying together. Almost anything, apart from lassoing a horse.

  “Horse,” I said.

  “Wotcha say?”

  “That’s how they got over the wall,” I said. “Horse and cart. They took a horse-drawn cart up to the wall and climbed over the wall from there. Bet that’s how they did it.”

  “Right, sleuth at work,” he said. “What’s that about?”

  “I’m investigating a burglary and I couldn’t work out how they got over a very high wall without a couple of ladders. I thought it was an inside job but now I’m not so sure.”

  “The hens and rabbits?”

  “No, this is another one. That was a fake burglary.”

  “Clear as mud and twice as smelly,” he grinned. “How about a drink? Wine’s your usual tipple, ain’t it?”

  I had not been into a pub since the suit of armor had crashed into my life. Pubs were sort of no-go areas till I got my nerve back. It might be years. I shook my head. Less of an ouch today.

  “Sorry, not keen on pubs any more.”

  “Rubbish,” he said, driving into the car park of the Green Man. “Nobody’s not keen on pubs.” The Green Man sign had six legs. There was no logic to that, unless it was one for each day of the week and legless on a Sunday. “Still got your concussion, you have. Glass of wine’ll put the color back in your cheeks.”

  He meant well. He was hardly your prototype rough diamond, more like a clay-and-mud-encrusted nugget of gold. A flying tackle on a thief in his amusement arcade had brought me instantly to his notice. He’d kept both eyes on me ever since.

  I hung back from the entrance to the Green Man. It was nothing like the Medieval Hall but the smell of beer and cigarettes wafted memories though my brain which I wanted to forget. Jack’s company was not scintillating enough to banish those thoughts. Nothing was going to drive them away except time. Or a new head. Perhaps I could down-size it.

  “Come on, kiddo.”

  “No, please.”

  “There ain’t no green man going to jump on you.”

  “Don’t joke.”

  “I never thought you were a coward,” he said. “You always had a lot of spunk, a real go-getter.”

  “I’m not ready for this.”

  “I’m suggesting a single glass of wine in a pub, not an all-night bender.” He was exasperated, kicking the gravel. He was not often thwarted. He thought he was helping me and it irritated him that I wouldn’t let him.

  I did it for him, really – so Jack wouldn’t feel so bad. Here I was, helping him so he could feel good that he was helping me. It was an extraordinary situation. Shopping: buy self-help book to get head back on straight and buy suitable aromatherapy oil.

  The pub was full, people eating, drinking, chatting. I sat hard against a wall and a pumping radiator. I nearly melted into an historic puddle. But the wine was good. Jack always bought the best, no house wine out of a box. It was an Australian Shiraz and the berry taste reminded me of the good times.

  He was making me laugh. He told me he’d glued a silver ten-pence piece to the floor near the roll-them-down shunting coin machines. Nearly everyone had tried to pick it up.

  “I crease myself sometimes,” he said, gulping his cold beer. “Even little old ladies try to poke it off the floor with their umbrellas. It’s a scream.”

  “I shall have to come and see this immovable coin,” I said. “If it’s still there. Who’s looking after your place now?”

  “It’s closed. Having it painted.”

  This was a shock. I don’t think the amusement arcade had ever been painted since the day it was built. The walls were a cheerless khaki with layers of grime clinging to the original. It could have been cream, or white or yellow underneath.

  “What color are you having it painted?”

  “Blue.”

  “Blue?”

  “Your favorite color, ain’t it?”

  I got back to the shop eventually. It had become two glasses of the best Shiraz and I was having an amusement arcade on the pier painted in my favorite color. Is that devotion or attitude?

  Jack drove off in his Jaguar with a satisfied grin. He’d done his bit for my rehabilitation. He’d sleep better tonight. My sleep was different.

  *

  Doris was waiting on my doorstep. “You been boozing again?” she said. “That’s a good sign.”

  “I was on a case,” I said haughtily. “And Jack gave me a lift back.”

  “I can smell it on your breath. Are you going to open your shop or not? I’m not waiting here for ever.”

  Haughty turned to humble. “Sorry, opening up right away. Do you want something, Doris?”

  Doris was occasionally a customer. I always gave her a special price. No £6 label for her.

  She followed me into the shop, sniffing at the dust. She went straight over to the glass cabinet which housed the crested china ornaments. Crested was the description for when a town put its coat of arms on a jug or pot and holiday-makers bought them by the drove. They were going up in value now. A really good Willow Art crested Brighton jug could bring in £12.

  “We went there when I was a little girl,” she said, pointing to a tiny Scarborough vase. “I didn’t have any money of course, in those days. My pocket money, if I was lucky, was threepence a week or sixpence on holidays. A bit late, but I’d really like a souvenir of that holiday. There’s a castle on the hill, y’know, and the grave of Anne Bronte and beaches that stretch for miles.”

  I had no idea how old Doris was. She looked a well-preserved forty but she might be much older. Mavis was in the same age group but frequent sex with virile sun-browned fishermen kept her looking younger.

  “Scarborough has got a minute chip,” I said, getting the tiny vase carefully out of the case. No one could see the chip. It was in the furthermost reaches of my imagination. “So I’m afraid I’ll have to let it go for three pounds.”

  “Done,” said Doris, beaming. She fished around for some coins. “It’ll go on my mantelpiece. Place of honor.”

  “Have you read any of Anne Brontë’s books?” I said. “I’ve got one here called Agnes Grey. Would you like to borrow it? Like a library but no overdue fines.”

  “Spot on, Jordan. Glad you’re feeling better. I’ve got some packets of mushroom pasta that only need five minutes to cook. Might suit you.”

  “I’ll pop in later.”

  But there wasn’t any later. I was dressing the window with some new pieces, those cheap copie
s of Arita blue-and-white patterned Japanese porcelain that people collect in vast quantities. Vaguely oriental but not quite the top notch. A man came in and closed the door, and without my really noticing, he put the lock catch down.

  “Miss Lacey?” he said.

  He had once been quite handsome. Tall and slim, brown and ash-gray hair on the longish side, heavy-lidded blue eyes and a carefully engineered smile. His suit was black mohair with a fifties look, shirt from Harvie and Hudson with red designer-striping, shoes from John Lobb bootmakers. But I had the feeling that the tie was off-the-counter M&S. Not all designer shopping.

  I stepped back. “Yes?”

  “Do you have somewhere we could talk?”

  “Do you want to buy something?”

  He smiled but it wasn’t sincere. “Not exactly. I’ve come to warn you to get off my back.”

  Once, I would have immediately phoned James and he would have been on my doorstep, sirens blazing, in a flash five minutes. I wondered whether to dial 999. I’d look foolish if it was nothing.

  “Perhaps you’d like to come through to my office,” I said. “I feel sure there has been some mistake.”

  “No mistake. My wife has been to see you here and you have visited my house, Faunstone Hall. No denying that, is there, Miss Lacey? You have been snooping around and I don’t like it.”

  Ah, so this was the wealthy Richard Broughton of banking fame and court-case ignominy.

  “Your wife invited me to her house. There was no intended snooping. When exactly does a look around become a snoop?”

  He didn’t frighten me. All the posh banker’s clothes in the world cut no ice. There was a certain bloating around the eyes that told me he was not fit. “I think you should leave before it gets dark, Mr Broughton. We’ve had several muggings around here recently.”

  “My chauffeur is outside. Wilkes is a formidable chap, ex-army. I doubt if I shall get mugged stepping into my own Daimler.”

  Chauffeur. No one had mentioned a chauffeur before. This was a new character entering the scenario. Casting nebulous. Hero, thug, accomplice, bodyguard? If he had a role, it might be anything.

  We went through to my office. Richard Broughton ignored my Victorian button-back and instead perched on the edge of my desk, taking the higher position of authority. I stayed standing, if he was going to play that game.