Ring and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 6) Page 5

  “What about your alarm system?”

  “Yes, of course, it’s a very good system but it didn’t go off. Not a single bell. It must have been tampered with or turned off. Whatever happened, I slept right through it. I didn’t discover the loss until I went to feed my lot. For a start, a couple of puppies were playing in the yard and the door to the kennel was swinging open. I knew at once that someone had got in. It was my worst fear.”

  She looked so stricken by the loss of her puppies that I was shocked into vigilance. I assured her that the puppies were being well treated. They were a valuable commodity, to be sold on for top money. No one would harm them.

  But Mrs Gregson was suffering. She got up and filled a kettle with water, a little unsteadily. I was pleased that tea was on its way. I was still afloat with St Clement’s, having called in at several country pubs on my way back to Latching, hoping to see a blue Mondeo. I could be getting a reputation.

  As I was leaving, I gave Mrs Gregson a glimmer of hope. “I do have a lead,” I said. “That’s not a joke. I’ve been told of someone who sells dogs in pubs. Maybe he steals them in the first place, steals to order, I don’t know.”

  Mrs Gregson looked even more upset. “Please be careful. Miss Lacey. In pubs, of all places. He doesn’t sound a very nice person.”

  “Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.” They were bold words and I didn’t believe them. I’d got into enough trouble in my time. Sometimes, DI James came and rescued me, sometimes, I got out of the situation myself. Some of the events were big, some small. I was a victim of my own circumstances.

  I walked back to the shop. It was a dry, bright day but bitterly cold. The north-easterly wind attacked my teeth. I had to suck in my mouth to dull the ache. The farmers liked a hard winter but it was the devil to live through. One of the shops had a thermometer in the window. The needle was in the blue zone. It was below freezing.

  Someone had left a bulging carrier bag on my doorstep. Did they think I was a charity shop? It didn’t look like a bomb but did any of us know what a bomb would look like? I imagined wires sticking out and a ticking clock.

  Still, I was careful. I skirted the bag and let myself into the shop. Shreds of yesterday’s heat clung to the inside. The red light flickered on my answerphone. I pressed replay. It was DI James.

  “Watch out, Jordan, when you’re driving your ladybird,” said the message. “Latching is being hit by staged car crashes. It’s an insurance fraud.”

  The machine clicked off. I almost played it again so that I could listen to his voice, deep, masculine, that faint accent. It was stupid, idiotic. I was trying to get over him. Wasn’t I?

  He had thrown my thoughts off kilter. I could barely remember why I was in the back of the shop. Ah, a broom.

  My attention went back to the carrier bag on my doorstep. This time, I took a broom with me and poked the outside gently. It seemed to give a little but was packed stiff with the size of the contents. The tied knot was straining and I caught a glimpse of pale material. Do they wrap bombs? I gave up being careful.

  The bag was large and bulky. It weighed more than I expected. I untied the knot and the bag fell open with relief and spilled out a tumescence of gossamer-white material, yellowed with age on the folds. There were yards of the stuff. I held it up. It was a high-waisted chemise-dress, so old it almost fell apart. The breast-high girdle was of plaited primrose silk. The neckline was trimmed with lace and the train was decorated with a hem of artificial spring flowers. It was delicate, ethereal, unbelievable.

  “Wow!” I said, putting it on a hanger.

  I did not know what to do with it. My six-pound price label would be ludicrous. Anyway, I did not want to sell the dress. My own taste ran to jeans and T-shirts, but I could appreciate perfection in feminine apparel when I saw it. Leroy Anderson would like it. She would look a million dollars, wearing that gown.

  The dress needed a date. I locked up the shop and cycled to the library, padlocking my bike on to the railings. People stole bikes these days. Once inside. I combed through an encyclopedia of fashion, looking for this dress. I found something very similar, printed in Journal des Dames 1799. It was French made and over two hundred years old. The model had her hair done a la coiffure hollandaise. Whatever that was. I thought it was a sauce.

  Why put such a dress on my doorstep? Was it some sort of message? People had done stranger things.

  And I was still worried about Dick Mann. I was only employed to find out about missing fishing rods, not missing anglers. It was none of my business. No one was paying me. But it wouldn’t hurt to ask at the hospital where he worked.

  Latching Hospital is now a vast place, built on and built on again in different architectural styles. I skipped reception and went straight to personnel. I used to have a friendly contact who worked there but she had moved on. I was stuck with trying to find rapport with new people.

  “I’m enquiring about Dick Mann,” I said. “He’s a friend of mine.” I tried to imply more than a friend but it was difficult remembering the ruddy face and green fleece. “Is he here? Did he come in to work today?”

  A superior sort of supervisor came round to see me. She was strait-laced and imposing. They did still employ dragons. “Why do you want to know?” she asked.

  I did a sort of wobbly, as if I was intimidated. This woman was straight from a school of witches.

  “Er… we had arranged to meet yesterday and he didn’t turn up. I’d like to talk to him.”

  “His private life is none of our business,” she said, clearing her throat. “So he didn’t turn up? That’s between you and him and nothing to do with us. Please leave and don’t come back.”

  “I only want to know if he came to work.”

  “We’re far too busy for this sort of enquiry. If you don’t go, I shall be forced to call security.”

  I wished I had a police badge to flash at her. I also stretched my mind for a scathing retort, but nothing surfaced. “Okay, I’m going,” I said.

  I made a note of the name on the shiny badge fixed to her lapel, NINA DEODAR. I’d remember that name. Nein Deodorant. Not a nice lady. No sweetness and light. An NHS monster.

  But as I left the personnel office, a normal-type person passed me in the outer corridor. She was carrying a stack of patient files and had a pleasant round face.

  “Dick Mann left last week,” she said in a low voice. “He gave in his notice. Such a shame. Everyone liked him.”

  “Why did he leave?” I asked swiftly. “Do you know why?”

  “I think someone made his life a misery.”

  I was left to guess who. It would be easy to put the blame on to the formidable Ms Deodar but there was no real evidence.

  “Have you any idea where he lives?”

  “An old cottage off North Mill Lane. He’s doing it up.”

  “Thanks,” I said, but the woman had already gone back to the lion’s den. I hope she didn’t get eaten.

  *

  Maeve’s Cafe was almost empty. I had a choice of tables but took my favorite by the window, facing the sea. The water was gray, rising in angry surges, pounding the shingle into submission. It didn’t like a north-easterly any more than we did.

  “How did you enjoy the dance, Jordan?” said Mavis, coming over with a mug of tea for me, weak, with honey. “Didn’t see you on the floor much.”

  “Shortage of partners,” I said. “You and Doris had first pickings.”

  “Don’t try to hoodwink me. I saw you dancing with our dishy DI James. Don’t tell me you didn’t plan that one in advance. I love a man in a black shirt.”

  “It was not planned,” I said through gritted teeth. “I didn’t know he would be there. Don’t put me through another third degree, Mavis. Your boyfriend wasn’t very polite to me.”

  Mavis drew up a chair. I hoped she didn’t have something frying out back that was going to set off the smoke alarm.

  “I’m sorry about that. Jordan. He doesn’t like you or an
yone who sniffs of the police or authority. I’m not sure why. He hasn’t told me. Perhaps it’s to do with fish quotas. I’ve never seen him like that before. He’s a real teddy bear, most of the time.” Her face softened as she thought of the times. Her hair was a strawberry blonde this winter.

  “Bears can be savage and vicious. Never trust a teddy bear."

  “He’ll be all right once he gets used to you,” Mavis promised. “You must come round one evening. I’ll get him to bring a friend for you.”

  I went hot and cold with the implications that flooded my mind. It did not bear thinking about. There, Mavis had got me thinking about bears now.

  “So why doesn’t he like authority?”

  “All the fishermen are uptight about the fishing quotas, the foreign trawlers, inspectors turning up and counting the catch. It’s not fair. They are only trying to earn a living. They can’t measure every little fish that is stupid enough to get caught in a net.”

  “Do I look like a ministry inspector?” I said, sipping the hot tea. “Fish coming out of my ears?”

  “How does he know who you are working for? You could be spying for the Fisheries Board or whatever they are called.”

  “I don’t fancy sitting on the beach in this weather, waiting for his boat to come in, to count the catch. You can tell Bruno that I admire him going out in all weathers. They are a tough bunch.”

  “He is tough,” said Mavis with a broad wink. “In a certain department.”

  I didn’t ask. It was always best to pretend to understand. Mavis had a colorful love life and I preferred to spectate from the sidelines.

  “I’ve some lovely skate.” she went on. “Would you like a nice piece for your lunch? Grilled, battered or breadcrumbs?”

  “Grilled, please. Mavis. Thank you.”

  “Can’t have you so skinny. You’ve lost weight.”

  “I forget to eat.”

  “That’s your excuse.”

  Mavis went back to cook the skate, leaving me to contemplate the wind tossing the sea, the palm trees swaying and the stray walkers battling against the force, overcoats Happing.

  There were several old laborers’ cottages along North Mill Lane but I knew no one who lived in them. Door-knocking time. Unless I spotted Dick Mann’s fishing gear, tidily stored in some outhouse. But would I spot the owner? Would he be there at all?

  I tried to put such thoughts out of my mind as the skate arrived with that delicious smell of perfectly fresh fish. I did not ask if Bruno had caught it. My fork went into the succulent thick flesh of the fish and hooked out a mouthful. It was perfect. I nodded my thanks to Mavis who was watching my reaction. She was well pleased and went back to serving some other customers who had taken refuge from the bitter wind.

  It was a long time since I had eaten. I never kept to normal mealtimes but grazed as required. It suited my lifestyle. I could hardly break off a surveillance to go and have my tea.

  DI James did not come in. We often met in Maeve’s Cafe, shared a table, argued over a few points. But today, he was elsewhere. He’d said something about car crashes. Perhaps there had been another one on the road to Brighton.

  My two cases seemed insoluble. How could I find four little dogs, halfway to Amsterdam? And who had been nicking the fishing rods? There was nothing to get my teeth into, except this gourmet fish from the Channel. Poor skate. It had once been flapping about so happily at the bottom of the sea.

  I paid for my lunch, promised to pop in again, went back to the shop to pick up the ladybird, which I always parked in the back yard. North Mill Lane was some distance north. Not exactly after-lunch walking.

  The wintery sky was gray with scudding clouds, every wisp of gray taking on the shape of a witch. An NHS witch? It was pretty unnerving. I moved on to the main road, wished I had a car radio, wanting to listen to some soul jazz.

  There was a lot of traffic about. I often wondered where everyone was going, waisting all this fuel, polluting the atmosphere. Why didn’t they stay at home?

  I am a careful driver. I spend a lot of time looking in the wing mirror and the overhead mirror. After a few minutes, it occured to me that I was being followed. As I slowed down to a crawl, as if looking for a road name, the car behind me also slowed down. It was a green Vauxhall driven by a man wearing a woolly hat. A woman passenger sat beside him. My brain recited the registration number. It was an old habit. I slowed down to make a left turn off the roundabout towards the back of Latching. North Mill Lane was somewhere near the ancient windmill.

  As I turned, the Vauxhall accelerated and overtook me. Then, for absolutely no reason, the Vauxhall braked and I went straight into the back of him with a shattering crunch.

  I was flung against my seat belt as I jammed on my brakes.

  “Hells bells!” I groaned against the steering wheel. My breath was ruptured, banged out of me. All thought was for my beloved ladybird. She was too old for much in the way of repairs.

  I got out and staggered round to the front. The Vauxhall was hard against the bumper of the ladybird. Both the driver and passenger looked stunned.

  “What the hell were you doing, accelerating when you could see I was slowing down to make a left turn!” I shouted at the window.

  He let the window down. “You were going too fast, you stupid woman.”

  “You braked suddenly, right in front of me,” I fumed.

  “No way, I never braked.”

  I inspected the damage to my car. It was only the bumper. I could live with a dented bumper. Some mechanic must owe me a favor somewhere. It could be straightened out.

  The Vauxhall must have been made of softer metal. There was much more damage and broken rear lights. The woman passenger was groaning. I went round to the side door and opened it.

  “Don’t move,” I said. “I’ll call for an ambulance. You may have hurt yourself.”

  “I want to go home,” she moaned.

  “I think a doctor ought to see you,” I said. “Take some deep breaths and try to relax. Where does it hurt?”

  “My neck, my neck…” she sobbed.

  The man had got out and was writing down my registration number on a piece of paper. “What’s your name and address and the name of your insurance company? It was your fault. You crashed right into me.”

  Alarm bells rang. I made sure my hair was tucked away under a hat.

  “No, I did not, it was not my fault,” I said firmly. “But your passenger is injured. First things first. How about calling for an ambulance?”

  Other cars slowed down to view the accident. It really annoyed me. This was not a side show. “Want any help?” someone called out.

  “You could be a witness,” the man called back.

  “Didn’t see anything, mate,” said the other driver, moving on with fast acceleration.

  I went to fetch my mobile phone from the front seat. The irate driver followed me. I noticed he was limping. “You’re not getting away,” he shouted. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m phoning for an ambulance for your passenger. She’s hurt. Keep your hair on. I’m not going anywhere. And by the way, your brake lights were not working.”

  I made two calls. The first to 999 for an ambulance. The second call went straight through to James’s mobile. He answered abruptly.

  “I’ve had a crash in very odd circumstances,” I said in a low voice. “By the roundabout that leads to North Mill Lane. I’ve phoned for an ambulance. Are you interested?”

  “Be with you right away, Jordan. Try to keep them talking.”

  “I wonder if he’s interested in fishing.”

  Six

  He said his name was Derek Brook but he did not seem sure. It was as if he was trying to remember who he was. It had happened to me many times when I was on surveillance, being someone else, then forgetting who I was. But maybe it was the shock of the crash.

  The woman was leaning back against the headrest, still moaning. Perhaps she had hurt her neck. It was difficult to judge wit
hout a medical examination. Maybe this was not one of those suspicious insurance scams. If it was a genuine accident, then I was going to lose my no-claims bonus.

  An ambulance arrived, lights flashing, and the paramedics jumped out. They had a neck brace on the woman passenger in minutes. The car driver was sitting on the side of the road, saying he had a pain in his chest. Both paramedics knelt at his side. The light was fading and the scene turned gray. “What’s your name? Where does it hurt?”

  “Brook, Derek Brook. Here, my chest. Ouch.”

  I was confused. It looked like a real accident with genuine casualties. It had the hallmarks of a staged car crash, but now they were convincing me that they had been injured. I wished DI James would arrive. He would sort them out.

  They were both being helped into the ambulance. The woman wanted her handbag from the car and I fetched it for her. It was the least I could do.

  “How about you, miss?” one of the paramedics asked me.

  “Oh, I’m all right,” I said. “I wasn’t going fast. They braked for some reason. Just a few bruises. I expect.” My chest was beginning to feel tender. I hoped it wasn’t a cracked rib. They could hurt for weeks, as I well knew.

  “Perhaps you ought to come along and be checked out,” he suggested.

  “No, thank you. I’ll go along to my own doctor,” I said. I nodded towards the ambulance. “I don’t want to travel with them. Not my favorite people.”

  “Okay. Go and have a strong cup of tea, plenty of sugar. By the looks of you, you need it.”

  “Thanks.”

  They closed the back doors of the ambulance, got into their seats and drove off, leaving me by the side of the road, feeling isolated and miserable. I patted the ladybird in a vague way, not quite sure if she needed consoling. I echoed the woman’s words in my head: “I want to go home.”

  DI James had parked his car away from the roundabout and was striding towards me, parka jacket fastened to the neck. If he was concerned for my well-being, he was keeping it under cover. His blue eyes were glinting, taking in the details. “You’ve just missed them,” I fumed.