Turn and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 7) Page 5

  “No doubt my wife has told you that she tried to have me killed,” he said.

  I wanted to say what a pity she didn’t succeed, but that was hardly ethical.

  “Holly told me that she had been found not guilty of trying to have you killed. Hardly the same thing. It was all circumstantial evidence, which the court threw out.”

  “My wife is a consummate actress, Miss Lacey. The fluttering eyelashes, the flick of blonde hair, the tears welling in her eyes. She doesn’t have to say a word.” He took out a silver cigarette case and opened it. His fingers were stained with nicotine. “May I?”

  “No, sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “Asthma smoke-free zone.” A tiny suspicion entered my thoughts. I hadn’t seen an ashtray anywhere in Faunstone Hall. Odd. It wouldn’t hurt to hear his story. I got myself a glass of water from the tap outside. I was damned if I was going to make coffee.

  “Perhaps you’d like to tell me your side of the story,” I added.

  He settled himself further back on my desk. I decided to sit down. It didn’t matter who held the higher position now. “Holly and I met when she was working as a temp at my city bank. She was gorgeous as well as being a good secretary and I fell for her straight away. It was love at first sight.”

  So far, same story.

  “She was already going out with some guy, but she dropped him when she realized I was interested.”

  Holly hadn’t mentioned another suitor, or was that the poet? But no doubt she had dozens in the wings.

  “We got married after a whirlwind romance and for a time we were very happy. We bought Faunstone Hall and Holly enjoyed changing things and furnishing it to her taste. She has… an interesting taste.”

  Same story. But he didn’t like all the pink. “But living in the country soon become irksome for her. I work long hours and couldn’t keep taking her out. I’m too tired and I often bring work home to do.”

  I remembered his study and the array of computer equipment, filing cabinets and bookshelves. He probably did bring work home and was too tired to go out. True again.

  “So Holly found company and amusement elsewhere. She always got her own way. She said that if I didn’t take her out, then she’d find someone who would. And she did. Quite a few, I believe.”

  This was new. Holly had not mentioned new escorts or social arrangements. But nor had I asked her.

  “She was lonely,” I said.

  He exploded, his face coloring. “Lots of people are lonely. I’m lonely. You’re lonely. Half the people in the world are lonely. They knit, they read, they walk the dog. They work in a charity shop. They do something – play bridge, go to flower arranging classes. They don’t take dozens of lovers to fill in their time.”

  “Are you sure? Dozens seems rather extreme.” I didn’t know what to say. “Have you proof?”

  “I don’t need proof. I know.”

  This was vitriolic anger. He spat the words out, eyes dangerously narrowed. Reconciliation seemed the last thing he wanted. He wanted revenge, retribution, repayment for all the hurt he’d endured. I didn’t want to listen to a tirade about Holly’s morals.

  “So why, if Holly was getting what she wanted – company and outings and plenty of sex – why should she want to have you murdered?”

  “Money, as simple as that. Not satisfied with the house, a generous allowance, enough men at her back and call, she wanted my fortune. Every penny of it. Without strings, without an inconvenient husband who kept turning up. She wanted to be a wealthy widow.”

  “And how did she organize your murder?” I said, without emotion, very matter-of-fact, as if I was asking about a dinner party.

  “She hired one of her lovers, one who has a dicey past, someone she could blackmail into killing me. They planned a break-in at my London flat. I would wake up, hear a disturbance, go to investigate and get killed. But it didn’t happen like that.”

  “What did happen?”

  “I crept out of my bedroom and saw this man’s shape in the doorway. I hit him on the head with a brass lamp stand. Knocked him out, kicked the knife out of his hand. Going through his pockets I found Holly’s diamond earrings. He knew her. Obviously she had given them to him in part payment. They’re worth a lot. The diamond eyes were blue diamonds, very rare. She had planned it, knew it was going to happen. Satisfied now, Miss Lacey?”

  Totally different story from Holly’s. What were the pair up to? For “pyjamas”, read “burberry overcoat”. For “inside flat”, read “in street outside”. Did he think I was daft? That I was an inexperienced local hack detective whose high spot of the day was serving paternity papers?

  “Did you call the police?” I said.

  “Of course I did. They came straight away.”

  “Then I’m satisfied,” I said. Satisfied that he was a thoroughly unreliable and devious man. “How lucky that you came in to see me or I might have been forced to waste a lot of my time.”

  He was not sure how to take that. He levered himself off my desk, fingering his cigarette case again. The craving was getting to him. I got up, unlocked the shop door and opened it. There was a gleaming maroon Daimler parked outside. I hoped the neighhors were watching. The chauffeur came round and opened the car door. He was immaculate in a navy blazer with gold buttons, dark trousers and chauffeur’s peaked cap. I only caught a glimpse of his profile and jutting jaw.

  “Good day to you, Mr Broughton.”

  He nodded curtly. “Goodbye, Miss Lacey. I hope we don’t have to meet again. Faunstone Hall, please, Wilkes.”

  Five

  The need for a strong coffee sent me straight to the coffee pot. I drank two cups without letting my thoughts simmer down. I did not like what I had seen or heard, nor Richard Broughton’s manner. Handsome, but ruthless. I was not easily scared – at least I never used to be; but I was not sure of my current reaction.

  “No way,” I said aloud to my friendly bubbly percolator. “He doesn’t scare me.”

  Hopefully, DI James’s voice-activated mobile was switched on, so I dialed his number and he answered. It was a surprise. I’d thought it wouldn’t work. He sounded tired. Well, it was the end of the day and it must have been a tiresomely long day for him.

  “DI James,” he said. That faint Scottish accent against a pillow was emotive. There ought to be some kind of protective pill I could take.

  “Is that really you?”

  “Of course, Jordan. I guessed it was you. That tentative dialing.”

  “You can’t dial tentatively. I’ve connected.”

  “You sound scared, girl. Spill it out. What’s happened?”

  “A handsome bully called Richard Broughton came into my office now and tried to warn me off Holly’s case. Holly – that’s his wife. He almost threatened me. He says she’s lying. That she did try to have him bumped off and he can prove it, despite the court deciding she was not guilty. I can understand why she might want to get rid of him because he is a pretty nasty customer even with film-star looks.”

  “But you handled the situation?”

  “I sat down and drank water.”

  “Cool, man.”

  “How come you’re talking so funny?” The phrase sounded odd coming from the austere DI James. “Is it a side effect of your medication?”

  “Some of the younger nurses are trying to get me to join the twenty-first century. It’s their current training project,” said DI James dryly.

  I wanted him here, at my side, giving me physical support and assurance. All I got was a voice. But the voice was alive, not some dead recording, and I sent a million thanks for that to my guardian angel. Detective Inspector James was my ideal man, damn him, even if it was a lost cause.

  “I don’t really want this Broughton case any more. I’m getting bad vibes,” I said nervously. “Stolen hens and rabbits are more to my liking. I reckon the thieves used a horse and cart to get past the electronic gates at Faunstone Hall. The evidence is there.”

  “Horse and cart? So
what? Gardeners need manure to feed their crops,” said James. “It’s normal, could be delivered by horse and cart. Or mushroom compost.”

  “I prefer my theory. How else would someone steal eleven hens and four rabbits, plus hutches and straw?”

  “Hey, Jordan, I can see this is one complicated scenario. Hutches and straw as well? Straw is difficult to trace. Have you got a sample for matching up?”

  I controlled a smart reply. He could take the michael as much as he liked. It was a relief to hear a glimmer of humor in his voice, as if some part of him was coming to life again. That’s what I wanted. The mind first, then the back, then the whole body. It could happen, in any order. I was sure. It would take time.

  “Jordan? Jordan, are you still there? Before you decide anything, do you want to come and talk about the Broughton case? You could fill me in about Faunstone Hall and what you discovered. I’m interested.”

  “Okay. Tomorrow morning. I want to know how I find out if the police answered a 999 call to Richard Broughton’s flat on the night of the attack.”

  “Can you bring me some decent DVDs? I’ve seen most of these at least twice.”

  Shopping: go buy decent DVDs.

  *

  First thing next morning, I braved the commuting traffic, drove to Brighton and bought the best. Classics, modern, musicals. An armful. But no police procedurals. Not a screeching squad car or screaming chase in sight, hump-bumping the steep hills of San Francisco. I went into Cafe Nero for a late breakfast, coffee and warmed croissant. It was very busy with local office staff buying large takeaway cappuccinos. Where had the office kettle and jar of instant gone these days? Did it need a new plug or was it banned because of a Health and Safety edict? Hey, you could burn yourself if you put your hand in front of the steam. Watch that hot mug.

  I was chasing croissant crumbs with a finger when I saw a flick of blonde hair. She was sitting with her back to me, across the other side of the cafe, talking earnestly to a man opposite her. It was Holly Broughton. I recognized the hair, the couture gray-suede gilet, the jangling gold bangles. It was impossible to hear what either of them was saying.

  The man was arguing with her, his face grim and steely. Holly was shaking her head.

  Her shoulders shrugged with exasperation. She got out her mobile and made a call. It seemed to be satisfactory, because then she turned to the man and made several emphatic remarks. He pursed his mouth, looking reluctant.

  Holly opened her Gucci handbag and took out a small flat black-leather box and pushed it across the table.The man took the box and put it into his inside pocket without opening it. He got up abruptly and walked out of the cafe. She sat very still as if exhausted by the encounter.

  I saw him clearly as he left and made a quick mental description. He was not someone that I knew, but I’d certainly know him again. He didn’t have six legs like the Green Man, but he was pale-faced, fortyish with thin eyebrows and hair, not a pigment in skin or hair. He was wearing a raincoat with shoulder flaps.

  I wondered whether to go over to Holly and say hello, Mrs Broughton, surprise, surprise, nice to see you. But it might pay me to stay quiet and follow her. No handy disguise for surveillance, only average scarf and sunglasses. They would have to do, plus slouch and change of walk. I turned in my toes.

  With the scarf twisted tightly over hair and tied round my chin, vaguely Islamic, I followed Holly through the famous Lanes and antique shops of Brighton. She did not seem too steady on her feet, though it could have been the uneven pavement and the high-heeled boots. I was worried about her even though it was early for anyone to have been drinking unless they were an alcoholic. My mind was programmed for the worst. The white-skinned man might have spiked her coffee.

  She was at a bank cash machine, trying to draw out money, but it would not accept her PIN number. She was having trouble getting it right. You only get three tries (I know) and then it swallows your card. Gotcha, dreaded PIN-number criminal.

  In the moment that she staggered and seemed to grab the machine in a kind of faint my attention was diverted. A gang of goths and chavs, current teenage tribes, stampeded the pavement, pushing and shoving, shouting abuse, and I was thrust aside in the melee, stepping back into the gutter. Why do they do this? Why aren’t they at home glued to their play stations?

  The girls were as rough as the boys. Unbelievably wielding bags and phones and water bottles like the best of Boadicea’s legions. They were all school age. It was some kind of school vendetta, very personal. Where was Holly? They must be trampling her into the pavement.

  It was all over in sixty frantic seconds. But when I re-established my feet, Holly had gone. I couldn’t believe it. Had she gone with them, through them, or had she been kidnapped by some other gang? All in broad daylight.

  I picked up my bag of DVDs and rushed into the bank. No Holly inside being pampered by bank manager. She wasn’t inside or outside. Had Scottie beamed her up? My head was starting to ache and I had to give up. She’d disappeared. I made for the hospital, hoping for a bed right next to DI James. That would suit me fine, even if he was unaware of a companion.

  But the sea at Brighton is as mermerizing as at Latching and I was lured first to the wide stretch of promenade. The beach was all pebbles. You might think this sea would be rougher or more vulgar, but it isn’t. The waves were as blue as indigo and as deep as any secret. They washed the pebbles with gentle waves, topped with froth, beckoning the brave. But it was too early for the paddlers and too cold for the nudist bathers.

  The two piers – so different, one a brash, gaudy crowded funfair and vibrant with life, the other a gaunt Edwardian ruin, the rusty ironwork being swallowed and wrecked by the sea. It was there to be painted and photographed, memorabilia for coffee-table books, for future exhibitions. No one remembered walking on it. No one alive, that is. There were plenty of ghosts.

  And the light was so pure, so pellucid. It was if it had been washed overnight. The clarity was almost painful. Shopping: sunglasses, SPF15 sun lotion.

  It was a long trudge to the hospital. I was beginning to forget where I had left my car. Brighton is hemmed with grim, Colditz-style multi-storey car parks ruining the town. Planners have a lot to answer for. Perhaps there’s a special cloud for planners, halfway between heaven and hell, where they can spend eternity trying to find where they have parked their cars.

  DI James had been shaved, bathed, and left watching mindless morning TV. I would have bathed him tenderly.

  “Turn that bloody thing off, Jordan,” he said, eyes glazed. “I need some conversation. Even yours will do, though some of it is not of this planet.”

  “Any more insults and I’ll turn right round and go, carrying home my cache of entertaining, up-to-date DVDs.”

  “You’re wonderful, you’re brilliant. You even have nice eyes.”

  This was decidedly new. I didn’t know if he had ever noticed my eyes. I’m sure he hadn’t, although an observant detective should take in such details. I decided to test him.

  “Okay, big shot,” I said, closing my eyes, and peering at him through my lids, “What color are they?”

  The pause was not too long. He was going through his memory bank. Perhaps minutes are longer than they used to be.

  “Jordan Lacey. Five foot eight inches. Nine stone maybe after a proper meal. Hazel with shots of gold. Funny red hair.”

  I had to give him an A-plus. I forgave him the funny. My heart soared with ridiculous possibilities. It was a mean start. So I was not exactly invisible to James.

  “You can have these for passing the test.” I showered the DVDs on his bed, forgetting that he could not move. His fingers twitched. I scooped them up and read out the titles and racy blurbs.

  “You done good,” he said. More of the nurses’ vocabulary training. It was a step forward into this century. I didn’t care if he spoke Anglo-Saxon or Gaelic. He was looking better. There was color in his skin. Somewhere, lurking, his life blood was returning. Any month now he wou
ld be on his feet, telling me off, striding back into his patrol car, leaving me on the pavement in the pouring rain.

  He pressed his hand buzzer. The nurse came in as if she had been hovering outside the door. He was obviously a favorite patient, and why not?

  “We’d like some coffee, please,” he said.

  I liked the plural. We… It might go to my head, start of dizzy apron-and-duvet fantasy. But I made myself return to earth – polished-floorboard, hospital-type-room earth. James had to be fed the coffee.

  “I’ll do that,” I said, taking the feeder from the nurse.

  “Jordon, no…” It was his protest. His eyes blazed.

  “Shut up. Who saved your life?”

  “Call this a life?”

  “Brother, listen to me: you are going to get back on your feet. Then you can say what you like to me, boss me about, send me back to my bedsits. Meanwhile, I have the upper hand, once in a while. So drink your coffee, James.”

  Those eyes, icy ocean-blue eyes, locked on to mine and for once we connected. It was an electric feeling. James and me. He was unable to move. I was beside him, holding this weird baby-feeding mug, loving him with every shred of my being. It held coffee. It could have held a love potion from ancient Greece. Maybe it would work.

  “Faunstone Hall,” he prompted, forever the DI. “Tell me about it.”

  “I went as an insurance agent, Ruth Grimm. Perfect name, don’t you think? The break-in was a fake. They took nothing of any value, when the house is loaded with silver, porcelain, paintings, let alone the loose jewelery upstairs, kept in a box. And there was a bar loaded with alcohol. Untouched. I don’t know if there’s a safe.”

  “They weren’t disturbed, so they had plenty of time to search the place. Holly Broughton? What did you make of her?”

  This was difficult. My feelings were mixed. I liked her. I was rooting for her. But this morning had shown something else was going on and I did not know what. Where was she now?