Jest and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 5) Read online

‘Don’t be pedantic.’

  ‘My goodness, that’s a big word.’

  ‘Don’t patronize me, Lacey,’ Doris glared. ‘We are both shopkeepers and I send you good customers. When did you ever send me a customer?’

  It was mortifying. Doris and Mavis were my good friends, strange friends in a way. They had known each other since schooldays and now they had a motherly kind of interest in me that I did not deserve. Not at this moment.

  I took one of the bags from Doris. It weighed a ton and was full of baked beans at nine pence a tin. ‘I’m sorry, Doris, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it,’ I said. ‘That was unforgivable of me. A bad day. I’ll do anything. Chalk up a favour from me.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Doris, shifting. ‘What you did for Mavis, when she got beaten up and her cafe robbed, is enough for the moment. Though it could be running out,’ she added, with a warning look.

  ‘I’m taking that on board,’ I said. ‘Let me know when I’m out of sorry street.’ Shopping: boxes of Belgian chocolates. I knew both Doris and Mavis had a sweet tooth.

  Perhaps I ought to throw a party before summer faded into the grim grip of autumn. A barbecue on the beach would be fun in the warm glow of a late summer’s evening. I’d have to check the tide timetable. Ankle deep in swirling waves would dampen the spirit. Bring-a-bottle type of party, although I would not say so. Leave it up to individual generosity. I would invite everyone that I had ever known. All my old cases, if I could remember their names. At least I had files. It would be a riot.

  ‘I’m going to have a party, on the beach, a barbecue, before the summer ends,’ I said, going straight in for the deep end. ‘Can I buy everything from you? You know, sausages, hamburgers, chips, cheese, salad, rolls, fruit, yogurt?’

  Doris changed inflexion on the spot. She loved parties; new dress, new hair, new nail extensions. ‘Of course, give me a list and a date. I hope I’m invited.’

  ‘Guest of honour,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t believe that,’ she said. ‘Fourth on the list maybe, after DI James, DS Evans and the gorgeous Miguel.’

  ‘You’re forgetting that they all work evenings, shifts, restaurant.’

  ‘Not that particular evening, I bet. They’ve got deputies, haven’t they, and they’d make arrangements? Besides, we need men to carry things. Chairs, rugs, the barbecue, the booze.’

  I could not believe what I was contemplating. I was up to my ears in work and here I was, saying I was throwing an impromptu, late-night party on the beach. There might be a hundred turning up. I was out of my mind. Pass me the Prozac.

  ‘What about the invitations?’ Doris went on, streets ahead in the planning stakes. ‘Are you getting them printed?’

  ‘Word of mouth,’ I said, pure chicken. I hated anything remotely secretarial. Keeping my notes up to date was bad enough. Writing invitations, posting them … the thought was enough for a severe attack of writer’s cramp.

  ‘Word of mouth could spread like a bush fire,’ Doris warned. ‘I know you are Latching’s most successful PI, but can you afford this party? It’ll cost a bomb.’

  There was Mr Steel’s retainer, not yet earned and burning a blistering hole in my bank account. If I spent some of it, then I’d have to earn the equivalent. The motivation would be there. Another night up a tree.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you’ll give me a hefty discount for a bulk order.’

  ‘Ahem. Don’t be too sure,’ said Doris, shifting bags again from one arm to another. ‘This isn’t a charity shop.’

  ‘And it’s tiresome to talk about money, to earn money and save money. The only thing to do is spend money.’

  ‘Save me the lecture. Is it soapbox day?’ said Doris. ‘You should have warned me.’

  She unlocked her shop and we went in with her restocking. I put the baked beans down on the counter. The bag was splitting. Doris must have the muscles of a lorry driver. But not with those nails. Today’s extensions were plum coloured.

  ‘So, when may we expect this party of the decade in Latching?’ she went on, unpacking her goods.

  She was a canny shopper. My mother had been the same. So am I, when I have time. I remembered my mother coming home from the shops, her basket laden, her face flushed with triumph. Shoppers used baskets then instead of plastic bags that don’t rot. ‘Jordan,’ she’d say. Her red hair, in those days, had been pulled back with tortoiseshell combs. ‘Look what I’ve got! All these lovely bargains. I’ve saved pounds.’

  I had been a schoolgirl, doing my homework at the kitchen table. Lack of money didn’t mean too much to me then, but now I understood. My parents had not been big earners but they had been so happy together, always smiling at each other, touching hands, kissing. Sometimes I had felt in the way.

  They died together. So that had been right. I don’t think one would have survived without the other a single day.

  ‘Jordan. You’re not listening.’ Doris rapped on the counter. ‘When is this party?’

  ‘Soon, but let me check my diary first. Before the weather breaks, I promise. It’s turning a fraction chilly at night. Autumn is on the way. We’ll catch the last of the summer wine.’

  ‘Cool,’ said Doris. She’d been watching too much Saturday morning television. All those tattooed teenage comperes prancing around.

  *

  That night, up a beech tree at Denbury Court, was no party. I had my own tuna sandwiches and small cartons of blackcurrant juice. I was not going to risk dropping a flask again. A cushion from a sunbed supported my back against the trunk of the tree. At least my clothes were dry. This was an improvement.

  The moon was in the first quarter, a distant magical orb shedding silvery beams across the garden. The leaves rustled in a slight southerly breeze, tiny animals and nocturnal nibbling creatures: noises of the night. Trees swayed, including the one I was in, their leaves tipped with silver. I settled into the folds of the night.

  Samuel Steel knew I was up his tree, although he was so distressed by his wife’s disappearance, I doubted if he was still interested in the damage to his garden. There was no doubt of his devotion to Anne. His face was gaunt and his eyes dulled with lack of sleep. His daughter might be an actress but this man was not.

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’ he’d asked, his mind coming back from some deep, dark hole. ‘Do you want me to stay up and keep watch with you?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I have a camera. I’ll take shots of whatever happens.’

  ‘I’m very grateful,’ he said, his old charm returning for an instant. ‘Take care, Jordan. Don’t fall out of the tree this time. Hold on tight.’

  It was the first time he had used my first name. I smiled back at him. The man had gone through a lot in the last few days. I wanted to help him. I wanted to solve a few problems. Maybe I could find his wife, but that was fraught with black mysteries. Wives disappear for all sorts of reasons, some of which were too awful to contemplate.

  Let’s hope she was living it up on his credit card in the South of France.

  The night was still warm. I concentrated my mind on the coming beach party, whom I would invite and calculating how many sausage rolls to order etc. Beer, wine, a fruity Beaujolais and a chilled Chardonnay, orange juice … I had not won the Lotto so that was the extent of the alcohol on offer.

  List: Sergeant Rawlings and his wife; my gorgeous friend Leroy Anderson; Cleo and her stepfather; Doris and Mavis; both Mrs Edith Drury, intrepid chairman of Latching’s WI, and Mrs Hilary Fenwick, widow of the councillor; and Louis Guilbert, owner of the best store in town, of course (he was my sugar daddy-in-waiting); Jack from the Amusement Arcade; Joshua the amiable sponger … The list grew and grew and was becoming a matchmaking exercise. I did not know that I knew so many people.

  Then there was Bud Morrison, the dishy firefighter; Miguel, the passionate Mexican restaurateur; DI James; DS Evans; Ellen Peach the police diver; and Joe the greengrocer … My mind was spinning. Derek would not get an invitation.
Ed had enough of his violence. No more stones through my shop window, thank you, buster.

  And my jazz trumpeter. There was no way I could possibly invite him. How could I? I did not know where he lived or what he was doing. He appeared, out of the blue, and blew a few notes that captured my heart and held me captive. Jazz. We must play jazz at my party, all his tapes. He had a new CD out but I did not have a copy. Anyone who did not like the music could go home or retreat along the beach with their glass.

  No plastic or polystyrene. Everyone must bring a proper glass-blown glass. I hate parties where the wine is served in plastic. They might as well serve warm water.

  I heard a noise in the distance. It was a vehicle coming up the hill, changing down gear with a whine. I looked at my luminous watch. It was I.30 a.m. What a God-forbidden time. I should be tucked up in my bed, not clinging on to a tree with crumbs down my front.

  I was hearing footsteps on the drive. Then they stopped abruptly.

  If I took photos, I hoped the flash would not light up the tree and blow the whole scenario. The flash might be mistaken for a shooting star, Samuel walking Jack or Russell with a torch, a distant lighthouse, glow-worms.

  Shopping list: check black box container for camera, if available. My shopping lists were getting more and more sophisticated. Tissues were no longer an item.

  My hearing went into an unpleasant disturbance of the pressure in my ear. It felt blocked. Perhaps a nocturnal insect had crawled in.

  Something was happening in the garden. I heard the crunch of a footstep near. My spine went rigid. I had no idea what I should do apart from taking photographs. Confrontation might result in being sprayed with weedicide. Not my regular perfume.

  Six

  It was freeze and wait. The footsteps were crunching along the drive, each step deliberately placed, yet at the same time I felt the owner was trying to minimize the sound. Could it be Anne Steel returning home in the small hours, not wanting a welcome?

  The footsteps lurched off on to the lawn and the sound became muted. I peered through the branches, moving the leaves cautiously. He must be somewhere near, below and to my right. The clouds were casting a shadow across the grass and I saw no one moving. He had cut off and gone round the back of the house.

  Decision time. Climb down and stalk him or wait till he returned, after he had burnt off some other area of the garden? I listened hard, trying to hear some evidence of damage being committed. The only sound was the trees rustling and a far off owl hooting, haunting and melancholy. Then came the anguished cry of a small hunted creature. I shivered. It was getting cold. The night was very still.

  There was the minutest clatter, the lid of something rolling on the patio at the back. I slid down the tree, catching my hair on prickly branches, scratching my hands and face, landing awkwardly on the lawn.

  I trod carefully in soft shoes, trying not to damage a single blade of grass. My breath was almost suspended, just soundless open-mouthed swallows of air which I needed, trying to steady my racing pulse, gathering strength for whatever or whoever I was going to face.

  It was foolhardy, I knew. I only had a camera with me. I could hardly say, with menace: ‘Stand still or I’ll shoot.’ Get a head, girl.

  I saw a shadowy figure among the foliage of the rose garden. The heady scent of the blooms was being disturbed. Petals fluttered to the ground, insubstantial and blending into the moonlight. Someone was tampering with the door lock of the conservatory at the back of the house. There were plants inside, a variety of fronded palms, evergreens and yuccas. Was he going to axe them or spray them?

  The far hills of the South Downs were dark, only dotted by the occasional headlamp of a car taking the downward curves of the road back to Latching. I made no sound. I wanted the reassuring height of Samuel Steel to appear in the doorway. But he was catching up on lost sleep, fuelled by an extra glass or two of whisky.

  The last drops of heat from the day had gone, followed by intense cold. I saw a swift movement as the intruder mastered the door lock and it swung open. As he moved, I moved. I steadied the camera, pressed the flash button, and clicked the shutter release. The noise was like rifle shots. He heard it, spun round on his heel, dropped something, and fled out of the conservatory.

  I ran after him. He was slim, lithe, clothed in black from head to foot. My hand was on my chest as my cracked rib started to protest. He tripped and I was nearly upon him, but he was up again in a flash, legs scrabbling for purchase. I caught a glimpse of black trainers with red flashes. Then he turned and gave me a violent punch in the stomach. I doubled up in pain, rolled over on the grass, earth in my mouth, gasping.

  Somehow I crawled up on to my knees, spitting earth and coughing. I reached out for my camera. It was not damaged. I let the coolness of the night air soothe my airways. He had a head start on me now but his footsteps were no longer controlled. He was sliding over things as if confused by the layout of the garden.

  Suddenly I realized that this was not the garden wrecker. He would not have wanted even a slither of moonlight. He would have wanted the darkness before the new moon.

  A vehicle started up in a burst of acceleration and screeched off down the hill. That sound was familiar but I can’t keep sounds filed. Lights went on in the house and a door opened. I heard a voice calling my name.

  ‘Jordan? What’s going on?’

  I’m over here,’ I wheezed. ‘On the front lawn.’

  An earthworm would not have heard me but I was bathed in moonlight and footsteps hurried over. I could hardly bear to look up.

  Samuel Steel was kneeling beside me. ‘What happened, Jordan? Are you all right?’

  ‘You’ve had an intruder. Not the lawn wrecker, someone else. A burglar, all in black, trying to get inside the house. Unless he was after your indoor plants.’

  He heaved me up on to my feet. ‘Can you walk all right?’

  ‘I can walk. Maybe. Just about.’

  ‘I’ll phone the police.’

  ‘Oh, wonderful.’ My voice lacked conviction. They were the last people I wanted to see.

  ‘Maybe they’ll take some interest in my original complaint now,’ he went on. ‘Someone breaking in … ’

  I did not want to meet DI James or DS Evans. I did not want to see their knowing smiles, endure caustic remarks. Samuel helped me towards the house and indoors and sat me down in the kitchen on a chair. It was a dodgy walk but the kitchen was warm and comforting, the air fragrant with garlic. Hadn’t we done all this once before? It was déjà vu. He was making fresh coffee, getting down the Napoleon brandy bottle.

  ‘I’m sorry that I didn’t get your wrecker,’ I said. I was not going to admit anything about the moon.

  ‘Never mind. If you disturbed a burglar, then your time was well spent. It would have been too horrendous. Anne has some lovely things, especially jewellery. She likes collecting.’

  I nodded. My stomach hurt. It was too low down for another cracked rib. Cracked stomach? I hoped the blow had not ruptured anything vital. Where was one’s spleen exactly? Somewhere against the lowest ribs? Nobody paid a PI for injury time.

  I was starting to feel a degree better. The doctored coffee went down good and hot. My fingers closed round the mug, absorbing the heat. The brandy was physically reviving and soporific at the same time. I was tired and halfway to dropping my head on to the table for a quick snooze.

  But I could hear the sirens coming up the hill again. Those noisy police cars. It was a wonder the bandits did not sue for ear damage. I’d had enough of DI James’s sarcasm and was not in the mood for DS Evan’s overly touchy-touchy concern. I was in Garbo mode. I had come in my own car this time and left it at the bottom of the hill in a leafy lay-by. Time to drive home, have a bath, take a couple of aspirins and call it a night.

  Mr Steel was examining the outside door of the conservatory. ‘It’s definitely been tampered with. There are several marks where he was trying to prise the lock right off the wood. He was probably using a scre
wdriver. Thank goodness you disturbed him. I can’t thank you enough.’

  ‘I’m feeling better now,’ I said, getting up awkwardly, holding my stomach like a pregnant mum. ‘I think I’ll go home. May I use your bathroom before I go? I’d like to clean up.’

  ‘Of course. There’s a guest bathroom upstairs. Second door on the right. Towels in the cupboard.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I moved as quickly as I could. I wanted to be out of the house before the police arrived. This was not a good time to be questioned by anyone. Detective Inspector James could beg me on bended knee and I doubted if he had ever been on bended knee to any woman in his entire life.

  I don’t remember going up the stairs. I held on to the carved oak bannisters and heaved myself up, tread by tread. Blows winding actors on television only seemed to result in temporary indisposition. They were up and acting again in a flash. Let’s hope the producers check their facts. Once in the guest bathroom, I sat on the closed toilet lid, rolled over and groaned. It was a classy bathroom but I was past admiring in-depth colour co-ordination.

  There was no vomiting so that was a good sign. Or was it? I was not bleeding from either end. Not a ruptured liver or kidney. Kidneys were at the back, either side. As the brandy took hold, I was not quite sure where any internal organ was.

  I hung my head over the basin and splashed cold water on my face and neck. The cold water took my mind off the pain, because coldness itself is numbing. Towels in a cupboard. I wished I had a cupboard solely for guest towels. Where had my life gone wrong? I should be married to a man like Samuel Steel, even if he was a butcher. That might have been a problem. I could have become a closet vegetarian.

  It was more comfortable to lie on the floor, curled up in the foetal position. They would find me asleep in the morning, wrapped in a mountain of guest towels. I wondered what was going on downstairs. Doors opened and closed, footsteps went back and forth. Voices hung on the air. I would wait until it quietened down and then slip out by a different door. There must be several outside doors. Note: always check exits.