Hide and Die (Jordan Lacey Series Book 4) Page 8

  The wind had dropped and for the first time that year, it occurred to me that we might get some summer. An early summer with balmy evenings that drew luminous late-night light and were perfect for wine sipped in gardens. Not that I had a garden or a balcony on which to sip wine. Or anyone to sip with. I should be so lucky. Find me a millionaire. Or someone with a passable pension would do.

  There was some sort of commotion going on behind the stage. And an odd smell coming from the area. Like burning. There was a lot of noise and shouting and clattering feet. I sidled past, head down. I do not like commotions. Commotions and me do not mix, especially not today.

  But it was too late. A girl came flying out, her red dreadlocks swinging round her rouged and distressed face. She caught sight of me and obviously thought I was an A1 sane member of the human race.

  ‘Help! Help!’ she screamed, grabbing my arm. ‘Come with me. You gotta come.’ ‘What? Me?’ I said stupidly.

  ‘Something’s the matter with him,’ she gasped. ‘He’s not breathing.’

  She dragged me round to the back of the stage, my feet stumbling over stamped-on beer cans. Sprawled on the steps was a heap of pink silk and chiffon, legs on silver stilts. I recognized that glorious pink with mounting dread. The bouffant wig had fallen off and rolled away on its own lacquer. His eyes were bulging.

  And it was obvious why Brian was not breathing. The live radio mike had been jammed down his throat. There was a pale area with a lilac ring round his mouth. His last gasp had gone out to the audience. It was how he would have wished to die. On air.

  Eight

  Electrocution. Brian Frazer had been electrocuted. Sizzled with alternating current 220 volts. This strength supply is enough to shock, causes the heart muscles to quiver, reduce its pumping and death follows quickly.

  The electricity had passed in and out of his body from hand, via head to heart to leg. There was that telltale pale area with a lilac ring round his mouth but no other signs of burning.

  The microphone had been a live radio lead. He would not have put it in his own mouth. Someone had tampered with the transformer and jammed it in. In his other hand he clutched what had been a glass of water. Singing jazz can be dry work. The water had spilt and a dark fold of silk was soaking wet.

  The girl in dreadlocks was still screaming. One of the band went to remove the mike.

  ‘Don’t touch,’ I shouted. ‘It’s live. Don’t touch anything.’

  He looked at me in disbelief.

  ‘Turn it off at the mains, you idiot,’ I said, more politely. ‘It’s still live. Do you want to die, too?’

  It was so quiet without the amplification and yet there was background noise everywhere. The crowd were becoming restless, wondering where the music had gone. People were talking on stage, milling about, crowding round the grotesque figure.

  ‘Is he dead?’ The girl was sobering down but shaking. Perhaps she had never seen death before.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ I said, kicking the mike away from his mouth. His jaws were stiff. I knelt down and felt for a pulse. There was none.

  ‘Oughtn’t we to move him?’This was from the leader of the band. They obviously felt the show must go on.

  ‘You can’t move him until the police get here,’ I said. ‘They have to record the scene of the crime. Nothing must be touched or moved. Would you all move away, please.’

  ‘Crime scene?’

  ‘Of course. He has been murdered. He didn’t put the mike down his own throat.’

  I could sense their thoughts. They did not want that kind of publicity and yet any publicity was good in many ways. They hadn’t done anything wrong. This wasn’t their fault. They were innocent musicians caught up in a dreadful tragedy. They began to recover and think about themselves and the group’s image.

  ‘If we just covered him over a bit, could we start playing again? After all, we’ve got our audience to think of. We don’t want all those kids upset and tramping all over the place. We can’t exactly announce that there’s been a murder on stage.’

  The young leader of the band was waxing eloquent. He could see now that he was on to a good thing. But the band kept playing. A touch of the Titanic.

  ‘I’ve got a mobile,’ said the girl. And I hadn’t, being between mobiles. ‘I’ll call the police.’

  ‘All right,’ I said, almost agreeing. ‘You can phone the police. They’ll be here soon enough. There’s several officers around.’

  ‘I’m here now,’ said Detective Inspector James coming up on to the stage with a bound. Time well spent at the gym? He was without his lady companion. But he was too busy to look at me. This was serious. He was down on his knees by the body of Brian Frazer. ‘What happened?’

  Everyone started talking at once. Then he glanced up at me for assistance. He’d never asked me for help before and I savoured the moment. ‘Jordan?’

  ‘He’d been singing with the band. Then he was found with a live radio mike jammed down his throat,’ I said. ‘I think that’s how he died. He’d been singing on the stage right before that. A couple of lively numbers.’

  ‘I heard him,’ said James without comment. He was looking at every aspect of the scene but not touching anything. ‘Move back, please. Don’t touch anything!’

  ‘I imagine he was having a drink of water. No one has said if they saw anything or anyone around. He obviously didn’t push it down his own throat.’

  ‘Nor is a microphone live unless it’s tampered with. There are several ways of doing it. The transformer for a start.’

  DI James was on his phone to CID. He was snapping out orders. Then he switched off his mobile and got to his feet. ‘I want a list of everyone here. No one is to leave. You can cover him with a sheet or something light if you are upset by his appearance. Does anyone know who the man is?’

  Me again. Informant Number One. I nodded. ‘His name is Brian Frazer. He’s the new manager of the Community Shore Theatre. He’s the husband of a current client of mine, Mrs Gill Frazer. That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Husband of your client?’ DI James’ face was a picture. He looked incredulous. It was as if he’d been told by the Chief Constable of West Sussex that Latching was about to be annihilated by an asteroid. ‘Jordan … are you sure?’

  I bristled. ‘I do know my own clients. And I’ve been following him for days.’

  ‘I sometimes wonder about you,’ he groaned. ‘And why has Mrs Frazer employed your services?’

  ‘I never disclose private details of a case,’ I said.

  ‘I suppose it couldn’t be something to do with this fetching outfit,’ he said. He’d spotted the wig, taken in the high heels and mascara.

  ‘This is, I believe, a stage outfit,’ I said, not wanting to say anything before I’d seen Mrs Frazer. Was she going to be upset? I could not work out how much she cared for the man. Poor Brian Frazer. He’d had such fun, singing with the trad band. Perhaps it was not a bad way to go out. I could die listening to my trumpeter. His music would soothe my way into the next world. If there was a way. I was never quite sure.

  ‘Will you stay here, Jordan? See that nothing is touched while I scout round a bit? The men in white with their tape will be here in a few minutes. We’ll need everyone’s fingerprints. Someone obviously fixed the mike. Do you mind?’

  Did I mind? I no longer worked for the West Sussex Police so asking me was in fact an imposition. Yet I could be called upon as a citizen of the realm to assist in a police matter. And as for being asked by DI James to do something … he did not know I would walk burning coals for him.

  ‘What about your lady friend?’ I asked sweetly. I could not resist the dig. ‘Do you want me to look after her as well?’

  He looked at me closely, half-squinting, wondering if I was clairvoyant. ‘My what?’

  ‘Crystal ball,’ I explained.

  ‘She’s gone for a cup of tea at the pier cafe,’ he said.

  ‘Very wise.’

  It was only then that I
noticed he was in his black casual gear. The same gear that he had worn to Cleo’s house-warming party. Black sweatshirt and black jeans. Very jazzish and a night to remember. We had danced on the landing in half-light without speaking. I expect he’d forgotten it.

  Soon James was lost to sight in the crowds, gathering witnesses. I let them put a black stage curtain over Brian Frazer’s body. The leader got the band together and moved them to the far end of the stage. Within minutes they were strumming out their New Orleans jazz, without amplification, to an appreciative roar from the crowd. I think it was called ‘Green Dolphin Street Blues’, a classic.

  Brian Frazer would have loved it. He was still on stage. He was part of the act. They were playing him out. And on the other side, maybe there was another jazz band waiting, rocking the rock, to welcome him home.

  Everyone forgot me. I was stiff with sitting. The police team arrived. Out came the scene of crime tape, the cameras, the fingerprint experts, the medics, the police surgeon, the men in white taking samples of everything. DI James ignored me. I thought I could go home.

  ‘Don’t go,’ he bawled at me. ‘You are an important witness. I shall want a statement.’

  ‘I did not see anything. I merely arrived after the event. I am not a witness and I’m not wasting another two hours at the station making a statement.’

  ‘Now, now, Jordan, that’s not a nice attitude to take. You did find the body.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. The girl with the long red dreadlocks found the body. I don’t know who she is. Part of the group.’

  ‘She says she didn’t. She says it was you.’

  ‘So who are you going to believe? Me or Miss Airhead? I only went up on to the stage because she was screaming fit to burst a blood vessel.’

  ‘You told them to turn off the mains.’

  ‘Of course I did. They would have touched the body and got a shock. We didn’t want a mass electrocution of the entire band however sub-standard their performance.’

  James had withdrawn into his usual grim ice-palace attitude, drawbridge up and bolted. Humour did not reach him. I suppose it was the second violent death in Latching in a short space of time. There was the diver/fisherman trawled up from the seabed. And the bloodied shirt. Now this. Nothing was safe. Even hobbies were lethal. You could get stabbed with a knitting needle.

  ‘I’d like to pop home first and then I’ll come around to the station, if that’s all right with you?’ I said this in my most innocent, pleasant, cooperative voice. But James was barely listening. He nodded, making notes. DS Evans would not have been taken in.

  I was not going straight home. I was going round to Gill Frazer’s colourless home, number three St Michael’s Road. Her initial reaction was important and I wanted to see it. She’d been acquitted of the two manslaughter charges but only through lack of evidence. It was not a nice thought. I felt she was quite capable of unscrewing a microphone and crossing the wires of a transformer if that’s how it was done. I’m not an expert on electrocution.

  It was a long walk even taking short cuts and I was out of breath by the time I got there. My asthma wheezed, protesting at the pace. My feet hurt.

  The garden was still as cheerless as the house. You would have thought they could afford a few spring bedding plants, say tulips. Instant gardening. My favourite outdoor pursuit. I once had two window boxes but they fell down. Nobody sued.

  I knocked and rang. It was some time before anyone answered the chimes although I was aware that someone was moving about indoors. Gill Frazer eventually opened the door. She was in her taupe suit, the one she’d worn when she first came to see me.

  ‘Sorry, I was in the bathroom.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ I said. ‘We all have to go.’

  She looked momentarily shocked. Perhaps it had never occurred to her. It brings people down to size. The Queen, Tony Blair, Madonna.

  ‘May I come in?’

  ‘I’ve just been shopping.’

  I went into the hallway, not a carrier bag in sight. It had been a mini-shop, maybe a few safety pins or a bargain roll of Sellotape. I was in a prickly mood. Brian Frazer’s death had affected me. It seemed so unfair. He had not been doing any harm, except to the nation’s eardrums.

  ‘Have you seen your husband this afternoon?’ I asked.

  She shook her head. ‘No. He went out, not long after lunch.’

  ‘Did he say where he was going?’

  ‘No. I assumed he was going to the theatre. A matinee or something. He never tells me anything.’

  ‘He never said anything about going to the jazz concert in Falmer Gardens?’

  ‘Heavens, no. He doesn’t even like jazz music. He’d never go to a concert. Falmer Gardens … that’s down near the seafront, isn’t it? Where all the down-and-outs and winos hang about. Not Brian’s scene at all.’ She bustled around, moving things, not exactly achieving anything. I had the feeling she wanted me to leave but I was not going. No offer of coffee this time. Perhaps they had run out of instant.

  ‘Would you like to sit down, Mrs Frazer? I have some bad news for you.’

  I was not exactly sure of the legal position on this. There’s nothing that says that only the police had the right to inform next of kin of a death. Take a volcanic eruption or earthquake. Surely then all sorts of categories of people rush about with information on fatalities.

  She sat down, arranging her skirt. She was quite composed. ‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’

  ‘I have to tell you that your husband, Brian Frazer, died this afternoon. It was a bizarre accident involving a live radio mike. I expect the police will be around to see you soon. They’ll need to ask a few questions.’

  ‘Dead? Are you sure?’ She said this in a strange, stiffled voice. It was weird. ‘This afternoon, you say?’

  ‘Yes, I am quite sure. I saw him myself.’

  ‘And he’s dead?’

  ‘I’m so sorry. Yes, he is.’

  ‘At the theatre?’

  ‘No, at Falmer Gardens. He was at the jazz concert.’

  ‘But he doesn’t like jazz.’

  ‘He was there.’

  I waited for her reaction to his death. There was absolutely none. I could have been telling her that Guilbert’s store had closed, or that a neighbour had moved. She unbuttoned her jacket without fumbling. The toning taupe shirt was wrinkled and not tucked into her skirt. One of the buttons was hanging by a thread.

  ‘Oh dear, what will the theatre do? They’ll have to get a new manager now, won’t they? Though I suppose Maggie can run it for a few weeks. Then they’ll have to advertise, won’t they?’

  It’s wrong to judge people too harshly. Maybe she was in delayed shock. It happens. I’d seen it many times in my WPC days. People carry on, making cups of tea, talking naturally until the truth hits them. Until the reality comes home and shock sets in. It is not a pleasant sight.

  ‘Would you like me to stay until the police come?’

  She looked surprised. ‘No, thank you. There’s no need. And of course, I shall not be needing your services any longer. You can send me your final bill and a report.’

  ‘I certainly have a report to give you,’ I said, rising. ‘A very interesting one. It will reassure you in many ways about what Brian was doing.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s all I need. Some reassurance that there was a reason, I suppose.’

  ‘Again, I really am very sorry.’

  She was showing me to the door before I had even finished talking. I was out before I had drawn another breath. The door closed on me. Was she going to sob her heart out, take Valium, pour out a double gin? I had no idea of her reaction.

  Nothing prepared me for what happened next.

  I was halfway down St Michael’s Road when I suddenly heard a piercing scream. My spine chilled at the harrowing sound. It was demonic, not of this world. I had no doubt it was Gill Frazer but I was not going back to help her. She could scream the house down. And probably would.

 
; This was one for DI James.

  *

  Maggie was in tears when I turned up that evening for an adult film. Tom Cruise on track. Action man. Could that boy run down a straight street. Legs in motion.

  ‘Mr Frazer was such a nice man,’ she sobbed. ‘It’s awful. And to be murdered in Falmer Gardens, of all places. All those lovely flowers. Who would do that? Some awful tramp on beer or drugs, I suppose. The management have said we have got to carry on, but the theatre will be closed on the day of the funeral. OK?’

  I nodded sympathetically. At least someone was showing the proper respect. She did not seem to know the actual details of death and it was not up to me to tell her. The Latching Gazette would carry the official version.

  I patted her arm. ‘I really am very sorry. I never actually knew Brian Frazer but everyone seemed to like him.’

  I had only been following him for several weeks, dogged his steps, copied his swaying walk, a shadow on his path, admired wedding dresses alongside him, yet I did not know him. Yet I did seem to know him. There was some sort of acquaintanceship.

  ‘Shall I do the same as usual, tickets and ices?’ I asked. Maggie seemed incapable of deciding what to do. She really had liked Brian Frazer.

  She nodded vaguely, mopping her eyes. ‘Carry on, Jordan. I know I can leave it to you to know the routine. I’d better fix my eyes before the customers arrive.’

  I ate a choc ice in the ladies’ loo. I’d forgotten to eat again. Murder does take away the appetite. Shopping list: anything organic that Doris has on her shelves. Caviar, mussels, Brie, avocados.

  The cinema-goers started to arrive. All seats were booked in advance so I had to tear tickets, show them to their seats. I did this with flair and style. It was the expensive skirt. I hoped they had a lovely evening. I often wished I had someone to go to the cinema with. Sitting in the dark with DI James by my side would blow my mind. I could not imagine the joy, the closeness, the togetherness. He might even hold my hand, stroke my fingers. I did not know if he liked films.

  ‘Jordan! My dear, I didn’t realize you were working here.’ The voice was familiar. It was Francis Guilbert, the owner of the biggest department store in Latching. He looked older but as always, debonair and dapper in well-pressed fawn trousers and a navy blazer. I smiled at him in the fading darkness.