Jazz and Die (21 page)

Candle grease? It might work. I had no idea and nothing else. I lit the candle and mixed toothpaste and candle grease together on the working top with the toothbrush handle.

I cut the duct tape carefully into four pieces and fixed the top of each letter high up on the window. Then I used my home-made glue to attach various parts of the letters so that one word was spelled out across the window pane.

There was some glue left over so I glued each sock on to the bedroom window and with my mascara drew in the dot underneath in the form of an exclamation mark.

People in plane crashes had done this. People marooned on the top of snowy mountains. They had found something … pebbles, sand, wood, boulders, anything, to spell out the word that was universal. SOS.

HELP!! said my window message.

It had been exhausting. What else could I do? Ninety-nine per cent of the sunburnt population of Latching would think it was a joke. There was only one person in the world who would take it seriously and I had no idea where he was.

James was working. A motorbike with blood on it? It could be a ruse.

T
here was only one more thing I could do with what was left of my home-made glue. I poked some of the stuff into the keyhole of the front door with the handle of the toothbrush, as Cody had filled my keyhole with Blu-Tack. Maybe it would slow him down if or when he came back.

I took my one and only lipstick and wrote
Help
on the kitchen window in large raspberry-coloured letters. Then added
Call 999
underneath. But I had little hope of anyone seeing it. No one had walked past on the walkway all day.

There was nowhere to sit. I didn’t want to stand for hours, watching the birdmen. My appetite for spectacle had gone. I propped myself against a wall and wrapped the fleece round my legs. They were still aching. I might have to wait a long time.

How long could a person survive without food or water? I didn’t know. I had unlimited water so that gave me a few days. Roger might be planning to leave me here to rot. I’d heard of plane survivors eating strange things like wood and grass and berries. There was nothing here except the revolting carpet. If I was vigilant, I might catch a spider or two. You can live on insects. They contain protein.

I tried the light switches but the electricity had been cut off. No chance of flashing them on and off once it got dark. Some idiots would think it was a private disco party and walk on by.

I might eat the left-over bits of T-shirt material. Cotton must be edible. It’s a plant after all. Then I could chew on my rucksack
even if it ruined my teeth. I could still clean my teeth. That was an encouraging and hygienic thought.

Two discoveries cheered me up immensely. I found some paper lining the bedroom drawers. They smelt of mothballs but paper is edible. Spies swallowed secret messages in films, and lovers chewed up illicit letters. In the fitted wardrobe I found a dry cleaner’s wire hanger. This could be a weapon of sorts.

It took me some time to untwist the wire and bend it into a holdable blade shape with a double hook on the end. Not exactly lethal but it might inflict some nasty damage if I aimed the hook at his face.

The cheering from the beach had died down. It was all over. People were packing up to go home. Whoever had won was going to celebrate at the nearest pub and have his photo taken for the local paper, waving the cheque.

Soon no one would be able to see my message in the window. I began walking up and down, shining the torch behind the letters. Someone might notice this erratic behaviour and report it.

I drank more water, ignoring the hunger. Chewing the paper would start at dawn tomorrow. The mothball taste might have evaporated.

It was growing dark. The streets lights had come on and the string of swinging fairy lights that were strung between each lamp post. Kids were throwing stones at them. Flags were flapping from a south-westerly direction. The nightclub was festooned with blinking on-and-off lights. My torch was poor competition and the beam was getting weaker.

The candle would not last long either and I had no way of carrying it, or protecting the flame. I contrived a candle holder with the toothpaste lid, screwdriver and rags. It was the best I could do.

I paced the HELP circuit till the flame gutted and hot wax fell on the T-shirt rags protecting my hand. No more light. The only light came up from the yellow street lamps. There was nothing I could burn. No books (sorry, all you striving authors), no junk mail, no bills.

A few hours’ sleep would help restore my energy, with my rucksack as a pillow, fleece as shoulder warmth, carpet as a mattress. It was more soothing when the colour was lost in the gloom. I dozed off, ignoring the hunger.

A series of loud bangs woke me up. It sounded like some sort of manual work going on. I peered through the balcony window. Several lorries were lined up in the street, unloading fresh goods for the supermarket below, huge containers being trundled inside on wheels.

I waved frantically but who was going to look up when they had limited parking time and several tons of stuff to unload? I banged on the window but they were making more noise than I was.

It was barely dawn. I could only guess the time, somewhere between six and seven o’clock. The sky was streaked with layers of light creeping over the horizon. It was beautiful, as always. Maybe I could catch another hour of sleep. I looked forward to breakfast. A paper sandwich and cold water flavoured with rust.

Another series of loud bangs woke me. Someone was trying to get in. The front door was shaking. I crawled under my web trap of cross-hatched window cord and into the bedroom and shut myself into the fitted wardrobe, my wire clothes hanger weapon at the ready.

I was trembling; tried to freeze my limbs or the sound would give me away. But if he got in and found me, I was ready to put up a fight. The hooked ends would cause some damage. Might even take an eye out: a nasty thought but I would fight for my life.

I heard the front door give way and come crashing in. Then I heard muffled oaths as my spider’s web of window cord and shower curtain slowed down whoever was coming in. Footsteps stomped into the flat. It was more than only Roger Cody. Had he brought along some of his mates to deal with me?

I held my breath, hoping they would think I had fled, got out somehow. Then the wardrobe door was flung open and I
launched myself at the intruder. He was masked and helmeted, like something from Spiderman, but I clawed at him just the same, ripping the fabric.

‘Hold on, miss. Calm down. Police. We’re friends.’

I did not know the voice. I did not believe him for one instant. Launch number two was a panic attack. If I could get out of the flat, I could run along the walkway, jump over the wall and into the car park, get lost in the multi-storey, then hide behind some 4x4 till the owner arrived and could drive me away.

It seemed a good plan at the time. But I missed my chance.

Two men were holding me, firmly but gently, prising the coat hanger from my stiffened fingers. I then recognized the navy flak jackets, the helmets, the goggles, and the array of gadgets strung along their belts. Their battering ram lay on the floor.

‘Are you the police?’ I gasped. ‘Have you rescued me? I was being held prisoner. A hostage. I must get out before he kills me.’

‘That’s right, miss. You’re safe now but we want you to come along to the station and make a statement.’

I still didn’t trust them. They could be anybody, dressed up.

‘Who told you I was here?’ Not exactly a fluent question.

There was movement at the door.

‘It was me, Jordan. I was opening up the arcade and happened to glance up towards your new flat. Always like to check where my friends live. Just made out your message, knew it had to be you, that something awful had happened, so I phoned the police.’

It was Jack, unshaven and grinning, the owner of the amusement arcade on the pier. He was beaming with pride. I hugged him, coffee-stained T-shirt and all. Jack, of all people, the owner of the arcade where I had once tackled and captured two robbers. We were quits now.

‘Thank you, thank you,’ I almost sobbed. ‘I thought no one had seen my message. The birdmen and everything.’

‘Cost me a bomb, those birdmen. Hardly a soul playing the machines. Until it got dark. Then business perked up. I’ve brought you some coffee, girl. Thought you might need it.’

It was not a mug of his usual thick brown stewed coffee but
a capped foam beaker from the new take-away cafe that had opened halfway along the pier. Normal cafe coffee taste but it was bliss at this particular moment. Jack offered two packets of sugar and a plastic spoon.

‘Thank you, Jack. I need this drink. Bless you.’ There were tears in my eyes but I tried not to cry.

Jack strolled through the flat looking at everything. ‘Wow, what a place,’ he said. ‘I might move in. Like the carpet.’

The police car took me to Latching police station. I didn’t know these particular officers and they didn’t know me. Jack followed in his posh blue Jaguar. He was quite a wealthy man. People lost a lot of money on the machines.

They took a statement from me not in a normal interview room but a room that had status. The status was a potted plant and a picture of Ye Olde Latching fishermen’s cottages on a wall. The grey plastic chairs had cushioned seats. As they recorded my story, a chunky cheese and tomato sandwich appeared from the cafeteria. I was in heaven, well, almost. My jaws had forgotten how to work.

‘So you are working on the Corfe Castle case in conjunction with DCI James?’ They seemed impressed at my connections.

‘Yes, it was the same man, Roger Cody. The man that they are tracking down for the original Sarah Patel murder, and maybe for two others.’

‘You were very lucky, Miss Lacey. You might have been his next victim.’

‘He said he was going to use me as a hostage. Not sure what he meant. But it didn’t sound nice. It could have been his intention.’

The police photographer took photos of my wrists and ankles though I had to explain that some of the cuts were self-inflicted with my scissors.

Jack had gone back to his amusement arcade on the pier. He had to open up for the holidaymakers anxious to lose their money. He nodded to me from the door before he left and I tried to smile my thanks. I was not very successful. Shock was setting in.

I wanted to lie down and sleep. I was exhausted by all the energy I had spent on getting myself free and booby-trapping the flat. It had taken its toll.

The door of the interview room opened and DCI James came in. The only man I wanted to see. He looked as tired as I felt. His clothes were dishevelled. He hadn’t shaved. It seemed a permanent state these days.

He sat down opposite me and took both my hands, turning them over, looking at the marks on my wrists. The police surgeon had put medicated plasters on my cuts. ‘It’s all my fault. I should never have left you. I should have known that Roger Cody would come after you. I’m so sorry, Jordan.’

‘He said I was a hostage. He was going to bargain me for Maddy.’

‘He put a message on Facebook saying just that. He would exchange you for Maddy Peters. He put a time limit and said then he was going to blow you.’

I didn’t want to know the details.

‘But I’m not on Facebook. I haven’t got the time.’

‘That’s beside the point. He told the world what he wanted. I’m not on Facebook either.’

‘So how did you get the message?’

‘Detecting is a strange process these days. There’s a whole department of experts at Scotland Yard scrolling through Facebook and Twitter and blogs and other social media sites. They have a high level of access. They pick up all sorts of useful things, using a set of coded words. Some people think it’s clever to boast on the net about what they have been up to.’

‘Can I go back to my flat now and have a shower and go to sleep?’

‘It’s not safe. I’m taking you back to my room at the Travelodge. I’m not letting you out of my sight for one minute.’

This was hardly the romantic declaration that I would have liked but it would have to do. He steered me out the back exit of Latching police station, the route usually used when taking prisoners to and from court. I was given a blanket and told to hold it
over my face as prisoners often did.

There was an unmarked car, not James’s Saab, but a dark green Ford Fiesta. He drove to the Travelodge on the seafront and parked outside.

‘You’ll get a parking ticket,’ I said.

‘No, I won’t. The car will be picked up in a few minutes by the owner who kindly loaned it to me.’

I got out. The pavement felt good. A breath of sea air blew across my face. I wanted to walk the pier. I wanted to walk the promenade.

The reception area was not busy and James put his arm round me and shielded my head against his chest. Another hardly romantic manoeuvre. Perhaps the ratings would improve once we got to his room.

James was booked into the last room at the end of a long whitewashed corridor. It was a standard Travelodge bedroom with a duvet-covered double bed and a big settee that would pull out and make another bed. A long polished wood counter housed a hospitality tray and television set and space to write cheques or thank-you letters. A door obviously led to the bathroom. Everything was spotlessly clean and white, with a touch of colour. The duvet and the settee were both cornflower blue.

James drew the long curtains at the tall windows. It was daylight but I had no idea of the time. ‘Shower and sleep,’ he said. ‘No television. If you want a clean T-shirt, take one of mine.’

‘Have you got any bras?’

‘Sorry, Jordan. Quite forgot to pack any.’

I disappeared into the bathroom. It was all I wanted. Practical and plain, no comparison to the Whyte Cliffside Hotel, but the towels were clean and white, the water hot and the soap miniscule but adequate.

When I came out towel-wrapped, James had made mugs of tea. There were two packets of oatmeal biscuits. He had also put out two clean T-shirts, one white, one navy.

‘Thank you,’ I said. I wriggled into the white T-shirt. It was as
big as a mini-dress. Quite suitable for the current circumstances.

‘I’m going to lock you into this room, Jordan. So get some sleep and don’t open the door to anyone except me. I will phone in advance of returning here.’

‘Aren’t you going to stay? You’re a bit short of sleep, aren’t you?’

‘I’ve been following up Roger Cody leads all night. The bike was his. The blood was from Tom Lucas. His wife is all right but in shock. Cody is as slippery as an eel. But I can’t stop now. We’re very near to getting him. And you have been a marvellous help, Jordan.’

‘My message on the window? Brilliant, wasn’t it?’

He nodded and grinned. His face was all I ever wanted to see. ‘Pity you put the E the wrong way round. Otherwise it was perfect.’