She looked around her. A woman sitting in front of the next window, her head as parcelled up as her own, gave her a reassuring smile.
As the minutes ticked away the feeling of being slighted faded. Besides, the view across the yard was getting more interesting and this murder could prove very interesting.
Doherty was standing at the window, his arms braced, hands resting on stone ledges. He was looking down at the yard, raking it from side to side with his eyes, upwards and, more importantly across in her direction.
Much as she adored the guy, she didn’t want him to see her unadorned – without her new hair, or at least with it covered up like a piece of poultry set for oven ready roasting. She slunk lower in her chair, legs splayed out in front of her – lower still when he craned his neck and appeared to notice her.
Unfortunately she hadn’t seen that one of the power cables from the drying monster had tangled around the heel of her shoe. The dryer slid forward, the centre oblong toppling, its bright red element landing on her head.
There was a smell of burning.
‘My hair!’ she shrieked.
‘She’s on fire! She’s on fire,’ screamed the junior who had been allocated to look after her. There was pandemonium.
A woman close by was having her hair blow-dried. She leapt from her chair. Another woman spun round in hers sending a hair stylist toppling and a hair brush flying off into space like a delinquent missile.
The sniffy Ariadne lost her cool for a moment, though she soon regained enough control to tell the hysterical girl to shut up.
Landing in a heap as soon as she was extinguished, Honey felt an instant rapport with a Golden Retriever puppy she’d once seen cowering beneath a shower of well-meant patting.
‘You could sue.’
The suggestion was made by a lady whose waistline was hidden somewhere beneath her ample bosom, her belly sitting comfortably on her thighs.
At the mention of litigation, even the stuck-up Ariadne looked momentarily panic-stricken.
The woman’s eyes glittered at the prospect of an insurance payout.
‘Tallulah. Make some fresh coffee,’ barked Ariadne. At the same time she tossed her head sending the beads of her hair-do rattling like hell stones on a glass roof. ‘Come on, girl. I haven’t got all day. Coffee! Make coffee,’ shouted Ariadne.
Thinking this was Ariadne’s one and only attempt to offer an apology, Honey waved her hand. ‘I’m fine. I don’t want coffee.’
‘It’s not for you. It’s for me,’ snapped Ariadne.
‘Then make it yourself!’ barked Tallulah. ‘My lady here needs my attention.’
Honey smirked. It was nice being referred to as a lady.
‘I could do with some fresh air,’ she said.
Tallulah helped her back into her chair and pushed her closer to the window.
After touching her hair to make sure it wasn’t singed, she took deep breaths.
Tallulah checked where the glowing red heater had landed on her head. ‘Your hair’s OK. The tinfoil protected most of it. There’s only a tiny bit where it got singed. I can cut that out for you.’
‘Will it show?’
‘I shouldn’t think so.’
‘I’m fine with that as long as the carrot colour is gone.’
‘It’s gone. Sorry about the electricity cable. I should have noticed.’
‘So should I.’
‘Can I get you anything?’
‘I’d like a drink of water. Can you manage that?’
Whilst she was gone, Honey leaned forward so she could better see down into Cobblers Court and across the way. There was a good view of the main entrance and of the offices on the floor directly opposite. She could see Doherty speaking to someone before he finally moved out of sight.
Tallulah came back with the water she’d asked for.
‘So how long have you worked here?’ Honey asked.
‘Three months.’ Tallulah began taking out the pieces of tinfoil one by one, laying them in a plastic dish perched on a spindly trolley.
Honey kept her eyes focused on events happening – or not happening – opposite.
‘Are you enjoying it – I mean, do you enjoy those days when the customers’ hair doesn’t catch fire?’
Recognising that her ‘lady’ had a sense of humour, Tallulah managed a hesitant smile. In answer to Honey’s question, she shrugged in that unsure way that teenagers think makes them look grown-up.
‘It’s OK.’
‘First things first,’ said Honey. ‘Get rid of this tinfoil before someone tries to stuff me in the oven.’ She said it laughingly.
Tallulah laughed too.
Honey judged the girl’s confidence was returning. A little focused conversation went a long way.
‘You sound very informed on colouring. Is that what you specialise in?’
‘I do most of the colouring, except when it’s busy, then we all have to do it. Ariadne prefers to stick to styling. Most hairdressers hate colouring. It can be messy and can even go wrong …’
Tell me about it, thought Honey. A quick peek in a mirror to her right indicated that her hair colour was back to normal.
‘Not much of a view,’ she said, changing the subject from hair and incompetent colourists.
‘It’s nice when the weather’s warm. I see visitors come and go all the time over there.’
‘Anyone in particular – famous I mean?’
The teenage shrug again. ‘Nobody I know. I recognise the people that work there, of course. They don’t change that much.’
Honey tuned in to what she was saying. ‘Is this the colourist’s permanent station? I mean; is this always where you colour peoples’ hair?’
Tallulah confirmed that it was.
‘You say you see people come and go across the way. Do you see many people go past too?’
‘There’s always someone. People use Cobblers Court as a short cut.’
‘How was it the night the man opposite was murdered? Was it very busy?’
‘Dark and misty. Really spooky. Everyone looked like a ghost, all grey and hard to recognise. The only things you could see were sparkly things – like tinsel, Christmas decorations, and people wearing jewellery … especially one piece of jewellery – big jewellery that someone was wearing … funny you can see things like that through the fog.’
The apparent intimacy of their conversation did not escape Ariadne’s eagle eye.
‘Tallulah! I’d like madam’s hair ready for rinsing before Christmas please!’
‘Ever thought about working somewhere else,’ murmured Honey.
Tallulah whispered her answer from the side of her mouth. ‘Many times.’
The woman with the rounded belly and the non-existent waistline had got up from her chair. Hair still wet and dripping, she waddled over, her plump hand landing on Honey’s shoulder. She was beaming as though she’d just won the lottery.
‘I’ve just realised who you are. You’re Mrs Driver, the Hotels Association Crime Liaison Officer. I suppose you’re working with the police on this murder. I’m June Weller. I run the Rose Posy Bed and Breakfast in Bathwick. Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.’
June Weller went on to inform her that her bookings for next summer were coming in very nicely and from all over the world. To Honey’s ears it sounded as though she were the most successful hotelier Bath had ever had – even though it was only a bed and breakfast that she ran.
A few questions from those who’d overheard were only to be expected. Honey fielded them expertly, explaining that it was her job merely to liaise with the police at times like these.
Wanting very much to leave now, Honey paid up swiftly, and gladly. Her hair was better than normal: glossy, thick and not a grey hair in sight. There were definite perks about hair dye applied in a professional manner.
She gave Tallulah a five-pound tip. ‘And here’s another tip – leave and get yourself a better boss.’
She got to the bottom of t
he stairs when she realised she’d left the sausages behind. On re-entering she saw that the door to the coffee room was closed. On the other side of the glass she could see a red-faced Tallulah and Ariadne, quivering like an angry porcupine. Whatever was being said wasn’t nice, but it wasn’t her business.
Honey stood out on the landing; certain that pretty soon Tallulah would come out to use the ladies’ cloakroom.
She was right.
‘Tallulah?’
She could see the girl was on the brink of tears.
‘Are you OK?’
She lowered her eyelids and nodded. ‘I’m fine. It’s just her, asking me questions …’
‘Just like me. Sorry about that.’ She said it jokily.
Tallulah lowered her voice. ‘That’s just it. When she heard that you work with the police, she went mad. She told me I’m not to discuss anything that happens across the way. Nothing. Nothing at all.’
Chapter Seventeen
Although her hair was sorted, the weather was cold so Honey kept her hat on.
Tallulah had impressed her; so had Ariadne, though in a different way. Why had Ariadne warned Tallulah not to talk to her about events over the road?
On leaving the hairdressers, she checked over the road to see if Doherty was still there, but was told he’d already left.
She left a message on his mobile and went wandering around the shops then phoned Lindsey, desperate to know how she was getting on with the professor.
There was no response, only a request that she leave a message. Various worrying visions darted around her brain. Lindsey and the professor in a lustful clinch. Lindsey and the professor booking into a room at a Travelodge. They were cheap, and even though they declared they didn’t let rooms by the hour, there was nothing stopping people from booking in, bonking, and checking out again.
On the way home, she popped into the bank, gave them a sob story about next year’s bookings. Turned out it was the wrong thing to say. A sudden concern flash onto the accounts manager’s face, so quickly backtracked.
‘But we’ve picked up some good business from elsewhere. A big firm of equity agents will be holding regular conferences with us next year prior to relocating.’
Equity agents? What were they and where had they come from?
It may have been the season, or it may have been that there really were such creatures as equity agents, but the accounts manager was seriously impressed. Honey reminded herself to look up equity agents as soon as she got back home.
Fearing her lie might be discovered, she exited the bank pretty quickly. On the way she passed a number of reindeer. There were reindeer with wings, reindeer covered with psychedelic swirls of purple and pink; reindeer with zebra stripes, and one reindeer with gold tipped horns and ‘Harrods’ painted in swirly letters along its flanks. All of them sported large plastic red noses.
Normally there might have been some council employee attempting to remove the offending article with hot water and some kind of paint thinner. There wasn’t. Even council employees had different priorities at this time of year.
When she got back to the Green River Hotel, Steve Doherty was outside leaning on the roof of his car. He looked cool; unflustered; evidently he hadn’t been there that long.
She kissed his cheek. He smelled of aftershave, which was funny considering he hadn’t shaved. His bristles were soft because they were at that length between unshaven stubble and furry bear.
She linked arms with him. ‘You got my message?’
‘About the hairdresser opposite Mallory and Scrimshaw? Yes, I did.’
‘It may be nothing, but it could be something. She was rattled.’
He shrugged. ‘It could be just about keeping the hairdressing banter on the usual subjects: the weather, shopping, and where you’re going for your holidays.’
‘You’ve known a few hairdressers?’
‘I’ve known a few women. And I’ve listened in on some of your conversations.’
Honey couldn’t help smiling.
Hooking a finger beneath the front of her hat, he lifted it and took a peek.
‘Yep. You look good. I could forgive that hairdresser anything.’
‘I called in at the bank on the way here.’
‘And I thought you’d dressed to please me.’
‘It pays to put on a good show for one of the most important people in my life.’
She wasn’t kidding. Bank visits were about as welcome as visits to the dentist, but unlike with visits to the dentists it was imperative to make a good impression. At least the dentist was friendly and keen to do anything to ease the patient’s pain, no matter what they looked like. Bank officials were under no such obligation. She’d gone along dressed up to the nines hoping to impress. Her mother was to blame for that.
‘Always wear clean underwear and the most expensive outer garments possible. Give a well-heeled impression from the skin out and you’ll get what you want.’
With an increase in her overdraft facility in mind, she’d squeezed into an Artigiano lambswool dress. A few things bulged beneath its clinginess but the grey and cerise jacket she added skimmed her hips nicely.
She was half-admitting to herself that her mother’s advice might have worked. On the whole her visit hadn’t worked out too badly. Besides the rubbish about the equity agents, she’d assured the account manager that the Christmas takings were looking good. She’d added that her trading account should remain in the black until at least Easter. The spick-and-span woman behind the desk usually pursed her lips when Honey told her a tale like that. Instead her plump lips had jerked into a hesitant smile. ‘I’ll believe you, Mrs Driver.’
Honey had thanked her and silently blessed the time of year that had made her so amenable. On the way out she also promised God that she’d poke her nose into midnight Mass. It wouldn’t hurt to thank him too.
‘Any developments?’ she asked Doherty. She was, of course, referring to the murder case.
Doherty shifted, about to answer, when they were interrupted by a traffic warden.
‘That your car?’
Doherty flashed his warrant card. ‘Police business.’
The traffic officer sniffed and marched off to pastures new. Two old ladies were decanting themselves from a car further along the road. Hopefully they had a disabled badge. If not their day could be ruined. Traffic wardens were not generally known to be affected by seasonal cheer. Their generosity only extended to the distribution of parking tickets, and the raising of revenue for the city coffers. At this time of a year, in a city packed with seasonal shoppers and every parking space taken, they were in their element.
Doherty suddenly planted a kiss on her cheek.
‘That was nice.’
‘I’ve a reputation for being a good kisser.’
My, but he could be so over-confident at times!
‘It wasn’t that much of a clincher.’
‘We are in a public place. I came here to ask you what you want for Christmas.’
A number of items flashed across Honey’s mental wish list. First place went to Doherty’s body but she’d probably get that anyway. There were a few other possibilities further down the list but none nearly as enticing.
She played along.
‘Well you know the old saying about diamonds being a girl’s best friend.’
He grinned. ‘I did give them some thought but then I know the overheads of a privately run hotel, especially the insurance premium. You wouldn’t appreciate me buying you diamonds. Much too expensive – insurance …’
‘There’s some logic in what you say. How about you? What’s your Christmas wish?’
His grin turned to a grimace and a touch of the serious policeman invaded his cool good looks – cool as in rugged and scary – depending on the situation that is.
‘On the personal side I’d like you covered in brandy cream on Christmas morning.’
‘There’s a lot of me. You’d need a big tongue.’
&n
bsp; Their eyes locked.
Honey shook her head and smiled. She wasn’t going there.
Doherty carried on where he’d left off.
‘On the professional side I’d like to find out whoever skewered Scrimshaw to his desk after killing him.’
‘After killing him?’ Honey’s eyebrows shot upwards.
‘He was poisoned.’
‘Before being knifed?’
‘Yes. Between the two he was suffocated.’
‘That’s what I call overkill. So which actually did it?’
‘The poison worked first. He might have been half-dead when he was suffocated and totally dead when the knife – went in.’
‘The letter opener.’
‘A knife, then the letter opener. That’s what I’m being told.’
Honey knew enough about pathology to work out that his heart had stopped pumping before the knife speared his ear drum. There would not have been too much bleeding.
‘Someone wanted to make sure?’
‘I suppose so. Someone must have hated him a lot to make sure like that!’
‘So what next?’
‘I have plans. In the meantime …’
There was an alluring intimacy about the way his eyes snaked over her body before finally fixing on her face. She felt herself colouring up as she waited for the compliment she was sure was coming.
‘You’ve got your hair back, and that calls for a celebration. That hair colour was awful. Promise me you won’t ever go back to that particular hairdresser.’
‘Come on. It wasn’t that bad.’ She took off her hat and tossed her head so he could better see her hair’s shimmering glossiness. A little flattery was good.
‘Oh yes it was.’ One corner of his mouth was already raised in a smile.
‘Bright colours are modern.’
‘Do I get a coffee?’
‘I’ve got a lot to do.’
‘If I help make the coffee, do I get brownie points?’
‘A lot more than that if you play your cards right.’
He grinned. ‘The Queen of Hearts.’
He left the car there complete with a ‘Police on Call’ notice in the front windscreen.
Honey breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that Lindsey was back. Her relief was lessened considerably when she saw that her daughter was sitting in an armchair, with Professor Jake Truebody sitting in the chair opposite her. There a coffee table between them; hardly a barrier, but better than nothing, thought Honey.
The Ghost of Christmas Past: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 8) Page 12
