That was good enough for Honey. She didn’t correct her. The girl’s outburst had grabbed the manager’s attention.
‘Yes,’ she said in a crisp voice as she returned the phone to its station. ‘He will see you. Will you take a seat, please?’
Honey guided her feet to a comfortable winged armchair big enough for two. Her feet were aching following a morning shift in the kitchen. Dumpy Doris had claimed more leave and was staying with her sister for two days. Someone had to grill the bacon. Fate’s heavy hand had fallen on her.
Once again she assured herself that she was not impersonating a police officer. The girl had misunderstood. Studying the fine oak frieze above the marble fireplace helped take her mind to a higher level. Culture and history could really take you to different places. Each panel was a picture and each contributed to an overall story.
The one that particularly caught her eye appeared to portray a kneeling courtier announcing to Elizabeth Tudor that her sister was dead and she was now Queen Elizabeth I of England. Well, that was big news in platefuls; it certainly beat ending up in the Tower of London prior to getting your head chopped off.
‘Hannah Driver?’
The sharp voice pierced the bubble of thought.
‘Ah! Mr Parrot. Delighted to meet you.’
He was about five feet eight, had a narrow face and a very shiny forehead. His hair was fast waving goodbye to the rest of his scalp, clinging only to the back of his head. Three large moles and his head would resemble a bowling ball. He dressed as a typical manager, a mustard-coloured waistcoat showing from beneath his dark, businesslike suit. His look was tight, as though he were seeing her only on sufferance.
Honey stood up swiftly, sending a velvet cushion sliding to the floor.
Head stiff above spotless shirt collar, the manager glanced disdainfully at the fallen object. He shot a stern look at the receptionist she’d been speaking to and pointed at the cushion without a word. The girl scurried out from behind the desk to do his bidding.
Honey introduced herself, careful to use her given name. ‘Hannah. Hannah Driver. I’ve a few questions.’
Luckily he didn’t ask her for any identification or declaration of rank. For that she breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Now,’ said Mr Parrot once they were safely installed within his office. ‘What can I do for you, Inspector Driver …?’
‘Honey,’ she gushed desperately. ‘Just call me Honey. It’s about a report I’ve received from a neighbour across the way. I wonder whether you can throw some light on the little problem she came to see me about.’
She told herself that she wasn’t really being dishonest; she wasn’t really guilty of impersonating a police officer – just giving him that impression and not admitting to anything more positive.
He looked puzzled. ‘I’m not following your drift. What exactly are you talking about?’
‘Miss Camper-Young across the way. Members of your staff took it upon themselves to cut the wiring to her security cameras on two separate occasions. The first time was shortly before the murder of Philippe Fabiere, the interior designer employed on the refurbishment project. Can you firstly tell me who was responsible, and secondly why they would do that?’
His facial muscles went into freeze mode. She could almost hear the cogs of his mind grinding and clunking like rusty clockwork as he sought a logical – though not necessarily truthful – excuse.
‘There must be some mistake. I know nothing of this.’
‘You do know Miss Camper-Young?’
‘I’m not sure that I do.’
Was he kidding? He’d just crossed the dividing line between an excuse and an outright lie.
‘Mr Parrot! Are you pulling my leg?’
She folded her arms, went snake-eyed and didn’t hold back on the sarcasm. ‘The lady in question lives in Lobelia Cottage just across the road there. You can’t miss it. Large, detached, and very old. I think it’s been there since Bonnie Prince Charlie was a boy. It’s got lobelia tumbling out of the garden wall. Hence the name. And it’s directly opposite your main entrance, set on top a high grassy knoll with a very nice view of your grounds. You can’t miss it. See?’ She pointed at where the gravel drive swept out through the main gate. A cottage chimney and the first floor windows could clearly be seen above a curved arch of wrought-ironwork and the rear aspect of the Shaddick coat of arms – the name of the family who had long ago built the house. The gates had been added at a later date by a descendant of the original owner.
‘Ah, yes,’ he said slowly, the tightness of countenance loosening a little. ‘No one from here of course. Vandals, I think you’ll find. Teenagers out to cause trouble, I expect. We have problems like that every now and again, despite being over three miles from the city centre.’
This was absolute rubbish. She wanted to say just that, but she was also mindful to maintain something of a professional aura. She shook her head. ‘No, Mr Parrot. Miss Camper-Young still has the very last tape. The two thugs on there are definitely not teenagers. She swears they’re your employees.’
‘Can you prove that?’
Honey took out the recording Cybil had given her and slammed it on to the desk, although it had seemed, somewhat reluctantly. ‘Shall we take a look?’
His eyes met hers in a frozen stare before he snatched the disc from the desk. Without comment he crossed the room to a plinth-mounted monitor and playback unit, slid the disc into the letterbox mouth and stepped back. A fuzzy picture flickered into life. Two thugs with wide shoulders and number one crew cuts blundered into view. One was clearly carrying a pair of secateurs. The cheeky devils had even brought a step ladder with them. One set up the ladder. His pal climbed up, reached up with the secateurs and the screen went blank.
‘Not teenagers,’ said Honey, her tone reminiscent of that invariably used by TV policemen prior to making an arrest. The policemen on television were acting. So was she. The glare she flung him was full of meaning. Tell me the truth or I’ll take you down town and beat it out of you. She couldn’t really do that of course, but it didn’t hurt to hint just a little.
‘I take it they are your employees?’
He blinked. Blinks were always a sign that someone was cracking. She didn’t know where she’d got that idea, but it seemed good to her. Hallelujah! She’d cornered him. They both knew it. Now would he come clean or not?
‘Indeed,’ he said giving a curt nod. ‘I remember them. They were temporary staff.’
She did her best not to crow with triumph, settling for a smile that glowed with satisfaction.
‘Ah! Then perhaps I can have a word with them, if it’s not too much trouble.’
Smug of expression, she waited for Mr Parrot to squawk an apology. He did – though it wasn’t quite the one she expected.
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that. As I told you, they were only temporary staff. They are no longer in the hotel’s employ.’
She wanted to wipe the smug expression from his face, but she couldn’t do that. You couldn’t carry out police brutality if you didn’t belong to the police in the first place.
He was the one crowing now. Honey seethed but resisted the urge to grind her teeth. There was one last card to play.
‘Do you have a forwarding address for either of them?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not.’
The old scenarios from private-eye movies wouldn’t go away. She wanted to kick him, purely to drive that sickly sweet look of triumph from his face; it was too similar to the one she’d been wearing just a moment before. She sensed he was about to say something that she wouldn’t like. She was right.
‘They’ve gone back to Russia.’
She paused.
‘That’s a long way. No extradition for cutting security wires. That’s just too bad, Mr Parrot. That means the responsibility and the cost of repairing the old girl’s security system rests with you.’
‘I’d have to check that with my superiors.’
&n
bsp; ‘Do that. Now!’
The aloof expression returned to the oval face, the pale lips tight, the high forehead gleaming like a gold-plated Buddha. He opened his mouth as though he were about to refuse when, just as suddenly, his whole demeanour changed.
‘I’ll do it right away. I’ll have a man from the electrical contractors go over and fix it.’
‘Good.’
The sudden change of heart was strange; a hotel manager’s first priority was to control costs. Never mind. She’d got what she wanted.
‘I’ll do it now.’
Even better.
‘That would be good.’
He picked up the phone, punched in a number and barked orders. ‘I’d like it done today, tomorrow at the latest. Can you do that? Good.’
‘There,’ he said once the call was finished. ‘They’re very reliable people. They do quite a lot of work for the group.’
‘Good. She’ll be pleased.’
‘Please render my sincere apologies to the lady and inform her that the matter will be rectified forthwith.’
‘Fine,’ Honey quipped lightly, turning on her heels. ‘Forthwith is good for me.’
Justice! She’d got justice for a defenceless old lady – well, not quite defenceless. Miss Camper-Young was quite a formidable character. In her youth she’d worked for some very shady department at the Ministry of Defence. She wasn’t sure what as, though the roles of women in such a department must have been pretty mundane back in the sixties and seventies. She’d probably typed out secret service reports, she decided. Agile as Miss Camper-Young seemed to be, she couldn’t really see her doing anything else. People who wore chintzy Laura Ashley dresses were too ladylike to do parachute jumps into enemy territory and spy for their country.
No matter what her history, she’s old and defenceless now, Honey reminded herself. The thought of someone being defenceless brought Philippe Fabiere to mind.
Parrot escorted her to the door.
Honey paused before leaving.
Parrot stopped abruptly when she stopped.
‘Where were you when Philippe Fabiere was murdered?’
‘The interior designer?’
He spoke as though he were only vaguely aware of the man’s existence, when in fact as hotel manager he must have been in close communication with him. His expression was blank. Hotel people were good at looking blank. They had to be. They had many occasions to lie.
‘Of course.’
‘I was attending a meeting at the village hall.’
This was something she found hard to believe. The hotel was a world apart from the village. Some of the families living in the cottages and farmhouses hereabouts had been here for centuries. They didn’t take well to outsiders coming into the village.
‘What was the meeting about?’
‘SSG International wish to extend the hotel’s facilities. There are plans to build a leisure centre in the grounds, plus conference and nightclub facilities. We’ve applied for planning permission, but some factions of the village are opposed to progress.’
‘That should go down well. I suppose you’re going to tell the planning authority that the locals can use the facilities if it’s passed.’
‘Of course.’
‘And pigs might fly,’ muttered Honey. She’d seen big groups do that before: get the permission on a promise of the facilities being open to all. Hogwash!
What was presently a trivial item prompted her to ask an extra question. ‘You don’t happen to have a German couple staying, do you?’
He frowned. ‘We have no one staying at present, not while the refurbishment is taking place. The coach party was a mistake. An unfortunate oversight.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Look, I do have a very important meeting …’
‘Of course. I won’t take up any more of your time.’
There was nothing else she could learn – not from him. He was telling her only what he needed to. Whatever else she wanted to know she must find out for herself.
Chapter Twenty-two
The girls behind the reception desk were stowing stationery in large boxes. A step ladder leaned against the wall behind them. The step ladder was likely to be the same one the men had used when cutting the security wires at Lobelia Cottage. Two men in high-visibility nylon waistcoats opened doors. Even if there had been neighbours, suspicion would not have been roused.
Honey looked around at the mayhem. Nobody was paying her much attention and at times reception was empty. There was nobody around to see what she might get up to. She wouldn’t be noticed doing a little snooping, now would she? No. Of course she wouldn’t and anyway, they all thought she was a police officer – right?
Naughty, naughty, said a little warning voice in her head.
‘Get lost,’ she muttered under her breath.
Her feet took her to the left, through a grand doorway which presently had no doors and along an empty passageway that echoed to her footsteps. Pots of paint were lined up at skirting level. Out of curiosity, she bent to take a look, fully expecting them to be of the required type and colour for use in a Grade I listed building dating from the time of Elizabeth I. The colours on the labels were evenly divided between Moroccan Orange and Egyptian Sand. They were also labelled acrylic emulsion – hard-wearing of course, but not recommended for old plasterwork. The listed building inspectors would not approve. In fact using such materials could very well result in a heavy fine.
She questioned whether they might be destined for somewhere else. Surely they were, though if that were the case, they wouldn’t be here in the first place, would they?
Suddenly she heard voices coming her way, echoing in the long emptiness. A set of stone steps went off to one side. She darted down those and, feeling like Alice in Wonderland, charged through the door at the bottom, stopping dead and closing it quietly behind her. It was dark. And very cold. Her breath turned to steam. Her voice would echo off the curved ceiling if she did speak. Not that she intended speaking. She was snooping, and snoopers were required to be quiet.
Ahead of her the passageway had a lower ceiling and was narrower than the one above. At some time in the past it had been the domain of the army of servants employed to look after the family. She could imagine them scurrying around like busy mice, carrying out the labour that kept a stately home running like clockwork.
It was certainly not like that now, but instead was cold and empty. The only sound besides her footsteps was a long, low whine as though a draught was limbo-dancing beneath an ill-fitting door. The sound was unnerving, in fact a little ghostly, but this was a girl who lived with ghosts. Her hotel was haunted, according to Mary Jane. Sometimes Honey believed her.
The coldness emanating from the walls was bone-chilling and made her shiver as though a fingernail had traced down her spine.
More tins of paint lined the walls at floor level. Terracotta this time. Someone obviously had it in mind to lighten things up. For centuries the walls must have been lime washed, the paint flaking in places. Where the paint brush had been, the walls were terracotta but peeling. The modern paint was obviously ineffective at covering the old lime wash, the old paint reacting with the new.
Three pots of paint sat in a row. The lid of one was off. A brush had been left balancing on the rim. In response to a suspicion, she picked it up. The bristles looked stiff. She dabbed them on the side of the can. Yep! They’d be easier to stab someone with than paint with.
She put the brush back, straightened and eyed the gloom ahead. Right! Now what?
She went forward. The kitchen and storage areas went off on either side of the passageway. At present there were no lights on and not a living thing – except for the odd spider perhaps – trod this lonely place. Pushing open a swing door, she peered into the kitchen. The stainless steel was scrubbed down and not a pan, plate, or cooking pot was left on view. It smelled as though it hadn’t been used for a while; the odour of old plaster and acrylic paint outdid that of old cooking.
Da
ylight beckoned at the far end where the tunnel – it was best described as that – finished.
Satisfied that there was nothing in the kitchens or store rooms of interest, Honey headed in that direction.
As she gained the daylight, a sudden draught hit her, sending her hair flying across her face. She found herself outside looking up at the sky. A set of whitewashed steps to her right led upwards. Immediately ahead and above her, wrought-iron railings stopped anyone falling down into the boxy void between the building and the world without. The railings were plainer than those framing the elegant main gate, but then this was the servants’ entrance.
She was just about to let the door slam shut behind her and go up the steps when she heard raised voices. Cautiously she looked upwards. Two figures were silhouetted against the skyline, animated, rattled and ready for a fight. She recognized them immediately. Camilla Boylan and Julia Porter. Interior designers at war!
Chapter Twenty-three
Carefully, so as not to make a sound, Honey closed the door behind her and crossed to the wall immediately beneath the two designers, flattening herself against it.
Camilla was yelling. ‘Philippe was my partner, so I take over this contract!’
Julia was equally loud – and venomous. ‘He’s dead, darling! What is it about the terms of the contract you don’t understand, hmmm? Get this in between your thick ears, darling. The contract died with him. That’s it. All takers are welcome and I’ve put in a price to complete the project – with a few alterations reflecting my take on Philippe’s design. So that’s it.’
Julia turned away.
‘Don’t you turn your back on me!’ Camilla exploded with anger. Honey half expected clouds of flustered feathers to come floating down, as though they were angry chickens fighting over an egg. She guessed they were talking about the St Margaret’s Court contract. In all probability it was Philippe’s signature on the contract, Camilla viewed only as his assistant. Sniffing the chance to make a fat profit, Julia had barged in.
She perceived the sound of a scuffle, surmised that hair was being pulled and highly manicured, polished red talons were out and ready for action. A cat fight was swiftly developing. Someone less sneaky would go up and try to calm things down, but Honey had got used to being sneakier than she’d ever thought possible. Since acquiring the position of Hotels Crime Liaison Officer, she had become more and more sneaky. It went with the job. If you wanted to find things out, you had to lie low and listen, not barge in and calm things down. It was a pound to a penny that a few home truths might be divulged before the two rivals got to the scratching and slapping.
Deadly Lampshades (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 5) Page 12
