Deadly Lampshades (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 5)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Ivan Sarkov hesitated beside the door of the sleek black Mercedes with smoked glass windows. His face was red with anger because he’d been taken by surprise. The planning authority had sent along their listed buildings inspector. He’d insisted that the Moroccan theme and the paints they’d chosen would attract a heavy fine if they went ahead and used them. They’d stipulated traditional, and traditional it would be. The interior designer had been informed and was relieved. He’d told the manager that they wouldn’t get away with anything else but traditional and had been proved right.

  Turning abruptly, Sarkov took Parrot by surprise. He held a warning finger in front of his manager’s face.

  ‘Sort out that Keith Richardson character. I understood everything was OK, and now this. Who the bloody hell is this planning person anyway?’

  ‘I’ll get him to sort out the paints …’

  ‘Do not trouble me with the details! Just do it. Also the old lady in the cottage opposite. I don’t like what she does.’

  ‘I understand. I will get it done. I promise you won’t have the police nosing around again. It won’t take long. She’s only an old lady.’

  Sarkov’s eyes glittered and his look hardened. ‘She is not just an old lady. She is a very dangerous old lady!’

  ‘Yes, sir. I understand.’

  Sarkov stared at him. Parrot really thought he understood about keeping Miss Camper-Young happy.

  Parrot had a pale face at the best of times. It was now a sickly grey colour, like a yellow sky before a fall of snow. It was he who’d given the order to Serge and Orlov to cut the wires. The woman was a definite problem to his little sideline in stolen goods. He’d thought the problem had been dealt with, but the two goons, being Russians, had been slow to carry out his orders. God knows what the old girl had on her security system. Nothing too incriminating, he hoped. If there had been, she would have already informed the police, wouldn’t she?

  ‘I’m off on leave shortly, sir,’ he added quickly before the door was shut.

  Sarkov eyed him with undisguised contempt. Parrot was one of those men who thought the earth would stand still without them around to give it a push. He also thought he knew nothing of his illegal activities. The fool! Back in the days of the Soviet Union it had been his job to know everything about everyone. Nothing had changed except the country they were in.

  Ivan’s eyes pierced through him. ‘I will manage without you.’

  The car door hushed comfortably shut.

  Parrot watched the sleek limousine slide away, aware that his armpits were damp and that beads of sweat had broken out on his high, shiny forehead. On the other hand his mouth was dry and so were his lips. The sight of the car leaving helped him regain his self-control. His racing heart slowed to an endurable level. The sweat chilled on his forehead. He’d come through OK, he told himself, at least for now.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  It was bound to happen. Casper wanted a report.

  Honey was flipping eggs when the call came summoning her to his office.

  Mary Jane was her usual generous self. ‘Wanna lift?’

  Her driving hadn’t improved at all of late, so Honey declined. She walked. It was safer and it wasn’t very far anyway.

  She paused at the entrance to La Reine Rouge and checked her appearance. When it came to first impressions, meticulous decor and good housekeeping, La Reine Rouge was second to none. Feeling reasonable enough, she made her entrance.

  Sigmund Farley, Casper’s new receptionist, was meticulously writing something on a notepad. He had frosty white hair, a tanned complexion, and the sort of shoulders only a stint in Her Majesty’s armed forces could produce.

  His waistcoat was of silver and green brocade. His shirt looked expensive and he wore a dark green cravat with a sparkly tie pin. Sigmund believed in blending in with his surroundings. His surroundings were Regency, so he was too. Oh, and he wore a monocle.

  She glimpsed her reflection in his monocle thanks to the light coming from beneath a pure silk shade. This surprised her. She’d thought he wore it purely for effect and that it didn’t have any glass in. Obviously it did.

  He looked up when she came in and smiled his professional smile.

  ‘Has Tootsie come to see the captain?’

  Sigmund was ex-Royal Navy. Why he called her Tootsie she wasn’t quite sure, but she looked behind her just in case he was addressing somebody else.

  ‘If you mean Casper, yes. And my name’s Honey.’

  When he straightened he towered over her by six inches or more and gave the impression of looking down his nose at her; the monocle didn’t help.

  ‘Sweetie,’ he said in a decisive manner. ‘I shall call you Sweetie – seeing as your name is Honey and honey is sweet.’

  ‘What’s wrong with Honey?’

  He didn’t appear to be listening. His face was upturned as he dialled and informed Casper that she was here.

  ‘Sir, this is Farley. Your eleven o’clock is here. Permission to board?’

  Bath was a city that attracted eccentrics, so Sigmund’s terminology hardly fazed her. Anyway, it was trivial after little green men and old ladies who could give MI5 a run for their money. Sigmund was just another nut in the bar of chocolate that her varied acquaintances resembled.

  Casper St John Gervais was sitting behind his very massive, very expensive, and very antique walnut desk. As usual he was immaculately dressed, his shirt blazing white, his tie olive green, and his jacket petrol blue. A sapphire and two tiny diamonds glinted from a gold tie pin.

  The precious stones were by the by, but Honey envied him that desk, not the piece of furniture itself but the fact that it was so tidy. Casper dealt with one piece of paper at a time. Once it was dealt with it was placed in a neat pile. Once the pile reached a certain height, it was filed away. Thus his desk top always looked incredibly neat and empty. Much as she tried, the top of her desk resembled the Titanic after the iceberg had hit it and just before it capsized.

  Fixing her with a stony gaze, Casper beckoned her to take a seat. She did so apprehensively. Casper hadn’t greeted her cheerily. He hadn’t even greeted her miserably.

  He eyed her over the apex of his steepled fingers with a searching look, the sort he wore when he wanted immediate answers.

  ‘Have you seen the newspaper?’

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘It’s decidedly lurid. Bath and the murder of Philippe Fabiere have made the nationals. They’re saying that his death is linked to homosexual deviancy in the city. Sado-masochism, no less.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Honey said hotly. ‘Philippe was having a relationship with Julia Porter.’

  Casper’s hard expression creased into interest. ‘Are you sure about that?’

  Honey gave a curt nod. ‘Absolutely. Philippe swung both ways.’

  ‘I didn’t realize that. That’s good. Very good. We need to release this to the press.’

  ‘Julia might not like it.’

  ‘The common good outweighs personal preference. She’ll have to put up with it.’

  Honey opened her mouth to point out that Julia might sue for defamation of character, but Casper wouldn’t care about that. When it came to litigation he knew the best in the country and would call in a few favours.

  However, it was pretty obvious that the news had surprised him. She vaguely wondered whether Philippe and Casper had been more than friends, though she wasn’t really sure whether they were suited.

  Casper had turned thoughtful, one beautifully manicured finger tapping at his bottom lip and a distant look in his eyes.

  ‘Yes. I’m convinced we can risk it. I think that the newspapers should be made aware of this.’

  Honey knew instantly where this was going.

  ‘You’re going to throw them in Julia’s direction.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Can you think of a better way to set matters straight? I’ll tell them it was probably a
love triangle and that whoever killed dear Philippe was jealous of his association with Julia.’

  Poor Julia. Honey didn’t envy her. She was about to have a horde of journalists lusting for her story. Still, if it set the matter straight …

  ‘On the other hand …’ said Casper, his eyes looking heavenwards. ‘It might be best if I said nothing. Best let sleeping dogs lie. Tell them to ask the police. They aren’t likely to get enlightening answers, but it should cool the more lurid reporting, at least for a while.’

  ‘Talking of setting the matter straight, the refurbishment of the Green River is going fine and Camilla assures me it should be finished on time – two weeks to be precise. I could do with a few customers around then and I haven’t had any referrals from the association of late.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Casper, his head half turned away, his eyes hooded.

  His attitude worried her. Something was up.

  ‘I’ve been thinking you might like a break from your police liaison work. Sigmund is quite interested …’

  ‘You can’t do this to me!’

  This was the last thing she’d expected. She’d put off quite a few bookings explaining about the refurbishment of the hotel’s reception area thus giving people the chance to make up their minds for themselves. Some decided to come, some didn’t. Occupancy was bound to be down but she’d counted on making up for the shortfall through the association once the work was completed.

  Casper’s face firmed up. Hands folded in front of him, he outlined what was in his mind.

  ‘Sigmund is very keen to get involved with the police.’

  Now there was a statement ringing with innuendo!

  ‘I don’t think Doherty will be pleased,’ she growled. ‘Sigmund isn’t his type.’

  Casper was sniffy. ‘Doherty will have to conform to modern thinking. If he doesn’t, then I dare say the Chief Constable will replace him with someone who does.’

  Honey shook her head in disbelief. ‘After all that I’ve done I’m to be replaced with a Regency dandy? What does Sigmund know about policing?’

  ‘A great deal,’ said Casper, fixing her with a warning look. ‘He used to be a military policeman in the Royal Navy.’

  The revelation came as something of a surprise, though it might explain Sigmund Farley’s penchant for dressing up in period costume.

  Feeling deflated, Honey headed for the door where she paused and looked back at him. ‘Doherty is a very good policeman. It would be a shame to upset things now.’

  Casper wiped his nose with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. Honey caught a whiff of rose-scented cologne.

  ‘On reflection, I think you’re right. The two of you have done a good job so far. Let’s keep things that way.’

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Casper’s suggestion that Sigmund Farley should take over as Crime Liaison Officer had annoyed her. OK, he’d reconsidered, but the feeling of being short-changed stayed with her as she marched towards Queen’s Square. Tempted to mumble words her mother wouldn’t want to hear, she kept her head down. Because of this, she wasn’t instantly aware of the car creeping along beside her. It wasn’t until the third blast on the horn that she jerked her head up. Doherty was signalling her to hop in.

  ‘You look miffed,’ he said as she settled in beside him, hugging her bag for comfort. ‘Anything I’ve done?’

  She managed to part her lips. ‘Do you like working with me?’

  He was concentrating on steering them out into the traffic, so he didn’t immediately answer. When he did his response was warmly reassuring.

  ‘That’s a daft question. You sound as though you need cheering up. How about a short drive?’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. Care for a warm scone and a cup of tea?’

  ‘OK.’

  Resting her chin in her hand, she stared out of the window without really seeing anything. By the time she came to, they were some way out of Bath and surrounded by open farmland and extensive views. They were parked outside what had once been a toll house on the A46. Prettily built in the strawberry Gothic style, it now housed a very nice tea room just off the road and sported a grand view of rolling farmland, the city of Bristol sprouting like a field of mushrooms in the distance.

  ‘We’re up here,’ she said as though they’d somehow climbed a mountain.

  He was holding the door open for her. ‘You sound surprised.’

  ‘I thought you might be thinking of whisking me away for a dirty weekend.’

  ‘Would you have come?’ he asked.

  She thought about it. ‘I’m not that kind of girl.’

  If she had been more in tune with the vibes she might have noticed that his smile had frozen for no more than a split second.

  ‘Come on.’ Cupping her elbow, he guided her into the tea shop and didn’t let go until she was safely seated in front of the magnificent view.

  Sitting slightly to her side but opposite, he folded his hands and asked her what was wrong.

  Although feeling better, largely thanks to the warmth of the tea shop and the smell of freshly baked scones, she sighed heavily. ‘I have to solve this crime like today, though preferably yesterday.’

  He gave a kind of retreating jerk of his head, as though she’d tapped him on the nose.

  ‘Are you on some kind of bonus scheme?’

  Lowering her eyes, she explained the situation.

  ‘Casper said he was considering replacing me with a guy who used to be in the Royal Navy military police. He backtracked when I said that we were a good team.’

  She felt his eyes on her. She didn’t like pity of any description. She didn’t want him to feel sorry for her, only regretful at the prospect of them not working together again. But she did want him to care. Caring was different from pitying; more affectionate. They’d been together long enough for that.

  It took a full minute for her to meet his look. What she saw there took her by surprise. He was almost laughing.

  ‘This is very serious stuff. You won’t like working with Sigmund,’ she told him.

  His smile stuck.

  ‘And he’s gay.’

  The smile lessened, but only slightly. ‘Does this guy work for Casper?’

  She nodded.

  ‘So why would he want a member of his staff to get involved? It’s always struck me that Casper wishes to keep crime at a distance. Now suddenly he wants someone to keep him informed without the hassle of being actively involved. He’s pushing you – and me. That’s all. And perhaps he wants this guy out from under his feet. Taking your place was probably only an option.’

  The tea and scones came complete with little pots of Cornish cream and home-made jam.

  Honey straightened and she felt brighter. Things were getting better all the time. What Doherty had said made sense.

  ‘You could be right. I’d want to get rid of Sigmund if he worked for me. He keeps referring to Casper as “captain” and me as “Tootsie”. How crazy is that?’

  ‘Irritating,’ said Doherty. ‘How long have you known Casper?’

  ‘Long enough.’

  He was right. Casper would be irritated, but employment laws being what they were, he couldn’t possibly fire Sigmund without good reason. A little respite was the short-term alternative, though not at the risk of jeopardising a working partnership.

  Heart lighter, she tucked into the scones with far more vigour – and more jam and cream – than she would have previously. Funny how the thought of losing a good position ruined your appetite.

  She got back to basics. ‘So how goes the dead Deirdre?’

  Topped with liberal lashings of jam and cream, the scones slid into her mouth.

  ‘Traces of belladonna – deadly nightshade – in her stomach. Lots of bruises caused by iron-clad hooves plus one more likely to have been caused by a wheel-nut wrench – a very big one.’

  Honey frowned as she chewed. ‘Why all this belladonna stuff? Why poison her and Philippe with somethin
g as old-fashioned as that?’

  The knife Doherty was using to plaster jam onto his cream paused in mid-air. ‘Neither of them was poisoned. Belladonna is used in herbal medicine for a number of ailments. It can calm people down to the state of unconsciousness apparently – something I didn’t know. Neither Philippe nor Deirdre were poisoned, merely subdued and not paying attention. In Philippe’s case he’d also been drinking. He probably didn’t know what was happening – as limp and helpless as a rag doll.’

  Honey’s chewing slowed. She looked into his face as she considered the implications of what he was saying.

  ‘Read my mind,’ she said. ‘Am I guessing right?’

  He nodded. ‘One victim was choked. One was kicked to death. Both had taken a mild form of poison beforehand – enough to make them careless and in Philippe’s case, even more drunk than he should have been.’

  Honey shrugged. ‘Julia? Camilla?’

  ‘Men have used poison too – lots of them in fact.’

  She nodded. ‘True.’

  She was scraping the last of the jam and cream from the porcelain dishes they came in. Doing it properly took some time, so she didn’t at first cotton on to Doherty’s slowness to answer. She held the scone hovering in front of her lips once she did notice.

  ‘There’s something else?’

  Doherty turned from taking in the view and faced her. ‘I think there was a witness. I found a couple of stubbed-out cigarette butts in the tack room, which is immediately behind the stall where the victim was found. Mrs Olsen didn’t smoke. Neither did her husband. We’ve put out an alert for Olsen. Either he did it or the phantom smoker did.’

  Now it was Honey who turned her gaze to the view without really seeing it. During her visit to the stable with Lindsey, her daughter had remarked that the horse had seemed agitated, rolling its eyes at something that it didn’t like. Lindsey had also mentioned that horses were easily spooked by the smell of smoke.