Deadly Lampshades (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 5)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘That’s nothing to do with me!’

  Honey held on despite Camilla wriggling like a fish on a hook. Other people in the Firsty Fish bar looked round to see what the noise was all about.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘I wasn’t there on the night Philippe was killed. I was at the fair. I’ve just told you that. Isn’t that enough to convince you?’

  Damn! Yes it bloody well was. How annoying was that?

  There was no option but to let go of Camilla’s blouse and leave her to slide down into her seat. She began throwing her belongings, including the pen and pad, back into her bag.

  ‘I will not be treated like this! I suggest you get somebody else to finish your contract. I certainly will not!’

  ‘Camilla …’

  ‘Get lost!’

  ‘Camilla! If you don’t finish it, I won’t pay you. Besides, you still have some responsibility for the missing things that I ordered and paid for. I’ve got the list, the one you were so reluctant to access on Philippe’s computer.’

  Camilla pursed her bright red lips. That was when Honey got the impression that something else was bugging her.

  ‘We’ll come to some arrangement. Anyway, I’m not keen to ever set foot in your establishment again.’

  ‘Because of my mother? Look, I can have a word with her …’

  ‘Not her! The ghost! I don’t like ghosts!’

  There was no point in trying to persuade this silly girl that Sir Cedric and her earthly intermediary, Mary Jane, were harmless. Besides, she didn’t have the time for that. The bit was firmly between her teeth and she was out for a gallop.

  ‘OK. I’ll accept that. But I still need you to answer a few questions about the death of your business partner.’

  Camilla settled down. ‘OK. I’ll tell you what I know.’

  ‘How about Philippe? Was he into health food and herbal cures?’

  Camilla frowned and wriggled as though her tights were too tight.

  Honey repeated the question. ‘Was Philippe a follower of homeopathic and herbal medicine?’

  Camilla nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you know he was taking belladonna?’

  Camilla shrugged in a casual manner. ‘So? It’s not illegal and it’s not always a poison. It can be quite beneficial in small quantities.’

  ‘Quit the lecture. I’ve read up on it online. Would Philippe have carried the belladonna around with him?’

  ‘What the hell has this got to do with his death? He was choked to death with a lavatory handle, for God’s sake!’

  ‘But doped-up first. I understand that taken in certain amounts, belladonna can do that. Yes?’

  Camilla squirmed and her pert red lips parted, revealing snow-white teeth. ‘Oh my God. Do you think he took too much?’

  ‘OK, he was taking it voluntarily, but how come he managed to take too much – enough to dope him into semi-unconsciousness?’

  ‘He never could hold his drink,’ Camilla blurted.

  Honey thought about it. If it was true that Philippe couldn’t hold his drink then that was the time when someone could slip him too much belladonna, or he could take far more than he should because he was drunk. The latter seemed the most likely.

  She put the question to Camilla. ‘Had he ever done that before – got drunk and taken too much of the poison?’

  Camilla nodded. ‘Once he was in the right company, yes.’

  ‘What was the right company?’

  ‘Anyone with an artistic bent. Or just plain bent,’ she added with unguarded sarcasm.

  ‘Did you know Aloysius Rodrigues?’ Honey asked. The missing waiter had sprung easily to mind.

  ‘Who?’

  Honey decided that Camilla’s puzzlement was genuine. It wouldn’t have troubled her too much if Camilla had throttled her ex-partner. To be guilty she would have had to have an accomplice. After all, it required strength to choke Philippe, and someone capable of pushing or pulling Deirdre’s body under the hooves of the horse.

  ‘Do you like horses?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘Do they frighten you?’

  Camilla frowned. ‘What’s this about? Are you a psychiatrist or something?’

  OK, it did sound a pretty mad line of questioning. Honey shook her head. ‘Never mind.’

  The chair legs grated on the wood-block flooring as Camilla got up. ‘Perhaps it might have been better if Philippe had come to the fair with me, but he didn’t. We had time for a quick bite and then he was off. He had to meet someone later.’

  Honey had visions of him meeting some love interest, someone he didn’t want Camilla to know about. ‘Do you know who?’

  Camilla shrugged.

  ‘Why didn’t you mention this before?’

  The place setting on the Irish linen tablecloth held Camilla’s attention before her gaze shifted to the left. She shrugged again. ‘It slipped my mind.’

  The trucks waiting for the ferry that would take them from Felixstowe to Zeebrugge wound like a segmented snake from the customs offices all the way back to the transport terminal entrance that dealt exclusively with heavy goods vehicles.

  The night was dry, and the water beyond the harbour entrance was oily black and just as still.

  The customs men were armed with clipboards and pens. They referred to each other after each truck was waved through, once licence plates and paperwork had been thoroughly checked.

  Behind the wheel of a German-made truck, the Russian driver inhaled on his burning cigarette and pretended not to be alarmed. He’d left his window open in the hope of catching a word or two of what was being said. This wasn’t the first time he’d gone in and out of England via the port. From Zeebrugge he would cut into Germany before heading north to Moscow. There had never been any problem until now. The trips had proved lucrative; there were buyers waiting for what he had locked away in the huge trailer he dragged behind him. Apart from the odd security alert following the London Al Qaida bombings, he’d never been held up before.

  The ramp on to the ferry rattled with each new truck passed by customs and driven aboard by its relieved driver.

  The Russian driver threw his cigarette away even though it was far from being burnt out. He felt the sweat patches grow beneath his arms and break out beneath the dirty corduroy cap covering his thin hair. He smelled his own fear.

  He was now sixth in line from the ramp. Soon it would be his turn. His fingers drummed on the steering wheel. His eyes flickered. He’d been driving non-stop for forty-eight hours since leaving Moscow. Forcing his sore eyes to stay open wasn’t easy. If he could just keep going he could get on board and sleep there, in the cab of the truck if he had to.

  His eyes flickered.

  Keep going.

  Not long now.

  His eyelids were heavy as lead.

  He counted between blinks.

  Five trucks, four trucks, three trucks, two … SMASH!

  His skull smashed against the windscreen. He heard his ribs crack as he struck the steering wheel. He gasped for air as the truck’s cab shot forward at an angle on to the ramp, one wheel spinning in mid-air over the water, the cab toppling to one side. Rammed from behind, the front of his cab had smashed into the rear of the trailer of the truck in front, then had bounced off at an angle.

  The trailer fell on to its side with an almighty crash, still on the hard standing yet just yards from the water.

  The driver’s world had turned black. He no longer saw or heard the uniformed men taking charge of things, arresting the driver in the truck behind. He wouldn’t have known the guy was Polish and that he too had been driving for forty-eight hours non-stop – totally illegal on British roads.

  Tired and disorientated, the Polish driver had fallen asleep over the wheel. His foot had been as heavy as his eyes. It was resting on the accelerator. The Polish truck had smashed into the back of the Russian truck. The Polish trailer and its cargo were undamaged. The Russian vehicle was lying
on its side, cab smashed, trailer smashed and in danger of tumbling into the water.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The last thing Honey had expected that morning was that at 9.30 she would be receiving a call from customs officials in Felixstowe regarding the identity of two people found bound and gagged in the back of a truck on its way to Russia.

  ‘They say they are staying with you and that they left their passports at your hotel. Their names are Mr and Mrs Hoffner and they are German tourists. Can you confirm this?’

  Once she’d retrieved her chin from somewhere around her navel, Honey responded that, yes, they were staying with her. What the hell were they doing trussed up in the back of a truck?

  ‘Can you explain exactly what’s happened?’ she asked the official on the other end of the phone.

  The voice on the other end was courteous but curt. ‘I’m sorry. We cannot possibly divulge any information until we have taken statements. You’ll know in good time. As soon as they’ve finished, we’ll put them on a train back to you.’

  ‘Are they all right?’

  ‘A little stiff. They’ve been bound and gagged for quite a while.’

  ‘The knitting should help,’ Honey blurted. Funny how she missed to seeing Frau Hoffner sitting in her favourite spot, click-clacking away, now there were no worries about being sued.

  The customs official didn’t get it, so his response was slow, as though he wasn’t quite sure what he was agreeing to.

  Honey realized she must sound like an idiot. Under the circumstances, it didn’t matter very much. Stunned, she closed the connection. The Hoffners had been abducted! How ridiculous was that? Everyday, run of the mill tourists were not in the habit of being abducted. Only very rich tourists ran up against that particular problem. Abductions around the Bath area were practically unknown. Things changed of course if you ventured into Wiltshire, where this particular practice was said to be carried out by little green men allied to the famous crop circles. Nobody in Wiltshire seemed to mind very much about either of these unexplained phenomena – with the exception of the farmers of course. Flattened crops were difficult for the combine harvester to deal with. However, the people of Bath would not tolerate such behaviour. They had quite enough with the foreign exchange students every year, without having to cope with little green men from Mars as well.

  The moment she’d freed her line, the tinny sound of her ringtone, ‘Spring’ from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, alerted her to another call coming in.

  ‘Have you heard the news, hen?’

  There was no mistaking Alistair’s Scottish brogue.

  ‘Wallis Simpson’s wedding stockings are up for grabs?’

  ‘Should you be so lucky, hen! They’re probably in the hands of Her Majesty’s Government along with a signed copy of the articles of abdication.’

  Honey’s grin was coupled with a powerful desire to know why he’d phoned. He never rang her unless he’d heard some juicy gossip on the antique trade’s grapevine. In the past the grapevine had depended on word of mouth delivered orally. Now it operated via email and phones. Gossip travelled quicker that way.

  ‘An item of interest,’ Alistair went on. ‘A truck leaving the country turned over at Felixstowe following an accident. You’ll never guess what they found in the back.’

  It landed inside Honey’s head like things do when you least expect them. It was as though someone in the back room – that is, at the back of her head – was working some kind of mental abacus and making everything add up as it should. ‘The contents of Philippe’s store room?’

  ‘You’ve already heard?’

  Honey winced. It vexed her to think that she hadn’t heard about it at the same time as Alistair. She reminded herself that she was first and foremost a hotelier. Antiques were merely a hobby. Looking at it positively, the reception area she’d envisaged and which Philippe had designed would now be finished exactly to the design Philippe had planned – depending on the police, that is.

  Anger burned in her stomach like heartburn searching for a packet of mints. This theft was close up and personal. She wanted her stuff back, but the more she thought about someone stealing her bosomy oil paintings – small but expensive items among the vast amount Philippe had stored – the more questions there were to be answered. Felixstowe! Why Felixstowe? The answer came swiftly back. She’d always been good at geography – A grades at school. Felixstowe had great ferry links with the continent of Europe.

  Alistair confirmed this. ‘This truck was on its way to Russia when another truck smashed into the back of it, sending it crashing into the one in front of it. The truck cab went crabbing over the side of the ramp and ended up hanging over the harbour wall. The trailer it was hauling went over on to its side. There were two people tied up in the back. German tourists, so I’m told.’

  ‘The Hoffners!’

  ‘Incredible, don’t you think? Like something from James Bond.’

  It was indeed like something from James Bond. From Russia with Love perhaps? Then it dawned on her. The truck had turned over. How could she have been so insensitive?

  ‘The poor Hoffners! I forgot to ask if they were hurt. I just asked if they were all right. That’s not really the same thing, is it? They could be injured and still be all right – you know – over the worst of it.’

  She was rabbiting, her words following the thoughts in her mind as surely as a cat chasing a mouse. This event had unnerved her.

  Alistair calmed her down.

  ‘The two people they found trussed up in the back are fine. I don’t think they would have been by the time they got to Russia though. That was a sealed unit they were in. Must be terrible struggling for a last breath in pitch darkness, not even able to hug each other.’

  Alistair couldn’t have painted a more frightening picture if he’d tried. Honey felt full of remorse that she’d packed the Hoffners’ belongings up and let their room.

  ‘Thanks for letting me know,’ she said to Alistair. She severed the connection immediately.

  ‘Anna! Anna!’

  At the sound of her shouting, a loud wail rose like an air-raid alarm from the linen cupboard.

  Anna’s face appeared from behind the door. ‘Shhhh!’ she hissed angrily. ‘I have only just got baby off to sleep.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Honey’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘We have to put the Hoffners’ things back in their room.’

  ‘They are coming back?’ asked Anna, sounding surprised. ‘From where have they been?’

  ‘Felixstowe.’

  Anna looked puzzled. ‘I would rather be dead than spend a holiday in Felixstowe. It is very draughty and the sea is very grey. You cannot walk on it.’

  She meant in it of course, or in other words paddle. Other than that, her description was pretty accurate. Anna had used that particular ferry crossing a number of times; she was speaking from experience.

  ‘The Hoffners weren’t stopping, though I’m sure they wished they were.’

  ‘They were going somewhere better?’ Anna busied herself alternating pillow cases and sheets as she asked the question.

  Honey was too het-up to explain in detail.

  ‘I don’t think they wanted to go, but the trouble was they had uncancellable one-way tickets.’

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Honey’s mother was sitting quietly at a table in the conservatory, confronted by a tray of tea and shortbread. Honey eyed her from the doorway. It wasn’t often she saw her mother looking so thoughtful, worried even. Her finely pencilled eyebrows were drawn in a deep frown. The tea and shortbread remained untouched. Usually she would have been nibbling by now.

  Honey became aware that Lindsey had joined her.

  ‘I’ve never seen Gran sitting so still and so quiet,’ she whispered. ‘Do you think she’s ill?’

  Honey shook her head and whispered back. ‘No. She wouldn’t allow it.’

  They both stood there for some time, watching for some idea as to why Gloria Cross was looki
ng so nervous. She didn’t usually do nervous. She usually did straight in your face, I’m laying the law down.

  ‘Go on then,’ whispered Lindsey, elbowing her mother’s arm.

  ‘What?’

  ‘She came here to see you. What are you afraid of?’

  ‘She looks so shifty.’

  ‘No. Nervous. Just nervous.’

  Her daughter was right. Honey took a deep breath. What was she afraid of? ‘I haven’t seen my grandmother looking so disturbed since the day she thought I’d told her I was considering being a lesbian.’

  Honey looked at her daughter in surprise. ‘You never told me that!’

  ‘I didn’t tell her that either. What I actually said was that I was going to become a thespian. A friend of mine had got me a small part in an amateur dramatics society. I think Grandma had a cold that day and her ears were waxed up. She stated there and then that she’d never let her ears get waxed up again.’

  ‘OK,’ said Honey. She didn’t let on that the tale had made her take a sharp intake of breath. For a moment it seemed like her bosoms had risen into her throat. ‘Here goes.’

  Her heels made a light tapping sound as she swept over the pretty stone floor, recently laid with russet-coloured tiles imported from Spain.

  ‘About time!’

  Her mother threw her an accusing look.

  Honey noted that, concerned as her mother might be, it did not prevent her from laying on the red nail polish and being her usual impeccably presented self. She was wearing a floaty turquoise outfit with gold jewellery, and pale bronze shoes with matching handbag.

  ‘It’s Cybil,’ gushed Gloria without giving her daughter time to ask what the matter was. ‘You know I told you before that she has this head problem. Well I think it’s getting worse. I do believe she’s going gaga!’