The last sentence was muttered bitterly. The pub trade was known to divide more couples than it ever brought together. Not surprising really. They were working and living together twenty-four hours a day, enough to over-emphasize the tiniest faults and make anybody murderous.
‘Do the Russians ever come in?’ Honey asked. She knew it was highly unlikely but was keen to avoid hearing about matrimonial troubles.
The landlady pouted her lips in disgust. ‘Not the Russians themselves, but people who work there sometimes pop in.’ Again she leaned close. ‘I’ve heard some rum things are going on up there, but what can you expect? They’re all foreign, and all criminal if what you read in the papers is anything to go by.’
There it was again! Everyone viewed the Russians as gangsters.
Now it was Honey’s turn to lean close and act secretive, in true gossip style.
‘So tell me, does anything juicy go on up there?’
The landlady frowned and looked puzzled. ‘They’re always changing the staff. Not just one at a time, but the whole caboodle. The manager stays the same though. He comes in sometimes for a quick one and sits over there in the corner reading a paper.’
‘Always alone?’
‘I think so …’
‘Not always.’
Les the landlord was back.
His wife looked surprised to see him. ‘You done that quick.’
‘I done it right.’
Honey sensed he wasn’t one to be criticized.
‘As I was saying,’ he went on. ‘He weren’t always alone – mind, I think he preferred to be.’
Honey was dying to know who the manager had met, but she refrained from leaping on the landlord and beating the details out of him. Her remit as Crime Liaison Officer did not come with a licence to kill or use force. She also controlled the urge to sneeze. Ham and English mustard – a lethal combination.
‘What makes you think he preferred to be alone?’
‘I don’t stand behind this bar without ever learning anything. If looks could ’ave killed, that fella that came to see ’im would have been stone dead. No sir, he didn’t look too pleased at all.’
Les the landlord smacked a bar towel down on to a brass spill tray.
‘I wonder why that was,’ said his wife.
Honey was wondering exactly the same thing.
She put in her own comment. ‘They obviously knew each other.’
‘Definitely,’ said Les.
His wife frowned. ‘What makes you think that?’
Les began pouring two pints of cider for his two remaining customers.
‘Loretta,’ he said in a measured fashion. ‘He didn’t look happy to see the bloke. Now it stands to reason that he had to know the bloke in order to not look happy to see ’im. Right?’
His wife jerked her chin in a curt nod of understanding.
Although still wondering whether Cybil had been kidnapped and/or murdered, Honey was intrigued.
‘So you don’t think he was a friend. Some kind of business acquaintance perhaps?’
Les was now pulling the second pint of cider. He looked upwards as he considered the question.
‘Could be. He had something wrapped in newspaper.’
‘It was an ornament.’
Husband looked at wife in disbelief.
‘You said the bloke always drank alone. Now you’re saying that this other bloke – the one you didn’t see – was flashing an ornament.’
Recalling what the Hoffners had told her, Honey’s ears pricked up.
‘What kind of ornament?’ she asked, her heart in her mouth.
‘Well …’ Loretta considered, her eyes rolling to one side, up and down and then to the other.
‘Well, go on.’
It appeared that her husband was as impatient as Honey to know the contents of the newspaper.
‘A small dish. I think it had flowers on it.’
Honey did a quick calculation. ‘Meissen perhaps? Dresden?’
Loretta looked at her blankly, then said, ‘It looked pretty.’
First an item at the car boot sale, then the stash beneath the hotel, and now this. Honey began putting two and two together. The man they were talking about had to be the link between the stash beneath the hotel and the item Smudger had bought at the car boot sale. Obviously the manager also had something to do with it.
She thanked them for their hospitality before leaving. Once outside the door she phoned Doherty and told him what they’d told her. He promised the manager would be questioned. The arrow of suspicion regarding all the deaths was now pointing directly at him.
Doherty suggested they meet up. ‘I’ll phone you when I’m free.’
She didn’t tell him what was going on in her head and that she was only down from the road from him, enjoying – or was it enduring? – the hospitality of the local innkeeper. He wouldn’t approve of her intentions. Breaking and entering: that was her intention if Cybil Camper-Young didn’t come to the door. Such a deed was strictly illegal, but no matter how often she told herself that, the thought wouldn’t go away. The security camera at Lobelia Cottage might possibly hold a very important clue to all this. There had to be a record of the truck being loaded with items stolen from Philippe’s store room, that and the Hoffner couple being manhandled, trussed up like Christmas turkeys and bundled aboard.
Would she let the fact that no one was at home in Lobelia Cottage get in her way?
No, she decided. No way!
Chapter Forty-one
Honey drove back along the valley past St Margaret’s Court. She wanted time to think. Pulling in at a gate, she got out and stared at the cows while she thought things through. The cows stared right back, or some of them did, chewing as they considered her.
Breaking and entering! It’s breaking and entering, for God’s sake! She grimaced with the pain of it all. Guilt was like that – a right pain. But think of Miss Camper-Young, she reminded herself as she chewed on a straw. There was no getting away from it. Her mind was made up. She would break in if Cybil didn’t answer the door. There was no guarantee that the dear old soul had come to any harm, but what else was she supposed to think?
The guilt kicked in again but curiosity kicked it right back out. Do you want to see what other security recordings she’s got or what? whispered the voice of curiosity. Go on! You know you want to. Go for it!
By the time she got back to Lobelia Cottage, the sun had made a sudden decision to take an afternoon siesta, having disappeared behind a cloud.
She cast a jaundiced eye across the road at the imposing entrance to St Margaret’s Court Hotel. Between the foliage she could just about make out police vehicles parked outside the entrance. Doherty was leading the investigation, probably asking for their security recordings and enquiring who was the last person to see Aloysius Rodrigues alive.
There was no point in barging in. Besides, Doherty deserved to have centre stage in this. He’d worked hard on the case and, although at times he was stressed to breaking point, he’d never lost his rag with her. In fact quite the opposite, almost as though the upmarket hotel had given him a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to further his career. She hoped that was the case. He certainly deserved it.
Leaving the car unlocked and the keys still in it, she retraced the steps she’d taken earlier to the cottage’s front door. No longer glowing in sunlight, the ancient property had a chill, almost haunting feel about it, like the gingerbread cottage in the fairy tale of Hansel and Gretel.
Things rustled about her. OK, there were a lot of leaves to rustle and, very likely, little creatures living within the flowery jungle were aware of human footsteps approaching and were scuttling away. A mouse ran across her path – a lucky mouse, since the cats were not allowed free range in the garden.
When she lifted the knocker the front door swung slightly ajar. She paused. A door that was ajar presented something of a dilemma. Earlier it had definitely been firmly shut. She was pretty damn sure of that.
A closed door was easy to deal with, but what should she do about one that was open, even if only a little?
The door presented a number of possibilities. Imaginary scenarios of Miss Camper-Young getting bumped off if Honey barged in entered her mind. But then she might just as surely get bumped off if she didn’t. If anyone dangerous was still on the premises then she didn’t want to disturb them. On the other hand, if no one was inside it would give her the opportunity to view the recordings.
If, on the off chance, Miss Camper-Young was at home, all she had to do was explain why she was there and everything would be fine. Miss Camper-Young would understand that she’d been concerned for her welfare.
The security recordings from the old girl’s cameras beckoned like a birthday present tied with gold ribbon and with Gucci stamped all over it. If no one was inside she would have the opportunity to view the recordings. Ditto if Miss Camper-Young was inside. If someone else was inside, something remotely dangerous … Well! She’d just have to deal with that particular booby prize when she came to it.
The first thing that struck her on entering was that no four-legged feline came out to curl its body around her legs. Neither had the animals appeared at the window when she’d knocked at the door. Odd then that the door was ajar; the expensive creatures were not allowed out to roam and forage like other cats. The door should not have been left open at all.
She wondered if they were locked away somewhere, in travelling pens like those she’d seen cat owners use. On the other hand, an intruder wouldn’t have cared if the cats got out. Her feet turned to lumps of lead at the bottom of the stairs. She looked up to the tight corner at the top. Should she carry on and risk meeting whoever was up there, or turn and run?
This was one of those moments when she wished she’d travelled in Mary Jane’s Caddy. Mary Jane kept her tyre iron beneath the front passenger seat. A modern VW like hers didn’t have that particular facility.
Taking a deep breath she went upwards. Halfway up, a stair creaked beneath her weight. Heart racing, she paused and listened. No one leapt from the shadows. If no one leapt from the shadows on hearing a creaking stair it had to be safe. Didn’t it?
She went bravely on, passing two bedroom doors before coming to the room with the display of nautical knots hanging on the wall outside. Inside, the grainy grey images on the screens flickered hesitantly. Obviously her security system was up and running again. The room was dimly lit by them and an anglepoise desk light.
On checking the images on the screens, she saw they were all firmly fixed on the hotel entrance across the road. By using the toggle she could swivel it around to take in areas of the garden, the front gate, the arbour and the path running alongside the house. It struck her that these were the areas the cameras should focus on if Miss Camper-Young was worried about intruders. So why was she so obsessed with the hotel?
A text from Lindsey interrupted her snooping. ‘Cybil’s wires were only cut once.’
Honey pressed ‘silent’. She wanted no more interruptions until she’d finished looking around.
She reminded herself that the resident of Lobelia Cottage was a very old lady suffering from a terminal illness. Age alone was enough to send her dotty without having to cope with that extra burden.
Convincing herself that Cybil wouldn’t mind and also that she could handle the equipment, she began her search for the recording of the night the Hoffners had been bundled into the truck.
The system was modern and backed up with CDs rather than old-fashioned video tapes. Cybil, being a methodical person, had labelled each one with dates and start times. Honey was duly impressed.
‘Gotcha!’
She’d found the right one. Before sliding it into the playback, she glanced over her shoulder. Being too exuberant could land you in trouble, she admonished herself.
The screen flickered, before showing an image of the night when a truck was being loaded with all manner of luxury goods, including antiques and paintings.
Only one of the men seemed vaguely familiar; it had to be the hotel manager. The other she didn’t recognize, no matter how much she narrowed her eyes and tried to focus.
Once the two men had disappeared, there was movement in a nearby bush. Out popped the Hoffners, creeping towards the truck, checking the direction in which the two men had disappeared.
Mrs Hoffner appeared to have a camera slung over her shoulder. She began taking shots, both Hoffners leaning into the truck.
Unseen by the Hoffners, another figure suddenly joined them.
She gave a little gasp as the third figure reached forward with both hands. The Hoffners collapsed like sacks of wet barley. The figure heaved both of them up into the back of the truck. Whoever it was carried a length of rope and scrambled up into the truck after them. Honey decided that this must be the third of the thieves, though somehow … there was something different about this one.
She frowned and pressed the ‘back’ button.
The figure appeared again, long and lean and wearing … a skirt.
‘What are you doing here?’
The room was flooded with light.
Honey spun round.
Cybil Camper-Young was standing in the doorway. Her eyes glittered. She had a roll of rope over one shoulder, was carrying a cat basket in one hand and a Luger in the other. Honey gulped. It would have been far better if she’d been carrying a cat basket in the other hand too. As it was …
‘Miss Camper-Young! Thank goodness it’s you.’ She hoped she sounded convincing. ‘I knocked at the door. I thought you’d had an accident or intruders. I didn’t see the cats.’
The old girl’s face was as hard and rutted as a plum stone. Mrs Gullible she was not, but there was hope.
‘My mother thought you might be in trouble, and with all the worries you’ve been having about the place across the road …’
‘They had to go.’
‘They?’ She hadn’t a clue where this was going, but Honey decided to play along. Referring to the most loved items in a person’s life usually placated the fiercest rage. ‘The cats? Do the cats have to go?’
‘The foreigners. They should all go back.’
Honey blinked. If what she was hearing was true, Miss Camper-Young did not approve of the German couple and was sending them back to where they came from. She ached to point out that a pair of air tickets would have been more acceptable, but didn’t have the guts to say so. And then it clicked. They’d been barking up the wrong tree. What was it each of those murdered had in common? Mentally she ran through the list. A Portuguese waiter; Philippe Fabiere, a dark-skinned interior designer; Ferdinand Olsen, who was half Norwegian, half Spanish – but there again might have blown his own boat up by accident, that was one that couldn’t be proved – and Mrs Olsen. OK, she wasn’t of foreign extraction, unless you counted being upper-middle-class with a preference for horses over human beings, but that could have been a mistake. The rest were all foreigners. As for the Russian owners of the hotel opposite …
‘I don’t like foreigners. I’m using my skills learned in MI5 to bump them off. It was easy to get in and dispose of that annoying black man with the blond hair. Seeing as he liked antiques so much, I forced one down his throat. It was hard to make a comment to a gun-toting septuagenarian, harder still to accept that this woman had been trained to kill. One of the cats yowled in its box.
‘Your code name wouldn’t have been Octopussy by any chance?’
Miss Camper-Young tutted in disgust. ‘Ian could never keep his mouth shut, though I suppose I should be flattered that he remembered it long enough to use it in a novel. Years later of course’
‘And you don’t like Russians.’
Ice-cold eyes narrowed over the barrel of the gun. ‘I hate them most of all. They killed Leonid.’
‘Your lover? I see …’
‘No! My cat! I loved that cat. He lived with me in a luxury flat in Moscow. I was working undercover. Mikhail was my lover. He worked for the KGB.
He said I had to prove my love for him by killing the cat, his only rival for my love. Little did he know! I didn’t love him at all. I was merely doing my job. But I couldn’t let him know that. I had to …’
Her bottom lip began to quiver so much that Honey was tempted to rush across the room to give her a cuddle. On second thoughts, she held back. It might be misconstrued and the gun might go off.
‘I had to shoot my beloved Leonid!’
Honey wasn’t usually one for putting her foot in it, but when it slipped she did it big time.
‘It was only a cat, after all …’
She said it lightly. Too lightly for Miss Camper-Young.
‘You! You’re just like the rest,’ she shouted, raising the gun and aiming it dead centre between Honey’s eyes.
Realizing her mistake, Honey backtracked big time.
‘Look, I know you love cats …’
‘None as much as Mikhail!’
Honey recalled her mother’s words. She was in love with a foreigner, though to hear her speak you’d think she was talking about a cat. Cybil’s getting very confused. It’s part of her condition.
A confusion verging on madness, thought Honey. The wild stare in the eyes was enough to tell her that. Old women didn’t glare like that – not unless they were totally mad.
The Russians in the hotel opposite had been incredibly tolerant about her. They’d known she was spying on them and although they’d initially found it necessary to cut the wires to her security cameras, they had later relented. She found herself asking why. The reason could be that they knew she was dotty and even more so, knew who she was. Knowing he was at risk, the new Russian owner kept away from the mad old woman.
So why had she spared the Hoffners? She decided it wouldn’t hurt to ask.
‘The man helped me get Su Ching down from the tree the other day. He was very kind to me, so I was kind to him. Anyway, I thought they’d probably suffocate eventually without me having to do anything else.’
Charming!
‘And Mrs Olsen?’
‘The horse woman!’ Her attitude changed, her mouth screwing up into a spiteful grimace. ‘She was out here riding one day. One of my Persian Queens got out when the hunt was out. That blasted woman rode right at her. Said she had run out in front of her. My darling queen broke her leg in fact. I couldn’t forgive her for that.’
Deadly Lampshades (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 5) Page 22
