Suddenly the door opened. ‘Sylvester, Mr Gregg and Miss … oh. Hello.’ The woman who had entered the room was slim and dark. Her smile was winning and her face beautiful – or at least half of it. Her right cheek was badly scarred. Scalded – with boiling water?
She turned to Pardoe. ‘I’m sorry, Sylvester. I didn’t know you were busy.’
Pardoe got to his feet. ‘She’s just leaving.’
Honey was in no doubt she was being shown the door. The interview was at an end.
The lovely young woman looked a little disconcerted, arching one eyebrow at Pardoe as though she required an explanation. None was forthcoming.
Honey blurted an explanation. ‘I was trying to sell your husband some snails.’ A split second later it came to her what she’d just said. Just a hunch as they say, but she’d mentally assumed that this woman was Sylvester Pardoe’s wife. Judging by the young woman’s response, the smile and the arched eyebrow levelling out, she was right.
‘We use local ones. Are yours local?’ asked Mrs Pardoe.
‘Yes. Sort of. From Cornwall.’
Mrs Pardoe nodded. ‘I see.’
Sylvester Pardoe came out from behind his desk. ‘I’ll see you out,’ he said to Honey, then turned to his wife. ‘Tell the young couple I’ll be with them shortly.’ All trace of the loud-mouthed lout was gone. This, she guessed, was the better half that hovered beneath the surface.
Honey allowed him to cup her elbow and escort her out.
‘Thank you for that,’ he said once they were outside.
‘For owning up to being a snail salesman? I quite like snails.’
‘They taste OK,’ he said.
Again there was that look in his eyes, a mix of tenderness and concern.
‘I didn’t want her to know why you were here.’
‘May I ask you why?’
‘No.’
She turned away from him, wresting her elbow out of his grasp. ‘Do I have to go back in and ask your wife?’
Pardoe caught her elbow.
‘No. Please.’ He looked pained. He sounded pleading. She wondered how many times in a day, in a week, in his whole life had he used the word ‘please’.
Folding her arms, Honey stood in front of him, looking grimly and directly into his face. She saw his discomfort. There was no need to ask questions now. He had to tell it as it was. He had no choice.
He looked away towards the road, gathered his thoughts, and looked back at her.
‘You saw her face?’
She had a horrible feeling where this was going to go. ‘Yes. She was scalded?’
‘Yes. Hot fat.’
The day was cool, and yet in that instance imagining how it had felt, the air turned warm then hot.
She didn’t ask because she knew he preferred to tell. And he did.
‘My wife is also a chef. She too had been entered for the Grande Epicure. That’s where we met. We clicked straight away. Stafford was jealous. He wanted what I had. Gina didn’t want to know and I thought we were safe. We weren’t. Stafford made advances. She refused them, then made a fool of him in front of everyone when she accused him of stealing pasta she’d made herself that morning. He denied it. She proved it. The bowl she’d stored it in was marked on the bottom. He was furious. The scene with the fat happened when no one was around. He said it was an accident.’
Not once had he looked at her as he related this. He paused now and seemed deep in thought.
She dug her hands in her pockets and waited. The hot feeling had surfed over her. A cold chill remained.
He took a deep breath. ‘I wanted to kill him.’
‘Did you?’
Eyeing her sidelong, he shook his head slowly and methodically, almost as though he was measuring the distance between his own thoughts and wondering what her response might be. The softness in his eyes had been obliterated by outright hatred.
‘Is Gina Italian?’
He nodded and looked away. She studied his profile, thinking what a fine Heathcliff he made to Gina’s Cathy. Her pulse began to race. She’d seen those features, that profile before.
‘What was your wife’s maiden name?’
She waited impatiently, wondering if he would answer and confirm her suspicion, or lie and leave her to check at the records office.
‘She was Gina Carmelli before we were married.’
And then she knew and was suddenly overcome with a great feeling of foreboding. Richard Carmelli had had more than one axe to grind.
Chapter Twenty-five
Before starting the car, she phoned the hotel and asked for Lindsey. Mary Jane answered.
‘Hi there. This is the Green River Hotel. What can we do for you?’
Honey frowned. ‘Where’s Lindsey?’
‘A nice young man phoned. He wanted to speak to you, but Lindsey told him you weren’t here. He said it was vital he talked to someone and that he had information about the murders.’
‘So what did he tell her?’
‘No idea. He hasn’t told her yet. At least I don’t think so. She only left ten minutes ago.’
Talking to Mary Jane was sometimes like pushing a large jelly bean uphill; it didn’t go straight and kept rolling in odd directions.
‘So she isn’t there?’
‘No. She’s gone out. The young guy insisted. She’s quite safe Smudger says; he knows the guy and swears he’s trustworthy.’
‘Let me speak to Smudger.’
‘Hold on. I’ll just press this here button …’
The line went dead. Honey shouted down the phone. No response. The line was dead. She dialled again.
‘Is that you, Honey?’
Honey rolled her eyes. ‘You should have said this is the Green River Hotel. It might not have been me.’
‘Of course it was you. I knew it was you.’
Communicating with older folk was often difficult; something to do with the different plains of life. With Mary Jane it was like dealing with life on another planet.
There again, perhaps she had known it was her. After all, this was a doctor of the paranormal.
Smudger came on the line. ‘’Lo.’ Amazing how he could shorten ‘hello’ to one syllable.
‘You didn’t say that Sylvester Pardoe was married to Richard Carmelli’s sister.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Stop grunting. Grunts are not words. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘You’re the private dick. Work it out for yourself.’
Honey sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘He has a motive.’ But does Richard Carmelli have an alibi, she asked herself. Come to that, how about Sylvester Pardoe?
‘My daughter’s gone to meet a possible murderer. Why is that?’
‘Ask Mary Jane. She took the message. Must say I was surprised though. Why would he ask Lindsey to meet him? Why not you?’ Smudger sounded puzzled, as though he really couldn’t understand it himself.
A cold chill set Honey chanting her fears. ‘Oliver Stafford and Brian Brodie were responsible for Gina’s disfigurement. Stella was having an affair with Oliver. Perhaps our murderer is out of control and out to kill anyone who had anything to do with Oliver.’
‘He wouldn’t do that. Not Lindsey.’ He didn’t sound totally convinced.
‘Where were they meeting?’ Honey asked, her throat suddenly dry.
‘I don’t know. Mary Jane took the call and passed on the details.’
‘Put me on to her. Now!’
He didn’t waste a minute.
‘Hi there, Honey!’
Judging by Mary Jane’s chirpy voice, she had no idea of what she’d done.
It was difficult, but Honey forced herself to moderate her tone, telling herself it was just an age thing and she too would be old one day.
‘Now think carefully, Mary Jane. Where did the young man ask Lindsey to meet him?’
‘The young man?’
‘The young man who phoned. You passed the message on to Lindsey.’
‘Oh.’
There followed a pause. Honey imagined her with one finger on her cheek, her misty eyes studying the ceiling. ‘Yes. He said to meet him at … Oh my! Now where was it?’
‘Mary Jane! Think! For goodness sake, think!’ Moderating her tone slipped a bit. She couldn’t help it. If it was possible to will someone to remember via a telephone, Honey was doing that now.
‘Come on, come on, come on,’ she muttered under her breath.
Whether any of her urgings was doing any good was another matter. Mary Jane was on planet Zarcon nine-tenths of the time. She even drifted away when you were speaking to her. Like now. So not much hope of her having kept the relevant details of the first phone call in her mind.
Fearing for her daughter’s safety, Honey hit the panic button and the moderation went flying out of the window. ‘Mary Jane, think !’
She heard a whine of worry on the other end of the line. ‘Oh dear. I don’t remember,’ said Mary Jane.
Honey closed her eyes, tried deep breathing and counted to ten. Nothing alleviated her concern for Lindsey’s safety.
‘Put Smudger back on,’ she managed to say, still taking deep breaths, still trying to squash the panic that made her blood race.
She explained the situation. ‘Mary Jane hasn’t a clue where Lindsey’s got to. I’m afraid for her, Smudge. Richard may be your mate, but he’s got an axe to grind and he may not have finished grinding it yet. Get on to Steve. Ask him to keep a lookout for her.’
After she’d said it, she realised how worthless it was. How could Steve keep a lookout? No one knew where Lindsey was.
She punched in Lindsey’s number on her mobile. ‘The person you have contacted is not available …’
She closed it, turned the key and gunned the engine.
The journey from Oxford to Bath passed in a blur. Never mind the seventy miles per hour speed limit; Honey was flying. Each mile she covered seemed four times as long as it should. Not until she hit junction 18 on the M4 did she finally take the pressure off the accelerator.
Damn the yellow lines, damn the traffic wardens, she parked where she could promising herself she wouldn’t be a minute, just long enough to check with Steve.
He was on his way out. They bumped together in the foyer.
‘Easy,’ he said, grabbing hold of her arms.
‘I’m not flapping,’ she said giving an impatient shrug. ‘I promise I’m not flapping.’
He gave her a sidelong disbelieving kind of look. Normally such a look would have made her rip at his clothes – her own too. But not now.
‘Have you found her?’
‘Let me get you home.’ He began guiding her towards the car.
She shrugged his hands off her arms. ‘Don’t patronise me. I asked if you’d found her.’
Bad temper had no effect on either his manner or the firmness of the hands that pushed her into the front passenger seat. He pulled up outside the Green River. ‘You go in. I’ll park it for you.’
She didn’t need him to say it twice. Like a greyhound she sprang out of the car and through the hotel doors.
Anna was on reception. Mary Jane was nowhere to be seen.
Honey glanced at an incredibly beautiful floral display that hadn’t been there when she’d left that morning. If she’d had time she would have questioned where they’d come from. As it was, blooming bouquets were the last thing on her mind.
Anna smiled. ‘Mrs Driver. Good evening.’
‘Any news?’
Anna frowned. ‘Of what, Mrs Driver?’
‘Lindsey. My daughter.’
The corners of Anna’s wide mouth stiffened as she frowned. ‘Lindsey? Lindsey is in the conservatory with a nice-looking man.’
Honey stared at her. Was it possible that Richard Carmelli was actually here?
She headed through the lounge and into the conservatory, a light and airy place of woven rattan with pale-coloured upholstery. Overhead fans provided the air conditioning and tall palms in terracotta pots provided the shade.
Lindsey looked up when she saw her. ‘My mother,’ Honey heard her say.
The man sitting opposite her pushed back his chair, stood up and held out his hand.
He was slim, about forty with light-coloured hair and hazel eyes. The colour of his eyes matched his suit.
The first thought that crossed her mind was that this was not the sort of guy Lindsey usually went for. He was too neat, too conservative. Ragged jeans and careless designer were more her cup of tea. The second thought was relief that it wasn’t Richard Carmelli.
‘Slade,’ said the man offering his hand. ‘Warren Slade.’
They shook hands. Honey tried to work out where she’d seen him before.
‘I’m sorry. I’ve a terrible memory for names, but I feel I should know you.’
Lindsey was doing charades behind his back and silently mouthing the clues.
Charades had never been Honey’s favourite party game. Postman’s Knock had been her game of choice. Much more fun. No guessing, just kissing and minor fumbling – usually in a broom cupboard.
‘I was staying here a while back.’ A red blush didn’t just spread over his cheeks; it exploded! ‘I was a wee bit naughty. Got my fingers burned. But you and your daughter were very discreet. I brought these back.’
He indicated the shoes and clothes neatly stacked on a spare chair. A chef’s hat sat beside it all.
‘The hat was your daughter’s idea,’ he said as if reading her mind. ‘I told my mother that I’d been to a fancy dress party dressed as a chef.’
‘Of course!’ She remembered the naked man tied to the bed. Overwhelmed by the relief of finding Lindsey was safe, she made the most obvious faux pas. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said in an exuberant rush, ‘but I didn’t recognise you with your clothes on.’
Lindsey pulled a face.
Warren Slade stammered, ‘Um … yes … um …’
Swift action was called for.
Honey took a deep breath. ‘That’s marvellous! That’s really marvellous and I’m so glad to see you. To see you both,’ she exclaimed, hugging each of them in turn, saving the tightest hug for Lindsey of course.
Warren Slade’s blush intensified. ‘I brought you flowers,’ he said. ‘As a thank you.’
Honey nodded profusely. ‘I saw them. They’re lovely. And you’re lovely,’ she said.
‘That’s very kind of you. ’
She sensed his acute embarrassment. ‘It’s not often we’re thanked so wonderfully. So really, really wonderfully.’
She couldn’t help the wide, stupid smile or the gushing oratory. She couldn’t help sounding as though the return of a chef’s outfit was the most wonderful thing in the world. She didn’t care how she sounded or how she looked. Lindsey was safe and Richard Carmelli was nowhere in sight.
Honey breathed a sigh of relief. Mary Jane had got it all wrong.
Chapter Twenty-six
Under cover of darkness, Richard Carmelli made his way through Larkhall to the lock-up garage where he kept his motorcycle. He reasoned that a motorcycle could give him a better edge than the car.
A streetlight behind him glinted on the black fairing and chrome bodywork. He checked the fuel tank. Plenty. He got his helmet from where he usually left it on the workbench at the rear of the garage and put it on.
Once he’d donned his leather gloves, he rolled the bike out, sat astride and turned the key. The powerful Kawasaki engine purred into life. Sliding his visor down over his eyes, he turned the throttle. The sound changed from a purr to a roar. He set off back the way he came, speeding along the M4 then branching off on to the M5 and finally the Avonmouth turnoff.
During the day the motorways were chock a block with traffic. At this time in the morning his route was unobstructed. The wheels ate up the empty miles. Flat-roofed units dealing in car tyres, hydraulic hose and second-hand office furniture lined St Andrew’s Way. Only the watered-down orange of sodium streetlights lit his progress, them and the lights of twenty-four hour
garage forecourts, lighthouses in a city asleep.
He took a turning off towards the docks and passed blank metal walls of prefabricated warehouses. There was a truck ahead of him with a Czechoslovakian number plate. He glanced up even though he guessed what it was carrying and where it was going; the same place as him.
There had to be somewhere to hide his bike. To his right was a privet hedge and tough railings around an electrical sub-station. To his left was an empty yard in front of a darkened building – empty that is except for two waste skips. The property, like most of those on the industrial estate, had been built in the sixties or early seventies, and was being renovated.
Sliding off to his left, he drove in between the two metal skips. The haulage truck had swung across the road, its unit nosing into the gate of the next property, its rig running at a right angle.
Keeping low, Richard crept towards the side wall of the warehouse. Like others around, it was constructed of metal sheets, a modern building designed to be maintenance-free. The sound of the truck braking and stopping mixed with that of the cooling units above his head.
Still keeping low, he squeezed through a gap in the railings. The truck cab was only feet away. He saw the driver get out of the left-hand door. Not a British truck where the steering wheel was on the right.
He got out his phone and took a quick shot of the printing on the side of the truck. It said R W Mead, International Meat Packers and Warehousing. He added the text, ‘Check this out,’ and sent it to Smudger. He trusted the chef to understand its significance, then asked himself why he’d done it. Why couldn’t he check it out himself?
Creeping along with the railings against his back, he kept low and listened. Two men came out of the warehouse. There was conversation going back and forth, mostly in English. He strained to hear what was being said and chanced getting closer.
Not looking where he was going, he stepped on a sheet of bent iron. The upright end clanged against the railings.
A voice rang out. ‘Who’s there?’
Richard fled, squeezing himself back through the gap in the fence. He heard running feet, the sound of a car starting up. He ran faster, slithering to a halt next to the waste skips. He considered lying low. No. Not a good idea, he decided. He leapt into the saddle. The motorcycle burst into life and he was gone.
A Taste To Die For - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 18
