‘Look, I’ve got too much on my plate at the moment. Ask around. You’ll find her.’
‘I thought you wanted to speak to me?’
‘It can wait.’
She was glad he couldn’t see her disappointment and the two-fingered salute she gave him.
He disconnected.
‘Bum!’ she shouted into the phone. ‘Bum, bum, bum!’
Casper had invited Honey for morning coffee. The coffee was dark and bitter. She thought about asking for a cup of good old Nescafé instant, but realised it was a waste of time. Casper didn’t do downmarket.
In order to make it palatable, she spooned in two spoonfuls of sugar. She was on yet another diet; no sugar, but this was an emergency.
‘So how did they die?’ he asked.
‘Somebody bashed them over the head – individually, up in the attic rooms. They were dead before they were shoved out of the windows. It’s likely that somebody was staying in that top room and may be prime suspect.’
‘For both murders? Just one person?’
His raised eyebrows and sharply questioning tone had the effect of digging out her own latent suspicions; one person smashing two skulls in two separate rooms – at least that was the way it looked.’
She frowned into her coffee. ‘Unless the victims were taken by surprise, lured into separate rooms for … a reason.’
‘It must have been a good reason. My inclination is towards a sexual liaison on the female part – that would put her in one bedroom. The woman and her lover hear the husband coming up the stairs; said lover goes out to meet him before he enters the room. There’s a scuffle and a smashing of skull. Wife screams. Lover panics so she gets the same treatment as dead husband.’
Honey studied Casper’s superior air, his nose lifted and tilted above the tiny cup of select Turkish coffee.
She thought about asking him if he was into reading fantasy fiction.
‘That’s a very … interesting scenario, if a little melodramatic.’
‘Not at all. Human nature. The common motives for crime are money and sex. As far as these people are concerned, I’m opting for a crime of passion – even though I myself would have failed miserably to feel passionate about either of them.’
‘We’ll have to wait and see. The detective chief inspector has asked me to call in for an update.’
‘He couldn’t tell you anything over the phone? I was under the impression that you and he were extremely close – very much “an item”, to quote the modern vernacular.’
Casper pronounced vernacular as though there was an ‘h’ on the end. Vernaculah! It sounded like a song.
‘Nothing lasts forever.’
‘Ah!’
She gave the coffee another stir in the hope that the sugar would finally win out over the bitterness.
‘On this occasion he insists I come into the station. I have an appointment to see him at three this afternoon.’
‘An appointment no less!’ Casper waved his fine fingers dismissively. ‘Whatever. I keep asking myself why I am not so enthused about catching the perpetrators of these murders as I usually am. It must be because based on meeting them when they deigned to attend a hotels event, I found them so obnoxious that it crossed my mind to do away with them myself!’
Honey accepted where he was coming from with regard to the victims, but wasn’t feeling quite so dismissive; Doherty had never insisted on telling her the findings face to face before. In the past he’d had no objection to informing her by phone. She took this as a sign that all was not lost between them. There was something good in that, she told herself and even began thinking about what she would wear when they next met.
‘It did look as though they were about to leave the guest house, though nobody knows why and there was no indication of where they were going. But luggage was packed.’
Casper leaned forward, one beautifully manicured hand cupped around his chin as though about to impart a great secret.
Lowering his voice, he said, ‘I did hear rumours that they brought debts with them and had bought Moss End in the hope of making enough money to clear their encumbrances. One look at them and I cannot imagine them making much of a go of the place. The woman gushed sweetness like an upended tin of treacle. As for him, well, he was so terribly tall, head and shoulders above everyone else – and ungainly with it to the point of having acquired a curvature of the spine. I believe their creditors were snapping at the heels of their downmarket shoes.’
Pointing out that you couldn’t hold being round or too tall against a person was a waste of time.
‘Do you happen to know who these creditors were?’
He shook his head. ‘No details I’m afraid. Pure speculation.’
Honey rolled the bitter coffee around her tongue.
‘Still,’ she said, smothering a cough with her hand. ‘They didn’t deserve to be murdered for owing money, and we shouldn’t allow a personal point of view to cloud our judgement.’
She had to concede that basically he was right in that a good cash flow was imperative in the hospitality game. Earnings could be sporadic and business dipped in the wintertime.
She winced as she swallowed the last of the coffee before setting it down on the silver tray and refusing a second cup.
‘Although debt collectors have a pretty rotten reputation, I’ve never heard of them upending their prey in potting compost before.’
‘Potting compost! Is that true?’
She shook her head. ‘No. The pots were quite clean, although one would expect them to contain – something.’
‘Perhaps they weren’t keen gardeners,’ said Casper.
‘Perhaps not.’
John Rees had invited her for lunch. She’d declined his dinner offer of attending the pre-opening party at the Portuguese-style restaurant. Not dinner. She couldn’t do dinner. Lunch was different. In broad daylight it didn’t feel like she was two timing Doherty. Not as though she was. Not really.
She was undecided whether to wear the navy blue suit with the slit skirt or the coffee coloured dress with brown flecked bolero. She decided on the latter with brown boots and mustard coloured scarf.
Before venturing out, she rang Doherty.
‘I need to speak to you.’
He grunted a response.
‘I’ve discovered some useful information about our murder victims. I think they were into identity theft.’
An ominous silence met her statement.
‘Steve? Did you hear what I said?’
‘I’ve got my car back.’
She pulled a face at the phone and poked out her tongue. Childishly bearing a grudge deserved a childish response.
Recalling Casper’s insistence that she hang in there and get this case sorted, she swallowed some of the worst of the sarcastic retorts she wanted to use. Instead, she chewed over the words that she had to say – not wanting to say them, but knowing that she must.
‘Look, Steve. I’m sorry. You must know that. If I could turn back the clock I would. But I can’t.’
She heard him sigh.
‘Well I suppose it’s not your fault. Why can’t your mother find herself a broomstick to fly around on?’
‘Look. Can we get back to business?’
‘Go on.’
‘Boris and Doris Crook were buying information from that bloke Rhino, the one who gathers all manner of rubbish from people’s bins.’
‘You mean utility bills? Bank statements? Till receipts?’
‘Exactly what I mean, though strangely enough only for a very short time. Rhino reckoned that somebody called Edna had taken over collecting for them.’
‘Can we meet up for lunch?’
‘Does this mean my sins are forgiven?’
‘You may have to remind me of what sins you’re actually capable of.’
She imagined his smile.
That was more like it! The old Doherty had returned and was back on form.
Just as she was about to acc
ept, she remembered she’d promised John. Was it greedy wanting to keep both men on board – just in case things didn’t work out?
‘Sorry. I’ve got a business appointment. How about dinner?’
‘Fancy a sleepover?’
Honey punched the air with her fist. ‘I’ll bring my PJ’s.’
‘You may recall I have central heating.’
Lindsey caught her humming to herself.
‘You look like the cat that got the cream. Dare I ask whether the delish DCI is back on board?’
‘I think he is.’
‘So the equally delish bookseller is merely a note in life’s diary of events?’
‘I wouldn’t exactly say that. Let’s just say that I quite fancy having a menu choice.’
‘Just as long as you don’t make yourself sick.’
Despite her daughter’s warning, Honey told herself that there was no need to feel guilty about going to lunch with John Rees. They’d been friends for a long while and besides, he asked first.
A change of clothes – a green dress with a wrap-around skirt and cinched-in waist – a dab of perfume behind each ear, a grey checked coat, and a dark mustard pashmina. She was ready for action.
The decor of The Tasting Room was clean cut though still managed to hold on to an al fresco atmosphere. The food was bistro style and the wine well kept.
John was in one of his favourite places that had no dress code. He favoured casual dress and comfortable shoes.
They ordered a fish dish each with a green salad, crusty bread rich with sunflower seeds, and bright yellow butter. The wine was white. Drinking white at lunchtime was a habit Honey much favoured. To her mind it wasn’t so heady as red. Red wine was for evenings – and romantic moments.
They talked about the murders and the chaotic party, the range of Hallowe’en themed costumes, and, last but not least, Boris and Doris Crook.
‘Did you see how tall that guy was? Taller than me, that’s for sure.’
Honey said that she’d noticed the same. ‘Straight out of Monsterville. Though I shouldn’t say that,’ she said after a respectful pause. ‘After all, he is dead. ‘
‘I wonder what possessed them to take over a business they had no intention of running?’
Honey thought about it. ‘We need to find out where they came from before moving into Northend and what people thought of them in the village.’
‘The pub might be a good place to start.’
‘How about we head in that direction as soon as we finish this fish?’
‘We’ll have to hurry. It’s a village pub. They don’t stay open all day.’ Honey glanced at her watch. ‘We can take the wine with us. It’s Australian. Bound to be a screw top.’
Eating up, paying, and grabbing the half-finished bottle of wine took time. With their eye on the clock, they rushed out.
Honey eyed the afternoon traffic. Nothing seemed to be moving fast.
‘My car I think. It’s nearest.’
Dashing off to where she’d parked the hire car, neither one of them noticed Doherty standing on the other side of the road, breaking his lunchtime sandwich into bits and feeding it to the pigeons.
Pigeon wings flapped and feathers flew as the flying vermin pounced on the lunchtime bounty.
‘Sort it out yourselves,’ he muttered throwing the whole lot to the ground.
Like many other villages around many cities countrywide, the majority of Northend residents worked during the day. Like lemmings heading for the cliff face, they left the village in droves at around eight in the morning. After some eight to twelve hours, they reappeared once the sun was setting, their homecoming accompanied by the sound of ice clinking in liberal glassfuls of gin in period style drawing rooms.
It was about two o’clock when Honey and John drove into Northend. There wasn’t a soul in sight, the village possessing an empty feel, as though the houses were only facades in yet another film or TV period piece.
‘Even by day it looks a gloomy old place,’ John commented, straining his neck to see over the high wall as they drove past Moss End Guest House.
The police incident tape was still fluttering outside.
‘I wonder who inherits,’ mused Honey. ‘Not that it’s likely to be of much consequence. My money is still on the organised crime scenario; involvement in identify theft.’
‘If what that guy Rhino has told you is correct.’
‘An open and shut case, though I’m not sure why he did a runner when I asked him about living outside during the cold weather. Someone had been sleeping in that spare room. I wonder …’
‘A smelly tramp? Most people wouldn’t give him houseroom.’
‘Unless there was a reason. It’s another question for Doherty to ask when he hauls Rhino in for an interview.’
‘If he finds him again. You know what street people can be like. Now you see me, now you don’t.’
‘Oh, I don’t see any reason why he won’t allow himself to be found.’
‘That depends whether you gave him any money. Once they have money, they’re likely to disappear.’
‘Whoops!’
‘You didn’t?’
‘I did.’
Your friend Detective Chief Inspector Doherty won’t be pleased.’
She sucked in her lips. ‘No. I can see that.’
The Northend Inn was flush fronted to the road, three storeys high and didn’t appear very busy. The decor was pseudo-Tudor and the carpet was red with yellow swirls all over it.
A fruit machine blinked and burped to their left and a set of three steps ascended to their right. The latter gave that end of the bar an upmarket air, reserved for those who had no time for fruit machines or the single dart player who threw disconsolately at the board at the opposite end looked pretty glum. One dart after another flew at the board and still he couldn’t check out.
The landlord was slender, of average height and had discriminating eyes behind wire framed spectacles. ‘What sort of microbe are you?’ his glance seemed to say.
Honey played the same game, saw he was drying a glass with a linen tea towel – the same glass over and over again.
Business is slow.
‘Yes,’ he said briskly finally deciding the glass was dry and setting his hands down on the bar. ‘What will it be?’
John ordered half a beer. Honey settled for an orange juice. Must be alert!
Besides themselves there were only two other people in the bar; the barman and a young man playing the fruit machine.
‘I thought you might have been busier on account of all the recent excitement you’ve had in the village.’
The man behind the bar fixed her with a less than warm look. Like the glass he’d resumed drying, his spectacle lenses shone clean and bright.
‘You journalists?’
He fixed them with a suspicious glare, his lips a tight, firm line.
Honey shook her head. John nodded.
‘Yeah. I work for a specialist American magazine. We … I … was wondering what your impressions might be of the people who were murdered. There’s been a lot of rumours about what they might have been involved in. Would I be right in thinking they didn’t mix much?’
The man sneered. ‘Don’t tell me. You’re another one of the nuts who thinks they were vampires. Right?’
‘Ahh … well … not exactly …’
John was floundering.
Honey leapt in to help him out.
‘Funnily enough we were at that Hallowe’en party. As you can imagine, finding dead bodies right outside the front door was a little disconcerting.’
The thin man eyed her incredulously. ‘It was you that found the bodies?’
‘Yes. I did. I mean if I hadn’t looked up I might not have noticed them. Those urns were huge.’
‘Look. I’m Sid Small, lord of this pub and mine of village information. But, and note this well, me hearties, I wasn’t the one who said they were vampires. It was him. Gavin the postman.’
&
nbsp; He pointed to the young man who was feeding the fruit machine as though it would eat him if he stopped.
‘He’s the one who started that vampire business. As I told him, this is Northend, not bloody Transylvania! No wonder he gets the postcodes all wrong.’
A sudden deluge of coins erupted from the fruit machine. The postman, looking as though he’d won the Euromillions Lottery, not a handful of coins, scooped them up into his hands, and went to the bar.
‘I don’t want small change, Sid. Mind changing them for pound and two pound coins? Put this lot in me pocket and me trousers are likely to fall down.’
Sid Small did as requested. ‘I told these people ’ere that it was you who started that vampire business, Gavin. They’re journalists and they reckon they were at the party that night. Now there’s a thing!’
Honey smiled at the fresh faced postman. ‘I’d like to talk to you about the people who owned the guest house. It was me who discovered the bodies.’
The postman shook his head disconsolately. ‘I’m not sure I can tell much more than you already know, but you’re welcome to have a chat.’
‘Can I buy you a drink?’
Gavin nodded and asked for half a lager. Honey still had enough orange to see her through and John was only sipping at his lager.
They took their drinks into a far corner at the top of the stairs and next to a glowing log fire.
Sid Small hovered, looking peeved at being left out of the conversation.
Gavin had pink cheeks, corn-coloured hair, and baby blue eyes. Although he had to be in his late twenties, his face was round as a baby’s and he had amazingly clear skin. She’d seen his like before, the sort who never would look his age; a perennial Peter Pan.
‘Did you often deliver mail to the guest house,’ Honey asked him.
‘Yep. ’Course I did.’
He took a big draught of his drink, seeming to relish the rush of it going down his throat, as though that would help him find the answers to whatever questions they were about to ask him.
‘What were they like?’
He shrugged. ‘Beats me. Never saw them. I put the letters into the box, and that was it. It was only when I had a parcel to deliver that I knocked at the door.’
Blood and Broomsticks Page 12
