‘Are they dancers?’ Honey asked.
Coleridge nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘With their clothes on?’
Coleridge threw her a condescending grimace. ‘Which century are you living in? They’re pole dancers. What other sort would you expect in a nightclub?’
‘Did you hire Miss Moody?’ asked Doherty.
‘No. I offered but she didn’t take it. She had reservations about taking her clothes off. Told her it wasn’t ballet. What the hell did she expect?’
Doherty asked another question. ‘Do you know where she went after leaving you?’
His eyebrows rose quizzically. ‘Home? Or another interview. She said she had other options.’
‘Have you any idea where?’
‘Quite frankly I don’t care. I only care about my dead fiancée. So what are you doing about that, Detective Inspector?’
‘My best.’
Beneath the cool exterior, Doherty was bristling. Honey felt an overwhelming desire to reach out and touch him, to tell him she knew how he was feeling and if he really couldn’t help himself, he should go ahead and punch Coleridge’s lights out. She’d tell anyone interested that it was self-defence – or that Coleridge had fallen down the stairs.
The polished-marble look returned to Brett Coleridge’s sun-bronzed features. His top lip curled in a blatant snarl.
‘You’ve got no idea who killed her, have you? You think it’s me, but it isn’t.’
Honey couldn’t let it go there. She kept seeing Miss Cleveley’s elfin face.
‘And Perdita?’
He half turned away. ‘Missing tarts turn up like bad pennies. They always do. See yourself out.’
Doherty and Honey were left facing their reflections in the gleaming copper doors. They only opened again to let out the two sides of beef.
‘He’s right,’ said Doherty as they went down in the elevator.
‘That Perdita will turn up?’
‘No. That we haven’t a clue who murdered Martyna Manderley.’
Chapter Twenty-two
They strolled along Kensington High Street. Doherty was in a mood. Honey didn’t like him when he was in a mood, only when he was fun and inclined towards witty – and slightly sexy – repartee. He wasn’t happy at her for getting sidetracked with the missing Perdita Moody.
‘Who the hell has a name like that anyway,’ he grumbled.
Honey had to admit that she wasn’t inclined towards that sort of name. Too pretentious by far for her taste, along with Araminta, Camilla and Ariadne.
‘I promised Miss Cleveley that I’d look into it. She was helpful about the hatpin.’
‘The hatpin!’ Doherty’s tone was disparaging. ‘We were there to question Coleridge about his exact whereabouts when Martyna was murdered.’
‘You’re forgetting that Perdita had an appointment with him.’
‘Screw Perdita. She’s gone missing.’
‘She might be a witness of some sort and he could have had her bumped off.’
Doherty looked at her as though she’d taken leave of her senses.
‘Honey, this is South Kensington, not the Bronx! And Coleridge is a multi-millionaire businessman not a Mafia godfather.’
She shrugged as she sidestepped a crocodile of tourists talking excitedly in a variety of foreign languages. The crocodile neatly segregated the two of them.
‘It can happen anywhere,’ she called out over their heads.
He shouted back, ‘Not on my case!’
The crocodile passed.
‘May I reiterate that we were there to question him about his exact whereabouts when she was murdered?’ said Doherty as they came back together.
Honey smirked. ‘We know where he was. Interviewing nubile young women, some in a state of undress.’
‘As many have said before me, it’s a crap job but somebody has to do it.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Time to go home. We should just make the four fifteen from Paddington.’
Honey remained thoughtful. She knew where Doherty was coming from. He had a job to do and that was to find Martyna Manderley’s killer. However, there was something about Miss Cleveley that stayed with her. There was also something about the look she’d glimpsed in Zoe Valli’s eyes.
Doherty misconstrued her reason for being silent. ‘No good being stroppy with me. You were the one who promised some old dear that you would look for her niece. I allowed you to drag me into it, though I shouldn’t have.’
Honey pursed her lips. ‘I want Coleridge to be guilty.’
‘Just because he’s suave, sophisticated and thinks over-highly of himself is no reason to charge him with murder. There has to be proof. And so far we’ve got bugger all!’
He said the last few words with great feeling.
‘Do you believe he was sweating because he’d just eaten a hot curry?’
Doherty shrugged. ‘No. But what the hell …’
‘You need to question those girls he was with. Are they reliable alibis?’
He stopped dead and rocked backwards and forwards on his feet. He flung his head back in frustration.
‘Yes! Yes! Yes! While you were having that tête-à-tête with the tart with the heart, I checked out the details with the night porter and the concierge. No way did Coleridge leave in time to do the dirty deed. He left at ten in the morning on the dot. The doorman swore he left at ten.’
‘You sure?’
‘Positive. Normally he might not have noticed, but Coleridge gave him a big fat tip that caught his attention.’
‘How big and fat?’
‘Fifty pounds.’
Honey gaped. It was a red-letter day at the Green River if someone staying for one measly night left a twenty-pound note.
‘London prices,’ she said, shaking her head.
She didn’t see Doherty hail a taxi or see it slide like a black beetle against the kerb.
He got impatient. ‘Well, come on. We’ll miss the train.’
Honey stayed put, a string of thoughts whirling around her mind like an out of control carousel. Should she stay or should she go? Her thoughts erred towards the former.
‘I’m staying on … I think … I’ve got this feeling…’
The chirping of birdsong sounded from the depths of her handbag.
‘Honey? Are you doing a Mary Jane on me?’
Doherty was holding open the taxi door. His quip regarding Mary Jane was that once she had a feeling about something, there was no budging her. That and the hint of flakiness.
Honey flicked open her mobile phone. ‘Hello.’
‘Hi. It’s me. Zoe. I’ve got a fix on your friend. She’s got an apartment next to an old pal of mine. Can you come on over? I’ll introduce you.’
‘Yes. Hang on.’
She told Doherty who it was and why she was phoning.
‘Casper won’t like it,’ he said, whimsically wagging his finger. ‘You’re not sticking to the job in hand.’
‘Stuff Casper.’
Pushing past Doherty, she positively lunged into the back of the taxi. Once seated, she went straight back to the phone. ‘Zoe? I’m on my way.’
Doherty barely escaped getting his jacket caught in the slamming car door.
‘Hey! That’s my taxi.’
Honey pulled Zoe’s card out of her bag and gave the driver the address.
‘See you in Bath,’ she shouted out of the window.
Doherty waved in a desultory manner and looked crestfallen. She guessed he’d been looking forward to the journey home; an hour and a half to themselves – her head probably falling on to his shoulder.
So what was she letting herself in for? Why so set on finding the elusive Perdita? The look in an old woman’s eyes, that’s what. That look had touched a chord; the same chord it would have touched if someone she loved was missing.
Chapter Twenty-three
Brett Coleridge took a trip to the bathroom before rejoining his guests. Before the mirror he wiped the sweat from his brow
with a wet flannel. He then washed his hands and applied a touch of lotion from one of the many bottles ranged along the shelf.
By the time he’d finished, he was back in control of himself. Placing a hand against his chest he checked his heart rate against the gold Rolex gleaming on his wrist. He was fastidious about his health and had a full check every month. Business could kill you. His father’s death had shown him that. Well, it wasn’t going to kill him. He worked to live, not lived to work.
He checked his reflection, took deep breaths and smoothed a stray hair or two back into place. A face brimming with renewed confidence looked back at him. Hell, he could have been a film star. He had the looks.
The visit from Doherty and the woman had thrown him off balance. Not that he hadn’t been warned. That director prat Boris Morris had seen to that. Questions about funding the film and indemnity insurance; that’s what he’d thought they’d come about. Who stood to win from Martyna’s death? The answer was simple. A lot of people.
That didn’t mean that he wasn’t upset about her death. Of course he was. They’d been made for each other. Like him, Martyna was the centre of her own world and expected everyone else to orbit around her and her needs. She never, ever went out of her way to suit other people. He was the same and viewed it a sign of strength rather than selfishness.
So what that he’d been playing around with a couple of whores from the Venus Trap? It didn’t make him a murderer. Neither did it point the way to any irregularities in the film production accounting process.
Asking about Perdita Moody had thrown him off balance. She was just one of many girls wanting a break in the world of showbiz. Shame she’d been so bloody prudish. He’d put her straight as to what he was looking for. Hell, we’re talking lap dancers! They wear sequins not clothes!
Not that it mattered much that one solitary woman had rejected his offer. Her sort was like a taxi cab; there would be a whole string of them along in a minute. Still, there had been something about her; something that spoke to the secrets lurking in his soul.
Satisfied that everything was cool, he re-entered the board room.
‘Problem?’
The man who spoke was named Hans Hoffner, Coleridge’s only guest this evening. He had not come for dinner.
Coleridge flashed his ivories as he gave a brilliant smile that shone against his year-round tan.
‘Nothing I couldn’t handle – and nothing to do with the job in hand,’ he added with a lilt of a laugh.
Hoffner’s expression did not alter one iota. His eyes were a chill blue like icy water reflected in the sky. They were presently fixed on the man who’d encouraged him to invest in the film.
Coleridge hid his discomfort by aiming for the drinks cabinet.
He poured Hoffner a scotch; foreigners drank more scotch than the whole of the British Isles. Coleridge poured himself a single gin, then altered his mind and added an extra measure. He’d need it.
Hoffner’s eyes were like lasers, bright but totally without warmth.
‘I know you appreciate a single malt,’ Coleridge said with forced bonhomie.
‘You know me well,’ said Hoffman. ‘I like scotch. I drink nothing else. Even with dinner. My wife scolds me about this. She says it is not correct dinner etiquette.’
The two men laughed, toasted and drank.
Hoffner’s expression turned serious. He had white hair, white eyebrows, and a thick moustache. He reminded Coleridge of the German Kaiser as depicted on an old First World War poster – just the moustache of course, except that Hoffner’s was white.
The gin went down well. One sip followed another.
Hans Hoffner raised one snowy white eyebrow. His white hair made him look distinguished rather than old.
Coleridge immediately felt more uncomfortable than he had before. Everything depended on keeping Hoffner on board. He was the main backer for the Jane Austen film. Martyna, bless her heart, had never quite got her head around a German financier being keen on Jane Austen. ‘He’s not a fan,’ Brett had explained. ‘But Jane Austen is a worldwide phenomenon. He smells money. That’s what makes him tick.’
He hadn’t added that Hans also bankrolled his own portion – a payback for helping him out with a business venture that had gone bad.
Brett’s father, Malcolm Coleridge, had been a hard-working northerner who knew how to ‘make brass’, as they said up there. Brett had not inherited his natural business sense. He liked the kudos but didn’t have the skill in making money. However, he was damned good at spending it.
Hans leaned on the table, his whisky left for the moment, his hands clasped before him.
‘Explain to me again how the death of our leading lady has led to an increase in publicity and thus might ultimately lead to greater profits.’
Brett’s smile was one of relief. He’d judged Hans to be a man bereft of emotion. Seemed he was right.
Brett sat more easily in his chair, gulped back some more gin and composed himself. Humour the guy; he knows less about film-making than you do.
‘Surely you’ve heard the saying that there’s no such thing as bad publicity.’
Hans fixed him with those cool, discerning eyes.
Brett Coleridge felt them burning into him and knew he’d misjudged the man.
‘I have taken on a considerable amount of your company’s debt, Mr Coleridge. I decided to back this film because others of its kind have continued to spawn profits long after their initial release. So please, do not try to hoodwink me. If this film fails, you too will fail. I shall call in all your debts to my bank, so make it profitable by any means possible. Otherwise I will ruin you.’
Chapter Twenty-four
The address was in Chelsea. Zoe was waiting for her outside a solid red-brick building that shouted ‘I’m posh’ from pantiled roof to white marble steps.
Zoe waved. Honey waved back.
She couldn’t help noticing that Zoe looked different from earlier in the day. She was wearing a scarlet coat with a matching pillbox hat. Her stockings were black. (Definitely not tights, she reminded herself). Her boots were an eye-catching red, trimmed with black piping, possibly Jimmy Choo.
Honey decided a compliment was in order. ‘You’re looking good.’
‘Darling!’ Zoe air-kissed super-celeb style. ‘So glad you approve. I took your advice.’
‘So I see. I’m flattered.’
‘Our friend is on the third floor. Her name’s Candy. She’s a doll. A real, living doll!’
From then on an old Cliff Richard tune came into her head and wouldn’t go away. ‘Living Doll’. She’d never liked it much. Never much liked the singer either.
She resigned herself that it was likely to stay in her mind all day until something really shocked it back into that big old jukebox up in the sky. That’s what Candy did, though the song suited her down to the ground.
Candy was dressed in pink hot pants matched with a pink and white polka dot bustier. Her legs were long and brown and she wore skintight white boots. She had a china doll type of face: her skin silky-smooth, her lips a tiny rosebud of redness, her eyes big and luminous, and her hair platinum blonde and only available from a bottle.
The biggest surprise of all was when she stood to shake hands. Candy was at least six feet tall and had a Barbie doll figure – too slim and androgynous to be human.
Her manner was cute and courteous, her voice as sweet as a sugar mouse.
‘Zoe’s told me all about you. Please sit down. Make yourself at home.’ Her voice had a bit of a squeak to it – something between a child’s and a rubber toy.
Home was a top-notch apartment; all sleek and shiny with a white carpet, white furniture and pink accessories. The accessories jarred with the minimalist decor and recessed lighting. Pink gingham cushions and pink, fluffy rabbits were littered along the sofa and in the chairs. White table lamps with pink gingham shades sat on glass-topped tables. It was like an adult’s idea of a nursery, very odd but very expensive. Hone
y wondered how much the place was worth and did Candy own it or only rent it.
Candy asked Zoe if she was staying. Zoe said she had work to do.
Honey guessed the obvious.
Zoe threw a look in Honey’s direction. ‘Not business. Laundry.’
Zoe paused by the door as though stricken with a sudden thought.
‘I was going to say …’ She paused. ‘Never mind. Candy will ring your bell.’ She winked. ‘She’s good at that, just like the rest of us.’
‘Shucks!’ said Candy, sticking her thumb into her mouth and coming over all coy.
Once they were alone, Candy pushed forward a large box of expensive confectionery that was sitting on the glass-topped coffee table.
‘Help yourself.’
Before Honey had chance to indulge, Candy picked one out with sugar pink fingernails and popped it into her mouth.
Seeing her slender figure and no trace of guilt in the beautifully made-up face, Honey figured they couldn’t be that high in calories. What was one small piece of candy between a slender waist and a pair of love handles? Anyway, she needed the energy.
She outlined briefly why she was here. ‘I understand you might have a handle on Perdita Moody.’
Candy nodded and popped another selection from the half-depleted box.
‘If you mean did I know her, then the answer’s yes. She was on her uppers for a while. I let her doss down here.’
Candy’s terminology – and her accent – was not exactly top drawer, but somehow it didn’t seem to matter. Honey could see why she appealed to men. She looked like an oversized Barbie doll and acted like one. But there was more to her than that. Her kindness shone through. To Candy it came as second nature to put people at ease. Besides that, she was as pretty as the proverbial picture, and like a cute little rosebud, ripe for plucking. Bearing in mind her friend Zoe’s profession and her own assumptions, Candy was one who got plucked quite a lot.
‘I’ve been told she was looking for a job.’
A square of pink and pistachio green confection found its way between Candy’s Cupid’s bow lips.
Relentlessly chewing, Candy nodded. ‘She asked me if there were any vacancies in my line of work. She thought I was an actress.’ Candy squealed with laughter. ‘I suppose I am. In a way.’ She tossed her head, her laughter deeper now and gurgling in her throat. ‘She changed her mind once I explained what I did. The sort of acting she had in mind was pretty serious and definitely not unclothed.’
Killing Jane Austen - A Honey Driver murder mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 13
