‘I’d call this a threesome,’ said Honey.
Lindsey lowered her voice. ‘I hear we’ve all been summoned to appear on set at dawn. Sounds like we’re being shot, doesn’t it? In a way we are – by a camera anyway. Not with a gun.’
When Honey turned her head, she found herself nose to nose with her daughter. They stayed eyeball to eyeball.
‘I feel you’ve got something to say to me,’ said Honey.
Lindsey nodded. ‘I have. Doherty asked if he can meet you at the Zodiac tonight. But there’s more. John Rees called. Do you remember him?’
‘Hmm,’ said Honey. This was an unexpected pleasure. Of course she remembered him. He was American, good-looking, and bookish. The only time she’d seen him of late was on passing his shop, which was squeezed in-between a shop selling home-made fudge and the Rifleman, the smallest pub in Bath.
‘What did he want? John Rees, I mean.’
‘He’s going along as an extra tomorrow and heard from one of the film crew that you were going too. He suggested you could both catch up on things.’
‘Lovely!’ Honey exclaimed. Feeling a pair of eyes boring into her back, she looked over her shoulder. Her mother was wearing a tight expression and standing with her arms folded.
‘I heard every word,’ she said in the kind of voice James Cagney used to use when he was playing a gangster and itching to blow someone’s head off. ‘You don’t want to get mixed up with a guy who spends his time with dusty old books.’
Honey swallowed the hasty retort about favouring men with dusty digits above accountants and dentists. OK, some did have big bank balances, but she couldn’t get enthused about them in the same way she did about Doherty, John Rees, or sirloin steak with all the trimmings.
‘So I don’t turn up tomorrow.’
‘But you’ve got a walk-on part,’ Gloria protested.
Honey made a clicking sound and smiled with her eyes.
‘Straw bonnets at dawn!’
Sensing that Smudger was getting exasperated, Honey hustled her mother and daughter out of the kitchen. She kept her arms around their shoulders.
‘Six thirty, you say? I dare say I can manage that. I wonder what part I’ll be playing,’ she mused. In all honesty being dressed up Jane Austen-style took a back seat to seeing John Rees again.
‘A flirt,’ said Lindsey with a knowing grin.
‘A tart,’ said her mother, without her earlier enthusiasm. ‘This early-morning appearance of yours is nothing to do with suffering for your art, I take it?’
‘Of course not, though I’m not going there to see John Rees either. We still haven’t solved the murder of Martyna Manderley and there really are more questions to ask. I’ll get the low-down from Doherty tonight and base my questions on whatever information he gives me.’
Her mother winced, frowned and pouted all at the same time. ‘Don’t try and teach your mother how to suck eggs!’
‘I’m sorry?’ Honey feigned innocence. She was rubbish at it, but it was worth a try.
Her mother’s expression went unchanged. ‘You’re off out with one man tonight and meeting another one tomorrow.’
The smell of grilled steaks and garlic lamb wafted into Honey’s face as she entered the Zodiac. Bare bricks formed the barrel-vaulted ceiling, one complete arched curve from one wall to the other. The bricks were scarred with wear and tear and smeared with grease. Environmental Health might get uppity about it, but the punters didn’t mind. Being situated beneath North Parade, it didn’t matter how many extractor fans they had in their kitchen, the smell of sizzling meat stayed trapped against the vaulted ceiling.
Doherty was already sitting at the bar with three empty glasses in front of him. She guessed they were all his and that another was on its way. He wasn’t one to get unnecessarily thirsty.
He saw her at the same time as the barman brought his drink.
‘A vodka and slimline, ice and lemon for the lady.’ He turned from the bar to her and raised his glass. ‘Brett Coleridge is innocent. Innocent of murder anyway,’ he added, closing one eye and squinting through his whiskey. He shook his head dolefully. ‘I was so looking forward to reading him his rights.’
‘Is that so?’
‘It would have wrapped things up. We could have celebrated.’
‘Back to the grindstone, Detective Inspector.’
He narrowed one eye and studied her. ‘You are not my boss. Stop telling me what to do.’ He cocked his head to one side. ‘You’re looking smug. Something good happened?’
She took a sip of vodka. ‘I’m back on set tomorrow. I have a walk-on part. I think I’m playing a tart.’
She said it laughingly, thinking it would cheer him up. It didn’t. Unusual for him. A bit of banter of the sexual kind usually did wonders for his spirits.
‘You’re becoming star-struck.’
Oh, well. She’d done her best. She downed her drink. ‘I did find out something from Miss Cleveley.’
Doherty looked puzzled until she reminded him of who the old lady was. He nodded. ‘Ah, yes. The old bird.’
The bar stool was high, but her feet were aching – a hazard of the catering profession. She perched herself comfortably.
‘You remember she was on the set as a historical advisor, though nobody paid her much attention. And there’s the rub – as old Bill Shakespeare would have said. She was regarded as unimportant so nobody really noticed her. But she noticed them and their behaviour. In particular she noticed that Martyna Manderley and the senior make-up girl were more than friends – a lot more than friends.’
Doherty looked at her, bleary-eyed, eyeballs rolling slightly, as he fought to focus his pupils. ‘You mean they were lesbians?’
‘Miss Cleveley assures me they were overly affectionate to each other. Don’t prejudge.’
‘That’s very liberal of you.’ He downed his drink.
‘And there’s something else. I don’t think things were exactly rosy between the engaged couple. Perdita overheard Martyna calling her intended a pervert.’
‘In fun or seriously?’
‘I’m presuming seriously.’
‘Hmm.’ He downed his drink and ordered another.
‘That’s four you’ve had.’ The comment was out before she could stop it. Oh dear. Now that was seriously blotting her copybook.
He looked at her in amazement. ‘Are you nagging me?’
This was all too much.
She pushed his shoulders with both hands so he was forced to sit on the stool behind him.
‘So I’m a star-struck, mother figure, liberal nag.’
Seeing a clutch of empty glasses, the barman hotfooted it to their end of the bar.
‘No more, thank you.’
One snap of her jaw and he got the message.
Doherty was indignant.
‘I wanted another.’
‘No, you didn’t.’
At least he was arguing and not miserable. That was something. But he was getting louder.
‘You are not my mother!’
‘Did your mother used to tuck you into bed?’
He looked pensive as opposed to grumpy.
‘Yes …’
‘And kiss you goodnight?’
‘I can’t remem –’
It was wild, it was a whim, and it shut him up. She kissed him full on the lips. Not a short, sharp smacker, but a deep, lip-sucking kiss. She went all out to suck his breath from his body, or at least get the tip of his tongue in her mouth.
‘There,’ she said as they parted. ‘Are we Mr Grouch of Grumble Bend, or are we Detective Inspector Steve Doherty, top-flight police officer in this fair city?’
He stared momentarily, the tip of his tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth.
Suddenly he was back to being his old self.
‘You’d better keep your eyes peeled tomorrow.’
Her response was nothing more than a murmur. Tomorrow she’d be seeing John Rees again – though she wouldn’t
mention that!
‘I saw Casper earlier,’ said Doherty. ‘He’s on set too, though he didn’t seem too keen on it. He reckons he’s going to ask them for a different part. From that I take it he failed to get a starring role.’
Honey grinned. ‘He’s togged up as a crossing sweeper.’
‘What the hell’s that when it’s at home?’
‘The poorest of the poor. They were employed to sweep the horse poo from the streets.’
Doherty threw back his head and laughed.
Honey tried to shush him. ‘People are looking.’
A silence descended after that. This happened regularly between them. Sometimes it was merely a friendship thing. At this moment in time it was because he wanted to know whether she’d got anywhere with her hunt for Perdita Moody. She’d only conveyed to him Miss Cleveley’s observation of Martyna Manderley and her habits. He’d refused to have anything further to do with the missing girl, and yet he was curious.
Honey let him stew. Give him a few more minutes and he’d have to ask.
‘You’re smirking,’ he said finally. ‘Are you going to tell me?’
And so she did.
‘A man! You’re fucking kidding me?’
Doherty didn’t make a habit of swearing. For a man with a stressful job he was pretty cool on bad language. But this had just struck him out.
‘Not!’ She couldn’t help the amused look. Doherty had thought Perdita a bit of a dish from her photos. Why was it that men got hostile when they found out they were admiring one of their own?
‘Go on!’
‘I’m telling you. Perdita used to be called Peter. I saw him at the theatre in Swindon and Miss Cleveley confirmed it.’
Doherty covered his mouth to stop himself from laughing too loud.
People drinking and talking close by interrupted their interchange to see what all the fuss was about. Obviously they didn’t think Doherty was that interesting and they looked away again.
Having them look over was no big deal; everyone looked round at the prospect of an interesting interchange like a row between lovers or a jealous husband confronting the lover. Not exactly pistols at dawn, more like cracking the head before the police were called.
That’s all it would have been, just people seen through a steak-induced smoke haze, but one face was familiar. Honey looked over, her lips slightly parted as though a bit of extra oxygen might help her think better. It worked. It definitely worked.
Doherty was talking to her so she tuned back in. ‘Do you want to hear something really funny?’
‘Shoot!’
‘I thought you were going to say that she – or rather he – was working the hotels along with that other piece in London.’ He burst into a loud, belly deep guffaw. ‘Imagine some bloke finding out he was getting a bit extra for his money!’
‘Very funny,’ said Honey without meaning it. She couldn’t join in his fun, having met Perdita and finding her – or maybe him – a really nice person.
She glowered at him when he ordered more drinks.
‘Our last,’ she said with grit and meaning.
‘One for the road,’ he said, already tipping his glass.
‘How’s your liver?’
‘How’s yours?’
‘It’s your funeral.’
She waved a hand dismissively and carried on talking about her visit.
‘She was very nice, I found her and set Miss Cleveley’s mind at rest. Let’s get back to basics. I take it you’ll be on set tomorrow asking questions?’
‘If you mean of the make-up girl, you bet I will.’
‘Sure you don’t want to question her tonight?’
‘Nah! She’s probably tucked up in bed at her hotel. Wouldn’t want to disturb her beauty sleep.’
‘She’s not tucked up in bed.’
Doherty upended his glass of Jack Daniel’s. ‘How do you know that?’
Honey pointed. ‘She’s over there.’
Doherty looked. The chief make-up artist was sitting with a few of the crew, some of whom were staying at the Green River. She looked to be knocking back the drinks as fast as they were. Her face was flushed a deep fuchsia which contrasted badly with the pea-green sweater she was wearing.
Doherty did his best to focus and take in the details. Being sober, Honey found it easier. The smoky haze thrown up by the charcoal grill cleared a little. The faces became clearer. Her eyes stuck on a sweetheart face surrounded by bouncy blonde flicks. The mouth was sugar pink.
Candy!
She got a tight feeling across her chest and a funny sweet taste in her mouth.
‘What’s she doing here?’ Her voice was only a slim rung above a whisper.
Doherty raised an eyebrow and did his best to focus.
‘Let me guess. Pink and white with fluffy blonde hair?’
‘Candy! It’s the first time I’ve seen her without something in her mouth. Candy in name and nature. As pink and white as the confectionery she eats. Too many candies and I’d be the size of a house.’
Doherty responded. ‘Too many candies and I break out in spots.’
Honey frowned. ‘What’s she doing here?’
‘Is she an actress?’ Doherty asked.
Honey laughed drily. Calling Candy an actress was stretching a point as far as Honey was concerned.
‘Not quite,’ she responded while keenly watching the pair.
Candy and Scheherazade had their heads together and appeared to be in deep conversation.
‘There’s some tie-in between this film set and the nightclub Coleridge has a share in. I have a feeling about Perdita Moody!’
Doherty was leaning on his elbow, but having trouble stopping it sliding along the bar.
‘That’s it,’ he said, downing the last of his drink. ‘Let’s get to grips with it. First off perhaps you could stop sounding like Mary Jane.’
‘I do not!’
Much as she loved Mary Jane, her resident doyenne of all things psychic, she didn’t like to feel she was that batty – not yet. She couldn’t help retaliating.
‘My gut instinct was based on fact. Miss Cleveley is a very observant woman and also very caring. One moment Perdita was there, and then she was gone.’
‘On her own volition,’ Doherty pointed out.
‘But there’s a link. You have to admit that.’
His amusement melted away. ‘I suppose so.’
He rubbed at his chin stubble as he thought it through. Honey watched him closely, the flickering eyes, the solid and, now, sober expression.
By the looks of Doherty’s face, he was off on a thought marathon. So far he was being generous about the work she’d put in on the case. She’d got somewhere. He hadn’t. This was his case and although he enjoyed working with her, at the end of the day solving it would do his career the world of good.
‘Are you going to question her about her relationship with Martyna?’ Honey asked him.
He shook his head. ‘Not now. She’ll keep until the morning.’
‘The morning?’ Honey’s eyes grew as big as doorknobs when she glared at him. ‘You’re miffed!’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘You’ll be sorry.’
‘Stop sounding like an old witch.’
‘Cut out the old.’
She wasn’t usually into premonitions and shivers down the spine, but she did feel apprehensive. Two reasons for that, she reckoned. Either she was excited at the prospect of seeing John Rees tomorrow or her mother was going to spring something on her that she wouldn’t like. Or maybe it could be something worse – something much worse.
Candy Laurel took a cab from the Zodiac to the FrancisHotel on Queen Square . Scheherazade Parker-Henson had not been the pushover she’d been led to believe. Mr North would not be pleased.
After paying the cab driver, she headed into reception to collect her key.
The receptionist was a neat-looking girl with clean nails and a confident face. Her hair was tied back in a pony
tail at the nape of her neck. She smiled when Candy asked her for the key-card.
‘I gave the key-card to your husband, though we do have a second one if you need it.’
‘My husband?’
Candy’s nerves knotted in her stomach. She didn’t have a husband. There was only one man it could be. Mr North wanted results quickly and had turned up in person.
The receptionist was all sweetness and light. ‘He said to tell you that he’s ordered champagne.’
She said it with a conspiratory smile, as though a romantic night was on the cards. She was totally wrong. This was about business.
Candy collected her key, then went to the ladies room to fix her face. Her hand shook as she applied lipstick and a lick of mascara. How was she going to play this? So far she’d had no luck in seducing Scheherazade Parker-Henson. She pouted at the mirror, her pink cheeks poised as if to kiss her reflection.
‘You look good,’ she said, and managed a nervous little smile. It was hard to be brave when Mr North came to town. A sense of panic threatened to engulf her and there was only one way to deal with that.
Stillness became swiftness, her bag torn open. Her long nails scraped the bag’s lining. She needed a fix. Her fingers touched a piece of wrapping paper. The last piece of candy had been popped into her mouth. The pretty face took on a desperate look. There were no candies left! But she had to have something. She had to appear cool, calm and collected when she faced Mr North!
In desperation she emptied the contents on the long Corian counter connecting the hand basins. She searched frantically, eventually finding the substance that candy had replaced. The small fold of paper was jammed into a compartment at the bottom of her lipstick.
Hands beginning to shake now, she got out her powder compact and opened it. She sprinkled a little of the white powder on to the compact’s mirror. The discarded piece of sweet wrapper was rolled into a thin tube – just big enough to fill a nostril.
She bent, she sniffed and she straightened. Three or four deep breaths and her eyes sparkled. After putting everything back into her bag, she once again checked her reflection.
‘Yesss,’ she hissed. ‘Oh, yes!’
The nerves subsided. Of course she could deal with this.
Taking the stairs to her room was her favourite way. By the time she got up there, she’d be floating on a cloud. A little pink cloud with cherubs wings at each corner.
Killing Jane Austen - A Honey Driver murder mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 16
