‘Absolutely. I think he’s a veteran in the barfly stakes. He seems to be mopping it up like a sponge while bemoaning his lot in life.’
Honey closed her eyes, thanked the fates that had brought his footsteps to her bar, and got to her feet.
‘Right! If he wants someone to bemoan to, I’m all ears.’
Boris Morris would think he was receiving sympathy when in fact he was being grilled like a fillet steak.
She arrived in the bar to see the pale-faced film director tipping a full measure of Irish down his throat. He was wearing denim; denim jeans, denim shirt, denim jacket. OK in spring, but chilly in February.
He ordered another whiskey.
Honey gave her barman the nod. ‘I’ll serve this gentleman,’ she quietly said so that Boris couldn’t hear.
The barman moved gratefully aside. He’d been listening to the bemoaning for long enough.
‘Single or double?’ Honey asked the well-oiled film director.
He raised his eyes from his drink and squinted at her.
‘You’re a woman.’
‘You must be a genius.’
Her sarcasm was wasted on him. He was peering into his glass as though trying to see the bottom of a very deep well.
‘It’s this Irish stuff. Gives you the heebie-jeebies at times.’
‘Is that so?’
After taking a sip, he took another squint at her. ‘Do I know you? Didn’t you have a part in a Stallone movie once?’
‘Sure. I was playing a fire hydrant.’
‘Is that so? Were you naked?’
What did he think she’d said?
‘As naked as a fire hydrant ever gets,’ said Honey. This wasn’t going to be easy. She poured herself a vodka and tonic. ‘Not even a walk-on. More of a stand-alone kind of thing.’
He nodded as though she’d made sense. Though it was as if his neck was strung on wires and there was a puppet master someway above him.
‘Would you like to be in my movie?’ he slurred.
‘Sure, why not?’ she said, knocking back half of her drink. ‘Can you make me into a big star?’
‘Sure, sure,’ he said, spilling whiskey from the tightly clutched glass. ‘Anybody can be a star if they play their cards right. Even the ugliest old battle-axe around. Even the prettiest airheads and the biggest dunderhead in the world of men …’
Honey was wise enough not to enquire which of these categories she fitted into; hopefully, none of them.
‘You’d have to give me the low-down on what to expect,’ she said. ‘I’m not au fait with the movie scene at all.’
It wasn’t entirely true. After all she’d had a whole crew of cameramen and sound engineers staying at the hotel for two weeks now. And before that there were old friends – some who’d made good in the industry, but none who’d made big.
‘You’ve got the look,’ he said, and patted her hand. ‘Shame you’re so buxom.’
Honey gritted her teeth. ‘How kind.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘Has anyone ever told you look a right prat wearing your hair like that?’
‘What …?’ He slurred, his eyes bleary and unfocused.
‘I said your hair is really long and shiny. What do you use on it? Margarine or axle grease?’
The subject of his hair – or rather the lack of it – seemed to touch a chord.
‘I hate this,’ he slurred, running his hand over his bare head.
‘Cut the ponytail.’
‘Do you think I should cut off my ponytail? Penelope thinks so.’
‘Good idea. It is said that grass doesn’t grow on a busy street.’
‘I don’t think I will,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘How many people wanted to murder Martyna Manderley?’
He laughed and ordered another drink. ‘Everybody!’
‘What about Scheherazade Parker-Henson?’
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘She was a dyke.’
‘As in Offa’s Dyke or a great Dutch dyke?’
The joke was lost on him.
‘Shut up, Honey and keep to the point,’ she muttered to herself.
‘Funny that. She was well-liked. Kept Martyna in her place.’
So he didn’t have it in for Scheherazade. That didn’t mean he had nothing to do with the murder of Martyna Manderley, she advised herself. The murder of a make-up girl could be an entirely separate murder – not that she thought it was. The probability that she knew something about Martyna’s murder had to be considered. Big bucks were involved where Martyna was concerned. It was likely Boris knew more than he let on. There was only one way to find out. Ask questions until she was blue in the face – or Boris Morris passed out.
‘You know quite a bit about the film industry.’ She didn’t care if her smile was a little tight. Boris was pretty tight too and wouldn’t notice the sudden lack of warmth.
It was the million-dollar question. She could tell that Boris was going to just love answering it.
He began rambling on about rights, insurance, stars and directors. He informed her that he considered most to be in the same group as vampires.
‘Bloodsuckers! All bloodsuckers!’
‘Gee,’ said Honey, all sweetness and light. ‘How come you say that?’
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Lindsey at the end of the bar. She was standing with Alex the barman. Alex looked perplexed. Lindsey was pulling a face and rolling her eyes.
Honey returned the look. OK, she sounded like a girl on prom night. But she didn’t care. As long as it worked.
Boris began listing all the bloodsuckers he’d known and Count Dracula wasn’t amongst them. Too much of a softie in comparison to the real vampires behind the big flicks.
Honey nodded in the right places and eventually managed to interrupt.
‘What about this film you’ve been doing in Bath? Was that so bad? I mean, were the people running the show out to get their pound of flesh?’
Boris sneered before gulping back another drink.
‘Worst ever. Everything Brett Coleridge wants, Brett Coleridge gets. This was his film through and through; he owned everything in it, the star, the script – you name it, he called the shots.’
Honey rested her elbow on the bar and cupped her chin in her hand. She looked into the pale eyes swimming in an alcoholic haze above puffy pouches. Boris Morris the body was as out of sorts as the inner man.
The fact that a film could be insured against termination of production was uppermost in her mind. Go with it, she advised herself.
‘So what about finance?’
Boris made a snorting sound. He also ordered another shot, after which Alex the barman disappeared into the cellar to get a fresh bottle.
Buoyed up on a sea of Irish whiskey, Boris was rambling on. ‘Him and other sources – that’s what I heard. Heard he couldn’t do it all alone, so a company was formed between him and others.’
‘Anyone famous?’
‘Besides his fiancé you mean?’
She said, yes, that was what she meant.
He shook his head. ‘Not famous. Not in this country.’
‘Foreigners?’
He nodded. The effort of nodding seemed to have an effect on his neck. His head began to lower like a bucket on the end of a bulldozer. His legs were folding beneath him.
‘For the want of a nail,’ he muttered.
Honey knew the rest of the poem. She presumed his mind was wandering; it deserved time off after all that whiskey.
Lindsey and Alex caught him before he hit the floor.
A group of tourists from Poland smiled at the supine man, then at each other, as Boris was dragged out of the bar.
Honey followed. ‘Take him into number one.’
Number one was a ground-floor room used by staff when they had some reason for not being able to get home. Working late was one reason. In the case of Smudger the Chef, it was usually because he’d had one B-52 too many
. Naming a cocktail after a Second World War bomber wasn’t a bad choice, but naming it Aviation Fuel might have been a better option.
Boris grumbled all the way to the bed, his legs dragging behind him.
Between the three of them, they stacked him out. Honey took charge of his legs. Taking a firm grip of his ankles, she heaved both up on the bed.
She regarded him quizzically. What did he know? Did he know anything at all?
One thing was for sure. He was well and truly oiled.
‘I reckon he’d been drinking before he got here,’ said Lindsey. ‘Drowning his sorrows big time.’
Whether he’d heard them or not, Honey didn’t know, but suddenly his eyes flicked open.
‘It was mine! All mine,’ he murmured.
Falteringly, his eyes had opened, but they snapped shut again like a camera lens.
‘What did he mean by that?’ asked Lindsey.
Honey shrugged. ‘Search me.’
Even if it was something important, there was no chance of getting an answer tonight. Boris Morris had sunk into an alcoholic stupor and would have one hell of a head in the morning.
Chapter Thirty-three
Filming of Jane Austen’s life had come to an end. The bank had pulled the plug.
Honey wasn’t sorry and Doherty was otherwise engaged nursing a sore head and making other arrangements in the furtherance of the case.
Candy had slipped out of the hospital without Doherty noticing. He was dead pissed about that and blamed Mary Jane. He’d noticed that one of her tyres was a bit soft. She’d thanked him for noticing and directed him to ‘the trunk’ where she kept the spare.
Having sorted out the problem, he returned to put things away.
Mary Jane hadn’t told him that one of the hinges holding the trunk lid up was a bit faulty. It came down on his head.
‘Wasn’t it lucky that he was already in casualty,’ she’d said to Honey.
It was lucky – in a way. He got attended to pretty quickly. That was when Candy had done a runner. She went straight back to the hotel, collected her stuff, and was gone.
Doherty was pretty miffed. ‘I’ll get the London police to check her out.’
Honey decided to keep a low profile. Somehow she couldn’t see Candy as a murderer. Of course there was the Mr North thing. Tabloid newspapers thrived on seedy gossip. What if Martyna’s relationship with Scheherazade had been found out? Could she have got mad?
She reminded herself that there had been no sign of a fight in the trailer. There was only the atomizer on its side belching perfume and the fan heater belching cold air. There was something odd about the two items working in unison, but so far she hadn’t figured out what.
Casper had been pretty absent as regards the case so far. Appearing in front of the cameras had proved irresistible. Now it was over, he was back on the case for the city of Bath.
‘We really have to get this finalized,’ Casper told Honey. ‘How dreadful that a reputable star can come here and get murdered.’
There were many people who thought Martyna had got her just deserts, but Honey didn’t comment.
Over a light lunch, Honey enlightened Casper with the report she’d had from Doherty.
‘In all probability the murderer was in disguise, which is why this Ted Ryker in the mobile canteen …’
Perplexed was the best way to describe how Casper was looking. A flat look as though someone had flattened his face with a frying pan.
‘I thought his name was Richard. Richard Richards. That’s the name I saw.’
Casper spat the name out as though being unfortunate to have matching first and surname was totally out of order. She had to admit it was pretty daft.
‘Apparently he was only filling in. The real Richard Richards was catering at Chepstow Racecourse and then had a whole bunch of other engagements to fit in. He tried not to use Ted Ryker because he’s such a liar and also because he can’t stand anyone criticizing his cooking. You may have noticed him reel off a whole A-list of stars who’d made complimentary comments about his pies and whatever.’
‘An obvious fiction,’ said Casper with undisguised contempt. ‘Disgustingly ordinary.’
Honey didn’t comment that the ordinary folk didn’t have smoked salmon for breakfast every day as Casper did. She wanted to get this over and meet up with Steve Doherty. A bigger mystery was evolving and she wanted to be part of it.
Brett Coleridge was nowhere to be found. His secretary could only say that he was out of the country, but she didn’t know where.
This was another thing for Doherty to be miffed about. He’d told Coleridge not to leave the country. He didn’t like being played for an idiot.
Casper ran his eyes over the lunchtime bunch. This was far from being his favourite venue. On the plus side, neither was it a great favourite with friends and acquaintances. That fact alone suited him fine. For some time before the filming he’d crowed about having secured a small part – he didn’t say extra or walk-on. ‘A dandy of ill repute,’ he’d related, when asked what part he’d been enrolled to play.
Word had got round that he’d landed the part of a crossing sweeper – the bloke with the broom who cleaned up after a horse-drawn carriage had passed. Casper wanted to keep his head down until the time of ridicule had passed.
Honey began telling him about how things were going, when she saw his expression.
He was looking beyond her to someone who’d just come into the bar. His look said everything. Sheer horror.
‘I have to go,’ he said suddenly. ‘I’ll pop in when I’m passing.’
Fast for his height, he swept up from the chair. The Francis bar was long and narrow. It had two entrances; one from reception and one direct from the outside. They were nearest the one leading directly on to Queen Square.
Casper was gone in a flash leaving nothing but a draught of cold air.
The two men who’d come in bought drinks at the bar, ordered sandwiches, then sat down in a far corner near the reception entrance.
The waiter brought two salmon salads to Honey’s table.
‘For you, madam?’
‘For me,’ she said. Well, the portions weren’t big and they were only accompanied with lettuce, tomatoes and a few other bits and pieces. She would manage both.
She was just in the process of scraping one plateful on to the other, when she was interrupted.
‘Need a hand with that?’
Doherty was looking down at her with an amused expression. She’d been found out and felt as if she’d shrunk to two inches high.
‘They weren’t really both for me, only Casper had to leave.’
He smiled. ‘I’ll believe you. Millions wouldn’t.’
He’d come to know her weaknesses – or rather her biggest weakness. Food. Good food, mind you, none of this processed stuff out of a packet or a tin.
She found herself in a quandary as to whether to share or stick to the plan. The last option was the most attractive one and there was nothing to gain by being generous – until Doherty said, ‘Her with the long name didn’t die from the stab wound, and if you want to hear more you’ll let me have one of those. I’m starving.’
She set the plate down in front of him, her appetite for details outweighing (temporarily) her appetite for food.
Steve Doherty swooped on the smoked salmon. ‘I could eat this stuff every day.’
‘Casper does.’
‘He can afford to.’ His tone was guarded, but had undercurrents.
There was no animosity between Doherty and Casper. They were men from either end of sexuality, but respectful and tolerant of each other. Doherty was wary. Casper was aloof.
Between mouthfuls of salmon, Doherty reeled off the pathology details of Scheherazade Parker-Henson’s demise.
‘It seems it could have been an accident. She was pushed and hit her head. Whoever was responsible panicked and decided to blur the evidence by stabbing her in the neck with yet another hatpin, couldn’t f
ind one so used a steel tail comb. It looked a bit like a hatpin. How many sharp instruments does that wardrobe department have, for Chrissake?’
‘They shouldn’t have any hatpins,’ said Honey recalling most vividly what Miss Cleveley had told her. ‘Back then they wore bonnets with strings. Hatpins weren’t really necessary until the late nineteenth century, when women began wearing those elaborate concoctions of ostrich feathers and garlands of flowers.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that so?’
‘Nor corsets. Nor underwear. Did I mention that before?’
She waited for this particular parcel of info to sink in. Once it did, he looked at her, his eyes opened wide.
‘You may have done. Still, it takes a while to sink in. No knickers, you say?’
‘None.’
The sponsors backing the film had given orders to up sticks and call a halt to everything. Doherty refused to let them go until forensics were finished.
For the most part, Honey shadowed his movements, writing things down and working things through in her mind.
Not being part of the scene was quite relaxing. She didn’t have to dress up or be made-up. She wandered around as she pleased.
That was the great thing about film sets and the people who worked on them. Stars, production staff and crew alike were so embroiled in their own world or busy watching their backs that they failed to see what was under their noses.
Even now, as everything was being packed up, nobody really noticed that there was a big banner across the front of the catering truck: Ted Ryker – Caterer to the Stars.
Honey had got into the habit of looking up at him.
‘So what happened to Dick Richards?’
‘He had other contracts he wanted to concentrate on. I made him an offer. He accepted. Anyway, they couldn’t do without me. I’m more original than Dick and getting all the praise. He was getting jealous. It was only a matter of time. I’ve just baked some Cornish pasties from what I had left. They’re a bit different from usual. I’ve used everything I had left; bacon, leeks, onions, mince, mushrooms, carrots, eggs…’
‘Sounds great!’
In all honesty it did, but what would it taste like?
‘Here.’
He passed her a warm pasty wrapped in two paper napkins.
Killing Jane Austen - A Honey Driver murder mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 20
