Karen Pinker was hesitant at first. Then her face kind of broke – like from reserved into acknowledgement.
‘Mrs Driver, isn’t it?’
‘Honey. My real name’s Hannah but everyone calls me Honey.’
Her husband Carl had called her Honey all the time as a term of endearment. The name had stuck. Carl hadn’t. A sailing yacht, an all-girl crew, and an Atlantic storm had seen to that. Even without the storm they’d still have ended up on the rocks.
‘Right,’ said Karen.
Karen might have wanted their meeting to end there, but Honey couldn’t allow that.
‘I didn’t see you before I left. I was going to ask you where my stuff was so I could hightail it out of there. The Botox was OK, but me and the mud didn’t mix.’
‘Sensible woman.’
The comment came from Karen’s companion.
Karen looked at her disapprovingly. ‘Magda, I don’t think you should say any more. We did sign a confidentiality clause …’
‘Stuff it. Stuff Serena Sarabande too. She must be sick in the head pandering to Dexter. Creeps, the pair of them.’
Magda?
Honey made a guess.
‘You’re the girl who discovered the body of Carlotta Macrottie?’
She looked surprised.
‘Karen mentioned that you were the one who found the murdered woman. That must have been dreadful for you.’
The girl slid her sunglasses up on to her head amid the dark red hair. She had liquid brown eyes. Like Karen Pinker she was stunning, but with attitude. One long-fingered hand snaked on to her slender hip.
‘So what?’
The old hotelier’s built-in radar checked in. Magda was being defensive about something or someone.
Honey shrugged into her cool cotton blouse.
‘It must have been a pretty grim experience.’
There was wickedness in Magda’s seductive smile.
‘Bad enough. Poor cow. All I could see was the top of her head.’
‘So how come you left?’
‘I got sacked. I told her I was fed up of being left alone to deal with six clients at a time. I told her it wasn’t right and that I would report her. She said, “Well you won’t be doing it any more anyway. Get out.” So I got out. Bitch!’
Honey commiserated. ‘Poor you. I can’t say I exactly warmed to that woman. Can’t say the same about the doctor because I didn’t meet him.’
‘Just as well!’ Magda exclaimed. ‘He’s a money-grabbing shit! Best steer clear, especially if you’re middle-aged.’
Magda had all the mannerisms of an actress. It was possible that she was merely acting a part now. She might not hate Dr Dexter. It was difficult to tell.
Recognizing that this was the time to turn into an agony aunt, Honey shook her head. ‘I picked up on the atmosphere. Bad vibes. Not surprising I suppose, seeing as someone was murdered there.’
Magda Church folded her arms. ‘You bet there were bad vibes. Imagine how I felt when I found her.’
She jerked a thumb at her chest to emphasize the point.
Honey oozed sympathy. ‘How terrible for you. Did you see the man who did it?’
‘Magda …’ Karen Pinker sounded nervous. She looked it too. A little wrinkle lifted her brows above her nose.
Magda Church was far from nervous. The defiance Honey had detected earlier remained. If Doherty was here he’d take full advantage and press home the advantage, thought Honey.
Doherty wasn’t here to question Magda and Karen, but she was. It was all down to her.
‘I’m telling you now,’ said Magda, pointing her painted fingernail at the bony bit between Honey’s breasts. ‘No one else saw any scruffy tramp hanging around. Nobody except for Serena Sarabande.’
‘That’s strange.’
‘You bet it is.’
‘But the police believed her.’
‘Ha!’ Magda exclaimed. ‘Get the picture, sister. When Serena Sarabande flutters her eyelashes, the guys come running. She gives it like a bitch on heat.’
‘Really? You think the officer handling the case fell for that?’
She knew damn well that Doherty had handled the case. He’d said nothing about any statuesque ice queen flashing her lashes at him – but then what red-blooded man would own up to it?
The cogs in her brain clanked over.
He didn’t fall for it. He couldn’t prove anything so he got you on the job!
That was why she was here, but she’d ask him anyway.
She hadn’t liked Serena, true, but ice-cold types with perfect figures and cool demeanour got her that way. Stupid to be sidetracked but there it was. And what about this Dr Dexter? She’d only glimpsed him – thanks to a black bin liner that was doubling up as a quick-cut Honey Driver creation.
Magda’s comment about him and middle-aged women itched something chronic – worse than the damned mud bath.
‘Can you tell me what you meant about the doctor being dangerous to middle-aged women?’
Magda was nothing if not obliging. She really had it in for her ex-employers.
‘Simple. Without middle-aged women worrying about their crows’ feet and their sagging tits, there wouldn’t be a clinic. It’s them that need the most help.’
Honey sighed and rolled her eyes. She should have seen that coming.
‘Point taken.’
Chapter Twenty-one
Doherty lived in a very nice apartment in Camden Crescent, the largest crescent in Bath, with a superior view of the city. Estate agents’ particulars pontificated about the view in the vain hope that nobody registered that the Georgian builders had failed to provide garage space. Parking was roadside and at the peril of the car owner. Flexible wing mirrors that sprang back into place after being hit were far more than a matter of desirable design. In Camden Crescent they were a necessity if you didn’t want to be sued for decapitation. Cars passing too close to those parked there meant that flying wing mirrors were a definite health hazard.
The estate agents were right about the views though; they were breathtaking.
On arrival at Camden Crescent, Honey scanned the road for a parking space. Car after car after car lined the kerb; it didn’t look promising, but driving slowly with eyes peeled brought a result.
The sudden departure of a dark maroon Volvo left a decent space into which to manoeuvre her Citroen C3. Manoeuvring into any parking space took nerves of skill and reflexes only seen on centre court at Wimbledon. You had room to shunt backwards and forwards into the space left by a Volvo; not so if it had been a Honda Civic or a Ford Fiesta.
Aware that the driver of a car coming from the other direction looked as though he were scanning for space, she made a quick move. She braked hard. Too hard. As a consequence her large brown shoulder bag, her constant companion in her waking hours, fell off the front seat, its contents spilling on to the floor.
‘Damn, damn, damn.’
Each individual utterance accompanied the throwing of tampons, a fold-up umbrella, a Greek dictionary, and other emergency supplies back into the bag. She was the epitome of a boy scout; be prepared. And she was.
A bit red in the face, she took a deep breath, carefully avoiding eye contact with the other driver. She knew his lips were moving. Whatever he was saying was silently cocooned within his own car. He drove off.
Once she was sure he was gone, she got out of the car, took a big breath of air, and stood looking at the view. Night time. Cool and dark and humming with sound.
The lights of the city below looked like stars that had fallen into a black pool – if you had the right imagination that is. Anyway, the lights were all she was going to get. No stars tonight. No moon either. Rain was forecast. The lack of stars and moon seconded that opinion.
The view from up here never failed to please. Glued to the grandeur of it all, she backed slowly on to the black and white tiled apron in front of the entrance to the building that housed Doherty’s flat.
‘Lov
ely,’ she breathed.
Light flooded out as the door behind her opened. Doherty slung an arm around her shoulders and guided her backwards.
‘Are you going to come in or are you camping out?’
He could be so domineering at times; enticingly so, though he knew his limitations of course.
‘I could be camping out permanently if that hotel inspector is found to have died from food poisoning. It’s not good for business.’
‘He didn’t and he wasn’t,’ said Doherty as he manfully manoeuvred into his flat, closing the door firmly behind them with a sound kick. ‘He died of natural causes.’
‘Great.’ Her spirits soared. Shoulder bag was whipped off her shoulder and mouths met.
‘Not for him,’ murmured Doherty, his lips on her mouth, one arm around her, and his fingers unbuttoning her shirt.
‘No. I mean.’ She took a breath, mouthing each statement between kisses. ‘The poor man.’ Another kiss. ‘Fancy going about your job …’ Another kiss. Hotter this time. Tongues were touching. Nerve ends were tingling. ‘Off to bed for a good night’s …’ Her eyes closed.
‘He wasn’t a hotel inspector.’
‘Great.’
The bedroom was looming up over Doherty’s shoulder and although it did interfere with her concentration, she was hearing what Doherty was saying.
‘David Carpenter wasn’t his real name.’
‘Is that so?’
It wouldn’t be the first time someone had booked in under an assumed name.
‘It is.’ Doherty had the same problem with talking. At the same time his fingers were beneath the thin straps of her bra, easing them off her shoulders. She was doing better, pulling his T-shirt up from his waistband – but there, it was accepted as scientific fact that men were useless at multitasking.
He carried on anyway. It amused her and she loved him for it. The shivers went straight to where he’d shortly be going.
‘At least,’ – they kissed – ‘we know how he died.’ Another kiss, or more accurately taking on from where the one before had left off. ‘His name wasn’t David Carpenter and he wasn’t a hotel inspector.’ He said it quickly so the kissing and unbuttoning could recommence.
‘If he wasn’t a hotel inspector, who was he?’
‘I’ve just told you. He wasn’t even David Carpenter.’
Doherty was doing some very delicious things between each sentence. Licking her ear lobe was one of them, but she knew he wouldn’t linger there. She had more interesting areas to offer. Never mind her toes curling up, someone could have used her nipples as coat hooks!
‘Ummm,’ she moaned. ‘You certainly know your stuff.’
‘I’m a good cop.’
‘That wasn’t what I was referring to.’
At the same time as all this was happening, Doherty was guiding her swiftly backwards in the general direction of the bedroom.
She managed a question at the same time as shrugging her shirt off her shoulders.
‘So who was he – this hotel inspector who wasn’t a hotel inspector?’
‘A man named Mandril. A private investigator.’
Honey leaned back against Doherty’s arms, which were presently entwined around her.
‘I get the feeling there’s more.’
‘He’s of dubious reputation.’
‘More?’ She purposely kept him at arm’s length while still leaning against his enclosed arms, the only thing that kept her from falling backwards.
‘He’s dangerous.’
There was no way she was going to hold out against Doherty’s superior strength – and her own inclinations – for too long.
‘What does that mean?’
She lisped her question out of necessity by virtue of the fact that Doherty’s tongue was laying heavy on hers.
‘It means he’s been known to use physical violence.’
Doherty didn’t elucidate, by virtue of the fact that he was determined to find out if absence did make the heart grow fonder – and the erogenous zones hyperactive.
She was wrapped in his arms and she liked his arms. They were only hairy on the forearms. His chest had a smattering of hair; just enough to remind her that he was a man, but not enough to believe she was being smothered by a grizzly bear.
When it was all over, she eventually got round to staring at the ceiling, a pastime incredibly beneficial to the solving of everyday crime.
Evidence and clues from all over the place seemed to come together when you were staring at the ceiling. Little titbits of information also came to the fore – like who the hell was Mandril and what the hell had he been doing at her hotel.
‘You haven’t told me,’ she exclaimed.
Doherty, who had been snoring gently, came half way to full wakefulness.
‘What? Oh, it was great. Have I ever told you that you’ve got the cutest rear and the best handful of breast that –’
‘That’s not what I mean. I mean this bloke Mandril. What was he doing at my hotel?’
Doherty snuggled his face against her shoulder and groaned.
‘Can we forget work for two seconds?’
She elbowed him away. ‘You’ve had your two seconds.’
He pulled a little-boy-hurt face. ‘That’s insulting.’
She cupped his jaw with one hand and gave him a peck on the mouth. ‘That wasn’t what I meant and you know it. I just wondered what he was doing at my place.’
‘Well he wasn’t inspecting the toilet bowls. And he didn’t say he was a hotel inspector, did he?’
Honey frowned and returned to lying on her back staring at the ceiling. ‘No, but then they never do. They book a room like normal folk, sign in, eat in the restaurant in the evening, and take a full English breakfast in the morning.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘They’re very particular about sausages and whether the eggs are free range or battery farmed. They like the bacon to be prime back; none of that rubbishy streaky stuff.’
‘Sounds even better.’
Honey puffed out her cheeks. ‘I should have been there.’
‘You had a job to do, Honey. And much appreciated it was.’
He smoothed her hair over where he’d kissed her on the top of her head.
‘Thanks. Lindsey thought he was the hotel inspector because his eyes seemed to be everywhere and he wanted to know how long she’d been employed there. He asked her if she liked working there. So if he wasn’t a hotel inspector, what was he doing there? What did he want to know?’
Though it pained him to do so, Doherty stopped trying to re-arouse her passions. Folding his arms beneath his head, he too turned on to his back and stared at the ceiling.
‘We don’t know what he was doing there.’
She breathed in the smell of him, wondering if armpits were the main storage area of testosterone; just the right amount to turn her on.
She was just contemplating the possibility of responding to further approaches on his part when her mobile phone chose that moment to belt out ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed. ‘Damn. I forgot to turn it off.’
He reached out. She felt his fingers brush down the curve of her spine. ‘You don’t have to answer it.’
‘It might be important.’
‘It might not be.’
‘That depends on your point of view.’
There was a slight pause. ‘I like the view I’m getting from here.’
She knew very well that he was regarding her posterior as she bent over her bag, got out her phone, and checked the number.
She mouthed the words ‘my mother’ over her shoulder.
Doherty grimaced and pulled the bedclothes over his head.
‘Mother! How are you?’
‘Where are you?’
Fired back at machine-gun speed, the question was laced with suspicion.
‘At Sandy’s.’
She crossed her fingers behind her back. Lying was preferab
le to the third degree. Her mother might just believe her. Sandy was an old friend whose shoulder she’d cried on in the aftermath of Carl’s demise.
‘Don’t lie to me, Hannah.’
Her mother’s voice brought to mind a snapping turtle she’d once seen in a zoo. Its mouth had opened and closed at breakneck speed – for a turtle.
Honey made eye contact with Doherty. His eyes were the only thing she could see above the bedclothes.
‘I think my mother’s psychic,’ she offered, her hand pressed firmly over the mouthpiece.
‘She’s a witch,’ muttered Doherty.
Both observations might just be right.
There was nothing for it but to come clean about her relationship and the current state of play.
‘OK. I’m with Doherty. I’m staying here tonight. I stay here quite often. I need the rest.’
‘You’re resting?’
The tone of her voice said it all. Rest didn’t come into it. A certain amount of exertion did; it certainly beat the gym.
‘It’s nice here. There’s a great view.’
The response was growled. ‘What of?’
‘The city. Of course.’
‘Hannah! You are entangled with a policeman. Do I really need to tell you that he’s got little to offer you?’
Honey chewed her lips around. Her mother was talking of material things, i.e. great pad, great car, great money. Her priorities were somewhat different. Did Doherty measure up to those priorities? You bet he did!
‘We’re fine,’ Honey offered, but her mother was having none of it. Even though Honey was the wrong side of forty, her mother couldn’t help wanting to shoehorn her into the life she thought she should fit. Her next move would be predictable; Honey prepared herself for what she knew was coming.
‘Well I think you can do better. There’s someone I want you to meet. Be at my place for tea tomorrow at four. Without fail!’
Honey was wise enough to know that her mother was demanding she come alone. Doherty wasn’t invited, that much was for sure. He never would be. Steve and her mother didn’t like each other and neither made a secret of the fact.
Doherty came out from beneath the bedclothes, which he pushed down to his waist. His chest looked inviting; somewhere to cushion her head.
Murder By Mudpack: A Honey Driver Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 11
