Her eyes were wide open now. She saw the guilty look on Doherty’s face. In her mind she was seeing her hotel going up in flames. If Mandril – the man booked in as David Carpenter – hadn’t died, would her place have gone up in flames?
Doherty caught the worried look on her face. He ran his fingers down her cheek.
‘Honestly, Honey, if I’d thought sending you there was going to be dangerous …’
‘Did he have a box of matches in his luggage?’
Doherty shrugged. ‘I’m not sure …’
‘I think I’m about to resign my post as Crime Liaison Officer. Casper will be here tonight. I think I’ll suggest he finds someone else.’
‘He might not have been there to burn the place down. He might just have been checking things out …’
‘Prior to throwing a match in …’
‘You’re being melodramatic.’
‘No,’ she said shaking her finger, her whole body feeling as wobbly as jelly. ‘My mother is melodramatic. I am never melodramatic. Just scared.’
The shivers resulting from thoughts of what might have happened ran like iced water down her spine. None of the crimes she’d dealt with so far had ever come home to roost. Crime and murder had stayed firmly outside the door – until now.
The body inside the little black dress kept shivering. She wished she was wearing a fleece rather than the low-cut number with the string straps.
‘I’m covered in goose pimples. I can’t believe he was in the Green River – basically in my home and asking questions of my family.’
Doherty snaked his arm around her. ‘I wouldn’t have asked you to go there if I’d known. Please forgive me.’ He paused. ‘You do forgive me, don’t you?’
She nodded. ‘I went willingly.’
‘And did a good job. You obviously hit the right buttons.’
She shrugged. ‘The damage is done. Strange though. I didn’t go overboard. Mostly I asked Karen Perfect.’
‘Who?’
‘Karen Pinker.’
‘That would do it.’
‘It certainly must have done. They fired her.’
Honey frowned. She noticed Steve Doherty was frowning too and guessed they were thinking the same thing.
She voiced her conclusion. ‘They must have something very big and bad to hide. Something a bit dodgier than colonic irrigation.’
‘What’s that when it’s at home?’
‘Bottom in the air and long plastic tube. Get the picture?’
‘I wish I hadn’t asked.’
She was suddenly distracted by a figure she thought vaguely familiar. The man was tall with sleek dark hair. If he wasn’t an actor of some sort then he should be. He had presence, a strong jaw, and was wearing a white dinner jacket.
He glanced in her direction, looked away, then back again. A slight smile twitched at his lips.
Honey felt her face burning. She’d been wearing a small towel and a black rubbish bag when she’d last seen him – only a brief glance but enough to take in the details.
Doherty noticed.
‘Anyone I should know?’
‘The doctor at the clinic. I only glimpsed him …’
‘Was that when you were wearing … correction … not wearing the teeny weeny towel?’
She nodded.
‘He remembered your face. I suppose that’s something.’
‘Thanks.’
Doherty was not bashful about the predicament she’d described to him. He wasn’t jealous either. He suggested it might be a good idea if she were to re-enact the scene in private. The thought was tempting. She declined for now but promised she might indulge his fantasy at a later date.
It wasn’t easy, but she set her mind back on track. ‘I take it you interviewed him after the murder?’
‘Of course I did. His alibi checked out.’
Honey flung back her head and closed her eyes. ‘Don’t tell me! Serena Sarabande said he was with her.’
‘How did you guess?’
She suddenly had a thought. ‘Was she with him tonight?’
‘Tonight? It was a woman. Not Ms Sarabande though. A dark-haired woman. Quite pretty.’
‘Hmm,’ Honey grumbled. ‘She has to be a hotelier or from the tourist board or something.’
Although the wine tasting was ostensibly for those that purchased wine, some others were invited along as a matter of course. Councillors rubbed shoulders with bank managers, accountants, and solicitors. Anyone deemed to be worthy of the upper-crust social scene in fact.
‘What colour dress was she wearing?’
Doherty looked vague. ‘A dress. Right.’
Probably black, thought Honey, which means we’re on a hiding to nothing. Doherty was still searching his memory banks. Why was it men didn’t notice what colour dress a woman was wearing but would notice the colour of her underwear?
‘Pink,’ he said suddenly.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure. It could have been his wife.’
‘I didn’t know he was married.’
‘If what you say is true, then Dr Dexter is definitely playing away from home – if what you say is true.’
She fixed him with a knowing look. ‘Believe me, it’s true. I’m experienced enough to know an orgasmic note when I hear one.’
‘It takes one to know one.’
Ignoring the wicked twinkle, Honey slugged back some wine. ‘This makes me feel a little paranoid. Do you think they’ll send someone else to spy on me?’
He shook his head. His eyes were everywhere as he spoke. He couldn’t help it. Observing people was second nature.
‘I doubt it.’
‘Good. I’m paranoid enough as it is. I thought it might be him who tried to pick me up the other day in a blue Bentley, but it wasn’t.’
‘Is that so?’
Doherty wasn’t prone to jealousy – or so he’d told her – but she felt his look.
‘Whoops!’
‘What have you done?’
She batted her eyes innocently. ‘Nothing. What do you mean?’
‘You always say “whoops” when something suddenly comes to you that might involve trouble. Do you have something to tell me?’
‘We … ll … I was just thinking that I might have been followed here tonight.’
‘By him?’
Doherty’s eyes searched the venue even though he’d seen Dexter leave.
‘Nothing to do with the doctor. It’s about Clint. He’s being threatened.’
‘What’s he done?’
Doherty showed no sign of surprise at Clint being in trouble, but then, he wouldn’t. Clint was as well known at Manvers Street Police Station as he was at the Sunday market in the nearby city of Bristol where he ran a beads, seeds, and incense stall.
Honey told him about Clint falling in love with the nude model at his life drawing class.
‘It turns out that she was Luigi Benici’s wife.’
‘Bloody hell!’
It wasn’t very often that Doherty expressed surprise at any of Honey’s acquaintances or adventures. She fancied his brain was compiling a police record sheet listing things he knew about Luigi Benici.
‘Mr Benici threatened to deal with Clint in such a way that he’d never seduce anybody else’s wife – well – anybody else at all come to that. Do you get what that means?’
Doherty nodded. ‘Knowing Benici he’s threatening castration without an anaesthetic. Is Clint really that stupid?’
She nodded. ‘Possibly. Apparently her husband didn’t know about the posing for the art class. He’s the old-fashioned type and she wanted her own piece of independence.’
‘Sounds as though she ended up getting more than she bargained for.’
‘It gets worse. She’s pregnant.’
Doherty threw his head back and blurted out a whole string of expletives. Basically they meant that Clint could end up as the main ingredient of a bolognaise sauce.
‘I take it he’s skippe
d his responsibilities.’
‘It seemed a good idea for the girl – Gabriella – to tell her old man that the kid was his. But he has his doubts, hence they’re still out looking for Clint in order to extract confirmation – as well as revenge. And yes, you’re right. He did skip his responsibilities and I – correction – we helped him to get out of town.’
‘How?’
He looked pensive. Doherty always got a bit concerned about the legalities of some of Honey’s actions. She put him straight.
‘Nothing to worry about. Mary Jane sneaked him out of town in her car.’
‘A death-defying event in itself,’ mused Doherty, hardly able to control his amusement.
She liked the way one side of his mouth curled up into a smile while the other side tried to stay serious. It wasn’t easy, but she forced herself to keep her mind on the job.
‘So the blue Bentley could be tailing me with a view to discovering Clint’s whereabouts.’
‘I’ll put a tail on the tail.’
He fixed it up there and then.
‘I’m grateful,’ she said to him. ‘I’ll prove how much later.’
‘Good idea. And afterwards we can make plans. A day out. We can start with a visit to Ms Pansy Porter’s partner.’
Chapter Twenty-four
Built in the days before the railways, the Kennet and Avon Canal had been the M4 motorway of its day as far as heavy goods traffic was concerned.
At one time it had wound alongside the river through the Avon Valley like a strip of silver silk. The railway chose the same route later. Now all three wound through together.
So far the proposed road link connecting the city of Bath to the docks at Southampton had not further blighted the valley. If it ever did come the road would go underground.
Jocelyn Trinder, cohabiting partner of the deceased Pansy Porter, lived on a narrowboat. Along with many other live-aboards, the vessel was moored on the Kennet and Avon Canal.
Doherty informed Honey that the vessel was called Gypsy.
The weather was cold but the sky was clear. The grass lining the towpath was wet, the taller plants decorated with spiders’ webs that sparkled in the weak winter sun.
A pair of ducks dashed for the water at their approach, making a soft plopping sound as they hit the surface before paddling away.
Gypsy was long and green. A ginger cat stretched languorously around a metal chimney. A finger of what looked like steam or smoke stretched upwards.
The narrowboats used to carry massive loads in the days before the railways. The boatmen (never to be called bargees) and their families had lived at one end of the boat, a tiny area barely measuring eight feet by eight. Nowadays the whole boat was given over to living accommodation, fitted out with space saving in mind.
People were attracted to living on them because not only were they cheap to run, they were often moored in attractive places within walking distance of a town or city centre.
Doherty leaned over and knocked on the roof.
‘There’s a door,’ Honey observed and made as if to go aboard.
Doherty stopped her.
‘It’s not done to go aboard a vessel without the skipper’s permission,’ he told her.
She jutted her chin in a nod. ‘OK. So you knock on the roof.’
She’d expected someone living on a narrowboat to be of a hippy persuasion, complete with dreadlocks, nose piercing, and a haphazard look to his eyes. Jocelyn Trinder was far from that. He looked like a retired businessman. His hair was white, his skull was pink, and a black cigarillo jiggled from one corner of his mouth.
‘You all right?’ he asked in a northern accent which Honey presumed was Yorkshire, though it could just as easily have been Lancashire. Her ears weren’t that well tuned to northern dialects – especially people who came from Tyne and Wear, whom she couldn’t understand at all.
‘Thank you for agreeing to see us. Sorry it’s so early.’
Doherty had checked the file for Jocelyn’s mobile phone number to ask if they could come. He’d thought it might be too early, but Jocelyn had been up and about. Apparently he always was.
‘Don’t sleep much when you’re older,’ he said with a grin. His eyes strayed to Honey and suddenly twinkled. ‘Don’t sleep much when you’re younger either – but for different reasons.’
Her cheeks were already pink from the morning chill, so a little blushing wouldn’t be noticed.
‘Come aboard,’ said Jocelyn, with a wave of his hand. ‘Coffee’s on the job. Do you fancy breakfast?’
The smell of grilled bacon wafted out into the morning air.
Honey’s stomach rumbled. ‘Well, actually …’
‘We could murder a bacon butty – if you can spare it that is.’
Despite running on nothing more than a sip of fruit juice and half a slice of cold toast, Honey had been about to refuse. Doherty hadn’t given her the chance, so it was all his fault if she put on a few excess pounds. At least that’s what she told herself. After all this fresh air, grilled bacon and fresh coffee wouldn’t go amiss.
Inside the boat was warm and welcoming, a place of light oak fitments, comfortable seating, and all mod cons. A plasma screen was fitted on to one wall opposite white leather seating. The interior had nothing in common with the boats of old except that it was still narrow.
A laptop computer winked from a fitted desk behind which were fitted bookshelves.
He led them through to the kitchen, inviting them to sit around a wall-mounted kitchen table that folded easily away when not in use. The chairs were of chrome and stylish light oak.
‘Take the weight off your feet and I’ll be mother.’ With a nod of his head he indicated the table and chairs.
Doherty and Honey sat down, Honey undoing the zip of her jacket. The interior warmth was in total contrast to the chill outside.
‘Mr Trinder,’ Doherty began.
‘Call me Joss,’ said Jocelyn, while slicing fresh bread which he proceeded to layer with rashers of crisp, hot bacon. ‘Here you are.’
He placed a round of bacon sandwiches before each of them, plus mugs of steaming hot coffee.
Seeing as it was difficult to speak while munching and drinking, no questions got asked until they were done.
‘More coffee?’ asked Joss.
Doherty nodded.
Honey held up her hand. ‘I’d love one, but then I’d need to use the bathroom.’
‘It’s along there when you’re ready,’ Joss told her. ‘Pansy used to be like that. When we travelled anywhere the first thing she had to know was the whereabouts of the lavatory.’
‘It’s psychological,’ replied Honey, feeling immediate empathy with the burned-to-a-crisp Pansy Porter.
‘That’s what Pansy used to say.’
He poured her a second cup.
Bacon butties duly consumed, they were about to get down to serious business. Honey could tell that Doherty was considering his words carefully. He’d had another look at the report from the fire brigade. There was no outright proof that arson may have caused the blaze, but it couldn’t be entirely discounted. Unproven, as he’d said to Honey. Nothing was definite.
‘You know the fire brigade were not entirely sure about the blaze.’
Joss nodded and although earlier he’d been cheeky to her, Honey noticed his eyes turn from twinkling to sad at mention of the fire and his partner’s death.
‘I still can’t believe it.’ He shook his head mournfully. ‘Me and Pansy had plans. We’d been going to sell the flat, buy ourselves a boat, and sail away into the sunset.’
‘Wow,’ said Honey. ‘Not many women would give up their home to do that.’
Doherty looked surprised. ‘Why?’
‘Women are natural nest builders. Nests get built on land, not on the sea.’
He didn’t look convinced. He didn’t get the difference.
‘To some extent you’re right, petal,’ said Joss. ‘Funnily enough it was my Pansy that wanted
to sell up and sail away. I was keener to buy one of these.’ He gestured at their comfortable surroundings. ‘I kept telling her that I was getting older and chuffing up and down a canal suited me better than hoisting up sails and such like.’
‘It must have cost a pretty penny,’ said Doherty, his eyes sweeping over their smart surroundings.
‘Thanks to the insurance money,’ sighed Joss. ‘I wasn’t keen on rebuilding, so I took the money and placed the property at auction. Only thing you can do with a burned-out shell. So I bought the Gypsy. Had her built from new. She wouldn’t suit everyone but she suits me.’
‘So as regards Pansy. What was the point of her going to The Beauty Spot?’
‘She wanted to look twenty years younger like them programmes on television. I told her she didn’t need anything like that, but she was dead set on doing it. We had a row about it. I don’t like mucking about with nature, me. Be satisfied with what you got. That’s my motto.’
The bacon sandwich was lying a bit heavy. Honey was afraid that if she opened her mouth she’d burp, so she left the questioning to Doherty.
He was frowning policeman-style, his hands clasped tightly together on the table between his body and the empty plate.
‘You said you hadn’t realized that she’d be at the clinic for so long. How long was it?’
‘About four weeks.’
‘Four weeks?’
Honey couldn’t help it. She burped. ‘Pardon me.’
‘Granted. Now let me see,’ said Joss as he lit up a second cigarillo. ‘She said she’d be there for at least two weeks, which I thought was a pretty long time for all that stuff. I didn’t realize it would stretch to four.’
Doherty had a way of freezing when he thought he was on to something. Honey thought she knew what it was; according to Jocelyn Trinder’s original statement he’d said she was away for two weeks and hadn’t expected it to be that long. Now he was saying she’d been away for four weeks.
He pointed it out to him.
Honey waited for a look of unease to appear on Jocelyn’s face. It didn’t. He pulled the cigarillo from the side of his mouth, slid back the window, and discarded both the smoke from his mouth and the ash from the end of the cigarillo.
‘I was away for two weeks just before the two weeks she said she’d be away. It’s only recently I found out from one of her mates that she’d been away for a whole month.’
Murder By Mudpack: A Honey Driver Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 13
