Chapter Twenty-eight
Honey opened her eyes and briefly wondered whether she really was at home in bed or was only dreaming that she was here. Closing her eyes again, then opening them swiftly, brought her to the same conclusion; last night she had slept in her own bed. It came as something of a shock, mainly because she’d got so used to sleeping in Steve Doherty’s bed. She slept well in Doherty’s bed, even though it was slightly lumpy and in need of replacing. She presumed it was his closeness and the smell of him that had something to do with it; that and the sexual Olympics they usually indulged in before dropping off to sleep.
She was here for a reason and as her brain began to adjust to the fact that she had to get out of bed and get on with things, the reason for her sleeping here got clearer. Even if it hadn’t, Lindsey suddenly appeared to put her straight.
‘Just as well you’re here. Dumpy Doris has phoned in to say she’s got stuck in a stairwell.’
Honey frowned. Dumpy Doris, her breakfast cook, lived in a modern townhouse of standard proportions. The fact that Doris was of non-standard proportions had never caused a problem before.
‘I’ve seen the stairs at her house. They can’t be a problem. Even for Doris.’
‘Not at her house. A neighbour drives one of the sightseeing buses – a double decker with an open top. Doris fancied a bit of fresh air and decided to squeeze herself on to the upper deck. Unfortunately she failed to squeeze herself back down again.’
If she hadn’t been preoccupied she would have at least smiled. Doherty had told her about his daughter, Rachel. He’d also told her about his wife.
OK, she shouldn’t get so uptight. Steve Doherty had made no secret of the fact that he was divorced. She couldn’t quite understand why he hadn’t told her about Rachel. What was worse, it kind of deflated her view of him. She’d thought there were no secrets between them. Now it appeared there were.
Lindsey came and sat on the side of the bed. She was fresh out of the shower, a white towel wound around her head, a bigger one around her body.
‘So what’s the problem?’
Somehow Honey didn’t want to confide in her daughter that her affair with Doherty, that had seemed to be going so well, had hit the buffers.
She shrugged at the same time as swinging her legs out of bed, her toes curling over as her feet hit the floor. The furry rug had slid away some time during the night – or when she’d flung herself into bed. Why the hell had she insisted on having the bare boards of the floor sanded and polished? Why hadn’t she just carpeted the place throughout? Individuality, she told herself. You wanted to be different.
‘Just one of those things,’ she said to Lindsey.
She felt her daughter’s eyes following her to the wardrobe, the chest of drawers, and the bathroom door.
‘Did he ask you to marry him?’
Honey laughed. ‘Of course not. Whatever made you think that?’
‘I didn’t. Not really. Gran did. She wasn’t pleased.’
Honey grimaced. ‘She wouldn’t be. But never fear. He hasn’t asked me to marry him so there’s no problem.’
‘I see.’
It was the way that Lindsey said ‘I see’ that caught her attention.
‘That’s a cryptic tone.’
Lindsey pulled the towel from her head. Her hair fell in wet tendrils like polished seaweed. The colour of the month for March was chocolate brown – with a blonde stripe rising from her forehead and sweeping over her crown. The style reminded Honey of Cruella de Vil from One Hundred and One Dalmatians, or Mrs Munster.
‘You’re giving me cryptic responses.’
Bland expressions weren’t Honey’s thing but she did her best – that and lying.
‘Steve had to work last night. There was no point me staying there by myself.’
Fresh flowers adorned Reception. ‘I put them straight into water,’ said Anna.
The bouquet was obviously meant as a personal gift, but Anna was on some kind of efficiency drive and was being extraordinarily willing of late.
A dozen red roses! They had to be from Steve Doherty.
‘Was there a card?’
‘Yes.’
The card was as upmarket as the bouquet; gold lettering and edging plus a personal message.
‘I’m in town. Would love to reacquaint.’
It was signed John Rees.
John Rees had been on the scene a while back when she’d first landed the job of Crime Liaison Officer with the Hotels Association. He’d vied for her affections with Doherty. Doherty had won through, possibly because they ended up spending a lot of time together, plus the fact that John had disappeared from Bath, his bookshop run by someone else in his absence.
There was a telephone number.
Now, she asked herself, looking up at the ceiling as if for clarification. If this was a romance novel my heart would be skipping a beat. Is it doing that?
She knew quite a bit about romance novels, mainly because her mother kept a whole library of them. Her mother was an out-and-out romantic, the sort who thrilled at the sight of men drinking from her slipper.
Honey viewed herself as more pragmatic; she liked men to act like men, smell like men, but give her a bit of leeway for feminine expression.
John fitted the description. So did Steve Doherty for that matter, but not telling her about his daughter had nailed her. What was that all about?
‘Lovely,’ said Lindsey, burying her nose in a bright red rose. ‘Dear Steve is obviously sorry for whatever he did.’
‘No he isn’t.’
Flicking the card between her first two fingers, Honey headed for her office.
John Rees had sent her flowers, Steve Doherty had not. He’d missed his chance. She picked up the phone and dialled John’s number.
Chapter Twenty-nine
There were many bad traits Steve Doherty remembered about his wife and one of them was that she had no patience. If she wanted something done, she wanted it done pronto. Never mind about work. What she wanted came first. Time had not mellowed her.
‘When are you going to talk to Rachel?’
‘Not now. I’m busy.’
‘Your daughter should come first.’
‘I’ll get there when I can.’
His wife didn’t understand him, or at least she didn’t understand that his job ruled his life. She never had.
He cut the connection fast before she could make any more demands. He had a driver this morning; Christine Palmer, the same one who served him coffee on the dot every morning.
He knew she fancied him and she was a very likeable girl, but much as he disliked admitting it, Honey was the one who kept him on his toes. It was just this business about his daughter. His own fault, he reckoned. Why hadn’t he told her?
He’d scrolled through a few reasons for his reluctance. Honey had a daughter. Lindsey was well-adjusted and old beyond her years, whereas his daughter was wilful, undoubtedly taking after her mother. Could it be that he’d felt she’d consider him a failed father? Only a psychiatrist could answer that one.
The day was grey and the prevailing westerly was doing its utmost to keep the rain at bay.
‘Right down the end,’ he said to Christine, pointing to where the crime scene tape was fluttering like bunting and a group of official vehicles had gathered.
The medical examiner had done his thing. ‘She’s dead,’ he said on spotting Doherty. ‘But then,’ he added with the kind of grin that acts as a shield against emotion, ‘she was up to her elbows in cement. Very alkaline, you know. Burns the skin in minutes.’
A uniformed officer helped the medical examiner off with the heavy-duty Wellington boots he’d been obliged to wear.
Doherty nodded, then turned to watch as the body was retrieved from the trench, the sticky morass making a gulping sound as it was pulled free and placed on a plastic sheet.
‘Not very old is she, sir?’
Christine smelled of fabric softener. It was a fresh sm
ell, not unattractive.
Doherty nodded. ‘It looks that way.’
‘Nice legs,’ she said. ‘Nice shape too.’
It was about all that could be said about the corpse at this stage, seeing as it was still covered in grey sludge.
Her comments made him feel uncomfortable. He moved away, addressing a scene of crime officer he knew pretty well – Boyd, his name was.
‘Do we know who she is?’
Boyd shook his head. ‘Not yet. There’s no handbag or purse or anything.’
The medical examiner had overheard. ‘She’s wearing an identity card under her jacket. I didn’t notice the name.’
Doherty’s eyes met those of the scene of crime officer, who immediately leaned over the mucky bundle lying on the ground. Being careful not to disturb evidence – in this case a thick layer of cement that was already drying – he gingerly fingered the identity card. It was the sort of card conference delegates are given – plastic bagged and pinned to the chest.
He looked almost triumphant, like a warrior home from the war rather than a copper up to his knees in muck, when he declared who it was.
‘Karen Pinker. Do we know who she is?’
Doherty nodded. ‘Yes. We do.’
Careful to keep his shoes clean, he went to take a look. Dead people were never pretty no matter how they’d died.
The medical examiner was still hanging around. ‘She didn’t drown in it. The cement truck had only just arrived.’
Doherty nodded in response. He was in no doubt that this was the girl Honey had described as Miss Perfect. She’d been referring to Karen Pinker’s appearance. The girl was the sort who had always been well turned-out, the sort who’d never left the house without full make-up and immaculate presentation. A bit like his ex-wife really. Some girls like her grew up, got over their angst, and sniffed the roses. Some, like his ex-wife, never changed.
‘Get the report to me on cause of death asap.’
‘I can tell you that now. She was skewered on a piece of railing. Old railing with a sharp point on top. Just one piece fixed upright in the ground, almost as though it had been done purposely. As though it was waiting for someone to fall on it.’
Doherty heard Christine retch before running off and spewing her breakfast away from the crime scene.
She looked embarrassed when she got back, wiping her lips with a crisp white handkerchief.
‘When you’re ready.’
He headed for the car. He had reports to make out. No time for dealing with a wayward daughter.
Christine Palmer kept close on his heels.
‘Poor girl. Do you think whoever did it lured her here, to this specific place?’
He nodded. ‘Certainly. The site was prepared.’
He stopped in his tracks realizing what he’d just said.
‘It was prepared in advance.’
But why a railing? Why a mudpack, come to that?
The answer came later that day when he was still ploughing through paperwork, avoiding his wife, and planning to get hold of Honey. He’d barely had chance to get her on the phone and when he did he got no response. Normally he might have phoned the hotel on the landline, but he wanted to speak to Honey directly, not be passed on to her. It was a personal matter and he wanted to keep it private.
The site was prepared!
Christine had just brought in yet another cup of coffee. He was beginning to think she did that just to see more of him. Somehow he had to let her down gently that he wasn’t interested.
When the thought hit him Doherty put the cup down so that the coffee slopped from cup to saucer.
Dear God! Was it usual for a woman to have a mudpack at the same time as bathing in the bloody stuff?
He rang Serena Sarabande and asked her the self-same question.
‘Not usually, unless by special request.’
He followed that call with one to the pathologist. He spoke to an assistant.
‘Was there any difference in the mud on her face and in her throat to that in the bath?’
‘Now there’s a question.’
‘I know,’ Doherty growled. He thought he knew the assistant, a young chap too cocky at times for his own good. ‘Can you answer it?’
‘It’ll have to go for analysis, but bear with me. I’ll get it done pronto.’
He sounded full of confidence, but then why shouldn’t he? He was young, Doherty reminded himself.
Steepling his fingers in front of his face he thought things through. Lady Macrottie hadn’t drowned in her bath. Someone had applied a mudpack to her face – all of her face. Nose, mouth, eyes; and they’d held her jaw shut. That would explain the broken tooth noted on the post mortem.
His wife phoned him again half way through the afternoon. He rolled his eyes and turned his gaze heavenward.
‘I can’t see her just yet. I’ve got a fresh murder case …’
‘You always did have! You always had something more important to deal with than your wife and daughter!’
The phone slammed down at her end. Sighing, he brought his mind back to the job in hand. He was reading the printout from Karen Pinker’s phone. The last call received had been from a call box in Bath. Checking back through the report he found that it wasn’t the first time she’d received a call from a public payphone number. She’d received one on the very day Lady Macrottie had been murdered. But from a different phone box – one much nearer the scene of the crime.
By eight o’clock that night he was absolutely shattered but smugly satisfied. There had been a difference between the mud in Lady Macrottie’s bath and that in her throat. The stuff in her bath and on her face might have been volcanic and sourced in Hawaii. The mud in her throat was common clay and probably sourced from a particularly muddy patch on the building site.
He made it to his daughter’s digs. She was sharing a detached house with three other girls. The house was modern and situated just off Brassmill Lane. The roof was chalet style, the blockwork it was built of making some effort to look like Bath stone.
A bicycle leaned against the window at the side of the door. The front garden was covered in wood shavings; grass cutting wasn’t a high priority for tenants, especially four young women with other things on their mind. Like men, he thought worriedly to himself.
The door bell seemed to work. He heard it ring. He pressed it three times before seeing a figure wax and wane on the other side of the glass-panelled door.
A girl with tired-looking eyes and ruffled hair answered. She was sniffing and dabbing her nose with a paper tissue.
‘I’m looking for Rachel Doherty,’ he said.
‘She’s not here.’
‘I’m her father.’
Sniff, sniff.
‘She’s still not here.’
‘Do you know where she is?’
She shrugged. ‘Out clubbing. Somewhere.’
‘Will you tell her I called?’
She said that she would.
Today had been heavy. Searching for an errant daughter helped drain his energy. He needed light relief. Honey fell into that category. She had a bubbling enthusiasm for whatever she did even when things went wrong, turning her hand to anything if she had to. She bounced back. That was the thing with Honey. She kept bouncing back and that’s what he wanted to do. He wanted to bounce back.
Because he couldn’t get her on the phone he swung into the hotel. Mary Jane was sitting in the reception area lying on a couch with her feet up and reading a magazine – something about things going bump in the night.
She looked up and saw him. ‘Hi there, Steve.’
There was something hesitant about the look on her face.
‘She’s not here, you know.’
He was disappointed.
‘She’s gone to some gala evening up at the Assembly Rooms.’
He hid his disappointment. ‘Do you know when it finishes?’
She shrugged. ‘I’m not sure.’
There was something abo
ut her demeanour that made him think that she did know but for some reason was holding back.
‘Never mind. I’ll take a chance.’
‘You shouldn’t really …’
She was half up from the couch, but didn’t reach him.
‘I get it,’ he called over her shoulder. ‘She’s got company.’
‘Whoops,’ said Mary Jane.
The double doors swung back together.
‘Problem?’ asked Lindsey, who had only just come out of the office.
‘Could be,’ said Mary Jane. ‘I’ve just told your mother’s boyfriend where to find her. Unfortunately I didn’t mention that she was with someone.’
‘Whoops.’
Chapter Thirty
‘Bath is becoming very untidy,’ said Casper St John Gervais.
‘I quite agree. I think the fast food containers are the worst, that and the discarded alcopop cans,’ said Honey, nodding in agreement. She was clear-headed due to the fact that she was alternating taking a sip of wine with taking a sip of water.
She had on her best little black dress, which was complemented with a shiny red belt. She’d read somewhere that a belt took inches off a middle-aged waistline. To help things along she held her stomach muscles in. She couldn’t keep it up all night so kept it for when she was standing up. At present she was sitting down, relaxed muscles hidden by the tabletop.
They were attending a gala evening for tourism awards. Casper was up for one of the top awards: Small Independent Hotel of the Year. If he won it again it would be his fourth time.
Honey was there with John Rees. It had been lovely to see him again. Nothing much had changed in the kind eyes, the lean figure, and the warm smile that split his bearded face in two.
John was of an easy-going nature and his gentle voice had always made her go weak at the knees. For a bookshop owner he was not a wordy man. He chose his words carefully and his sentences were short, but boy, oh boy, were they straight to the point.
Casper fixed her with unblinking, dark grey eyes. ‘I meant bodies, Honey. Dead bodies that have not achieved that estate by natural causes. I mean murder.’
Honey blinked and although she was loath to do it, she tore her gaze away from the door through which John Rees had disappeared.
Murder By Mudpack: A Honey Driver Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 16
