The man was dead, his weight pinning his new bride to the bed.
Smudger smirked. ‘Like a giant duvet. Puts a whole new meaning on the phrase dying for … love,’ he put in quickly after seeing Honey’s warning look.
Mrs Milligan’s head was turned sideways, possibly the only reason why she hadn’t suffocated. Mr Milligan’s weight alone was a potential killer; his kiss would have finished the poor woman off.
Honey pushed at Mr Milligan’s shoulder so she could get face to face with his wife – his widow as she now was.
‘We’ll lift him off you. OK?’
‘Is he dead?’
‘Most definitely.’
‘I thought so. One minute he was steaming like a train, next he was … well … out of puff.’
‘Yes. Well, he’ll never be coming in on platform nine again, that’s for sure. Just wait a minute while we try and lift him. My daughter’s gone to get more help.’
‘Just make it quick as you can. I’m busting to use the bathroom.’
‘I bet you are.’
Mrs Milligan’s casual treatment of her husband’s demise came as no great surprise. Hotel residents were a micro-world of human behaviour.
‘Luckily I packed a black dress.’
Mrs Milligan would make a very merry widow.
‘Right,’ said Honey smacking her palms together as though she really meant business. The three of them would lift and roll Mr Milligan off Mrs Milligan. She stopped. Smudger was pulling on a pair of the fine latex gloves he used in the kitchen. He saw her looking at him.
‘What? I’m not touching a dead body without these on. It’s not hygienic. Do you want some?’
He pulled two more pairs from his pocket.
Honey rolled her eyes. ‘Give me strength. The man’s dead,’ she added in a whisper. ‘Think of the widow’s feelings.’
‘No worries,’ said Smudger. ‘She gets to keep the diamonds.’
Chapter Seventeen
Mr Milligan was duly collected by The Co-operative Funeral Service; apparently he’d been paying in for years.
Mrs Bunty Milligan had showered, changed and looked peachy in a plain black Viyella dress with a triple rope of pearls around her neck. She was sipping Champagne and asked Honey to join her.
‘He was a good sort, old Reg, and it weren’t a bad marriage, though a bit too short. We were going on a cruise next month. Now I’ll have to go on me tod, though I could take me old mum. She’d come as long as they play bingo and got a roulette wheel. She does like a bit of a flutter, does my mum. How about yours?’
Honey wracked her brains. Quite frankly she could never recall seeing her mother place a bet. It took a lot of persuasion to get her to buy a raffle ticket. She told Bunty that.
‘How about you? Do you fancy coming with me on a cruise? I think we’d get on OK, you and me. Bit of a laugh, like. What d’you reckon?’
Although the thought of going on holiday with Bunty Milligan was attractive, Honey declined. ‘I’ve got this place to run.’
‘You’ve got staff.’
‘Difficult at present. I’m working on a murder case with the police. I’m Crime Liaison Officer for Bath Hotels Association.’
Bunty Milligan looked terribly impressed, her eyes round with interest.
‘Never! Is that the Arabella Neville case?’
Honey nodded and sighed. Showing sympathy seemed the right thing to do – even though she’d never known the woman.’
‘That’s it. Arabella Neville.’
Bunty Milligan slapped her thigh with a set of well-manicured fingers flashing red, apricot, blue, and purple nail varnish.
‘Well I’ll be blowed! I did hear old Arabella was dead – well – her that was Arabella Neville on television. Then she married that bloke,’ said the widow Milligan. ‘I knew her when she wasn’t the big star. Fur coat and no knickers, as my old mum would say.’
Bunty Milligan – stage name Priscilla Pussy, exotic dancer – made no bones about her own background, nor her reasons for marrying Reginald Milligan.
‘I wanted to be a ballet dancer when I was a kid, but what with my accent and my big boobs, it was never to be. With my figure and my need to dance, it was obvious I’d end up as an exotic dancer. Danced all over the place I did. Disrobed in front of Saudi princes, Italian counts, German barons, and God knows what other royalty. Texan millionaires as well. But there comes a time when you get tired of all that dancing and my knees were beginning to go. Not that you’d have noticed, mind you. They still look good, don’t you think?’
Honey agreed that Bunty’s knees were indeed still pleasant to behold.
‘It must have upset you to give it all up,’ she said, not sure whether it had, but thinking it the right thing to say.
‘Not really,’ said Bunty, Champagne in one hand, compact mirror in the other.
‘I wanted a big ’ouse and loads of money. Reg Milligan wanted a warm belly and a pair of big tits to snuggle up to. Fair exchange is no robbery, as my old dad used to say. Nothing wrong in that, is there?’
Honey had to agree that Bunty’s ‘old dad’ was probably right. From time immemorial, women had married men for security, and men had married women for regular sex. Bunty had also stated that she was no hypocrite about his death and that she would gain from it.
‘He wouldn’t mind,’ she’d told Honey. ‘As long as I was ’appy.’
‘He’s left you quite a lot?’
‘Over ten million. That should keep me in silk sheets.’
It certainly would, thought Honey.
Bunty was likely to be very happy indeed. She expressed her intention to stay a few extra days for the autopsy and the funeral, though the outcome was predictable. Too much fat coupled with too much exertion brought on by too much Viagra. After that she was off on this world cruise they’d already booked as their honeymoon treat, though only after a glut of shopping in Harrods.
‘Did you know Arabella’s husband?’ Honey asked.
Bunty threw up her hands and almost mooed her contempt. ‘Dodgy bleeder, ʼe was. Wore a big ring through ʼis nose. If he’d been a bull, they’dʼve put a rope through it – and cut off his balls. ʼE certainly needed them cutting off!’
Not sure she was hearing right, Honey blinked and asked her to repeat what she’d said. Bunty obliged.
Honey slumped back in her chair. ‘I never knew that. I understood Adam Rolfe to be a property developer.’
Bunty roared with laughter. ‘Her last old man might ’ave been that, but the husband she ’ad when I knew her wasn’t named Adam and he weren’t no property developer. The bloke I knew as her husband was a gangster, a right bully boy. God knows why she fell for the likes of him, though she did hint it was a family thing; their dads being mates and Matt being the son. It was expected that they’d get together. I s’pose that’s what it was. Oh, and her name back then weren’t Neville. It was Casey. Tracey Casey.’
‘Poor girl. Whatever were her parents thinking of to lumber her with a name like that?’
Bunty grimaced and nodded. ‘Yeah. Tracey Casey. What a handle!’
Honey grimaced. ‘Poor kid. So this husband; I take it he lit out before she became a big name on TV.’
Bunty’s mouth yee-d and yawed as she retouched her lipstick.
‘You got it.’ There was a rattling sound as Bunty threw make-up and mirror back into her bag. It sounded as though she were carrying a whole beauty parlour around with her. She held up the bottle of Champagne against the light from the window. ‘Mustn’t waste it,’ she said, and she didn’t. The Champagne went into the glass and what remained at the bottom of the bottle was chugged down in one gulp.
‘Lovely,’ she sighed, dabbing at her lips with a napkin.
‘Did she hit the big time before the divorce from the first husband or after?’ Honey asked, silently trusting the laundry firm to expunge bright red lipstick from the square of white linen.
Bunty looked at her as though she were stupid. ‘Di
vorce! Are you kidding? He wouldn’t have none of that. Beat her up when she asked for it. Oh no. He got knifed on ’is way ’ome from a club one night. Police reckoned it was a gangland killing.’
Honey instinctively knew there just had to be a ‘but’.
Bunty took a big bite of a jam and cream doughnut that she’d ordered as a chaser to the Champagne.
Honey watched her chew, waiting for it the three letter word to come out. It was slow coming, and she was impatient. She just had to jump in.
‘But …?’ she asked, feeling and probably looking too curious for her own good.
‘Her dad was a gangster. Maybe he decided his daughter would be better off without her old man, but kept the problem in the family, so to speak.’
Bunty smiled. She had an expressive smile that flowed like warm chocolate. Honey understood why Reginald Milligan had married her; Bunty was a born entertainer, and Reginald had liked being entertained.
As for Arabella/Tracey Rolfe, she had more sympathy with the woman now she knew the details of her first marriage. She hadn’t been
all bad and hadn’t deserved to die like that.
Chapter Eighteen
Steve Doherty gritted his teeth and swore. The doctor was telling him he’d be on his back for at least two weeks.
‘You’ve torn a muscle. Badly, I’m afraid. Par for the course on the rugby field. Most definitely a game for young men.’
Doherty’s back hurt; that was the bit of the diagnosis he had no argument with. He totally disagreed with the being too old bit.
‘I’m not old.’ The muscle in his lower back jerked into a spasm when he protested.
‘Old enough to know better,’ said the doctor. Aged around fifty, the doctor was chewing gum and wore a black T-shirt with a slogan written in white. The slogan said ‘Eat Me. It’s Christmas.’
The police fifteen had been playing against the fire brigade fifteen. The match had been arranged at the last minute, the teams comprised of anyone free that particular weekend.
Pure machismo, the prospect of singing victory songs over a few beers in the Pulteney Arms, took over from common sense. They were going to whip the fire brigade; they were sure of it.
Despite the fact that he hadn’t stepped on the rugby field since his days in uniform, Doherty’s enthusiasm had overruled his common sense. Some of his colleagues were of the same age and similar mind set. Pride, as they say, comes before a fall – or a pulled muscle.
Full of confidence that experience could win, the police team had stepped onto the field only to find themselves confronted by fifteen stalwarts of less than twenty-nine years of age.
It was up to Doherty as team captain to give the pep talk.
‘Don’t worry lads. Young blood is green blood. Mark my words, they can’t have the experience.’
A groundsman overheard, chuckled and spat out of the side of his mouth.
‘You’re wrong there, mate. They’ve won their last eight games. They’re a champion side.’
‘Only on a local level,’ said one of Doherty’s colleagues.’
‘You wish,’ said the smirking groundsman. ‘One more win and they’re South-west champions and off to the finals.’
The game was one-sided in that the men of the fire brigade absolutely slaughtered the Bath police team.
Irked by the thought that the victory celebration would now be a case of drowning his team’s sorrows, Doherty put in that bit more effort, tackling a man with the physique of a silverback gorilla. Clinging on for grim death, Doherty hooked his leg around the tree-trunk thigh of his opponent, meaning to send him crashing to the ground. His tactic proved successful. Unfortunately he got it slightly wrong in that he landed underneath his opponent. The moment the big guy was hauled off of him, Doherty knew he’d done himself a mischief. His ribs shouldn’t be feeling that flat. He shouldn’t be having such pain breathing and a muscle in his back felt spread over a wider area – as if squashed – which it was.
Two paramedics got him home, reiterating the warning already given.
‘Stay in bed. Give it time to heal.’
He was none too polite on that front. ‘F.O.’
The paramedic was used to offensive patients. He was brown, lean, and had elegantly long fingers which he posed on his hip. His face was expressive.
‘I’m guessing your meaning, but won’t take offence. You’re confined to bed. All alone. For two weeks.’
‘One week and I’ll be fine,’ he protested as the paramedics prepared to leave.
They were having none of it. ‘F.O. to you too. TWO weeks.’
The medic with the elegant fingers gave him a two-finger salute before leaving. Grimacing – with annoyance as much as pain – Doherty reached for the phone.
‘Honey. I’ve injured my back. I’m in bed.’
He held the phone at a safe distance from his ear to avoid injury from the verbal tongue lashing. She’d warned him not to play. It had served only to make him more determined. Now she was saying, ‘I told you so,’ though in less than ladylike terminology.
‘How about some sympathy here?’
She came back with, ‘How about some common sense. How about growing up.’
‘How about joining me? We can chill out while swapping information about the life and loves of Arabella whatsername and why she was stuffed up a chimney. There could be something symbolic about it. What do you say? I bet I’ve got some information that you haven’t got.’
At the other end of the phone, Honey stabbed the point of a pen at the latest business rate demand from the city’s treasury department. It might just as well have been Doherty. To get busted up was downright careless and inconsiderate and she told him so.
‘Rugby is a young man’s game.’
‘OK, OK. So what do you say? Care to join me?’
She imagined him lying there, helpless and hungry. Unless the pain was totally intolerable, the hunger would be for something more physical than information about Arabella’s death.
‘You can be my eyes and ears,’ he said unnerved that she was taking her time answering.
So far she hadn’t mentioned John Rees and his friendship with Adam Rolfe. It could be something, it could be nothing. In her heart of hearts she hoped that Doherty would throw her some piece of information that would totally exonerate any involvement on John’s part.
‘How about you tempt me with some little morsel to get me salivating? Tell me something that I don’t already know.’
‘Come on over and I will. Use your key. I can’t get up. Then once I’ve told you what I know, and you’ve told me your conclusions, then I can show you mine and you can show me yours.’
She glowed pink at the thought of what he was suggesting.
‘I take it we’re talking physical.’
‘Honey. What else?’
‘You’re injured. I don’t think I should encourage you.’
‘Hey. Encourage me. Please.’
Mary Jane was off to see a psychic friend who lived in a semi-derelict cottage in Lansdown. ‘I’m going your way. I’ll drop you off.’
‘Murgatroyd doesn’t believe in refurbishment and repair. It upsets the elementals,’ she’d stated when Honey had asked her why her friend didn’t give the place a facelift.
‘So if the roof leaks?’
‘The elementals have crossed over. They don’t notice.’
So Murgatroyd was impervious to rain or put up with it because the spirits didn’t mind.
The city passed in a blur of scattered pedestrians and angry car drivers. Even white van men, the centrifugal force of bullying motorists everywhere, looked through their windscreens with open mouths as Mary Jane wove in and out of the traffic.
Honey waved at them with both hands – a terror-inducing action until they realised that the steering wheel was on the left-hand side.
‘Take this. Give it to your cop friend,’ said Mary Jane as she got out of the car. Honey took the small leather pouch. It had Native America
n embroidery all over and the draw string was attached to a ‘dream catcher’, one of those string nets stretched over a small hoop.
‘What does it do?’
‘Well you’ve heard of the tooth fairy?’
Honey nodded. ‘The one that leaves money under your pillow after losing a tooth.’
‘That’s the one. Well this one isn’t a fairy. It’s a kind of unseen spirit that massages painful bits when you’re asleep.’
‘But doesn’t leave anything under the pillow?’
Mary Jane looked blankly upwards and shook her head. ‘Not that I know of, though there’s always a first time. Hang the totem above the bed. The spirit will get caught in the dream catcher and get to work on your boyfriend’s broken bits in no time. I guarantee it.’
Tucking the pouch beneath her arm, she let herself in with the key Doherty had given her. The surroundings were as familiar to her as the place she shared with her daughter. The décor was plain, black and white tiles, walls sage green, and a half-moon hall table on which was a dish where keys were dumped. She dumped hers, thought about dumping the totem there too, but changed her mind. Totem went with her to Doherty’s bedroom.
He was lying flat on the bed, as wooden as it was possible to be.
‘Hey, Honey.’ He smiled and managed to wave his fingers – just two as it worked out, though not with the same meaning as the paramedics had done.
Honey smiled and waved back. ‘Hey, you.’
He patted the space beside him. ‘Care to join me?’
‘Sorry, I’m working.’
His face fell. Lines of amusement creased the corners of his eyes.
‘You’re giving me that hard stare.’
‘It’s my working face. You’ve got a working face. I’ve got a working face too.’
‘Have I? I never knew that.’
‘You got my message about my visit to Faith Page?’
‘I did. So what’s with these two characters she mentioned? Sean and Denise?’
Honey sat herself down on the bed, but at the foot, too far for him to reach her.
‘They were colleagues of our murder victim, though I can’t work out exactly how and why they were close to her. I’m not sure Faith Page knows herself.’
Death of a Diva: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 9) Page 13
