‘Of course you do,’ gushed Milly, who was as well-oiled as a deep-fat chip pan. ‘He was screwing her. Weren’t you, Glenwood darling? You were screwing her and now you’re screwing me.’
Chapter Twenty-seven
Before informing Doherty that the mystery voice had been recognised, she went out into the kitchen and warned Smudger not to be quite so hot-tempered. That would have been it, except that Clint was washing up tonight. He was also wearing a silk scarf bandana style around his head. The flea-ridden silk scarf of horsy design. It almost covered the huge spider and web tattoo that Clint sported instead of hair. The spider was peering out from beneath a horsy stirrup, looking as though it were wearing it.
Doherty was impressed. She could tell that from his silence. But she needed a reaction. A reaction would be like winning a red rosette in the Badminton Horse Trials.
‘Well? What do you think of that?’
‘So who is this Petra Deacon?’
‘A TV actress and presenter. Apparently, and this is what I myself deduced from the conversation, she and Arabella were bitter rivals.’
‘And our friend Glenwood Halley was screwing both of them.’
‘We only have a real pissed-off university student to vouch for that – or rather his mother. It was her who put the idea in his head in the first place.’
Doherty had progressed to an armchair, phone, drink and food within easy reach. He had time to think about things and his assessment of the situation was making Honey nervous. Adam Rolfe was still prime suspect. The news from the Glenwood Halley front hadn’t changed that fact but did give some indication of why Adam had murdered his wife.
‘We’ve checked with old friends and relatives. Nobody knows where he is, or if they do, they’re not saying.’
The last comment made her feel uncomfortable. She should tell him of her suspicions about John Rees, but she couldn’t do it.
John Rees owned lots of books. People who owned lots of books were above suspicion.
Doherty demanded she keep in close touch, so she sent him texts and kept in regular phone contact. It didn’t matter whether she was at home working in the hotel or out detecting. He wanted reports. He also wanted her to join him in bed.
‘It gets pretty boring lying here all by myself.’
‘You’ve strained a muscle. You have to rest until it heals.’
‘I think a little exercise would do me good.’
‘Not that sort of exercise.’
‘Why not? It sure beats jogging.’
The day had to come when he could stand it no longer and her report regarding Glenwood Halley was the impetus he needed.
‘Drive me,’ he said when she arrived with yet two more chocolate muffins.
She held up the bag. ‘Don’t you want a muffin?’
‘I hate muffins.’
‘So why did you eat them?’
‘I like the way you lick up the crumbs.’
And so it was that Doherty folded himself into her car, as stiff as an unwieldy deckchair.
‘I want to speak to the first Mrs Rolfe.
At the other end of the journey, Honey unfolded Doherty from the front passenger seat. It wasn’t easy, but she figured that more muffins to re-energise her wouldn’t add to her fatty deposits. Doherty, it had to be said, wasn’t the best of patients. He winced and made low-key groans through clenched teeth.
‘It’s no good complaining. You insisted on coming,’ she told him.
‘It’s all part of the healing process.’
The first Mrs Rolfe was dark-haired and trim except for the middle-age spread making its presence known around her waistline.
She was wearing an open-necked blouse, beige jeans and a butcher-striped apron that was covered in flour. She looked homely but pretty, certainly not in the glamour-puss league of the second Mrs Rolfe. Although the house wasn’t a patch on Cobden Manor, it was detached, had big windows, a drive and a substantial garden.
It was pretty obvious from Dominic’s blank face that he hadn’t told his mother about his confession. Neither, Honey guessed, had he told her about his phone call to his father.
All the same, Susan Rolfe seemed to sense that something was amiss. She frowned at her son. ‘Aren’t you packed yet?’ she said curtly.
‘Just sorting the bike, but I think they want to talk to me.’
Doherty confirmed that, yes, they did want to talk to him, and then asked for a chair. ‘I’ve pulled a muscle,’ he explained.
Mrs Rolfe went inside and returned manhandling a chair through the door. Dominic just stood there looking guilty. He had a right to, thought Honey. He’d possibly stirred up a lot of trouble – especially for his stepmother.
Doherty lowered himself onto the chair before forming the number one question.
‘Your son said that he was responsible for killing Arabella Rolfe. We want to clarify exactly why he said that.’
Dominic shoved his hands into the pockets of his low-slung Levis and shuffled his feet. ‘Do I have to stay?’
His mother looked shell-shocked. ‘That’s ridiculous. My son’s been in Leicester. Looking at the university.’
‘Then he’s got nothing to worry about,’ said Doherty. ‘But he has admitted ringing his father and telling him that his stepmother was having an affair.’
Mrs Rolfe scowled. ‘Arabella was a prize tart. Everyone knows that – except my ex-husband.’
‘So I understand,’ said Doherty, hand on the small of his back as he raised himself from the chair. ‘Can we come in?’
‘I’ve just got that chair out here for you.’
‘I know. I was considering your privacy. Do you really want to answer questions out here?’
Velvet brown eyes, as large and as melting as those of her son, eyed him speculatively.’
‘Well … I suppose so. You’ll have to excuse the mess. I’m baking.’ As if to emphasise the fact, she wiped her hands down her apron. Her movements were quick and jerky. Honey surmised that the divorce had dented her confidence. The responsibility for keeping the home and family together lay heavily on her shoulders.
‘Something smells good,’ said Doherty, his movements vaguely reminiscent of a robot from Star Wars.
‘Cottage pie,’ said Mrs Rolfe.
She marched swiftly to the kitchen, turned out the oven and bid them sit down. A large pine table and matching chairs sanctioned one end of the room. Dominic stayed standing up, resting his backside on a radiator. Behind him a picture window displayed a panoramic view of the garden.
They declined the tea Mrs Rolfe offered them.
Once she’d helped Doherty sit down, Honey asked to use the bathroom.
Susan Rolfe nodded. ‘You’ll have to use the main bathroom upstairs. The downstairs cloakroom has a leak.’
Honey thanked her. Asking to use the bathroom had been a strategy she and Doherty had decided on beforehand. He interrogated, she investigated. A two-pronged attack.
There were all the signs of a family along the landing – discarded toys, one black shoe four feet away from its partner.
There was no sign of the children. Honey presumed the two youngest were both at school.
The bathroom was large, the suite and fittings a bit dated, and the vinyl floor-covering snagged around the edges. She washed her hands with soap moulded from leftover bits, a sure sign of frugal living.
The towel was rough, the colour a little tired. Everything pointed to the fact that Susan Rolfe was struggling. She wondered how much Adam Rolfe had been paying towards the upkeep of his ex-wife and their children. This place wasn’t cheap to run. Neither were three kids.
One bedroom door was slightly ajar. Pretty sure that she was right about the kids being at school, she gently pushed the door open.
Stencilled fairies danced on lilac-painted walls. Curtains and bedspread matched and a large dolls’ house took up one corner. Everything was pristine, far more so than the rest of the house.
Judging by the poster o
f a teenage pop star on one wall, this room belonged to the older daughter. Honey tried to think of the pop star’s name, but couldn’t. They came young; they went young. The fans got older, married and had kids. The next generation went on to the next craze.
It was easy to identify the next room as belonging to Dominic. The young man who was on his way to university, had the iPod, the computer, the TV and the mobile phone. The latter began ringing then stopped. Deciding she had nothing to lose, Honey checked the phone, noticed a call had been recorded on 121 and checked it out. Naughty, but needs must.
This is your Nanna, Dominic. If you feel like coming to stay again, just give me a ring. But don’t worry. Everything will be all right. Get going to Uni. Love you, son. Bye.
It sounded like a grandmother’s message to her grandson; loving, to the point and full of concern. Nanna could mean grandmother, or it could mean a professional nanny. At some point this family had been wealthy enough to provide for a nanny.
There was a second message.
It’s me. Your dad. I’m just ringing to say, take care of your mother. None of this is her fault. It’s mine. All mine. Love you.
According to the recorded message, the time and date of the call had been eleven in the morning two days previous. It had to be traceable. Excited that there might be a prospect of tracking Adam down, she flicked through the received list. Unknown number came up.
Taking the phone to trace the call was illegal. She knew that. All the same, she eyed it sitting there, tempting her to pocket it and say nothing. Nobody would miss it. People, especially teenage kids, lost mobile phones all the time.
She weighed up the pros and cons, gave the phone a stern look, put it in her pocket then took it out again. It had to be done right. And it could be done right. No worries.
Back downstairs, she found Doherty wearing a grim expression and Susan Rolfe voicing exactly what she felt about Arabella.
‘You won’t catch me crying for that woman. Arabella ruined my husband, my life and my family. I’m glad that she’s dead, but I do not believe Adam did it. Neither do I believe that anything my son said to his father made any difference to Adam’s foolishness. He was obsessed with the woman.’
‘Have you heard anything from your father?’ Honey asked. At the same time she threw Doherty a telling glance. If they were really in tune with each other – and she believed that they were – he’d pick up on the line of questioning and take it further.
Dominic shook his head, but there was no doubting the furtive look that crossed his face then was gone again.
Doherty addressed him. ‘Do you have a mobile phone?’
Dominic’s pale complexion turned paler. ‘Yes.’
‘Then please fetch it for me.’
‘Look, my phone calls are private …’
‘Do I have to issue a summons?’
Seeing the pointlessness of arguing with a grim-faced policeman, Dominic went to fetch his phone.
‘Now look here!’ Mrs Rolfe looked angry. ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this. Dominic is just a boy. He’s innocent.’
‘We’re not arresting him. Please calm yourself,’ Doherty said to her.
‘Calm! How can I be calm? That bloody woman wrecked our lives!’
‘Tell me all you know,’ said Doherty, recognising that Mrs Rolfe would do anything and say anything to protect her son.
‘She was a bitch! A she-wolf.’ She said plenty of other things, things that Doherty already suspected but made a mental note of.
Doherty decided to involve Honey in getting the ball rolling.
‘Mrs Rolfe assures me that the rumours regarding Arabella are correct. She has also stated that her son had nothing to do with the death and that she knew nothing of him phoning his father to tell him of his wife’s – Mrs Arabella Rolfe’s – secret lovers.’
Susan Rolfe butted in. ‘Only they weren’t that secret. Everyone knew. Take Glenwood Halley. He is such a toady for famous people. He collects trophies, you know. Records when and where he met them, bedded them, or escorted them to some showbiz event. If the truth be known, he probably gives them a mark out of ten.’
Honey looked at Doherty. He didn’t look up, but she was pretty certain he was thinking the same as she was.
‘Does he bed all his clients, Mrs Rolfe?’
Her arms were folded in front of her, her fingers tapping on her elbows, breasts heaving.
‘I believe so.’
‘How do you know that?’
She coloured up. ‘I just do,’ she said huffily.
‘Did you and your ex-husband sell your house through him?’
Her colour increased. ‘Yes. So what?’ she snapped.
‘And this house? Did you purchase this through him?’
‘No. My husband did. I wouldn’t have anything to do with him.’
‘Because of your past experience?’ asked Doherty. ‘Did he try to bed you, Mrs Rolfe?’
‘No,’ she said, too hastily to be fully believed. ‘I wasn’t famous enough. Or rich enough; not like when we …’
‘… Purchased your house? You and your husband?’
Susan Rolfe crumpled. ‘He’s quite a charmer.’
Honey had to agree with her, though he hadn’t tried his charm on her. Such was the price of fame – or in her case not being famous. Or rich. Glenwood Halley, she decided, had moved on up the pecking order.
Dominic came back down from his bedroom, swinging through the door in a couldn’t-care-less fashion. He also wore a pout on his full lips, Mick Jagger-style. The corners of his mouth were turned down, his whole demeanour typically teenage. He handed Doherty his phone.
‘Thank you. Is there any message on this phone that you’d like to declare to us?’ Doherty asked him.
Dominic shook his head. ‘No.’
Doherty dialled 121. Honey could see from the resultant expression that there was nothing to listen to.
‘Is this the only phone you have?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
It wasn’t always easy to pick up if somebody was lying. In this case it was. She’d listened to those messages. They’d been there and now they were not. Honey supposed that youth had something to do with it. Nobody got good at lying without some practice. Her husband Carl had been pretty good at lying. She’d shipped out because of it.
Carl Driver had enjoyed a jet-set lifestyle which included his very own seventy-two foot racing yacht. He’d employed ten crew to help him race that yacht; all female, all under thirty-two years of age.
‘Is there anything else you’d like to tell me, Dominic?’
‘No. So if you’ve finished with me, I’d like to go, please.’
Doherty nodded. ‘I’ve finished. For now.’
Honey was fully aware that even deleted calls could be picked up and traced. Nothing ever really got deleted. Lindsey had told her that. On the other hand, was Dominic telling the truth or had she guessed right? That he had two phones.
Doherty had returned to serious police interrogation without much effort. Having a bad back didn’t affect his mind. He was right in there, assessing, delving, and adding up the probabilities.
‘Then I need to finish my packing,’ said Dominic and left them.
‘No,’ said Doherty when Honey attempted to help him rise. ‘I can do this for myself.’
He got as far as the front door before he groaned and rubbed at the base of his spine.
Determined to get Dominic to himself, Honey began delving in her bag.
‘Drat! I’ve left my purse up in the bathroom. Had to take it up with me,’ she said to Susan Rolfe. ‘Time of the month.’ Actually she never kept tampons in her purse, but seeing as she still had her handbag with her, it seemed as good an excuse as any for going back upstairs.
When she got back upstairs, Dominic was doing exactly what she’d expected him to be doing; he was checking the call details on a mobile phone.
‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ she said to him.
> He looked startled.
‘This is private,’ he said to her, angry now, no longer feeling sorry for himself and drunk.
‘Your father’s been in touch, hasn’t he? Let me guess, he’s left a message on your phone. Where is he, Dominic?’
Dominic stared at her, his eyes as round as billiard balls. ‘I don’t know. It said number unknown.’
Honey held out her hand. ‘Give me the phone, Dominic. The police can try and trace the call.’
‘He’ll be caught.’
He needs to be caught, she thought to herself, but didn’t couch her statement in quite those terms.
‘Dominic, we need to find your father so he can clear his name.’
‘Look, I told you. I told him about Arabella having an affair with that bloke. It must have got to him. It must have.’
‘Because something like that would have got to you? You’re laying too much at his door, Dominic. You’re surmising. Think about it. Do you regard your father as being a violent man? Was he prone to fits of temper? Did he beat you or your mother?’
He shook his head. ‘No. My dad wasn’t – isn’t – like that. He’s soft. That’s his trouble.’
Hand still outstretched, Honey wriggled her fingers. ‘Give.’
Doherty had managed to crank himself into the car. Honey leaned through the open window and placed the phone onto his lap.
‘He had two phones of the same type. I think you’ll find this is the one with the messages on. Hope you can trace it.’
‘Will do.’
Honey slid into the passenger seat. Something suddenly hit her.
‘Wonder why she lied about the baking?’
Doherty shook his head. ‘My nose never lies. She was baking.’
‘But not cottage pie. She was covered in flour. Cottage pie is meat with a mashed potato topping. No pastry.’
He shrugged. ‘I can’t see the relevance in the naming of a pie. This is obviously leading somewhere, so go on.’
‘The kids’ rooms are immaculate and basically they lack for nothing. But she cuts corners in other ways.’
‘Like cottage pie?’
‘That’s just one thing. There’s also soap.’
She explained about leftover bits being melded together, the torn vinyl flooring, and the faded towel.
Death of a Diva: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 9) Page 18
