Marriage is Murder

by Jean G. Goodhind

  They weren’t actually her number one favourite mainly because she had a lot of favourites, but it didn’t hurt to soothe the vicar’s embarrassment.

  ‘So! Where to now,’ she asked, once they were walking back to Doherty’s low slung sports car.

  ‘I’m off to check on cause of death. I’ll drop you off. OK?’

  ‘OK. And then what?’

  ‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow at around four and we’ll have a word with Clinker.’

  ‘I can continue to be your sidekick? Even though I’m not a police officer?’

  ‘You’re a friend of his wife. You know her. Let’s see what you make of him.’

  His plan made sense. There was no confirmation for sure whether Mrs Flynn’s death was natural or homicide. For the moment she was on the back burner. It was Harold Clinker who was up for a roasting.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The atmosphere at the Green River Hotel was uncommonly calm. All the same the moment Honey pushed through the doors separating reception from the foyer she couldn’t help feeling that something was amiss. There was such a thing as being too quiet. Being too quiet was out of character for the Green River. She knew how it usually felt when she got back here; firstly a sense of pride. She’d bought and built this place up herself. Secondly, she employed characters, she had friends who were characters, and characters were rife in her family, characters as in people with large personalities who some people thought slightly loopy.

  Lindsey was sitting behind reception, her back to her mother and seemingly absorbed in whatever she was studying on the computer screen.

  ‘Anyone at home?’

  Lindsey bolted upright at the sound of her mother’s voice. Honey couldn’t be certain, but she was sure the computer screen had done something resembling a backwards somersault. Wherever Lindsey had been on the Internet she wasn’t there now. Her current job was revitalising the website and Lindsey was on to it.

  GROOVE AT THE GREEN RIVER HOTEL, RIGHT IN THE CENTRE OF BATH.

  Groove wasn’t the exact word Honey would have used, but Lindsey was experimenting with a new home page and her mother certainly knew how difficult that could be. The right words had to be used.

  ‘Not groove,’ she said biting her bottom lip and relaying her disquiet as best she could without upsetting her daughter. ‘I don’t think we groove here, do we? I think we are more...sedate...’

  ‘Old fashioned.’

  ‘Are we?’

  It hurt being told the hotel was old fashioned. She didn’t find it so, but was that it? She didn’t find it dated and old fashioned because it suited her, in other words she was just as old fashioned as the hotel itself.

  ‘We don’t appeal to young couples coming down here for a weekend of getting lathered and laid.’

  ‘They’re just having fun.’

  ‘I don’t want to appeal to youngsters coming here for that.’

  ‘Of course you don’t.’ Lindsey gave her a very direct look. ‘You have to be in tune with whatever generation frequents your establishment, and so does the building, right down to what’s on the walls and the availability of a wide selection of sex and snogging channels.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Honey raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Do these channels instruct people how to do sex and snogging?’

  Lindsey lifted one side of her mouth in something that could have been a smile or a grimace.

  ‘You could say that.’

  Honey took a nanosecond to think about it then shook her head.

  ‘I don’t think I want that. My other guests wouldn’t like that. I mean, think of what Mary Jane would say...’

  A door marked private opened, and there was Mary Jane, thin as a reed and as tall as the Eiffel Tower.

  ‘So there you are! I’ve been waiting on you out back...’

  Honey decided it wouldn’t do any good to castigate Mary Jane for using the staff entrance at the rear of the building and the door marked private. She would take no notice anyway.

  Mary Jane was part of the furniture, like a pot plant that you get used to having around and sometimes forget to water.

  Professor of the paranormal, Mary Jane was a long time resident of the Green River Hotel, drove erratically around the city in a pink Cadillac coupe, was just a little over six feet tall and had been in her seventies for some time now.

  She also had chilling blue eyes that sometimes seemed to look deep into your soul and other times seemed to be looking beyond you and the real world to something only the likes of her could comprehend.

  Mary Jane adored colours; if it wasn’t bright, she didn’t wear it. Today her choice of outfit was a purple jacket with a zip fastener and epaulettes on the shoulders. It looked to be suede and was probably soft to touch. The winged collar of a yellow shirt poked out at the neckline and a flirt of hemline – it was no more than two inches, thus only flirting to be seen.

  Her jeans were navy with sequins down the sides and her shoes were red and matched her handbag. The red clashed vividly with the other colours, but that to Mary Jane was the whole point of colour; if it didn’t clash, it didn’t work.

  Honey smiled and after complimenting her on her outfit, said, ‘So, you’ve been waiting out back.’

  ‘Sure I have. You said to bring my car round and wait out back in the lot, then you’d go with me to your car and you would follow me to Ahmed’s place.’

  ‘Yes! Yes! Of course,’ Honey exclaimed as she finally got her bearings. ‘Your car is booked in for a service and I promised to follow you whilst you dropped off the car and then I’d bring you back.’

  ‘That’s it, Honey. Are you fit?’

  Honey did a pretty good impression of somebody who is absolutely on the ball, knows where she is and where she’s going. To Ahmed’s garage. Mary Jane’s car was booked in for a service. The truth was that she’d completely forgotten her promise.

  Lindsey gave her mother a casual wave and went back to whatever Internet site she was cruising. Honey heaved a big sigh, made sure every department – including the kitchen was working smoothly, and followed Mary Jane back through the door marked private to the parking lot.

  Being a city built for the ease of access of a sedan chair, Bath had traffic problems. It didn’t easily cope with buses, heavy transport or too many cars. The new bypass had only partly addressed the problem of heavy transport. Unfortunately it truncated on the east side of the city thanks to protests by interested – and wealthy – parties. Trucks still had to squeeze their way along the outer road. Cars were a different matter. Too many still wove their way through the centre, swarming like mating bees in front of traffic lights that never seemed to show anything but the red stop light. Blink and the green light had come and gone.

  Today the traffic had swarmed big time for which Honey was extremely grateful. It meant Mary Jane had to keep her speed down which in turn meant she had to follow the car in front, which in turn meant she would keep to the right side of the road. Literally!

  Honey relaxed once she’d got her own car and was following at a safe distance behind Mary Jane. It was two o’clock in the afternoon.

  Ahmed Clifford came out of the single storey lockup where he did his business, wiping his dark brown hands in an oily cloth. A green Beetle lurched slightly as Mary Jane pulled in behind it. Mary Jane’s fender had kissed that of the Beetle.

  Ahmed winced at first but breathed a sigh of relief once he’d checked that no damage had been done.

  ‘Hi,’ said Honey and waved.

  Ahmed waved back and although he smiled, it was closed mouth, no half laugh and flashing of ultra white teeth. He certainly didn’t seem his normal self but had that haunted look usually adopted when his mother was attempting another arranged marriage; perhaps this time he couldn’t get out of it.

  Mary Jane was in the process of handing Ahmed the keys when she paused and looked him straight in the face.

  ‘Hey, Ahmed. Your spirits are not singing
and dancing. I see them sat in a circle wailing and gnashing their teeth.’

  Mary Jane, it had to be said, had a direct line to the spirit world, or, to put it another way in Mary Jane speak, Ahmed was a bit pissed off.

  He attempted his usual smile but it solidified on his face as though his lips refused to stretch any further.

  ‘The perils of life,’ he responded. ‘And luck. If the luck is not with you...’ He shrugged. ‘The luck has run away.’

  ‘Not another marriage?’ Honey asked. Ahmed’s mother was very keen on arranging a traditional marriage for her favourite son. Ahmed was not keen on the idea at all, but he did like meeting all the potential brides. He had gone along with her plans for some time now, striking up relationships with the girls, but failing to go the full distance. He fully admitted that sex had a lot to do with it. Some of the girls had gone home carrying more than a suitcase.

  ‘Some were dogs, and some were delicious,’ he’d told Honey, his eyes shining and a salacious grin on his voluptuous mouth. On this occasion it wasn’t that.

  He shook his head. ‘No. I told her straight that I wasn’t ready to marry, and when I was I would do the choosing. After all, it’s me that’s got to live with the result, not her. Anyway,’ he added his expression still pensive. ‘I wanted a word with you, Mrs Driver. If you don’t mind. It’s about my car. My wedding car. It’s been stolen.’

  ‘A wedding car?’

  He nodded. ‘A white Rolls Royce. I bought it from a bloke in Keynsham two years ago and set myself up for weddings. It’s been going pretty well. Nice contrast, my complexion and a white Rolls Royce. Sometimes I wore a turban and stuff like out of Passage to India or Kipling. People loved it. I catered for all kinds of taste. Sometimes I wore just a lounge suit. It all depended on what people wanted. You know, personal choice. The Raj outfit appealed to a bride who fancied herself as princess for the day. You know? Full of Eastern promise!’

  His face brightened at the memory before falling flat again.

  Honey expressed some surprise. She hadn’t realised he’d gone into the wedding car business.

  ‘You should have told me. We could have done a wedding package, you know, car, wedding breakfast, luxury room at the Green River Hotel with champagne and four poster bed...’

  ‘We could,’ he said, his face brightening for a moment. ‘But not now. Bloody shame it is. Bloody shame. I’ve had to cancel bookings.’ He shook his head.

  ‘You’ve reported it stolen?’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah. But you know how it is. It’s just a car. How many cars go missing in this country every day.’

  ‘Not many wedding cars, surely,’ said Mary Jane who had been all ears to what he was saying.

  He shrugged. ‘I suppose not.’ He turned to Honey. ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Do you think you could try and find it?’

  The thought of adding the finding of a white Rolls Royce to her already busy schedule, was galling and quite frankly, she wasn’t hopeful about the results. However, Ahmed was a sweetie; he was also lovely to look at, ideal in fact for the role of a Punjabi Rajput at the wheel of a Rolls Royce.

  ‘Is it vintage?’

  ‘From the sixties, so vintage enough.’

  Against her better judgement, she found herself agreeing to do what she could even though she hadn’t a clue where to start or a slot in her busy schedule to fit the task in.

  ‘I’ll do my best. When did you last see it?’

  ‘Last Saturday. I’d just done a wedding over in Larkhall and was washing the car down before putting it away. I keep it in a lockup in Keynsham. Unfortunately when I came to opening the garage to lock it up for the night, I found I’d left the key.... at home...’

  ‘With a girlfriend?’

  He grinned and although his skin was the colour of a cappuccino without the froth, Honey saw a flush erupt on his cheeks.

  ‘Yeah. She’s got a flat in Walcot Street.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Mary Jane, her eyes half closed like they sometimes did when she was going into a trance. ‘She’s blonde, with pert boobs and wears a skirt that barely covers her backside.’

  He looked at her in amazement. ‘Wow! I know you’re into the supernatural and all that, but I you’re good. Really good. Can you see her now?’

  Mary Jane’s eyes flicked open. ‘No. But I saw the two of you coming out of McDonalds the other day. You were hand in hand.’

  ‘Oh!’ Ahmed looked disappointed.

  ‘So, this car. It went missing overnight. You went there the following day with the keys and it was gone.’

  Ahmed nodded. ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘No immobiliser fitted?’

  ‘It was old.’

  Mary Jane added advice.

  ‘No tracking device? You know, I hear they’re real good. You get it fitted then follow it on your computer with some programme you buy on line.’

  Honey looked at her open mouthed. ‘I’m impressed, Mary Jane. I didn’t know you knew about stuff like that.’

  ‘I don’t. Lindsey told me. She’s kind of offloading technical stuff and jargon; reckons that she’s entering a more spiritual period of her life.’

  Honey was even more surprised. To her own shame, she couldn’t say she’d noticed, and Lindsey hadn’t confided as such to her.

  ‘She didn’t tell me that, and I’m her mother.’

  Mary Jane pulled a so-so face. ‘You know how it is. Sometimes mother’s butt in where they aren’t wanted.’

  Honey thought of her own mother. Yes. That was exactly what she did, interfered when her input was not required.

  She pulled her attention back from her daughter’s new path in life to Ahmed and his missing car. There followed a serious nodding procedure, the kind that’s meant to reassure. ‘It has to be joy riders. That’s it.’

  Mary Jane nodded in agreement. ‘Young kids. Out to drive fast and furious.’

  Ahmed didn’t look convinced. ‘It’s a Rolls Royce. It isn’t meant to be raced. It’s a sedate ride for sedate people.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Mary Jane, her nodding echoing that of Honey’s, though with a longer neck and thus a deeper up and down motion. ‘But some of the kids round here have got aspirations, you know. They’re from pretty well heeled families and know quality when they see it.’

  It was obvious from Ahmed’s expression that he wasn’t convinced. It was possible he was considering how vehicles end up when kids are finished with it; wrapped around a lamppost or burned out in a final act of vandalism.

  ‘Look,’ said Honey, making the effort to sound as positive as possible. ‘You’re right, Ahmed. A Rolls Royce isn’t the sort of ride a kid would normally go for. Some vintage cars are collectors’ items. Could be we can trace it through known dealers and known collectors. At least they value this type of car. I’ll see what I can find out. OK?’

  He nodded hesitantly.

  ‘You give me a call when my car’s ready,’ said Mary Jane, laying an affectionate pat on his shoulder. ‘You shouldn’t find much wrong with it.’

  ‘Brake pads. Linings. Clutch,’ proclaimed Ahmed.

  Honey hid the grin that crunched her lips. Mary Jane’s driving was famous. Ahmed knew exactly what he had to deal with.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Harold Clinker dominated the Accident and Emergency unit at Bath’s Royal United Hospital.

  Like most modern hospitals, the RUH as it was more commonly called, sprawled over a large area. It was situated on the eastern side of the city behind towering Edwardian villas and the upper road into Bristol.

  The unit was of a decent size though smaller than might be found in the Royal Infirmary in nearby Bristol, but then Bristol was a bigger city and the infirmary was crammed into the heart of it. The RUH had a better location, set in a quiet suburban environment; its modern additions softened by mature beech, fir and elm trees.

  Harold Clinker had a bluff face and small eyes, which gave him the look of someone peering out from withi
n a deep pudding basin.

  Honey wondered what had possessed Marietta to go out with him let alone marry him. On reflection her old acquaintance had entertained more than a passing interest in fast cars, magnums of Bollinger and anything that was nine carat plus and sparkled. Harold Clinker was staunchly stout but wore Gucci and Armani so he’d probably suited her very well.

  He didn’t look particularly injured unless you counted his pride. His clothes were dishevelled and sported muddy smears; his face shone with sweat and his hair – ginger and gradually waving goodbye – stood up in small angry tufts.

  Doherty stood at the end of his bed looking down at him. Honey stood slightly apart wanting to be here for Marietta’s sake.

  ‘Mr Clinker. Would you like to tell me what happened.’

  ‘Are you in charge?’ Clinker snapped. He fixed his beady eyes on Doherty as he might a weevil.

  Used to pompous facades, Doherty was unfazed.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Doherty. Would you like to tell me what happened?’

  Clinker looked him up and down.

  ‘Detective Inspector. Are you as high as it goes?’

  ‘In the circumstances, seeing as the Chief Inspector is currently sprawled on a beach with his wife on holiday in Tenerife, then yes, I’m it.’

  Clinker grunted his acceptance of the situation. ‘I was getting out of my car...’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘About ten o’clock.’

  ‘Where had you been?’

  ‘Just driving around. Me and the wife had a bit of a domestic...I thought I’d drive around until both of us had cooled down.’

  ‘So you drove around and came aback around ten o’clock. We noticed your car was parked in the lane behind the church. Was there any particular reason for it not being parked in your own drive?’

  ‘I’d forgotten the security number for the gate. I change it every day on the unit inside the house. Both Marietta and me are informed of the new number by text. I did it at six last night then what with the row I left my phone behind and couldn’t remember for the life of me what number I’d programmed in.’