‘Would you like to explain to me what the row was about?’
‘No. I would not.’
Mr Clinker drew in his chin indignantly, glaring at Doherty who glared straight back until Mr Clinker’s deep set eyes flickered and his rigid chin receded into floppy jowls.
Honey thought of Marietta’s injured face. Sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander; nobody could blame his wife if indeed she had punished him for what he’d done.
‘OK. If you’re not willing to give your side of the story, we’ll have to accept your wife’s version. She reported that you assaulted her and intends pressing charges. Would you like to comment on that?’
Harold did a fair imitation of the Big Bad Wolf, huffing and puffing, though he wasn’t about to blow anybody’s house down. Out came the excuses.
‘It was her own fault. Just a little misunderstanding.’
‘Apparently regarding Miss Sherise and the conjugal bed. Your wife explained the agreement. None of my business Mr Clinker that you broke rules agreed between you and your wife. Causing her bodily harm is our business. You committed a crime, just in case you didn’t know it.’
‘Well she’s had her revenge hasn’t she! Look at my clothes and as for my nerves...’ He held up one shaking hand. ‘Look. It was frightening I tell you, damned frightening! If she doesn’t press charges against me, then I won’t press charges against her. There! Stuff that up your bloody pipe and smoke it!’
Up until now, Honey had kept her mouth shut after all she was Doherty’s fiancé, not his work colleague. But this was not on.
‘What makes you so sure it was her who tied you up and left you there?’ she asked. ‘She was in no fit state to attack anyone when we saw her.’
‘I smelled her perfume. She came up behind me and hit me over the head. When I came round I was so disorientated what with that sack over my head. It took me a while before I realised my hands were tied.’
Narrowing her eyes helped Honey visualise how Marietta had looked when she’d last seen her. Devil-dragged, as her mother would say. Bruised, battered and more than a little bit shocked. No, she thought. I don’t believe it. Judging by the look on his face neither did Doherty.
On the way out Doherty received a call that Marietta had withdrawn all charges.
Honey was livid. ‘I wouldn’t!’
‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
‘Whether you’d already taken out your revenge.’
She saw his lips twitch as though about to smile before being brought back under control. Something was going on here.
‘OK. What am I missing? What is it you’re not telling me?’
‘Did you notice the clothes Mr Clinker was wearing?’
‘They were good quality.’
‘And?’
‘They were dirty.’
‘Right. That’s because they were covered in dirt.’
‘They’d been scattered around all over the place.’
Honey stopped in her tracks. ‘You’re joking!’
‘No. Mr Harold Clinker was left with a bag over his head, his hands tied behind his back and completely naked.’
Honey punched the air. ‘Whoa! Atta girl, Marietta.’
There was a clunk of a well-oiled lock disengaging as Doherty opened the car door. He eyed her with amused apprehension before letting her in.
‘Am I safe with you?’
She grinned. ‘How safe do you want to be?’
‘Leave out the bondage and being left naked in a churchyard.’
On the way back to the hotel, Honey told Doherty about the drugged punch, the frog and the worm.
‘I’m hoping it’s all over and that it was just a run of bad luck, but for a while there it felt as if somebody was trying to ruin me. I keep asking myself why, but can’t think of anyone in particular.’ She shrugged. ‘If it is some kind of vendetta, then I wish they’d show their face, though quite frankly I didn’t realise there was anyone who hated me that much.’
Doherty fell to silence instead concentrating on steering the car back into the traffic on the main A4 was more difficult than it usually was. He asked himself if he should now tell Honey about the first threatening letter warning him not to marry her. That morning he’d received a second saying much the same as the first. He’d promised himself that he would only tell her if he received a third. Just a prankster, he thought, someone he’d arrested who’d served his time and still bore a grudge.
Not today, he decided. I won’t tell her today. For that reason he was glad to be busy, not stopping for coffee but promising to meet up with her that night as planned.
Late evening. The Zodiac was buzzing. There was the usual smell of grilled steak and garlic prawns, the clink of glasses, tinkling laughter and rowdy rugby players telling jokes.
Doherty came in half an hour later than he said he would, but that was par for the course. He didn’t look set for a night on the tiles; on the contrary he was wearing his serious look and she knew only too well what that would mean.
His Jack Daniels double was waiting for him alongside the vodka she’d ordered for herself, mixer the same as his.
His expression was easily read. ‘She was murdered?’
He nodded whilst slugging back half the contents of his glass.
‘Let me guess. It wasn’t the blow on the back of the neck that killed her.’ ’
He rubbed his thumb and index finger over a wrinkled brow.
‘What brought you to that conclusion.’
‘The rood screen was in the way, unless...’
She saw the amusement in his eyes and knew she was wrong.
‘Go on. Tell me.’
‘There’s new blood in the pathology department, a keen young man named David Chan. He did a few tests and found a large amount of insulin in the body of the deceased. There were no needle marks, and no history of diabetes or any diseases linked to insulin. But he did have a theory. He knew that if insulin is injected under the tongue it’s practically untraceable; the perfect crime if you like. But you only need to inject a little to get the desired result. Whoever did this injected too much and made it traceable. Even so at her age the death could easily have been put down to diabetes if it hadn’t been for our very keen eyed Mr Chan.’
Honey frowned. ‘But why hit her on the head then follow it up with an injection of insulin.’
Doherty downed the last of his Jack Daniels, was half way to putting the glass down, then tipped his head back and swallowed the ice cubes.
‘It didn’t happen that way. It was the other way round.’
‘She was already dead?’
He nodded. ‘Seems there were two people who wanted her dead, one who administered an injection and one who hit her with something hard. I’m presuming the actual murderer who administered the injection was also the one who left her sitting in that pew. Number two assailant must have jumped at the chance.’
‘So Mrs Flynn had more than one enemy.’
‘She did indeed. The person who administered that injection wanted it to look as natural a death as possible. I’m still working on the wedding dress bit. Still can’t work that one out. I thought I’d leave it to you.’
‘I’ll do my best though I’m not sure where to begin. I might kick off making enquiries about her wedding from somebody who might have been there. If the wedding happened of course. She could have been jilted at the altar, perhaps before actually marrying Mr Flynn.’
‘Possibly.’
‘So there she was wearing her wedding dress, flopped over the pew in front as if in prayer...in which case it would have been easy to bash her on the back of the head.’
Doherty nodded. ‘And whoever did it propped her up straight so the wound wasn’t discernible – just in case anyone came in.’
Doherty was frowning. Without uttering a word he got out his phone and rang the Reverend Constance Paxton.
‘Sorry to disturb you, Reverend Paxton, but could you tell me if the church wa
s locked every night?’
Honey saw him nod.
‘I see. It was always locked.’
He finished the call.
‘It was locked.’
Honey shook her head. ‘I don’t think it was. It wasn’t on the night the vicar was attacked. Someone must have been in there already and perhaps that someone has a key. But the church wasn’t locked that night. It couldn’t have been.’
Doherty agreed that she was right.
‘About the stuff happening at your place; I’ve received two letters warning me not to marry you.’
Honey made light of it. ‘Aw shucks! I’ve been found out.’
Her expression soured on seeing the serious look on his face.
‘You’re not joking.’
He shook his head. ‘Fancy another drink?’
‘Yes. A double.’
He outlined the content of the letter.
‘I wasn’t going to tell you until I received a third.’
‘Have you?’
He nodded and slid her drink across the table.
She took a sip and pulled a face. ‘Gin. I don’t drink gin.’
‘Shit.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll swallow it this time.’
She smiled as she said it, thinking to herself that he wasn’t usually so distracted so this had to be serious. There was something about the way he avoided looking at her that was worrying. Tired out, she decided. Look at his eyes. Eyelids made of lead; dark grey crescents that weren’t there yesterday.
‘You need some TLC,’ she said to him.
‘I need something,’ he muttered.
‘You’re a copper. Coppers get hate mail.’
‘I can cope with that, but not so well when it involves you. I worry.’
‘Poor darling Doherty,’ she crooned, using his surname whilst her nimble fingers massaged the tightness in the nape of his neck. It worried her that he was worried.
‘We need to focus our thoughts on something else. Time for bed?’
He stretched his neck in response to the steadfast press of her fingers.
She was no masseuse, but even she knew that caressing the nape of the neck helped relieve tension. It reached other parts too. She was counting on it.
He closed his eyes and heaved a heartfelt sigh as though submitting to whatever she wanted him to do. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Let’s do that.’
The lights of the city and a crescent moon were reflected on the river below Pulteney Bridge. The hooded figure, elbows resting on the sandstone parapet, face cradled in firm, square hands, watched the water tear the lights into segments. The life of that person wearing the hoodie was like that; torn into parts. What a sad life! Things could have been so much more perfect if it wasn’t for that bloody woman. For goodness sake, didn’t the woman know she was too old to be a bride? Did she have no shame? Marrying a man at her age! Disgusting. But there, it would only be disgusting if the marriage actually happened. Maybe, if events continued as they were, the marriage would not happen. Marriage didn’t work. They’d both been married before and should know that.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Daylight filtered into Doherty’s bedroom before six in the morning, partly due to the time of year and partly because Camden Crescent was perched high above the city. The first thing you saw from the window was sky, unimpeded by buildings falling away from Lansdown Hill into the valley below.
Honey stretched in response to a sound similar to that of an angry bee. Even before opening her eyes, she sensed something had changed in the bed’s general dimensions and knew Doherty was up and about.
Lazily she ran her hand over the warm dip where Doherty had been sleeping wanting to know she was truly alone before opening her eyes.
Where was the bee?
Her eyeballs skipped from side to side as she searched the room. There was no bee, but she did hear somebody talking.
Not a bee. The sound she’d heard had been the demanding buzz of Doherty’s mobile phone.
Accepting the inevitable fact that morning had broken, she checked her watch. Yep! Definitely six in the morning. Time to get up. But not yet.
She rolled into the spot Doherty had recently vacated. A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt. Closing her eyes she breathed in the fragile scent he’d left behind on the sheet and pillow. The moment wouldn’t last for long. Somebody had phoned. Something had happened.
‘Omelette or porridge?’
Her eyes flicked open. ‘Porridge,’ she said, raising her head. ‘Unless you fancy something different.’
She twisted around so she was looking at him over her bare shoulder. It was a blatant invitation back to bed, though even as she did it, she knew there wasn’t much chance of it happening. His movements were purposeful, his eyes seeing her but darker than usual as though he were using some kind of optical force field to keep temptation at bay.
‘With sultanas and honey,’ she shouted after him.
He’d already swung out of the doorway, but she did hear a muffled, ‘Yep. Got that,’ as he made his way to the kitchen.
She heard the ‘ping’ of the microwave halfway through dressing. By the time she got to the kitchen a bowl of hot porridge, brimming with extras including the sultanas and honey, was breathing steam on the table.
Doherty was shrugging himself into a black T-shirt at the same time as chewing toast and drinking coffee. It should have been quite a juggling feat, but he made it look easy.
‘I’ll drop you off first.’
‘I don’t mind walking.’
‘You hate exercise.’
He was right. ‘Gym type exercise. Or serious jogging on the balls of my feet. My balls are not made for jogging.’
He grinned. ‘Neither are mine.’
‘But I like walking,’ she responded keeping a straight face despite the sexual innuendo that paired his testicles with the balls of her feet.
‘So you want to walk?’
‘I’ll take a lift.’
She watched as he put the dishes into the washer and got his stuff together. Last night had been great, but she still had the impression he was worried about the letters.
‘You haven’t changed your mind have you?’ she asked. She said it nonchalantly at the same time as retrieving her bag and jacket from the back of the kitchen chair. The chair was of dark wood. So were the kitchen cupboards. The kitchen needed a makeover. It would keep until they got married – once they’d decided where they would live – which they hadn’t yet.
‘About?’
‘Getting married, and..’
‘And?’
‘Selling this place.’
‘No. How about you?’
‘It’s not the right time for putting the hotel on the market. Next spring would show it off in a better light. I need to fulfil the summer bookings; a hotel looks dreary in winter so I might not get the price I would like. That’s if I decide to sell it.’
‘It’s your decision.’
‘It would give us an on-going income in case you decided to take early retirement.’
‘Like I said, it’s your decision. I’m easy, though having more than one option makes sense.’
She prattled on as though she hadn’t noticed something was off, though not the wedding by the sound of it.
‘You’re not having second thoughts about moving into the coach house in the short term, are you?’
The idea was they live in the coach house until they could buy a small house or apartment that was theirs and theirs alone. The coach house wasn’t ideal seeing as Lindsey lived there too. It was OK for two, but three would be a little less private. Honey had offered to sell the hotel if they got married, but Doherty knew it would be something of a wrench. There were stumbling blocks. One of them was Mary Jane. Honey felt protective about the weird woman with the piercing eyes and a belief that she shared her room with a long dead ancestor. She’d got used to her; it was like having an aged and slightly dotty aunt living in the attic – although Mary Jane d
idn’t live in an attic of course. She had a very nice en suite room at the front of the hotel overlooking the street. Not only did she believe in sharing with the long dead ancestor, she also proclaimed that the old man lighting the gas lights outside at dusk, always gave her a little wave before melting away. The old gas mantles had been replaced back in the fifties by electric, but Honey knew where Mary Jane was coming from; she saw things other folk just didn’t see.
‘What will happen to Mary Jane if you sell the hotel?’
It was as if he’d been reading her thoughts.
‘It does worry me.’
He wrapped his arms around her, hugged her close and kissed her on the head.
‘Then don’t do it. Commute. That shouldn’t be too hard, should it? And just for the record, I’m too young to retire. OK?’
She had to admit it wouldn’t be difficult to commute, not if they bought a flat within walking distance of the hotel.
‘On the plus side,’ said Doherty as they vacated his front door and headed to where he’d parked his car, ‘if Mary Jane wasn’t around, you wouldn’t have to endure the white knuckle rides in a pink car. Pink! Of all the colours.’
Talk of cars brought Ahmed Clifford to mind. ‘That reminds me. Ahmed Clifford has mislaid a white Rolls Royce – or rather it’s been stolen.’
Doherty looked at her wishing they could have stayed tucked up in bed. He just wasn’t focused on the game this morning. Warm bed and warm bodies were still in his mind. Even the early morning phone call hadn’t quite got him up and running. A meeting. He’d been called early to tell him there was going to be a meeting.
He didn’t like meetings. He didn’t much like staying put in the station at all unless there was a bona fide reason for doing so – like putting together all the pieces in a murder case; like a jig saw it was.
Mention of the Rolls Royce jerked him back to the here and now and the job in hand.
‘What the devil is Ahmed doing with a white Rolls Royce?’
‘It’s a new venture he’s started up. He’s into the wedding car game, been doing it for about a year or more.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘Sometimes he dresses up like the chauffeur of an old time maharajah. He wears a turban and a silk suit. Perhaps we could hire him to do our wedding.’
Marriage is Murder Page 10
