Marriage is Murder

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘Mrs Simpson told me it was a kid’s birthday party, one of these where they all go off on a treasure hunt afterwards and let off steam.’

  ‘And the parents can take a breather,’ Doherty added as he surveyed the interest their arrival had generated up and down the high street.

  And to think we were considering getting married here, he thought to himself. He recalled that when driving out here for a drink at the pub he and Honey had been quite taken with the place, how pretty it was, how peaceful too.

  ‘Right,’ he said, bracing himself up for the inevitable. ‘First things first. Let’s take a look at the victim.’

  Getting to the scene involved walking down a lane running between the church and Mr Clinker’s home, Belvedere House. Doherty wondered if he was home yet and if he’d made it up with his wife. He reminded himself that she wasn’t pressing charges, so they had probably returned to normal married life – their kind of normal married life.

  On one side of the lane the branches of weeping willows dripped over the churchyard wall. The higher wall of Belvedere House loomed on his left. The ground underfoot was muddy, odd seeing as they’d had no rain for at least a week, and then only a dribble.

  A slight rise of just a few feet led him up to the chain link fencing surrounding the disused water works. Once inside the terrain fell down towards the old reservoir.

  The car was parked on the tarmac track, its nose facing upwards towards the fence. The kids had come from the other direction where the fence had long disappeared and a clear track led into the woods. They would have seen its rear end first.

  Doherty approached and looked in. The kids hadn’t seen anything too dreadful. No blood. No mutilations or the black bloated tongue of strangulation.

  The bride was slumped against the back seat. He took in the angle of her head, the way her hands were folded on her lap around a pink and white bouquet.

  It occurred to him that if she hadn’t looked so much like a floppy rag doll, he could almost believe she really was off to her wedding.

  ‘Cause of death?’ His question was directed at nobody in particular. An answer came anyway.

  ‘Same as the one in the church. Knocked on the back of the head.’

  He nodded once in acknowledgement. ‘Was this how she was found? Was everything exactly like this?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The veil was over her face. We did disturb it slightly just to check the means of despatch, but put it back again – very carefully of course – with gloves on.’

  Doherty nodded at the comments at the same time jerking his chin at the body. ‘Let’s take a look at her face, shall we? You can do the honours.’

  The SOCO leaned over and lifted the veil. ‘Nice looking girl,’ he remarked. ‘A lot younger than the other one.’

  Doherty didn’t answer. His thoughts were jumping through hoops. He was looking at Marietta Hopkins – Harold Clinker’s wife.

  ‘You look as though you know her, sir.’

  ‘She lives in the village next to the church as a matter of fact. I was called to a domestic there.’

  ‘Ah! Could be an open and shut case then, sir. It’s usually the husband, isn’t it?’

  Doherty grunted something unintelligible. Harold Clinker was definitely in the frame, but for Mrs Flynn too? He could understand his motive for bumping off his wife, but where did Mrs Flynn fit into the scene?

  The manner of Mrs Flynn’s despatch had turned out not to be as straightforward as they’d thought. ‘Get her checked for evidence of an injection under the tongue and a higher incidence of insulin in her system.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘And get somebody over to that posh house next to the church. That’s where she lived. Her husband’s name is Mr Harold Clinker.’

  ‘Kid gloves at first when we break the news, then in for questioning?’

  ‘You bet!’

  Doherty turned and made his way back to the high street. He’d instructed that Mrs Simpson be detained until he’d had chance to speak to her. He found her there pushing her arms into a denim jacket that seemed in odd contrast to the flimsy cotton skirt she was wearing.

  ‘I really can’t stay here for long,’ she snapped impatiently whilst spoon shaped lids flicked rapidly over her protruding eyes. She placed both hands beneath her hair, throwing it upwards so it fell back more neatly onto her collar.

  ‘I’ve left Luke with Nick and Hermione, but they won’t put up with him for long. He’s hyperactive you know.’

  Doherty sighed. He needed to confirm a few other things elsewhere. He explained this to Mrs Simpson adding that she could come in tomorrow sometime to make a statement.

  ‘It will have to be in the morning. I have to collect Luke just after lunch. He’s only just started school and is in the reception class. He doesn’t have to do a full day yet until he’s been there two weeks.’

  Detesting her hostility, Doherty agreed to her coming to the station in the morning. Mrs Simpson said she’d be there. Sometime in the past Mrs Simpson had brushed with the law. He weighed up the probable reasons and guessed at one above all others. A protester. In her younger days, Mrs Simpson had marched in protest, what about he didn’t know and didn’t really care. All he wanted was for her to cooperate. Bugger her beef against the police and society. A woman was dead.

  ‘I’ll see you then,’ he said and when he thanked her for her cooperation, she looked surprised.

  On his way back to where he’d parked his car, one of his officers remarked on the presentation of the Rolls Royce.

  ‘There was even a bunch of flowers along with that ribbon. It fell off. We found it on the ground. Nice car. There’s a thing,’ he said, shaking his head mournfully. ‘Her last ride in a car was a wedding car that should have taken her to her wedding.’

  ‘It’s not quite her last ride,’ commented Doherty. ‘That’s going to be in something totally different.’

  The two police officers – a man and a woman – who had called at Belvedere House came back and reported that Mr Harold Clinker was not at home.

  ‘The maid said he’s gone abroad and that he left last night.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Spain.’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘A friend. A Miss Carolina Sherise.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  June, glorious June!

  Honey hummed to herself as she drove Mary Jane through Bath pleased that the weather was good and the streets were packed with tourists.

  Life was good if she didn’t dwell on murders, her mother’s absence, the threatening letters, and accusations that Doherty was a liar and perhaps had even been taking bribes. No! Not Doherty. She would never believe it of him. He held a certain laconic disdain for those who did try to slip him a brown envelope filled with fifty-pound notes. Not that he’d had that many offered to him, and those that had were offered by criminals too close to being arrested for him to even chance such a thing. Not that he would of course, though he’d known those who had. He’d told her that for those guys, taking the money was one thing; living with the guilt was another.

  ‘Why do you think so many turn to drink or gambling, or make a hash of their marriage?’

  She hadn’t reminded him that his marriage had hit the rocks years ago. He rarely spoke of it and when it did rear its ugly head was quickly dismissed that they’d both been too young. It had never had a chance.

  The subject was avoided as was that of his daughter who was rarely in touch. The last missive was a card posted from Venice Beach, California. Sometimes he received a text from wherever she was on her wanderings, but not very often.

  ‘Your mother says not to worry,’ Mary Jane said suddenly, breaking into her thoughts.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘She says not to worry. She’s having a great time.’

  Honey frowned. ‘She didn’t tell me she was going anywhere. How come she told you?’

  ‘She didn’t,’ said Mary Jane, shrugging her bony shoulders.
‘She came through last night when I was asleep.’

  ‘You mean my mother’s dead!’

  Honey felt instant alarm. Mary Jane was a professor of the paranormal; she got more messages from dead people than Honey got from old school pals via Friends Reunited – not that it was that unusual. Those that had got in contact she’d purposely ignored. Too many of those old school friends were of the sporting variety, the girls who’d relished wearing navy blue games skirts and wielding a hockey stick with lethal intentions, i.e. bashing her ankles when she was in goal. Overall they were definitely the ones she’d never really clicked with. Why was it they even regarded her as a valued school friend? She certainly hadn’t noticed it at the time.

  Mary Jane reassured her.

  ‘Oh no. She hasn’t crossed over from this life to the next. She sounded pretty damned excited I can tell you. Secretive too. Whatever she’s been up to, she says it’s a surprise. It’s something she wanted to do and didn’t want you talking her out of it. That’s what she said.’

  Honey risked a glance at Mary Jane’s profile, which was dominated by a slightly hooked nose and a pointed chin. Her cheekbones were high, her face thin, and her eyes a piercing blue. This week her hair was a fetching shade of violet. Next week it might be multi-coloured, like a bunch of sweet peas in full flower. Mary Jane had a typically Californian attitude; please yourself how you look and never be boring.

  Mary Jane was looking straight ahead, her head held high, her eyes hidden behind an enormous pair of Ray Bans. Not that there was really any need to search for sincerity in her eyes. If Mary Jane said her mother had been in touch – though on the psychic plain, then that was the way it was.

  Honey sighed. ‘It never rains but it pours.’

  Although she had spoken very softly, Mary Jane had the ears of a fruit bat.

  ‘What rain is that? D’you wanna talk about it? We can do a reading when we get back. How would that be?’

  ‘The weather. On the TV. They said it was going to rain.’

  She felt Mary Jane looking at her but didn’t meet those eyes. Like her ears, they didn’t miss much and at this moment in time she didn’t want to talk about murder, marriage, or the threatening letters. Neither did she want to discuss Lindsey until she had a firmer handle on what was going on, though on second thoughts, Mary Jane might not be a bad place to start.

  ‘Lindsey seems a bit intense on the business of spirituality and religion. I understand you’ve been having discussions. She’s not going to run away and join one of those weird communes you read so much about, is she?’

  ‘Lindsey? No. Too levelheaded. Kind of traditional in her ways too, plus of course she is so into the medieval life. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if she goes down the traditional route and becomes a nun. I think it would quite suit her.’

  ‘A nun! My daughter, a nun!’

  ‘Sure. Why not?’

  Lindsey had never been a shrinking violet on the boyfriend front. She didn’t know for sure, but surely nuns had to be virgins, didn’t they?

  The question went unasked. She had enough on her plate. Asking Lindsey about her future could wait until they were face to face in a quiet moment.

  After battling through the traffic, they were at Ahmed’s garage and Honey was thinking what a joy it was that she’d only had to ferry Mary Jane in her car. Worse case scenario was enduring her dear friend’s driving of the pale pink caddy with its left hand wheel and driving on the right hand side of the road.

  Pulling in front of the garage apron, it was something of a surprise to look in her rear view mirror and see Doherty pulling in behind them.

  ‘Hi.’ She raised her hand and smiled, fully expecting him to smile back. He did raise his hand, but his expression was unsmiling. She instantly knew he was here on serious business.

  ‘Doherty looks dour,’ Mary Jane remarked. Dour was currently her favourite word because it originated in Scotland. She was presently into all things Scottish. Honey was unclear why.

  ‘I think he’s here on police business,’ Honey whispered.

  ‘Oh hell! Do you think it’s about my parking tickets?’

  Keeping her eyes fixed on Doherty, Honey shook her head. ‘No chance.’

  She smiled. He didn’t smile back. ‘Anything wrong?’

  ‘Very.’

  Doherty didn’t work out at the gym, didn’t do smart suits and didn’t get his hair cut that often, but he had charisma. Movie stars playing streetwise, rough machismo detectives on screen would be well advised to meet up with Detective Inspector Steve Doherty. He was the real thing.

  Lean and purposeful, he turned to Ahmed. ‘I believe you’re missing a wedding car.’

  Ahmed put down the yellow spotted tea mug he’d been gulping from, and nodded.

  ‘You bet. Have you found it? Has it been smashed up? I’ll be dead gutted if it has. Don’t tell me. No! Tell me. I’ve invested good money in that car.’

  Doherty played it cool. ‘Can you confirm the registration number?’

  Ahmed did just that. ‘Where did you find it? You have found it, haven’t you?’

  Doherty nodded. Honey saw the sombreness in his face and knew he was here for more than just a stolen car.

  ‘We found it at Lower Wainswicke parked in the old waterworks pumping station. It’s none the worse for wear.’

  Ahmed’s face was wreathed in smiles. His teeth flashed bright against his brown face. Honey was glad for him.

  ‘Great. I can begin to take bookings again. I had somebody enquire for this weekend because some other bozzo let them down. I’ll give them a ring as soon as things are sorted with you. When can I collect it?’

  Doherty held the sombre look. ‘Hold it. Don’t do that just yet. I’m afraid this is a bit more serious than a simple take and drive away crime. There’s been a murder.’

  Ahmed’s smile disappeared. ‘And my car had something to do with it?’

  ‘A dead woman was found in the back of your car.’

  ‘A dead woman?’

  Ahmed sounded and looked shocked out of his overalls. ‘What was she doing there?’

  ‘That’s what we would like to know. We’ll need to know where you were on the night your car was taken, and once we’re sure of time of death, we’ll need to know where you were too.’

  ‘A dead woman?’

  Shaking his head in disbelief Ahmed sounded as though he couldn’t get past the fact that a dead woman had been found in his car. Knowing Ahmed and his habit of trying out potential brides purloined by his mother, it wouldn’t have surprised Honey if he’d had more than one girl in the back of that car. The Rolls Royce had a big back seat. Ideal for pre nuptial sex and Ahmed liked girls. He also liked cars, but he was no murderer. Ahmed Clifford, son of an English plumber and a seamstress from the Punjab, was a hard working and enterprising lad.

  Although he knew Ahmed as well as Honey and Mary Jane, Doherty stuck to the formal approach.

  ‘I’m afraid we’ll need you to come along to the station to make a statement.’

  ‘Right now?’

  ‘No. Get rid of the oil slick first. Then come down.’

  Whilst Mary Jane settled her bill, Doherty filled Honey in on the details.

  Honey was stunned. ‘Marietta! Have you arrested her husband?’

  ‘We would have, but our Mr Harold Clinker has gone to Spain with our exotic dancer friend.’

  ‘Carolina Sherise?’

  ‘That’s the girl.’

  ‘Then he’s guilty.’

  Honey had never felt quite so angry at a murder as she did now. She’d known Marietta personally, seen the bruising on her face. She didn’t deserve to die at the hands of an abusive husband. With hindsight, she wished she’d kept in closer touch with Marietta when her name was Mary and the world looked like being her oyster. Perhaps things might have been different.

  ‘She was wearing a wedding dress,’ Doherty reminded her. ‘We’re presuming it’s hers.’

  Honey guessed w
here this was going. ‘You think it might not be hers.’

  He shrugged. ‘As I said before, I’m no fashion expert.’

  ‘Right. I won’t ask for your opinion when I’m choosing mine. Anyway it’s bad luck for the bridegroom to see the dress before the wedding day.’

  ‘Ah yes. Of course,’ he said looking pleased to be let off from a shopping trip. ‘Carole thinks the dress dates from about ten years ago. Marietta got married about five years ago in Barbados so it doesn’t seem likely that it’s her dress. Though hell, what do I know?’

  ‘Who’s Carole?’

  ‘New kid on the block. Straight from Hendon. She did a degree in fashion before that.’

  ‘So what skills did she bring from the world of fashion to the police force?’

  She could tell by the look on Doherty’s face that he was enjoying her jealousy.

  ‘She’s good at making the tea. And informative about wedding dresses.’

  His smile faded when he saw Honey’s deadpan expression and knew she had something to say.

  ‘I can do better than that. I was at her wedding.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  She was wearing skinny jeans in a fetching coral colour, a tailored white blouse nipped in at the waist, and a multi coloured jacket, predominantly jade and coral. The cut screamed quality and fitted provocatively to her figure. Her bag and shoes were of soft suede in three different colours that also matched her jacket. Her earrings were big and bold and her bracelets clinked like a pocketful of money.

  Money was what Carolina Sherise was all about; unlike her friend Marietta, she was of an independent disposition, unafraid of enjoying the company of men without actually committing herself to any long-term relationship.

  Although they were used to some pretty up market fashion in Bath, heads turned when she entered Manvers Street. They were only coppers, but Bath had certain standards in dress sense. Shell suits and baseball boots it was not.