She started to protest. ‘You’re going to leave me here,’ she hissed.
‘Yes. You’ll be fine. When she’s finished, follow her out. OK?’
‘I’m surrounded by seedy looking men,’ she hissed back.
‘How do you know that? You can’t see them.’
He was right of course. The brightest spot in the place was the plinth and the nubile girl doing her stuff. She was probably in her mid twenties. She’d seen her somewhere before, though goodness knows where.
It was hard to blink. Honey put it down to the dim lighting, though Anne herself had a lot to do with it. She wound around that chromium pole like a snake in the Garden of Eden. Her body was supple and toned, tanned and glistening. Her G string didn’t cover very much at all.
The Phyllis Neilsen number was replaced by something similar though more upbeat. Honey couldn’t think of the name of it.
Once the second piece of music finished, the podium settled back into the floor, the girl giving a final twirl whilst holding on with one hand.
The men shouted and clapped. The girl waved. Honey prepared herself to get up from her chair and follow her back stage to the relative safety of the changing rooms. It appeared that Anne Kemp had other plans, heading straight for her.
She was tall and smelled of exertion. She was also breathless. Her dark hair swung around her shoulders. Her eyes were brown.
‘Mind if I sit down?’
‘Be my guest.’
The girl’s white teeth shone thanks to the purplish glow of the table lamp. Its light distorted the girl’s facial features, though not enough to make them ugly. Anne Kemp was beautiful.
‘Nice to see you again,’ said the dancer, her broad smile only slightly smaller than the wisp of material covering her pubes.
‘Have we met before,’ asked Honey. Anne’s statement confirmed her own suspicions. She racked her brains to try and think where she’s seen Anne before. Not in another nightclub that was for sure!
‘You wouldn’t remember me. I was wearing a lot more than I am now. I was a bridesmaid at my sister’s wedding. We held the reception at the Green River Hotel. That’s where you’re from isn’t it? Aren’t you the owner?’
Anne spoke in a North Country accent. Honey wasn’t sure whether it was Yorkshire or Lancashire. If she didn’t remark on it and perhaps choose the wrong one, Anne wouldn’t be offended.
‘Your sister! What was her name?’
‘Beverley. Beverley Kemp though she became Beverley Simpson when she married Brian. He’s a footballer you know. Plays for Bristol City.’
‘Of course. Brian Simpson!’
Actually she regarded football to be as interesting as watching paint dry, but it paid to have some knowledge of the game, at least on a local level.
She glanced over Anne’s shoulder to see where Doherty had got to. What a turn up! He’d gone back stage in the hope of talking to people who knew Anne for the low down on her lifestyle and Anne had plonked herself down at the table in front of her. Not only that, it wasn’t the first time they’d met. Her sister had held her wedding reception at the Green River Hotel.
Anne was bubbling with friendliness. Honey considered it quite refreshing. The dancer was friendly and seemed totally bereft of embarrassment.
‘What a coincidence! And guess what, we’ve got something else in common,’ said Honey.
‘Is that right? What’s that then?’
‘I was one of the judges for the window display competition. I voted for the one with the highwayman in the window. You know, Tern and Pauling? The gentleman’s outfitters down in Beaumont Alley. Of course, it was just a display then,’ said Honey, her voice softening. ‘Mr Tern was enjoying himself when I saw him. He was still alive not strung up on his own gallows. I understand you knew him.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Anne sounding genuinely sad. ‘I did. We were an item for a while, but only a while. Nigel was too flighty to stay with anyone for long.’
‘So you knew Nigel Tern well?’
‘No need to be shy. I knew Nigel very well, as in knew in the Biblical sense,’ Anne replied nodding in a decidedly disagreeable fashion. ‘All his girls knew him. Some better than others.
‘Would you say you were close?’
Anne sighed. ‘We were for a time. That was when I thought it was the real thing and that he really cared for me. He even took me to one of his club nights, or society nights as he called them. I think I was the only girl from the club he ever took there.’
‘Society? What kind of society?’
Honey maintained a non-judgemental expression. She was anticipating some kind of swingers club, sadomasochism even. Her imagination was going wild. What she hadn’t foreseen was Anne’s surprising answer.
‘The Adam Ant Impersonation Society. I only went with him the once.’ She threw back her head and laughed as she remembered. ‘You ought to have seen them! All these middle aged overweight geezers wearing tight pants and stuff; a bit like Johnnie Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean.’
‘He dressed up like that?’ She’d been told he was a member of one of these clubs, but now she was with someone who had actually been there with Nigel.
‘He did,’ laughed Anne. ‘He should have remembered how young his idol was back then. Should have remembered how young he’d been too.’
‘But it was a highwayman in the window,’ said Honey.
‘Oh yes. I saw it. To my mind it looked better at night when everything around it was dark.’
Honey got up early mornings, but not as early as Charlie York. He was up before it was light. The window display would have been at its most dramatic, confined by the lights, dawn only beginning to light the sky. No wonder he’d been shocked what with the music he was listening to plus the sight of his idol in the shop window.
It wasn’t just a highwayman, but a very specific highwayman; Adam Ant singing Stand and Deliver.
‘He loved dressing up, especially in that highwayman gear,’ Anne mused. ‘Once I knew his secret he was dressing up in his gear all the time – you know. In private, before we got it on – if you know what I mean. The silk was nice. Really soft.’
Her smile said it all.
Honey nodded. She knew very well what she meant.
‘It was his passion. His true passion,’ Anne went on. He’d been a huge fan in his youth. Couldn’t see the attraction myself.’ Anne shrugged her naked shoulders. ‘But there you are. Each to their own. Can’t hold dressing up against him, can we.’
It struck Honey that Anne seemed unaware that she was sitting there topless. Funnily enough she’d forgotten the fact herself. Wasn’t it usual to put a top on once the dance had ended? She must be froze. Anne remained oblivious.
However, the male audience, or at least a portion of it, seemed suddenly to wake up to this fact. A member of a stag night crowd, the intended bridegroom most likely the one sprawled across the table top, came staggering over.
‘Can I buy you ladies a drink?’
He was holding a bottle of beer in one hand. Judging by the way he was swaying, his knees had turned to jelly courtesy of the amount he’d drunk.
Unperturbed by the state of him, Anne smiled and said she would like champagne. ‘A bottle please. For me and my friend.’
She nodded at Honey.
Tottering one pace forward and one back, the young man leered at Honey.
‘Yeah! Right. You gonna give us a good show later on love?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Honey. ‘Prior engagement.’
The stag night stud persisted. ‘Gonna show us yer tits?’
Honey smiled at Anne. ‘I think it’s time I was going.’
‘No need to rush off,’ slurred the wobbly young man, his hand pressing down on her shoulder so she was forced to sit back down. ‘Plenty of time for you to get your kit off. In fact, how about you undress here? We don’t mine lads if she gets ‘er kit off ‘ere, do we,’ he shouted at his friends.
There was much jeering from
the row of tables. Some applause.
‘Get it off! Get it off!’
Judging by the amount of wine and beer bottles ranged along the tables they sat behind, the stag night crowd were in no state to even remember why they were here, let alone appreciate a striptease.
‘I think you should be back with your mates,’ ordered a male voice. Doherty was back.
The drunk winced as he tried to focus. Doherty wasn’t overly big, but he could adopt a menacing presence when he wanted to.
The drunk’s smile disappeared as he attempted to harden his expression and focus on the man talking to him.
He saw a man standing before him dressed in black; black tee shirt, black leather jacket, blue denim jeans that probably looked black to the drunk anyway.
He drew in his chin when he looked at Doherty and swallowed a belch.
‘You a bouncer then?’
‘No. I’m a copper. I’m here to escort this young lady home.’ He was referring to Honey.
The lad sneered. ‘Nabbing the best fer yerself are you? Well I think the young lady will have more fun with me. Not some sodding copper! Is that what you said you were?’
‘Yep. I’m a copper.’
Doherty reached out to Honey. ‘Ready?’
The young man grabbed his arm and sneered into his face.
‘Copper. Bouncer. All the same to me. I don’t care what you are. You ain’t telling me what to do. I don’t take any lip from anyone.’
Doherty sighed. ‘Sit down or I’ll make you sit down.’
The young man wobbled close, his face only inches from that of Doherty.
‘You and whose army?’
Doherty poked the thrust out chest with one finger. The drunk’s legs buckled. He sank down onto a chair.
Honey smiled at Anne as she got to her feet.
‘Thanks Anne. See you again some time. Enjoy your champagne when it comes.’
‘I will.’
Doherty cupped Honey’s elbow. ‘Let’s get out of here whilst the going’s good.’
Honey glanced over her shoulder. The young man was otherwise engaged.
‘It is good,’ she said to him as they navigated between assorted tables and headed past the bar. ‘He’s suddenly noticed that Anne is sitting there topless.’
‘That should sober him up,’ said Doherty, but didn’t look back.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The woman who lived in the second floor flat above Tern and Pauling held a glass of water in one hand and two tablets in the other. She was about to swallow the latter and take a sip of the former when the intercom buzzed.
Placing both items down on top of a bookcase, she made her way to the window, drew back a portion of muslin curtain and looked down into the street. A man and a woman. It had to be police.
She let the curtain fall just before the man took a step back and looked up. She sank back against the wall, her heart thudding behind her ribs. They wanted to ask her about Nigel. Unfortunately they’d picked the wrong time. She didn’t want to talk about him. Not yet. Not until she’d got over the shock and also sorted out what she was going to tell them; certainly not the whole truth. She couldn’t possibly do that. She would just say they had been close. Close, she thought, her lush pink lips smiling at how they would interpret close and what she meant by it. But not yet. She couldn’t divulge anything just yet until she’d taken her pills and slept.
She picked up the pills first then paused, surprised that she’d left them immediately in front of his photograph. It was a face and shoulders shot and he was leaning forward slightly, smiling out at her. Like the old fashioned Hollywood legends used to do, a casual though at the same time, glamorous shot.
He looked warm; affable, the kind of man that every mother wants her daughter to marry. Yet beneath that veneer...
She popped the pills into her mouth and then the water.
‘Not that it stopped me loving you,’ she whispered, following the contours of his face with her fingers.
When the phone began ringing, she ignored that too. She knew who it was and what they would want, what they would tell her to do. But she wouldn’t do anything else to help them. Whatever they wanted they would have to do for themselves.
Once the phone went to voicemail she switched it off and headed for the bedroom. She wanted to sleep. Just sleep. She didn’t care if she never woke up.
Like an old man with aching joints, the coach house Honey shared with her daughter grunted and creaked as it settled down for the night.
Doherty was sharing her bed. The shutters were drawn. Lindsey was staying the night with a friend. Honey had an inkling it was a male friend, but had refrained from asking questions. Her daughter was old enough to expect privacy and were both grown up about things like that.
Propped up in bed, they were half way through a bottle of dry white wine when they settled back against the pillows, the bottle sitting temptingly on a bedside table.
Their conversation turned to the case in hand, discussing the fact that Nigel Tern had had many girlfriends, some of whom he was fonder of than others.
The fact that Nigel Tern dressed up as an eighteenth century highwayman, or more specifically like Adam Ant, a singer from the early eighties, added a certain light heartedness to the case. It made the victim seem so human, so open to dramatic suggestion.
‘The idea for the window display had to be his,’ murmured Honey. ‘Vasey Casey was just following his instructions. Have you got the name of the person who came down to erect it?’
‘Dandy Simcox. She sounded quite a nice person and was happy to help.’
‘Did he try to hit on her?’
‘He didn’t actually. She says a woman oversaw the whole thing. She couldn’t recall her name off the top of her head, but remembers she was very upmarket and had fair hair held back with an Alice Band and a very cut glass accent. She’d going to check her files to see if she made a note of her name.’
‘Somebody at Tern and Pauling might remember her name.’
‘That is true. Are you doing anything tomorrow?’
‘I could be.’
He leaned over and kissed her on the lips.
‘That’s my girl.’
Honey smiled. ‘You’ll have to do more than that to show how grateful you are.’
He grinned. ‘Give me time. I’m only warming up.’
He lay back on the pillow, one arm tucked behind his head.
‘What bugs me is that the gallows were far more authentic and strongly built than they needed to be. They really could take a man’s weight. Surely if they were just for display, they didn’t need to be built that strongly.’
Honey yawned as she thought about it. The busy day was catching up with her. She lay back tucking her hands behind her head, burrowing into the pillow.
‘The question has to be asked, was it built with murder in mind, and if so, what was the murderer’s motive?’
‘Right. So far we haven’t found one. We need to find out who actually nailed the thing together; was it the window dressing company or a local craftsman?’
‘One of the shop assistants might know. When I pop in tomorrow I’ll ask them that too.’
‘If you don’t mind. The window dressers had to have been there for a while. Somebody in that shop is bound to know. If nobody does remember, perhaps you can pop round and see old Mr Barrington, the loyal – now pissed off – old retainer!’
Honey seemed to have fallen asleep. Doherty frowned into the darkness.
His mind shifted away from the case to personal problems. Rachel, his daughter, had emailed him that morning to say that she was coming down to see him.
He wasn’t one for premonitions like Mary Jane, the Green River’s resident professor of the paranormal, but he couldn’t help feeling apprehensive.
Rachel was like her mother. When she made up her mind to do something, she went all out to do it, in the process of which she tended to ignore and trample over what everyone else wanted.
So far he hadn’t said anything to Honey about her imminent arrival. They’d barely met, and then only to say hello. No relationship had been built, no bridges crossed.
‘So what about the will,’ Honey said suddenly.
It took him by surprise. He’d really thought she was sound asleep.
‘Arnold Tern was about to change his will.’ His personal problems and the prospect of telling Honey hovered in the background. It suited him better to concentrate on the job in hand. All the same his apprehension wouldn’t go away. ‘I finally pinned down Grace Pauling. She was reluctant to tell me until I reminded her that the last will and testament of Arnold Tern might have a direct bearing on the case. She already knew that of course, but like every solicitor I’ve ever dealt with, she liked to play power games.’
‘Hmm.’ Honey yawned again. She was soft and malleable when she was tired.
He gritted his teeth. Now, he said to himself. Now is the time to tell her. Go on. Are you a man or a mouse?
The mouse got sent for cheese.
‘I had an email from Rachel this morning. She’s coming down to see me. Perhaps all three of us could have dinner together. She’ll be staying with me – I suppose. What do you think?’
There was no reply from the other side of the bed, just a gentle snoring.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Mary Jane came dashing down the stairs. The clothes she was wearing constituted a total fashion faux pas, but somehow seemed to suit her stick thin frame.
‘Honey. The woman in white. I think I know who she is.’
‘Re...ally,’ Honey replied hesitantly. She’d said nothing about the information gleaned from Dennison and Dimply across the road. Perhaps I should, she thought. If their exorcism had moved her over here, perhaps there was a chance that if one was held in the Green River Hotel, she might move on somewhere else. Or back over the road. The thing was she felt quite sorry for the woman – June Havard. However, mentioning it to Mary Jane was likely to be tricky. After all, it was Mary Jane’s relative, Sir Cedric, who had let the lady down.
‘I see you’re in white yourself, so I’ve obviously chosen the right moment,’ said Mary Jane.
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