Dead Suited

by Jean G. Goodhind

Charlie was too excited to sleep. The beer and the excitement would catch up with him later.

  There was only one thing that might keep him awake all night and that was the star turn – the entertainment for the evening.

  ‘Can you believe that? An Adam Ant impersonator. Just like Elvis.’

  Charlie York’s face glowed with disbelief. He looked the happiest man alive and all because of the entertainment at his fifty fifth birthday party.

  ‘I still can’t believe it. I mean, you know how it is. Kids go through phases. Bloody awful some of them. Nothing you can do is right and they think they know more than you. And now this.’ Charlie York shook his head. Honey noticed his eyes were moist. ‘My daughter organised everything – the cake, the entertainment – everything.’

  ‘I suppose she contacted the Bristol lot for an Adam Ant impersonator.’

  Charlie beamed. ‘Not at all. There’s a local group that dress up like him and meet on a regular basis. I was that surprised. Over the moon in fact.’

  ‘I didn’t know there was one here in Bath. Was he good?’

  ‘As you say, they meet in Bristol but are from all over apparently. Did you see him perform?’

  Honey confirmed that she had. He’d looked a little middle-aged and a little overweight to be that convincing, but there, what sort of shape was Adam Ant in nowadays? The early eighties were a long time ago.

  Charlie beamed at the same time as swiping his hand at the corner of each eye.

  ‘Could never be as good as the original, but it brought back memories I can tell ya.’

  ‘I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,’ said Honey.

  Charlie nodded. ‘I did. I did, but there’s something...’

  His chest heaved in a big sigh. His eyes turned downcast as he bit in his bottom lip.

  ‘I know I’ve ‘ad a bit too much to drink, but um...could we...speak privately...there’s something I’ve got to get off me chest...’

  Honey frowned. The look of grateful happiness had left his face. His nervousness was palpable – like the smell of somebody who had drank too much. Somehow she didn’t think Charlie had imbibed as much as it had first appeared.

  ‘Come into my office. We can talk there.’

  She closed the door behind them both and offered him coffee which he declined.

  ‘I’ve ‘ad enough to drink. More than enough.’ He almost chuckled, but his nervousness got the better of him.

  She still wasn’t sure he had drank that much.

  His hands delved into the pockets of his off the peg Marks and Spencer lounge suit jacket. It was in a lovely shade of grey; she guessed his daughter might have had a hand in choosing it.

  ‘Do you want to sit down?’

  He shook his head. ‘This won’t take long. The fact is I’ve got something that might or might not ‘ave some bearing on what happened to that bloke in the shop window. I just ‘ope it don’t get me in any trouble.’

  She wanted to ask him what trouble he contemplated and who with. Probably the police, she thought, but declined to say anything.

  His hands continued to rummage in his pockets, not as though he were feeling for something, but more as if he were having second thoughts about pulling out whatever it was he had in his pocket.

  ‘I find things when I’m cleaning up. Most of the time just a few coins, sometimes a bit more. The favourite is a five or ten pound note screwed up with a till receipt and thrown away. You’d be amazed at ‘ow many people do that, thinking they’re only throwing away a till receipt without realising they’re throwing away their change as well. But that morning...’ He heaved a big sigh.

  Honey waited. She had a lump in her throat and a nervous fluttering in her stomach. What had Charlie found? How much of a bearing might it have on the murder of Nigel Tern? Nothing if it was just money. It could belong to anyone.

  ‘Go on,’ she urged, half afraid he might change his mind and then she’d learn nothing at all.

  ‘I found a watch. This watch.’

  He took his left hand from his pocket and pulled back his coat sleeve.

  The item wasn’t in his pocket. It was there on his wrist.

  The name Bulgari blinked loud and clear from the centre of the gleaming watch face. An expensive watch. Too expensive for a road sweeper to purchase – unless it was one of the fake variety bought at a street market and clunking away for only a few months before dropping dead.

  But not this one. She held her breath. One look and she knew it was the real thing.

  Slowly he took it off his wrist and handed it to her.

  She felt the weight of it; saw the precise movement of the minute hand smoothly moving around the watch face.

  ‘You said you found it that morning. Was it close to the shop?’ she asked.

  He nodded. Just by the steps leading up onto the main road. I picked it up and put it into my pocket. You see I was too wrapped up listening to the music to bother looking too closely. Besides, I still had some sweeping to do. It wasn’t until I took it home that I realised it was valuable. Once the dead bloke was discovered it gave me the willies. I thought well, Charlie me old pal, who’s to say it weren’t on the wrist of the bloke that did it?’

  Possibly thought Honey. Doherty would be livid. Fingerprints would be smudged. DNA samples almost impossible, obliterated perhaps by Charlie’s own DNA. Not that she was an expert, but she knew the basics.

  ‘And you didn’t see anyone?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘Did you hear anyone? A voice, footsteps, a car door slamming?’

  ‘I keep thinking about that morning. I ‘ad me earphones on most of the time, but...’

  Honey scrutinised the splendid face, amazed at how smoothly the hands moved courtesy of the tiniest jewels.

  ‘A car going across the cobbles...yeah...I’m sure that must ‘ave been it...the tyres making that funny sound they do when they’re turning over cobbles...’

  Honey raised her eyes. ‘You heard a car?’

  He nodded.

  ‘But you didn’t see it.’

  He shook his head. ‘No. I was down at the bottom of the steps in Beaufort Alley itself. The car had to be up on the main level.’ His eyes grew rounder. ‘You don’t think it was the murderer do you?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know.’ A shiver ran down her spine and it was hard to stop her hands from shaking when she took another look at the watch. It was a long shot, but what if...just what if...the murderer had dropped it in his hurry to get away. It would have made sense to go back for it, but rushing off in a panic...

  She felt a rush of blood go to her head and recognised it as excitement. Well here goes, she thought turning it over. Surely it was too much to expect an inscription? What a stroke of luck that would be – and it was.

  The inscription read to Gunther M Mahon on his fiftieth birthday.

  Her blood was up. She phoned Doherty.

  ‘I’ll pick you up.’

  ‘It’s late.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  It was close to midnight when they arrived at the home of Gunther M Mahon. He lived in a castle. Not a real castle but a Victorian gothic castle near Clevedon. The grounds were extensive. The castle was a huge mausoleum of a place. Despite the strategically placed lighting, Honey thought the place looked as far from a comfortable home as it was possible to be.

  A security guard at the gate told them to wait whilst he checked Doherty’s warrant card. He wasn’t that security conscious failing to ask Honey for proof of identification.

  ‘Mr Mahon is not available. He asks that you make arrangements to visit in the morning or afternoon.’

  ‘Would you tell Mr Mahon that I am here to ask him questions about the murder of Mr Nigel Tern. Would you also tell him that I wish to speak to him now. If he cannot see me, then perhaps I can make immediate arrangements for him to be picked up in a squad car and brought into Manvers Street Station. It’s up to him.’

  ‘Just a minute.’

  More wo
rds were delivered into a VHF handheld phone. The security guard’s face was unreadable. Without saying a word a button was pushed and the expansive double gates were swung open by virtue of the guard pressing a remote control.

  Doherty’s car rolled up the driveway his eyes sliding sidelong. Every so often he spotted a red light blinking on and off in the trees. Evidently Gunther Mahon was security conscious.

  Two uniformed men with guard dogs on leashes flashed the torches they were holding in their direction.

  ‘I think they’re taking your car number,’ said Honey.

  Doherty nodded. ‘Yep. And double checking it with the guard at the main gate.’

  The guards carried on with their vigil, passing each other across the house in front of the steps leading up to a portico consisting of sandstone pillars dividing three separate arches. The middle arch was bigger than the ones on either side. The intention, it seemed, was to ape Norman architecture. The Elizabethan style lead paned windows caught the feature lighting shining onto them. The ornate chimneys, crowned with upstanding Victorian dark red pots, pointed skywards. Ornate ironwork, again in Victorian style, ran along the apex of the roof. Stamford Reach Castle, the name of the place, was loyal to no particular architectural style, but a mish mash of everything, as though either the original owner, or the architect, kept changing their mind.

  More cameras blinked from a parapet above the three arches.

  ‘Imposing,’ murmured Doherty.

  Honey gulped. ‘Home from home – if your name happens to be Dracula or Frankenstein!’

  An ornate lantern hanging in the portico formed by the three arches, cast spear shaped light forms down the walls onto dark red terrazzo tiles. Double doors of rich red mahogany remained firmly closed. Was nobody interested in letting them in?

  Honey voiced her concern.

  Doherty was circumspect. ‘Are you kidding? They’ve got more security cameras than Dartmoor Prison! They’ve watched us come all the way up the drive.’

  Honey and Doherty got out of the car and ascended the steps.

  The keen wind that had been blowing all day was less noticeable here. The arches formed a fine porch, protection from the elements.

  Honey eyed the lantern, a huge glass bowl of a thing in a fancy copper frame. Possibly Edwardian, she decided.

  A rainbow of light fell outwards as the door opened. More fancy lighting, though this time more modern, blue lights becoming white, then green before going back to blue. Changing like that they reminded her of Christmas lights.

  There was nobody there.

  Honey looked at Doherty. ‘Who lives here? The Invisible Man?’

  ‘Remote control.’

  They stepped into a marble tiled hallway of epic proportions. Honey looked upwards to where what looked like an electric current sparked in green and blue around a glazed portico. The ceiling was high. The hallway was huge.

  As she looked up the doors closed behind them.

  ‘Automatic doors,’ said Doherty.

  ‘Just like in a shopping mall,’ murmured Honey.

  A man wearing a white suit and a black shirt walked towards them from somewhere to the rear of the hallway.

  Honey and Doherty exchanged a bemused look. The place was an altar to designer lighting and electronic security. They hadn’t heard a door open or close.

  Doherty might have presumed he’d already been out here, just waiting for the front door to open and let them in, but he hadn’t seen anyone when they’d first walked in..

  The man in the white suit raised his wrist and looked purposefully at his watch.

  ‘Twelve thirty exactly. You must be a punctual man.’

  ‘I always try to be.’

  The other man’s jaw stiffened. ‘It’s late. You’d better have a good reason for being here.’

  Doherty squared up to the other man, met his arrogantly hostile look with one of his own. ‘How about murder. Is that a good enough reason for you?’

  The man in the white suit was a good few pounds heavier than Doherty.

  ‘My name’s Winston Copthorne. I’m head of security for Mr Mahon,’ puffing out his wide chest whilst at the same time holding in his stomach.

  A good eater, thought Doherty. He’s living in a rich man’s pad. The salary’s good, the perks even better.

  ‘My name’s Doherty. Detective Inspector. I’m here to question Mr Mahon about a murder.’

  ‘Mr Mahon doesn’t like to be dragged from his bed late at night.’

  Honey saw Doherty’s expression tense. He wasn’t pleased by the other fellow’s procrastinating.

  ‘Are you going to take us through or do I have to arrest you for impeding the course of justice?’

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘I can if I want to.’

  The man looked indecisive. It was a foregone conclusion that he had no wish to be arrested. Head of Security he might be, but in Doherty’s experience a close check on such a man’s background usually threw up previous convictions – however minor.

  For a split second Honey had the impression that he was going to ask for her identity card. If he did she might not gain entry and she badly wanted to. Charlie York had given her the watch. She felt she had a right to be present. Doherty thought so too. Charlie handing over the watch was likely to be their biggest break. He’d also promised that the street cleaner would not be prosecuted.

  Holding an expression that mirrored Doherty’s she stood with her chin held high, hands behind her back, shoulders taut with tension. Hopefully the guy in the suit would think she was a tasty customer – as a cockney would say; that she could fling a punch as well as any man. And that she too was a copper. He might even think she was armed. A tell tale lump bulged against the inside of her pocket – quite a big pocket in fact. The bodyguard might interpret that bulge as a gun. It wasn’t. A snazzy French waspie – no more than a frivolous piece of lilac coloured lace and whalebone – had attracted no bids at the auction house earlier that day. Honey had dashed in, desperate to take a break on hotel guests, hotel staff and dead people hanging in shop windows.

  ‘Are you armed?’

  He addressed Doherty.

  ‘No.’

  He turned to Honey.

  ‘No,’ she said, before he could ask.

  His gaze shifted away from her face and her coat pocket.

  ‘Please come this way.’

  I wonder what his reaction would have been if I’d whipped the corset out of my pocket, she thought to herself. Fully armed with steel supports and suspenders big enough to swing from let alone hold up a pair of stockings. She looked down at the floor in order to hide her grin.

  They followed him down a broad corridor. Although probably dating from Victorian times, the dado rails, the cornices, even the high skirting boards, were all missing, replaced by white and dark purple paintwork. The flooring was light grey.

  A series of recessed lighting lit their way. Here and there broad windows looked out over the parkland surrounding the house. Each window was fitted with an iron grille. She wondered at the probability of break ins around here; most likely nil. Still, some people were paranoid about their personal security. She could understand it in a big old house like this. Most of the rooms would be empty most of the time. Should have bought a caravan, she thought to herself. It wasn’t likely that that kind of advice would be welcome.

  Gunther Mahon had receding blonde hair and a pink complexion; worse than that he had a blob of pink growth growing on one side of his nose. With all his money, why didn’t he get rid of it? One snip, a few thousand and it would be gone.

  No matter how hard she tried not to stare, the growth drew Honey’s attention. If anyone asked her after they’d left what colour his eyes were, she wouldn’t have been able to tell them. The growth on the end of his nose wouldn’t let her go.

  Mr Gunther was standing in front of a set of French doors, his giant shadow falling over them and dispersing the multi coloured light of the room. Like
the windows the doors were lead paned and dated from way back. They didn’t go with the rest of the room. Purple and grey dominated. White leather chairs were coupled with black two seater sofas. The curtains were some kind of muslin though weighted with what looked like silver discs along the hems.

  There was a white rug in front of a white marble fireplace – the modern kind – the insert a trio of single flames that seemed to come out of nothing – certainly not coal or logs – not even of the imitation variety. Colour in the room was confined to the multitude of designer lighting which Honey estimated had cost a small fortune. Even as they looked at him the colours his shadow dispersed changed from purple to pink, to green and to blue.

  Introductions were made.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt you at such a late hour, Mr Mahon, but this is rather important.’

  ‘Is it now?’

  Mahon seemed less than impressed. His eyes were hard and cold. Without colour, like glass marbles, round and smooth with only a splinter of colour at their centre.

  Honey controlled a shiver and to some extent her excitement at the prospect of presenting this man with a watch found at a murder scene, died. Gunther Mahon had the most evil eyes she’d ever seen. His tone of voice did nothing to ease her discomfort.

  ‘I won’t ask you to sit down. I wouldn’t want to encourage you to outstay your welcome. Not that this should take very long. I believe you told my secretary that you’d found my watch. I really can’t think why the matter could not have waited until tomorrow. A watch is a watch.’

  He spoke in a monotone, like a robot might speak, certainly not quite human. The pitch was high, totally at odds with such a big, thickset man.

  ‘And a murder is a murder,’ said Doherty.

  ‘What’s that got to do with the loss of my watch?’

  ‘First we need you to confirm that it really is your watch that was handed in.’

  ‘Let’s get this over with. Do you have it with you?’

  ‘No. But we do have a photograph. Perhaps you could take a look and verify that the watch does indeed belong to you.’

  Mahon raised one eyebrow. ‘Just a photograph? I understood you were returning my property to me.’

  Doherty persisted. ‘I need you to confirm that the watch we have in our possession is your property. Could you look at the photos, please?’