If any colour predominated, it was her eyes, a vivid blue verging on violet.
‘Mary Jane. Pleased to meet you.’
‘Drury Constantine. Pleased to meet you too.’
‘Don’t I know you from the Ghostly Guys site?’
Constantine smiled and said he had dipped in on the site now and again.
‘Is that something like ghost busters?’ asked Honey.
‘Nothing like!’ Mary Jane sounded offended. ‘We don’t bust our ghosts, send them back to wherever; we befriend them.’
Feeling out of her depth, Honey left them to it.
Just as she was about to leave the building, Carl Tompkins turned up to make an appointment for the wedding reception in three months time. Although Rachel’s attachment to him had waivered, it hadn’t been shaken enough to finish the relationship.
‘I’ve been to the abbey. The vicar was very helpful. We managed to get a cancellation.
Honey expressed some surprise. People queued to get married in Bath Abbey. She remarked that it was extremely lucky they’d managed to get a cancellation.
‘Carl popped in there at the right time,’ said Rachel. ‘So he tells me.’
So he tells me.
She didn’t sound too convinced. A warning flag fluttered in Honey’s brain. Up until now Rachel had expressed no doubt in her boyfriend. Perhaps at long last some light was beginning to show at the end of the tunnel. However, she couldn’t see a smug control freak like Carl letting her get away.
‘Sweetheart, I told you I would arrange everything,’ said Carl.
Carl was cringe making with a capital C. Honey had a great urge to slap his smug smile off his face. She also had an urge to give Rachel a sound talking to, but hey, this was not her daughter, it was none of her business.
But, they were paying customers so accordingly she booked them in for a wedding reception on the date earmarked for the wedding.
Seeing as it was for Rachel, she didn’t ask for a deposit.
‘Right. That’s that done,’ said Carl. ‘Now for booking the limousines.’
Smudger rang through from the kitchen to tell her that they’d run out of eggs.
‘I’ve been making a lot of meringues of late.’
‘No problem. I’ll nip round to Waitrose. Anyway, I could do with a breath of fresh air.’
On her way to the supermarket, she phoned Doherty.
‘Your daughter and potential son in law called in to book the wedding reception.
‘Why am I not surprised? He’s very well organised regarding the wedding. He’s made me a list of the sort of affair they have in mind including how much it’s likely to cost. He’s also asked for a sub up front so he can begin putting down deposits for the event, the cake etc., and the bridal gown of course. In fact he’s given me a list of the deposits including the one he gave you. He’s asked if I can hand the monies over pretty quickly. As he put it, nobody likes talking about money.’
‘He certainly doesn’t,’ remarked Honey. ‘He didn’t give me a deposit.’
Doherty fell silent.
‘Do I recall my mother suggested you check him out?’
‘She did. I’ve checked the limousine company, the gown shop and the gentlemen’s outfitters supplying the morning suits – grey top hats and tails no less!’
‘Don’t tell me he’s been along to Tern and Pauling!’
‘He has indeed. A good enough excuse to pop in there again I think.’
‘Have you handed him any money?’
‘No. He’s just given me a list for reimbursement of sums he tells me he’s already handed over.’
Honey sensed what was in Doherty’s mind. He was a policeman not a fool.
‘Money he won’t get.’
‘He doesn’t know that yet.’
It didn’t take long to purchase eggs from Waitrose and promptly take them back to the Green River before Doherty arrived to pick her up.
Stewart White, her mother’s new husband – Honey couldn’t quite think of him as a stepfather mainly because he was only about ten years older than she was, came armed with a notebook and pen, plus an audio recorder.
‘I’m writing a novel,’ he said to her. ‘A detective novel. Do you think that chap Doherty might oblige me with a few authentic case notes?’
Honey pointed out that he was a very busy man. Stewart frowned at this and bit his lip. ‘I wouldn’t want to get in the way of anything important. The fact is I’ve always wanted to write a novel based on my days taking bets from the high and mighty you might say. Still, I wouldn’t want to intrude...’
‘I don’t know much about betting,’ said Honey. ‘I don’t think I know anybody who bets.’
‘Don’t you? Well that does surprise me. There are plenty around who do, you know. Your mother was telling me about one of the members of the Townswomen’s Guild. Besides being a bit of a boozer, she’s a hefty gambler. They’ve heard rumours that she’s run up thousands in debt.’
‘Really?’ Honey was suddenly all ears. ‘Do I know her?’
Stewart shrugged. ‘I don’t know her name, though I think your mother said she’s in a wheelchair. I suppose if you’re incapacitated, you have to have your fun somehow. Still. It’s never wise to overstretch yourself.’
Honey had no doubt who he was talking about. Grace Pauling was a gambler. Well there was a turn up for the books.
He might have wandered off if Mary Jane hadn’t come along reeling off a list of reasons as to why there was suddenly a second ghost haunting the Green River Hotel.
‘I could write one about ghosts,’ exclaimed Stewart.
Honey refrained from pointing out that writing a novel about ghosts was far removed from that of writing about the world of betting and detectives, but Mary Jane looked keen to oblige.
‘I’ll leave you to it then.’
The air outside the Green River Hotel was brisk and blowy. Her new hairstyle got blown all over the place, though not for long. Doherty was waiting for her.
‘Want a lift?’
She got in the car, pleased to see that the hood was up. There was a chance she could rescue most of her hairstyle.
‘I’ve got news,’ he said to her. He went on to outline what he’d found out about Nigel Tern from a woman named Caroline Corbett who lived in one of the flats above the shop in Beaufort Alley.
‘He was a member of some very salubrious clubs. Sex figured high on his list of hobbies,’ said Doherty. ‘Caroline would have nothing to do with it, but guess who did make a habit of accompanying him.’
Honey shook her head. ‘Surprise me.’
‘Grace Pauling.’
‘A woman in a wheelchair?’
Doherty shrugged. ‘Why not? Just because she can’t walk doesn’t mean she’s frigid.’
‘I don’t doubt it. In fact I can believe that Grace Pauling was having a relationship with Nigel Tern – a very sexual relationship.’
Doherty sighed, folded his hands behind his head and lay back in his chair with his eyes closed.
‘Honey, you don’t know that for sure.’
‘Oh yes I do. You should see the way her eyes light up when she talks about him. I never really noticed it at first. I put it down to drink, and my word, that woman drinks like a fish!’
‘Honey, your gut instinct is not admissible in a court of law. Believe me, if it was I would have made Chief Constable by now.’
‘Did you know that Grace Pauling is a gambler? Not just a little gambler either. She’s a big gambler. Owes thousands from what I’ve heard.’
Doherty opened his eyes wide. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Probably because you’re regarding her purely as a woman in a wheelchair and as such she’s got no bad habits – except perhaps for sex. That just cannot be true. Anyway, you’ve already found out she accompanied Nigel to these sex clubs. Who’s to say she didn’t indulge big time?’
Doherty was wearing one of his hard thinking expressions. ‘She stands to gain ever
ything, but wouldn’t have got anything if the old man had died and Nigel had inherited. Nigel gets first shout. That’s the way the will has been drawn up. The old man said that Nigel was under no obligation to share with Grace. Grace would inherit everything if anything happened to Nigel, in which case...’
Sitting up straight he began to work it out.
‘She thought the old man was going to die.’
Honey cottoned on to his train of thought. ‘And if the old man died, then Nigel inherited. But if Nigel died too...’
‘But the old man didn’t die.’
They both tensed. Their eyes locked together.
‘Mr Arnold is still alive,’ said Doherty.
‘Can Grace afford to wait?’
Doherty shook his head. ‘But how could she kill Nigel Tern. She’s in a wheelchair.’
Honey lay back in the chair again. Her gaze settled on the toe of one of her boots, then the other. One was scuffed. One was not. She was heavy on shoes.
Where the thought came from, she didn’t know except that it had everything to do with shoes, in particular the bottoms of shoes.
‘The soles of Grace Pauling’s boots were dirty. Not just dirty, they looked like the soles of my shoes or yours, not like a pair worn by a woman who spends her life sitting down.’
Doherty leaned forward in his chair, his hands clasped in front of him. It was as though they were thinking as one; they were certainly travelling the same mental path.
‘She might have had them a long time. She might even have bought them second hand. Women sometimes do that, don’t they?’
Honey conceded that he could be right. The boots Grace wore had designer written all over them. Nowadays it was quite fashionable to buy second hand on e bay, like a shouted statement saying, ‘Recycling is me!’
Doherty shook his head. ‘It’s still not evidence. Not enough anyway.’
Doherty’s phone rang shrill and loud. It was sitting in its clip on the car dashboard. Doherty jerked his chin at it.
‘Can you get that for me?’
‘He’s here with me now,’ she said in response to the female civilian worker on the other end of the phone.
‘I need to talk to him.’
‘He’s driving. Can I help?’
‘It has to be him.’
‘Hang on.’ She found the switch that put the phone on loud speaker.
A female voice filled the car. ‘DCI Doherty? Are you there?’
‘I am. Is that Sally Hadley?’
‘Yes. It is. Look, I’m really sorry, but I was in a bit of a hurry the other night and a message I should have passed onto you fell to the floor. Luckily our cleaning contractor isn’t quite the ticket so it was still there today. I think it’s important. It’s from a woman named Edwina Cayford and refers to a woman she saw at the hospital. She said the woman is usually in a wheelchair, but was walking normally when she saw her at the hospital.’
The car swerved when Doherty looked at Honey.
‘Good God!’
‘And this woman you say was called Edwina Cayford.’
‘Yes.’
‘Get a car round to her place. If she’s in, get them to stay there.’
Doherty swung the steering wheel of the car in the quickest two point turn she’d ever seen. She didn’t bother to ask where he was going. They were off to visit Arnold Tern. Grace Pauling was desperate. She wanted the money and she’d stop at nothing to get it.
The sun was setting. The shadows across the garden at the back of the house where Mr Arnold Tern lived were growing longer. Very soon the shadows thrown by the tall trees at the end of the garden would totally cover the garden.
‘I think it’s time you came in now. It’s getting chilly.’
The voice of Edwina Cayford was heard by the person watching from the end of the garden where shadows and shrubs combined to make good hiding.
The old man was sitting in his wheelchair at the top of the steps leading to the rear patio of the house. Beyond him were the open doors of the conservatory.
‘A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt,’ grumbled the old man.
‘Ten minutes and then you come in.’
‘You’re a bully,’ the old man shouted at her.
Edwina shook her head and smiled. She was used to him calling her a bully but knew he didn’t mean it; in fact he enjoyed having her tell him what to do. Nobody else would dare.
A movement at the bottom of the garden caught her eye. She craned her neck in an effort to see better.
‘I thought I saw someone.’
Arnold Tern gave that portion of the garden a hard stare.
‘Nothing,’ he said, and went back to his book. He’d enjoyed sitting in the sun all afternoon and seeing as he wasn’t long for this world, he had every intention of enjoying it to the bitter end.
‘Have you considered my proposal,’ he called to her before she had chance to disappear.
Edwina stood framed in the conservatory doorway, the old man’s back to her.
‘I’m not sure it’s a very good idea.’
‘I think it’s capital.’
He wasn’t an easy man to argue with.
‘I’ll let you know,’ she said before hurrying away. She’d found his marriage proposal embarrassing rather than flattering. Back in the safety of the kitchen, she switched on the kettle and fetched a tea mug. It was the only mug in the place. Mr Arnold insisted on porcelain cups and saucers. Just holding one in her hand scared her. Drop one and it broke to pieces, whereas her stout clay baked mug was far more durable – a bit like Edwina herself.
Arnold Tern was a great reader, though closed his eyes every so often when reading was just too much. It was when he was dozing that he sensed somebody was close at hand. Edwina had come back out. Perhaps she’d decided to accept his marriage proposal.
He felt her let off the brake holding the wheels rigid and stopping it rolling off down the flight of steps.
‘You’re bullying me again. I haven’t had another ten minutes yet,’ he snapped. ‘I want to read another chapter.’
‘I don’t think so.’
A different voice. Not warm, not even very attractive. And she smelled different. Not warm, just thick with perfume.
‘You’ve had all the time you’re going to get, Arnold!’
He turned, not all the way, but just enough to gauge the woman’s identity.
‘Grace! What are you doing?’
‘It’s my money, Arnold. If you had your way you’d marry your West Indian nurse in there and leave it all to her. Well I won’t allow that, Arnold, just as I wouldn’t allow Nigel to squander it helping Pappendriou with his stupid business. Before long it would be all gone or best part of it. And then where would I be?’
‘You’re walking!’
‘Yes. I’m walking, but it suited me to be in a wheelchair – until I was ready not to be. All in my own good time, Arnold; MY own good time!’
The old man felt himself go hot and alternately cold.
‘What are you going to do?’ His voice was shrill and he was in danger of wetting himself.
‘Well you know that old nursery rhyme? Jack and Jill went up the hill? And Jack fell down. Only here it’s going to be Arnold falling down, all the way down that flight of steps to the...’
‘Grace!’
She paused just long enough for Doherty to grab her. Grace let go of the wheelchair.
‘Christ! The brake’s off!’
The wheelchair lurched forward. That bit fitter and younger than Edwina, Honey got there first, throwing herself over the old man’s lap. The wheelchair lurched to a standstill. Edwina grabbed the handles.
When Honey raised her head, she found herself looking into Mr Arnold Tern’s bemused face. As far as she was concerned, his hands were misplaced, one on her bottom, the other in the small of her back.
‘My dear! Your body feels remarkably firm. Are you wearing a corset?’
Honey got to her feet.
Edwina p
ut the brake on.
Grace was shouting and kicking; so much for her being disabled.
It was a cause for celebration. Grace Pauling had confessed to being with Nigel in the shop window.
‘It was the gallows and dead of night. Nigel wanted to try it out. He was aroused by the thought of being totally at the mercy of a woman – an incapacitated one that that – or so he thought. He wasn’t to know that Grace would have no mercy. She wanted him out of the way. She had gambling debts and she had it in mind to start a new life somewhere without her wheelchair. It was a useful crutch with which to keep her creditors at bay and to keep her clients with the practice. Nigel wasn’t to know that. She told me he wanted to stand in her lap whilst she was sitting in the wheelchair. He then wanted her to undo his zip and...’
‘I get the picture,’ said Honey. ‘Only Grace decided to walk. Or rather she always had walked, it was just convenient to be able to walk and hit him over the head with something heavy.’
‘A bicycle pump. She kept it in the wheelchair for pumping up her tyres. She got the drop on him back in the shop, placed him in the wheelchair, turned the stairs over so they formed a ramp, and strung him up.’
‘I don’t think she was so keen on Nigel’s sexual games as he thought she was; that was why she left him hanging there in the window. It was a kind of last minute revenge I think.’
‘Thank you professor Driver,’ said Doherty.
The steak had been good and the wine was superb.
‘I keep thinking of poor old Charlie York listening on his ipod to Adam Ant. He pushes his cart past loads of window displays everyday of the week. None of them have ever stopped him in his tracks as this one did, not because the display appealed to him aesthetically. Neither did the merchandise. Charlie isn’t a sports jacket kind of guy; a padded puffa perhaps, but that’s about it. Listening to Adam Ant on his ipod and then seeing an effigy of him in front of him, well...it must have been like seeing a ghost!’
‘It didn’t occur to him that the model was supposed to represent a highwayman. It’s a close likeness. Some might have interpreted the model as being Captain Jack – you know – played by Johnnie Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean. The makeup and dress is very similar.’
Dead Suited Page 23
