Honey was getting more and more nervous. Neither Mary Jane’s tone nor the direction of her remarks was helping.
‘Do you know what I reckon happened?’ said Mary Jane, her eyes round as saucers, her voice hushed in creepy storytelling style.
‘Hmmm,’ said Honey, at the same time checking beneath the pillow. What was she expecting to find? A loaded .45?
Despite Honey’s apparent lack of interest, Mary Jane proffered her diagnosis.
‘I reckon that Mr Hoffner was as fed up with that infernal clicking sound as I was. I reckon he did away with her. I reckon he lost his temper and stabbed her with one of her own knitting needles. That’s why her passport’s still here and his is gone.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Honey shaking her head while glancing in the direction of the knitting and the tapestry bag.
‘I bet you …’
Mary Jane dived on to the tapestry bag with the wooden handles.
‘There!’ she said, bringing out one needle on which a slate blue item hung in thick folds. ‘Only one needle! I tell you, Honey, he did for her. I’ll bet my last dollar on it.’
Honey stared. The needle was lime green with a black knob at one end. Honey eyed it warily. What if Mary Jane was right? What if she was right and Herr Hoffner had snapped? The thought of it sent a shiver down her spine. People had snapped thanks to a lot less.
But Mary Jane had a point. Two people missing. One passport missing. The swift though not entirely secret departure of her German guests.
Chapter Seventeen
The painters had touched up a little paintwork before taking themselves off to St Margaret’s Court Hotel for the rest of the day. Honey asked if they could check whether anyone there had seen Herr Hoffner. They said they would. One of them had had the presence of mind to leave a phone number.
Halfway through the morning, the disappearance niggling her, Honey gave him a call.
‘Herr Hoffner wasn’t upset about anything, was he?’
The masculine voice gave a noncommittal grunt. ‘Don’t think so.’
‘Or perhaps he was upset with someone,’ Honey suggested. She wanted to further ask the very pertinent question as to whether he’d had a set-to with his wife. But that would be leading a witness, she decided. Besides, it would be gossip and not based on fact.
‘Couldn’t say,’ the male voice finally said. ‘He were all right with us,’ he added in his gruff Somerset accent. ‘What shall I do about his wages?’
It struck her then that no one would forego their hard-earned cash. She hadn’t thought to look for cash or credit cards. How dumb can you get, she chastised herself. Anyone who’d truly done a runner would take both with them, surely.
After cutting off the call, she went straight back to the Hoffners’ room to check for financial support. There was no money. No wallet.
Peter, the painter she’d spoken to earlier, dropped in around five o’clock in the afternoon. He’d brought Herr Hoffner’s wages with him.
‘Shame he’s gone off like that,’ he commented. He tilted his head back as he said it. For a moment Honey thought he was eyeing the painted ceiling. On reconsideration she realized that this was his thinking stance, like some people sit with their head in their hands.
‘He was downright reliable, was old Wilhelm. But that’s it with the older generation. You can leave them to get on with a job without supervision. Can’t leave any young whippersnapper on site like you can older folk. They’d be lounging around with loud music booming out and eyeing up the girls the moment your back’s turned.’
He gave her a brown envelope with W Hoffner written on it. She nodded a trifle dolefully and thanked him. The Hoffners’ disappearance worried her. She still couldn’t believe that they were the sort to leave without paying their bill. It just wasn’t …
That was when the light came on. Not the electric one operated by a plastic switch. This was the one in her head that shouted ‘Eureka!’ like it had for that old-time Greek. It lit up her mind like neon on a dark city night.
She sprang at Peter the painter without realizing she was doing it.
‘Are you saying that Herr Hoffner was there by himself? Is that what you’re saying?’
Excitement and over-enthusiasm for the job had got the better of her. She wasn’t aware that she was twisting the neckline of his sweater and that he was swiftly turning puce.
‘Is it that important?’ asked Peter between gasps that should have told her he was fighting for breath. The bloodshot eyes either side of his red-veined nose were viewing her with outright alarm.
‘Of course it’s important! He was there by himself. Who knows what he might have seen. And a man would claim his wages, wouldn’t he? Yes! Yes! Of course he would. He wouldn’t forego his just deserts.’
‘Do you think … croaked Peter, his fingers desperately involved in trying to loosen hers from his throat.
Realizing that she’d been overcome by her Eureka moment, Honey apologized and dropped her hands.
Peter cleared his throat and flattened his sweater.
‘I got carried away,’ Honey said, still apologetic, but keen for Peter to confirm that Wilhelm Hoffner had indeed been working by himself at St Margaret’s Court Hotel.
He accepted her apology.
‘So he was there alone – out at St Margaret’s Court I mean.’
`Peter nodded cautiously, as though afraid his head might fall off following her rough treatment.
‘Yeah. That’s right. It weren’t much of a job. Just a long back passage only used by the staff and tradespeople.’
‘Below stairs as they used to call it,’ Honey stated.
‘That’s right. Just a bit of paintwork. Nothing much really. They said one bloke would be enough. Someone discreet. I told them that Wilhelm was the height of discretion because he didn’t speak a word of English. They were happy about that. Said it suited them fine. I lied about the English and didn’t tell them he understood every word they uttered.’
‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ Honey muttered.
‘Pardon?’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing to concern you. It’s just that I sometimes feel that I’ve fallen down a well while in pursuit of a white rabbit.’
He looked at her as though she’d taken leave of her senses. ‘Right. I see.’
She could tell by his expression that he didn’t see at all. Judging by the look on his face and the way he was taking backward steps to the door, he thought she was quite mad and was best left alone.
Any concern for what he might think about her went straight over her head. She was wondering about St Margaret’s Court. Her conclusion that someone had been stealing from Philippe and hence he was murdered could not be discarded. It still seemed a safe bet in the absence of any other explanation. But the disappearance of the Hoffners had thrown a spanner in the works. Were the two events connected?
She fingered the brown envelope. She didn’t know. She just did not know.
Chapter Eighteen
The man looking out of the upstairs window had the kind of eyes any sane person would avoid looking into. In one light they seemed a very pale blue; in others they appeared to have no colour at all and were defined only by a black pupil and a dark grey edging to the cornea. The greyness of his eyes matched his hair; the thick eyebrows threw a shadow over his eyes making them look like deep black holes.
His shoulders were broad, his facial features as hard as chiselled marble and just as cold. His hands were clasped behind his back. There was no looseness to his mouth, no emotion in his eyes. He was standing perfectly still like something dead. His name was Ivan Sarkov and he owned St Margaret’s Court Hotel.
The upper-storey rooms above the main entrance were his domain and luxuriously appointed, yet still encompassed an air of great antiquity. Although he very much wished to integrate into the country he had made his home, he carried memories with him of Russia – though a very different Russia, from a time when it was known as the
Soviet Union. Keeping one’s private life just that came very high on his personal agenda.
Joybell Peters had been contracted to pick the architect and interior designer for the envisaged project. He had a lot of respect for her. She was a woman who knew what she wanted from life, both on a professional and a personal basis. So far he had not got involved with her sexually, mainly because he liked to be in control of a sexual relationship. He sensed that Joybell was of a similar nature. She was also a damned good accountant who would keep a tight check on the figures.
Ferdinand Olsen was sitting in a large leather armchair with cabriole legs, its arms decorated with polished brass studs. Unlike Ivan Sarkov he could not maintain a cool exterior, nor keep from interweaving his fingers or shuffling his feet. He was nervous and wished he hadn’t told Ivan that Tanya, his head of reception, had said more than she should have to the police. His palms had become unbearably damp. He rubbed them on his trousers. His gaze stayed fixed on Sarkov and there was a lump of lead in his stomach.
Even when the door behind him opened, Sarkov did not turn to acknowledge those who had entered. The door was closed as quietly as it had been opened. Nobody hearing it would have guessed that three people had come in. The door opened and closed so smoothly, so beautifully was it crafted. The carpet was thick and made of pure wool.
One of the three new arrivals was a woman. This was Tanya. She looked nervous. A man stood on either side of her.
Olsen knew they weren’t so much her companions as her guards, escorting her in case she ran away. He was pretty sure that if they hadn’t been there, she would have.
Tanya was employed as hospitality manager at St Margaret’s Court. The title was open to interpretation. She took care of the guests, providing them with everything they might require, and was typical of the pretty girls Sarkov employed.
Olsen swallowed. No licking of lips could moisten the dryness of his mouth. He wished he wasn’t here, but reasoned that he had to take the bad with the good. Sarkov had made him a rich man – at a price. Olsen had understood the Russian to be a bona fide businessman, a guy who’d made good following the collapse of communism. He kept telling himself that everything about Sarkov’s rise to success was above board. The illusion was beginning to dim; Sarkov was frightening and, worse still, ruthless. He’d only that morning flown in from Kiev.
The Russian was speaking in English. His voice had a sharp edge to it like broken glass.
‘What do you have to say, Tanya?’
‘I couldn’t put them off … they were booked in by the previous owners –’ The girl’s voice trembled. Her eyes were round with fear.
Sarkov cut across her. ‘I’m not talking about the coach party, though it would have been better that you had put them off. However, the police did your job for you. I am glad about that. I’m talking about Mr Fabiere. You gave the police a list?’
‘They insisted …’
‘You should not have done that. I value my privacy. You should not have given them this list without my express permission. You should not have told them that I was the owner and given them my name.’
‘I thought –’
‘You are not paid to think!’ he shouted.
Olsen noticed the girl tremble. His own palms were clammy. Sarkov had that effect. But he paid well. And on time.
He’d become wealthy following the fall of the Soviet Union despite his less than salubrious background. Now, although still involved in crime, he had adopted the veneer of a civilized gentleman. However, the ruthlessness with which he had carved out a crime empire was still evident in his stance, his voice and his actions. He could never hide it completely.
The girl turned pale. ‘I did what I thought was right. I couldn’t refuse. They are the police!’
There was a loud cracking sound as Sarkov’s palm slapped the girl’s cheek.
She gasped. Her hand shot up to cover the red handprint that had swiftly blemished her snow-white skin.
Olsen gasped.
The bodyguards were unmoved.
Sarkov clutched the girl’s chin.
The girl eyed him pleadingly. ‘Ivan. You know I would never do anything to hurt you. You know this.’
Her voice was turning into a whine and her eyes were watery. Olsen took on board the plaintive beseeching; Tanya was not just an employee. There was a relationship here. Funny he hadn’t noticed that before, though he really should have done. Anyway, it had nothing to do with him. Business was business – illegal or otherwise.
Sarkov voicing an order cut into his thoughts.
‘Get out!’
Olsen sat, not sure who Sarkov was addressing.
One of the bodyguards opened the door. They both went out but left the door open.
‘Out!’ Sarkov repeated, louder this time.
There was now no mistake about it. Sarkov wanted him gone. He was up from the chair and out of the door like a shot.
What about the girl, he wondered?
He shut the door behind him. Some semblance of guilt made him stay outside, his stomach tightening with apprehension. Sound travelled. Another slap. A scream followed by pleas for forgiveness.
A movement at the end of the landing drew his attention. The two thugs who’d escorted the girl were loitering and looking directly at him. The silent message was obvious. Get away from there. Get out. Get lost!
Chapter Nineteen
‘It’s Cybil,’ said Honey’s mother. ‘She’s very upset.’
The woman to whom her mother was referring had large bony hands covered with age spots. Tendons pressed against the shiny skin like the twigs of a gnarled old tree.
The contrast between her mother’s sparkly exuberance and Cybil Camper-Young’s antique gentility was incredibly compelling. It actually made Honey quite proud that her mother was so dapper in her pin-striped trouser suit with crisp white shirt and green silk tie. Handbag and shoes matched the green tie. Glitzy gold jewellery that owed more to Dallas or Dynasty than Dior gleamed like gas lights at midnight.
Cybil Camper-Young, though, wasn’t so much dowdy as long, angular, and unfeminine. There were no soft lines to her shoulders or her body and she strode along as though she were auditioning for a place in the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace.
Seemingly in an effort to play down her masculine plainness, she’d favoured wearing Laura Ashley prints when they were the height of fashion and still wore the originals. Her straight up, straight down figure was swathed in a multitude of chintzy roses; her shoes were flat and classy and her hair was bobbed too squarely for her square face. She smelled of violets and tobacco, being a keen smoker of French cigarettes.
Although gawky and ungainly in comparison with the neat smartness of Gloria Cross, she moved quickly, looked athletic, even strong.
Thoroughly self-sufficient, she mended her own car and did her own gardening except on Wednesday afternoons when a retired local gentleman came round to give her a hand. It was also rumoured that she’d replaced her own roof tiles following a particularly bad winter storm. In short, Cybil Camper-Young was a force to be reckoned with.
She lived in St Margaret’s Valley, just a stone’s throw from St Margaret’s Court – in fact, immediately opposite the main gate. The cottage she lived in was built in Victorian gothic style of the famous honey-coloured Bath stone. The stone’s colour had become muted over the years, but the house was still imposing – though not of course anything like the size of the hotel just across the way.
They were sitting in the little room at Secondhand Sheila – immediately behind the serving counter and next to the changing room – where tea and sympathy were given out. The shop dealt in the recycling of top-quality designer label clothing. Gloria ran the shop in tandem with three other women of similar age. Cybil Camper-Young was not one of these, but was acquainted with them all, though with Gloria most of all. They went back some years.
Cybil had a strange brightness to her eyes as she chatted over her second cup of tea a
nd dunked her chocolate-coated digestive.
Honey’s mother explained that Cybil’s relatives lived a fair distance away and could do nothing about the dilemma she was faced with. As family were not on the doorstep, she had turned to the next best thing – her friends.
‘Gloria! I am not helpless.’
‘But my daughter can help.’
Honey had dropped in meaning to trawl the clothes rails in the hope of finding something casual to wear in her off-duty moments – off duty from the hotel, that was. She’d been in the middle of pulling up a pair of Betty Barclay navy blue trousers when she’d heard Cybil recounting how she was being intimidated by foreigners in big suits.
The trousers hadn’t been coming up over her hips too well, so she’d had time to pause and listen. The plummy voice, cultivated as much by social status as by finishing school, went on to describe the foreigners in more detail.
‘They have terribly short hair and do not appear to be gentlemen.’
‘You mean they have buzz haircuts?’
Honey recognized her mother’s voice. It didn’t surprise her that her mother could accurately describe the haircuts. She knew all there was to know about men and kept up with the trends.
‘I wouldn’t know the correct terminology. Terribly short hair and a very suspicious manner. They’re Russians. I don’t like Russians.’
Honey relinquished the struggle to pull the offending trousers up and tried instead to take them off. That wasn’t easy either. ‘More elastane needed,’ she muttered to herself.
Cybil Camper-Young carried on outlining her problem. ‘I am not averse to having foreigners as neighbours. I will tolerate them if they will tolerate me. However, what has happened is quite, quite impolite and, what is more, they came on my property to do it! It is quite intolerable. In fact, I regard it as illegal. This is the second time it’s happened. I am not amused.’
Honey sat down on the small chair provided and was proceeding to pull off the trousers. She paused in the effort, becoming ever more curious to know exactly what these suspicious foreigners had done.
Deadly Lampshades (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 5) Page 10