‘I think Roland Mead is a creep!’
Hardly subtle. Hardly what she’d had in mind at all. It just fell off her tongue.
Her mother was surprisingly reticent. ‘Now, now, dear. You’re turning quite green.’
Honey was almost – though not quite – speechless. ‘Jealous? Me?’
‘Yes dear. I’m seeing the green-eyed monster flashing in your eyes.’
‘That’s eye-shadow, Mother. You’ve smeared it across your eyeball instead of your eyelid.’
Holding her face stiff for fear of cracking the chocolate-coloured mask, her mother eyed her sidelong. ‘Get out of my space, Miss Busybody.’
Get out of my space?
Honey slapped her thighs as she got to her feet. ‘OK! OK! I’m going. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
Cool as a cucumber, her mother began spreading scarlet varnish over her fingernails.
‘No need to warn me, Hannah my darling. I know what he is.’
‘You do?’
‘Sure. He’s a red-blooded man and after my body.’
Honey grimaced. ‘He’s also a wholesale butcher and just as likely to be after my meat order!’
Enough was enough. She took her leave and headed for sanity – if chasing after a disgruntled chef could be called that. Never mind. It beat being told she was jealous and hadn’t got any romance in her life.
She swung into the car park of the Beau Brummell. The place was being run by a manager. It was him who told her that Richard Carmelli hadn’t been there for days. He gave her his home address.
‘And if you find him, tell him he’s fired.’
Fair enough!
She’d rung Casper to ask him if he knew of anyone in particular that Stella might have upset.
‘I will have a list ready for you, though it may fall well short of the true total. Our darling deceased Stella made a habit of upsetting people.’
She scooted over to the other side of town, almost enjoying the ease with which the black Volkswagen Beetle nosed through the traffic. Not too much traffic at this time of day and, surprise, surprise, a parking space outside the Old Dispensary.
Detached and elegantly imposing, dubious cures for common and uncommon ailments had been dispensed from within in years gone by. Now converted for multiple occupation, it looked out on the main A36 and Cleveland Bridge. Buses, cars and lycra-clad cyclists brushed past the miniature Roman temples garnishing each end of the bridge. At least, they looked like Roman temples, though they were little more than toll booths with Roman-style pediments and Dorian columns, a product of early nineteenth-century imperial pretensions. They definitely weren’t Roman. The Romans hadn’t had toll booths or a bridge here when they ruled the city. The original boundary was closer to the city centre and bounded by a cemetery. Some of the graves still remained.
One of the booths had a sign outside saying aromatherapy oils for sale. The others looked to be craft shops this week. By next week they could be something entirely different. That was the way it was in Bath; quick profits and fun for all; was what everybody was looking for. Now who was it that had said that? Beau Brummell himself probably, that Regency rake with an eye for the main chance (and the ladies) and the ear of the Prince Regent. He was what would now be termed a ‘fixer’. No change there then.
‘Whatever you want, sir, I will endeavour to get.’
And then some!
As she eyed the bridge, a head popped out between the Dorian columns and waved. She squinted. Clint had acquired another little sideline. She waved back. What was he selling? Artwork, herbal remedies or something ethnic? She blanked the possibility that it might be something illegal. Clint was a dab hand with the dishwasher and the kitchen mop. She had to give him some slack.
She sent a text to Steve. Richard Carmelli hired the warrior. Am off to find him. Well that should make him shift his butt! There was no evidence to support Carmelli being the murderer, but she had to make a start with or without Doherty.
Richard Carmelli lived on the second floor of the Old Dispensary. His name was written in green felt tip beside his buzzer.
Once, twice, three times; there was no answer.
She pressed the one above that. A woman answered. ‘Yes.’
‘I’m looking for Richard Carmelli. I’m not getting any reply when I press his buzzer.’
‘So?’
Not the helpful type.
‘Has he gone away?’
‘I hope so,’ the voice snarled. ‘And taken his bloody drum kit with him!’
No welcome mat outside HER door.
She pressed the one below. An old voice crackled in response.
Honey asked her about Richard Carmelli.
‘Can you speak up a bit, dearie.’
She said it louder.
‘Who?’
Louder again. A passer-by paid her undue attention. He had dreadlocks and was wearing a knitted hat, the ultimate in Rastafarian fashion.
‘You talkin’ to me, honey?’
‘Get lost.’
She strained to hear the old woman.
‘Oh, you mean the young man from upstairs.’
‘That’s right. The one who played the drums.’
‘Did he?’
That deaf.
‘Do you know anything about him?’
She was sure her voice was carrying to the other side of the road. Despite the traffic noise, people were looking in her direction.
‘Of course I do. Come on in. I’ll make you a cup of tea.’
The kettle was already on by the time she was inside the front door and that of the ground-floor flat.
Miss Meadows was small and thin as a bird. The hands that poured hot water into the pot were like sparrow’s claws, tiny and fine; they’d be featherlight to hold, Honey guessed.
She was shown into a pale green living room. The carpet was green, the furniture was green and the walls were that old Georgian green eggshell surface. She was thankful the ceiling was white otherwise she would have felt she’d been swallowed by the Jolly Green Giant.
With a fragile, fluttering wave, Miss Meadows gestured that she should sit down. She chose an old settee with squashy cushions, then wished she hadn’t. The cushions almost swallowed her. She swapped to an upright chair.
White china cups decorated with ivy leaves – green of course – sat on a silver tray. The teapot, sugar bowl and milk jug matched the cups and saucers. The tray was covered with a green tray cloth edged with a red cross-stitch design. Silver edging betrayed the tray’s quality.
‘He’s gone away,’ said Miss Meadows once she’d gone through her own version of the tea ceremony. This consisted of using a real tea strainer, real tea leaves, sugar dispensed with silver tongs and milk poured from a silver-lidded jug. It was necessary to shake one’s head emphatically in order to emphasise that one did not want sugar. Miss Meadows was more than a bit deaf.
‘When did he go?’
Her shout seemed to bounce off the high ceiling and come crashing around them. Miss Meadows looked vague. ‘What was that you said?’
‘When did he go? Him from upstairs,’ she shouted, pointing at the ceiling.
She could tell from the old dear’s expression that she still hadn’t heard what she’d said. She wondered if she could lip read.
She repeated herself, louder this time and exaggerated her lip movements, moving them like melting rubber.
‘Hold on, dear,’ said Miss Meadows.
A high-pitched squeal followed as the fragile fingers fiddled with something in her pocket. A deaf aid.
‘That’s better,’ she said at last. ‘I try not to use my deaf aid too much to save batteries. But sometimes one needs to know what is being said.’
With what she considered the patience of a saint, Honey repeated the same question. ‘I was asking about Richard Carmelli.’
Miss Meadows winced and adjusted her deaf aid. ‘No need to shout, dear.’
That awful squeak again.
&nb
sp; Honey took a sip of tea and counted to ten.
‘Such a nice young man,’ said Miss Meadows, her tiny head tilted to one side peering at her like a short sighted sparrow. ‘He played the drums you know.’
‘Yes. I know.’ Honey curbed her impatience with another sip of tea. She refrained from saying, ‘Yes. It was me that told you that .’
‘Biscuit?’
Miss Meadows pushed forward a plate containing four Garibaldi biscuits.
‘No thank you. I’m trying to lose weight.’
‘I’ve never had that problem,’ said Miss Meadows, and tucked in.
‘So he went away – Richard Carmelli – your neighbour.’
Miss Meadows nodded, swallowed her biscuit and took a loud slurp of tea.
‘Lovely biscuits.’ She picked up another one. ‘He left with a friend. I watched them from the window. He didn’t take all his things. Certainly not his drum kit. Just one article of luggage. One of those soft things. Not a suitcase.’
‘A holdall?’
‘Is that what they call them?’
‘Yes. They fold up easily. What did the friend look like?’
Miss Meadows chewed and sucked on her biscuit. At the same time she looked up at the ceiling with jet black eyes. In contrast her hair was snowy white. In her youth she might have been pretty – like a dormouse – not taking up much room.
‘Fair. Corn-coloured I think. About five feet ten, I’d say, and wearing a black leather jacket with a white line down each sleeve.’
Honey felt the colour draining from her face. She knew that jacket very well. Its owner worked for her. Smudger!
‘Are you sure about that?’
She nodded and took another Garibaldi. ‘Oh yes. His car was parked right outside. It was very small. No room for a drum kit.’ She shook her head, her expression conveying that small cars with no room for a drum kit were an affront to good taste.
The description of the car almost confirmed Honey’s worst fears. The jacket thing was bad enough. Her stomach muscles tightened. Nothing to do with hunger or wind or the green surroundings. She knew; she just knew what Miss Meadows was going to say next.
‘The car was green with shiny wheels and a black roof. The roof was down of course. The day was clement. They drove off. But they have been back of course. To collect the post,’ she explained in answer to Honey’s questioning look. ‘Sometimes it’s that nice young Richard, and sometimes it’s his friend, the nice young man who collected him that day. The girl used to come too, but not for a while.’
Honey remembered the one and only day off sick Smudger had taken. Paranoia had swept in with a vengeance. What if he’d been really ill and couldn’t work any more? Or worse still, what if he’d really been for a job interview? Now she knew the truth and breathed a sigh of relief. He’d been lying. Phew!
Just at that moment, a four-wheel-drive Mercedes pulled out of one of the parking spaces outside. Another car rolling along with the morning traffic stopped, indicated and pulled into the empty space. A green sports car. The driver got out.
Honey stood up. ‘Thank you for the tea, Miss Meadows.’
‘Do come again. What did you say your name was?’
‘Driver. Hannah Driver. My friends call me Honey.’
‘How sweet.’
The door to the ground-floor flat shut behind her at the very same moment as Smudger turned the key. He stopped in his tracks when he saw her.
‘I’m parked along the end,’ she said. ‘You didn’t see me.’
‘Christ!’ he murmured and closed his eyes.
‘I think you’ve got some explaining to do.’
He nodded. ‘Yeah. I suppose so.’
‘Where is he?’
Smudger grimaced. ‘At my place.’
‘I’ll follow you.’
After they’d parked their respective vehicles, she made her way to Smudger’s flat. He’d got there before her and had opened up, but was now looking disconsolate, standing in the doorway.
‘He’s gone.’
‘Are you lying?’
‘Scout’s honour.’ He made a cross sign on his chest.
She pushed past him, her jaw grimly set for action – or at least a bloody good argument. ‘I doubt whether you ever were a bloody scout.’
The living room was typically laddish. No pictures on the walls, no ornaments, and magazines stacked in handy heaps. A few beer cans formed a pyramid in front of the large bay window.
‘So where’s he gone? In the bedroom?’
She peeked into the bedroom. No one. Next the bathroom. No one there either.
When she got back into the living room, Smudger was standing in front of the window, hands in pockets. He was staring out at the road outside in that vague way that meant he was seeing nothing.
All of a sudden she was angry.
‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at?’
Throat tight with a whole dictionary of insults and expletives, she stood with fists tight on hips; a bit like Widow Twankey in Aladdin, though not so ugly, she hoped. And she wasn’t carrying quite so much weight on the hips. Couldn’t be exercise. Just the change in lifestyle? Maybe sleuthing burned calories.
‘He’s a mate. I had to help him out.’
Honey slumped into a chair. ‘Mark, he could well be a murderer.’
It wasn’t often she called him by his first name. It was usually either Smudger or Chef. But serious crimes called for serious measures.
Smudger stood looking his usual square-faced self; non-committal, convinced he was right.
‘Well?’ she said, once she’d pushed open a few more doors and found nothing more unnerving than a pile of dirty laundry and a hijacked road sign saying ‘Access Only’.
Smudger gave her one of his challenging looks, the sort he used when they were having a tussle over whether to use mangetout or French beans.
‘Fire me if you like!’
There it was; the first salvo in a battle of nerves.
Her blood ran cold. ‘Did I say I was going to fire you?’
She tried not to show just how much the comment unnerved her. There again, depending on what these two had been up to, she might lose her chef anyway. Nervous tension sucked in her stomach muscles. In consequence she felt half an inch of slack in her waistband. A good thing, but a fat waistline was preferable to losing a good chef.
It was no good. This was serious. A girl had to do what a girl had to do. ‘I have to tell Steve Doherty. You know that, don’t you?’
He shrugged and gestured with his hands. ‘Yeah.’
Feeling like a fink but telling herself she had no choice, she pulled out her phone.
Steve answered on the third ring. ‘Hi there, stranger!’
‘It’s me.’
‘I know. I saw your number.’
Of course he did. She explained about Richard Carmelli.
‘I know. It’s all to do with this competition they entered in France.’
‘Explain.’
‘Come into the station. I’ll explain then. And bring Smith with you. Our meeting’s a bit overdue.’
Chapter Twenty-one
‘Oliver Stafford deserved to die.’
Glancing at Smudger’s expression, Honey could see that he meant it. ‘I don’t think you should say that in the vicinity of Manvers Street Police Station.’
The rain was belting down. Even the thrashing backwards and forwards of the windscreen wipers failed to make much impact. Visibility was minimum and spasmodic. And she hadn’t brought a coat.
She made a face at the rain. ‘I’m not walking all the way from the car park.’
‘Your choice.’
Smudger offered up another of his ‘not bothered’ shrugs. She threw him a withering look. ‘We wouldn’t be here at all if you’d told the truth from the start.’
‘It’s a grown man’s prerogative.’
‘Well aren’t you fun company today? You’re right there! Thirty-six and going on ten
years old.’
Fun he was not.
‘This is the police station car park,’ he said sounding surprised as the Volkswagen did a swift right and mounted the curb.
‘Clever boy.’
‘They won’t like you parking here. See?’ he pointed. ‘Patrol vehicles and staff cars only.’
‘I’m almost staff.’
Smudger looked bemused. He snorted. ‘In your dreams. That copper only tolerates you ʼcos he wants to get his leg over.’
‘Chef!’ She felt herself blushing. ‘That’s no way to talk to your boss!’
He grinned. Smudger knew he had her over a barrel. He was a good chef and he knew it. He was a loyal employee and knew how to play her. The last item was a little short of a problem. It could become that, but for now Honey found his mix of bluntness and insight incredibly refreshing.
She eased herself out of the car butt-first and proceeded to strip the seat cover from the driver’s seat.
Smudger looked bemused. ‘You don’t need to vandalise your own car. Leave it in a side street long enough and someone will do it for you.’
She ignored him. ‘This is an emergency. I paid good money for this hairdo.’
The seat cover was made of stretchy grey material trimmed with a red racing stripe. It wasn’t much protection against the rain, but the head rest bit fitted neatly over her head, the rest did a little to shield her shoulders.
The rain began trickling down her neck. Honey came to the obvious conclusion. A seat cover made in China, in an area where it doesn’t rain that often. By the time they were in out of the rain, her hair was flat and sticking to her skull.
‘I’ve just had this done,’ Honey muttered. ‘Now look!’
Her bouncy hairdo was plastered to her head like a shiny wimple. She tried dissecting it with her fingers, plumping it out so that it looked reasonably presentable.
Steve Doherty met them in the foyer. Sensibly, he was wearing a rain-proof jacket with a hood.
‘We’re going for coffee.’
‘We can’t. It’s raining. Look at my hair.’
A Taste To Die For - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 15