He was referring to her of course. ‘Though we did have a set-to,’ she pointed out. Reaching across the table, she dabbed a paper napkin at the foam on Doherty’s upper lip. She’d already made a statement about the argument over her using the mobile phone. ‘What a bitch. I think I might have murdered her if I’d been working alongside her for long. She accused me of taking a photo to immediately sell on to the tabloid press. Can you credit it?’
‘Would you have done such a lucrative, underhand thing?’
She grinned and made an up-and-down motion with her eyebrows. ‘How much do they pay?’
He grinned right back. ‘Superstar paranoia. It’s crazy that with all the money they earn, they still begrudge someone else making money without their say so.’
‘Some want their pound of flesh, and Martyna Manderley wanted her ten per cent.’
Doherty’s frown was consistent. ‘Let’s take another look in that trailer.’
Chapter Fourteen
The generator that had supplied power to Martyna Manderley’s trailer had been switched off. Inside it was cold and gloomy.
Hands on hips, Doherty stood in what could be considered the centre and looked around him.
Honey hung around by the door, not liking the musty odour. The trailer was beginning to smell mouldy. The blood might have something to do with that.
‘Nothing missing?’ she asked.
‘Only the stuff forensics have bagged up and taken in for analysis.’
Despite being icy cold, the inside of the trailer still looked quite luxurious, though bleak with nothing left on the shelves or in the wardrobes.
Once outside the smell coming from Richard Richards’s mobile catering unit was too good to ignore. They drifted in that direction just as surely as the sweet-smelling smoke drifted enticingly in theirs.
Food definitely took off the chill. Doherty ordered two coffees and two bacon baguettes.
Honey protested that a coffee would be enough. Doherty informed her that the two bacon baguettes were for him.
Richard peered down from his high-up counter.
‘What did I tell you? Is my food irresistible or not?’
Remembering he was sensitive about his cooking, Honey threw him a big chewy bacon smile.
‘Who could resist one as big as this?’ she exclaimed.
Richard seemed only half satisfied with her praise. ‘You’re missing the point! It’s not just the size of the portion, it’s the quality that counts!’
‘Of course,’ said Honey. ‘That’s exactly what I was saying to the inspector here.’
‘My sentiments exactly,’ smirked Doherty. He was stifling his laughter with mouthfuls of baguette and bacon.
Things sizzled on the griddle above their heads, behind the drop-down flap of the mobile canteen. The smell of bacon and plump pork sausages wafted out like the light from an onshore lighthouse.
The coffee was still hot enough to be pleasant.
Doherty interrupted her sipping. ‘I understand from the director that Martyna insisted that some of the scenes be changed. She wanted Jane to be less of an observer and more feisty. And more sex scenes.’
Honey’s eyebrows almost took off. ‘She wasn’t married! Back then respectable girls didn’t shed their kit on a first date. Not even on the ninety-fifth date. They waited until they were married. Ask that little woman with the petition.’
‘What little woman?’
‘Surely I told you? She got ordered off the set because she dared protest about historical accuracy – or rather the lack of it. It was her who made the comment about hatpins.’ Honey giggled. ‘She spoke as though she were Jane Austen. Even her clothes went some way towards playing the part. Initially she was employed on set, but got the push when she kept complaining about the film being inaccurate and not adhering to facts. Apparently she had a run in with the Wicked Witch herself.’
‘Martyna?’
Honey nodded and chewed.
‘Did you get her name?’
Honey swallowed and looked at him. She knew where this was going and just couldn’t let it get there. ‘No. ’Fraid not. But, hey, she was just a little old lady. Too old to be a murderer.’
‘Age has no bearing on murder. Mind you, I doubt that our dead superstar could tell her Jane Austen from her Jayne Mansfield.’
‘Both historical.’
‘Both dead,’ he pointed out. ‘Anyway, there were plenty of fingerprints on the script, though only one person is responsible for the bloody ones of course. They’re yours and yours alone.’
Honey winced. ‘Sorry. Won’t do it again.’
‘Even if you’d seen the blood in the first place, you might have thought it was tomato sauce. Isn’t that what they use in these films?’
‘Not quite. But anyway, why take it in the first place? Martyna made enemies, more so than friends. Anyone could have picked it up and everyone is a suspect.’
Honey recalled the photograph Doherty had shown her; Martyna’s head slumped forward. ‘She must have been reading the script when her attacker struck.’
Doherty sighed. ‘I think I need to talk again to my six suspects.’
Honey’s phone rang. It was Lindsey.
‘We’ve got a gas leak and have had to switch the supply off at the mains.’
Honey exhaled a big sigh. She could always count on day to day life to interfere – just when she’d started to enjoy herself.
‘Have you called for a gas fitter?’
‘We have, but Smudger is having a head fit. If the gas was on, I’m sure he’d put his head in the oven.’
‘Luckily it’s not. Anyway, I don’t think gas from the North Sea is poisonous, just explosive.’
‘So’s Smudger.’
Lindsey was most likely right. ‘I take it he’s going prima donna over the vol-au-vents.’
Lindsey confirmed this. ‘You’d never think these little things could evoke such a hysterical response.’
‘I’ll get there as soon as I can.’
‘Give my regards to Doherty,’ said Lindsey.
Honey was taken aback. ‘How did you know I was with him?’
‘Your voice is always different when you’re with him.’
Why hadn’t she noticed that? Honey decided that in future she’d be more careful.
‘We’re on set pursuing our inquiries,’ she blurted, feeling her face get hot.
The call ended.
Steve Doherty eyed her quizzically. ‘Problem?’
‘We have a small gas leak, but the fitter is on his way.’
‘Good. So Bath won’t explode into eternity?’
She didn’t want to talk work. The hotel was work. Assisting on the crime front was something else.
She effectively changed the subject. ‘Have you met Penelope Petrie, Martyna Manderley’s replacement?’
‘Not yet. Looking forward to it though. I’ve seen her half-naked.’
She eyed him with one eye closed. ‘In a magazine, I take it.’
‘Afraid so.’ He sounded genuinely disappointed.
‘I got the impression from the gossip columns that she and Boris, the director, were a bit more than friends.’ She eyed Doherty over the rim of her styrofoam cup. ‘So what do you think? Sex or money?’
‘Let’s start with money.’ He winked. ‘We’ll look into the sex later.’
Chapter Fifteen
The good news was that the gas fitter arrived and Smudger got over his threat to stick his head in the oven.
‘I wouldn’t have cared if you had,’ Honey remonstrated.
He looked terribly affronted. ‘You heartless …’
‘The gas was turned off. Remember? That’s what you do when you have a leak. You turn it off at the main.’
Creating and producing high quality meals was as important to Smudger as being celibate was to a monk. Perhaps more so. Faced with the prospect of having no gas to cook with, Smudger had become totally illogical. Once the problem was solved he was back to
his old self. This meant the vol-au-vents were baked, stuffed, and ready for distribution. It also meant Honey could go out tonight.
Doherty rang to make arrangements. ‘Zodiac later, Brett Coleridge first. Can you drag yourself away from the WI event? Martyna’s fiancé has arrived. He’s demanding to see whoever is in charge of the case. I’ve drawn the short straw.’
‘And you need back-up?’
‘I settled for you.’
‘Thanks for the thought. So where is he?’
‘He’s staying in a suite at the Royal Crescent Hotel.’
‘Nothing too cheap then.’
Five-star accommodation at the Royal Crescent Hotel didn’t come cheap. Not content with a room, this guy had booked a whole suite.
The car wheels rumbled over the cobbled road at the front of the crescent. With the exception of the houses constituting the hotel, the rest had been converted into apartments years ago. To rent one would cost a fortune. To buy one would cost an arm and a leg. The one original house would cost more like two arms and two legs, and maybe a head as well.
In order to deter traffic using the crescent as a ‘rabbit run’, bollards had been placed at the Marlborough Buildings end – to the left if you happened to be standing four-square in front of the Crescent. Anyone going in had to turn round and come back out again.
Doherty made provision for this when he parked at the far end, which allowed him to turn more easily when he needed to. His car was a low-slung and very sporty MR2. Honey’s face was still juddering in time with the bumpy surface when they came to a rest. He parked facing the parking bollards on the grassy side of the road.
Once at a standstill, she had a moment to get her breath and take in the sweeping curve of the buildings to her right. The greenery of the Crescent’s private gardens, so rare in the centre of a modern city, swept off to her left. Beyond that was the ha-ha against a glorious row of mature trees. The city’s skyline of mansard roofs, square towers and modern buildings was misty in the distance.
Honey sighed. The air up here tasted different somehow. And birds sang. What was more, she could hear them because there wasn’t much traffic noise.
She struggled out of the car, the door bumping against the kerb and her knees protesting that sports cars were for younger limbs.
‘Don’t you wish you owned this?’ said Honey as they approached the plate-glass doors. ‘If only I had the money …’
‘To buy it?’ asked Doherty.
‘No! To stay here.’
‘Ah! You wouldn’t just need the right money. You’d need the right occasion.’
She looked up at him. ‘You asking?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘You buying?’
‘How much is it to stay for a night?’
She told him.
He shook his head. ‘Wait till I get to be Chief Constable with the salary to go with it. Better still, if I switch sides and become a Mafia godfather. On second thoughts, perhaps I’d have to settle for Chief Constable. I can’t think that mafiosos are into this much culture.’
The impeccably decorated surroundings oozed expensive taste and style. The price of a suite was enough to furnish a house.
Although Honey had never met Brett Coleridge before, his type was familiar. He had the composed expression of a confident man; his shoulders were held well back, his clothes were immaculate and expensive. Everything about him gleamed as though he’d been sprayed with high-gloss varnish. His hair gleamed, his silk suit gleamed, his ultra-white shirt shone like snow reflecting sunlight, and his tie was navy blue and as silky as a dolphin’s back.
He probably sleeps on pillows stuffed with money, thought Honey in a brief moment of whimsy. Egyptian cotton of course. Or silk. Embroidered with gold.
Two bodyguards walked three paces behind him, faces inscrutable, chins like doorstops. Both sported headsets. Top-level security types. As though he’s the president of the United States, thought Honey, not a silver-spoon son of Lithuanian descent. Lindsey had done the research. Was there nothing that daughter of hers couldn’t find out given half the chance?
The Coleridge grandfather had changed the family name from something unpronounceable. The new name had been picked from a book of poems. Honey filled Doherty in on what she knew, and vice versa.
‘Smooth dude and loaded.’
Coleridge looked it. His all-over tan shouted health and wealth. Not that Honey knew if the tan was all over; she just presumed so. Naked bathing on a private Pacific island sprang to mind.
Brett Coleridge didn’t smile, though she guessed that if he did his teeth would flash pearly white – courtesy of porcelain enhancement. She reminded herself that he had just lost his fiancée. It was only right to offer her condolences.
‘I’m sorry …’ she began.
Coleridge cut her dead, looking straight past her to Doherty. ‘Are you in charge?’.
Doherty also began to offer his condolences. ‘I am. May I first offer my … ?’
‘I want you to catch whoever did this. No excuses. No bullshit. Clear?’
Honey saw a swift flash of anger in Doherty’s eyes. But he stayed cool – real cool.
‘We will do our best, sir. May I take this opportunity to offer my sincere sympathy at the loss of your fiancée … ?’
Coleridge seemed not to hear what Doherty said. Either that or he’d chosen to ignore it as though sympathy was trivial – especially when it came from someone who didn’t have a high-octane car and matching bank account.
Rudely it seemed to Honey, he turned away from them. Hands in pockets, his back a blank wall, he gazed out of the window towards the city.
‘And if I hear any further accusation that I may have been responsible for Martyna’s death, you’ll be hearing from my lawyers.’ His voice was as sharp as his suit.
Doherty’s jaw lurched from side to side as though he were chewing this over.
‘I was not aware you were being accused, Mr Coleridge. Should I be accusing you?’
He sounded so polite, so controlled, when basically he was chewing on iron. She guessed that inside his head he was using the guy’s pure silk tie to wring his sun-kissed neck.
‘I realize that local police have limited resources. However, I will not tolerate the finger of suspicion being pointed in my direction. Is that clear?’
‘It is clear, sir. I think we both agree that the sooner this matter is cleared up, the better. But why should we suspect you? As I understand it, you were in New York when Miss Manderley was killed.’
‘That is correct.’
‘I’m sure the airline and hotel you used will confirm this.’
Coleridge spun round. ‘How dare you question my honesty! Anyway, I used my private jet.’
‘Is that so?’ Doherty smiled. It was only a faint smile, yet it spoke volumes. ‘If your conscience is clear, then I’m sure you won’t mind us checking, Mr Coleridge. Will you?’
The insinuation hit home. The superior facade came crashing down like a stone ball from a skyscraper. When he did speak, his tone had turned a full 180 degrees.
‘I’m sorry for being curt. As you can imagine, I am rather cut up by all this.’
Doherty didn’t smile nor blow a fuse, but neither did he eat humble pie.
‘Of course, sir. I quite understand.’
Honey wasn’t fooled. Steve had boxed clever. Coleridge had been unnerved by Doherty’s promise to check the hotel he’d stayed in and his flight plans.
She managed to control herself until they were outside. ‘Got him!’
‘You reckon?’
‘He crumbled! He cracked! He wasn’t in New York at all. He came here and he killed her.’
‘Why?’
‘Um. I don’t know.’
‘Great.’
‘But there’s bound to be a motive,’ she argued.
‘Of course there’s a motive. But what is it? Martyna was beautiful and wealthy enough in her own right. OK, a guy could pretend to be in love wit
h her in order to get his hands on her money. But not Coleridge. Come off it. The man could buy a whole studio of leading ladies and not make a hole in his holdings in the Caymans.’
‘Or the Isle of Man. That’s a tax haven too.’
Doherty shook his head. ‘Not the Isle of Man. More likely the Caymans. Think about it. He doesn’t look like someone with his fortune stashed on the Isle of Man.’
Honey slapped the back of her hand against her forehead.
‘The evidence speaks for itself. No one with a tan like that keeps their loot in a tax haven in the Irish Sea.’
‘Exactly,’ said Doherty. ‘So it’s not money.’
‘What about sex?’
‘Honey, I just haven’t got the time …’
‘Spare the jokes,’ she drawled, pretending to be immune to his humour.
Doherty grinned.
‘What?’ said Honey, recognizing his I-know-something-you-don’t-know expression.
‘We’ve already checked. Naughty Mr Coleridge has not just returned from New York. Unfortunately for him, when we checked in at his office his personal assistant was at the dentist. A junior secretary standing in for her informed my officer that Mr Coleridge had phoned from a hotel in London – and she’d logged it in on her computer. It checked out with the hotel in question. He stayed there. In company. Great stuff, this new technology.’
Honey laughed, then stopped abruptly. ‘So why didn’t you tell him that?’
Doherty’s grin returned. ‘Did you see his face?’
She nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘So what did you see in it?’
She thought about the way his expression had changed from arrogance to agitation in one swift step. ‘Tension.’
‘What else?’
She thought hard and deep. Now where had she seen that guilty look before? She turned her thoughts to times past. Then it came to her. Carl! Departed husband thought he was pretty good at cheating on her and not getting found out. He’d been seriously wrong and in dire danger of wearing his testicles around his throat.
Killing Jane Austen - A Honey Driver murder mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 8