‘Ouch!’
‘Clear off!’
She beat all the way to the door. Like a rabbit bolting into a burrow, he shot through it. Honey slammed it behind him.
As she turned away, it opened. Doherty’s grinning face poked round. ‘Loved the corset,’ he said. ‘It was made for women with bodies.’
Laces streaming behind it, the corset flew through the air smacking the door just as Doherty slammed it behind him again.
She looked down at the corset and smiled. She would continue the facade of being angry with him for a little while, though she didn’t mean it. He’d said something flattering about her body. At her age, every word of praise counted.
Chapter Nineteen
It was eight thirty a.m. by the time they reached London via Paddington Station. From there they got the Underground to CanadaWharf and a taxi to the hotel where Brett Coleridge had played away.
Miss Rhoda Tay, the hotel manager, was of Malaysian extraction and very businesslike. She was also small, neat, and had catlike eyes that appraised them and hardened from the word go.
‘We have a reputation to uphold and are loath to betray our guests’ privacy,’ she warned in a crisp and efficient manner.
They were standing in her office which appeared to hold nothing except a desk and a chair (hers). A design of black and chrome formed the walls; as though a giant chessboard had been turned on its side.
‘This is a police investigation. I can get a warrant,’ said Doherty.
The elegant, petite woman seemed suddenly to grow in stature. ‘Are you threatening me, Mr Policeman?’
‘Detective Inspector Doherty. No, madam. I am just following procedure.’ Professional to his size ten boots, Doherty appeared cool.
Honey was not fooled. She saw a muscle flicker in his jaw. She guessed it cheesed him off to be referred to as though he was Constable Plod from ToyTown.
Miss Tay’s expression was as cold and still as that of a china doll. ‘Please. Sit.’
She pressed a button. Two cubes appeared out of the chequerboard wall and upholstered panels rose from their backs to form chairs.
They didn’t look particularly comfortable and had presumably been designed so that guests did not outstay their welcome.
Honey jumped into the uncomfortable silence left between Doherty and Miss Tay. She explained that she represented the Bath Hotels Association with regard to crimes committed that could affect the tourist trade.
‘As someone involved in the hospitality trade, I’m sure you can understand our concern. This is a competitive business and murder is bad for business.
Miss Tay seemed to consider this most carefully, although no sign of a change in attitude came to her face.
‘I see,’ she said at last. ‘So Mr Coleridge is a witness?’ She addressed Doherty.
Honey jumped in again. ‘The police would like to eliminate him from their inquiries. You could help do that. I’m sure Mr Coleridge, or any guest, would appreciate your help clearing his good name.’
Miss Tay blinked in her direction. ‘Quite so, Mrs Driver.’
Although her mouth smiled, everything else about Miss Tay remained the same.
Now it was time for Doherty’s input.
‘We already know the date of his stay and the fact that he phoned the murder victim. We have that person’s phone record so we know she received a call from his mobile phone while he was here. We also know from his secretary that he was definitely staying here that night. All we need to know now is whether he had guests while he was here.’
Catlike eyes swerved to each of them in turn. Her red-tipped fingers were interlocked like a tightly shut gate.
When she saw the fingers slacken and then break apart, Honey knew that Miss Tay had been won over.
‘I will check with reception.’
A long, elegant finger pressed a button on a touch-dial phone.
‘They will come back to me,’ she said once her orders were given.
Honey shifted slightly in her seat. A thought had occurred to her. It was a long shot and she hadn’t asked Doherty’s permission, but, hey, Honey Driver was a free spirit who flew by the seat of her pants.
‘Have you ever seen this girl?’ she asked, flashing the photos of Perdita Moody.
Miss Tay looked at the head shot first then the full-length version of the missing young woman. She shook her head. ‘No. I have not. I suppose you’re going to ask me to enquire of my staff. I will have them take photocopies.’
Ignoring Doherty’s burning gaze, Honey thanked her and added, ‘Her name’s Perdita Moody.
‘Perdita!’ She raised her finely cut eyebrows. ‘What a terribly old-fashioned name. It sounds like a character from an Agatha Christie mystery.’
They were interrupted by a knock at the door. The slim young man who brought in details of Brett Coleridge’s guests also took the photos to be copied and shown to the staff.
‘Ah,’ said Miss Tay after studying the printout lying in front of her. ‘Mr Coleridge was visited by his two nieces.’
‘Was he now,’ said Doherty.
Honey noted the cynical tone. On their journey Doherty had informed her that Mr Coleridge had no siblings – thus no nieces or nephews. However, nothing had prepared them for the next piece of information.
‘And a woman who said she was his sister visited.’ Miss Tay’s pert head jerked up, her expression one of surprise. ‘Perdita Moody!’
Honey was somewhat rattled. Coleridge being a cheat and a liar was no big surprise.
Miss Tay invited them to reception, where she introduced them to the receptionist who’d been on duty that day. The girl was slim with coffee-coloured skin and dark, melting eyes. Her name was Leila Dewar.
Honey showed her the photographs.
She shrugged and winced and frowned all at the same time. ‘It’s difficult. We see so many people here. But I think it is the same woman. The features are definitely familiar, but the hair’s different. Blonde with long reddish-brown stripes – hair extensions I shouldn’t wonder. But I’m sure it’s the same face. And she was tall. That’s what made her stand out. She was very tall.’
Doherty sighed. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea. I think we need to discuss this. Do you do tea?’ he asked Miss Tay.
‘Of course. I will order some for you. Please take a seat.’
She indicated the array of comfortable chairs and sofas arranged over and around the reception area. Close by was a bistro area with dining tables and chairs. They took a seat close by so they could see both the people in reception and the lunchtime diners.
Miss Tay bid them good day.
Doherty was grouchy. ‘So what possessed you?’
‘Miss Cleveley was on the film set for a while and so was her niece Perdita. Miss Cleveley informed me she was a budding actress stroke entertainer. It wasn’t that much of a long shot that Perdita and Brett Coleridge had met. Anyway, he looked the type to stray regardless of promising to marry. Too smooth. Too sure of himself.’
‘Have you ever thought of being an agony aunt?’
‘I am already. Have you ever served behind a pub or hotel bar? People tell you things. They pour out their hearts and you give them the benefit of your advice,’ explained Honey.
‘Hardly trained counselling.’
‘No. It’s better than that. People tell the truth when they’re tipsy.’
‘What about when you’re tipsy?’
She tossed her head and couldn’t help looking smug. ‘The tippling philosopher. That’s me.’
A tray consisting of crockery, a teapot and a plate of small shortbread biscuits arrived. Honey and Doherty tucked in. They’d had no time for breakfast.
They got round to discussing their next port of call.
Besides having a yacht in Antigua, an estate in Scotland and a horse ranch in Kentucky, Brett Coleridge had a penthouse in Kensington.
‘Why use a hotel when you’ve got a penthouse close by?’ Doherty wondered aloud.
‘Because his nieces were paid for by the hour?’
‘Well, I don’t think he was inviting them to be bridesmaids.’
Honey paused in the act of reaching for her second piece of shortbread. ‘I just knew he was a rat. I’ve got a nose for them.’
‘Quite a pretty nose.’
‘And an empty stomach.’
‘Me too. I’m starving.’
While she chewed and sipped, her attention drifted. An experienced hotelier, her eyes scanned the clientele milling around the reception area.
There was a dusting of country types up to the city for shopping and lunch or to see their financial advisors or lawyers. There were tourists from every corner of the world. There were also singular types more difficult to categorize; some sitting alone reading a newspaper; others pretending to, looking up each time someone came through the main doors.
‘Posh place this,’ said Doherty, dunking the shortbread into his tea. ‘Upmarket people.’
Honey smiled.
‘You’d be surprised,’ she said quietly.
She let Doherty prattle on. He was talking about actors and how it must be difficult switching character.
‘They must sometimes forget who they are,’ he commented.
‘As good old Will Shakespeare said, “All the world’s a stage” – we’re all actors to some extent.’
‘Is that so?’
‘He was right.’
Doherty grunted and dunked more shortbread.
Honey studied the comings and goings over the top of her teacup.
There were white linen tablecloths, comfortable chairs, and a bevy of good-looking waiting staff. The food would be good, Honey decided, and beautifully presented.
Businessmen in Gucci suits and shoes; ladies who lunch but never work; and ladies who did both. One working lady in particular caught Honey’s eye. To those not involved in the day-to-day running of an upmarket hotel, she appeared to be a high-powered executive type. She was wearing a crisp suit with square shoulders and looked all set for a scrum with male colleagues in some city boardroom. But there were small giveaways and Honey knew just what to look for.
Look respectable. Better still look affluent. She did look affluent. Good costume jewellery, probably, designer clothes, the right make-up, the right colour coordination; faultless presentation. Certain things gave her away.
Her heels were too high and had ankle straps. Her skirt was too short. The legs between were covered in fishnet – but not ordinary fishnet, thick black diamonds covering the finer mesh.
Besides an Italian leather handbag in a fetching shade of coral, the young woman – Honey put her age at around twenty-seven – was battling with a number of upmarket carrier bags from Harvey Nichols, Harrods, and upmarket boutiques. They shouted she had money to spend.
Doherty suddenly noticed where Honey was looking.
‘Looks as though she’s been doing some serious spending.’
‘Looks as though she’s been shopping in Knightsbridge.’
‘Wherever. Looks as though she’s spent a packet.’
Typical man. Doherty wasn’t seeing what she was seeing. His naivety made her smile.
‘No. She’s not here for the shopping. She’s here to sell. And our friend Mr Coleridge was here to buy.’
Doherty looked at her in disbelief. ‘She looks too upmarket. What are you seeing that I’m not?’
‘She’s top-drawer totty and charges a top-drawer price. Stay here. I’m going to have a word with her.’
‘Hey, I’m the copper …’
‘Precisely.’
Placing a hand on his shoulder, she pressed him back down into his chair and looked tellingly into his eyes. ‘I am a woman with a missing friend named Perdita Moody. Who do you think she’s more likely to open up to?’
Humbled by the obvious, Doherty did as he was told.
‘Order yourself some more tea and shortbread,’ Honey said to him.
Armed with Perdita’s photos in the bag slung over her shoulder, she made her way to the corner table.
Close up she could see the jewellery was indeed costume, but expensive. It looked vintage and as classy as her clothes. The suit was understated; no frills, no bows and no bustling cleavage. Along with the mesh tights, the shoes were a let-down, more Battersea nightclub than Biarritz bistro.
‘Excuse me,’ she said in a friendly manner. ‘I’m a reporter for a national newspaper and I couldn’t help thinking that you might be somebody famous. Am I right?’
An impeccably made-up face scrutinized her. Shaped eyebrows only achieved by professional plucking arched in surprise. ‘I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I’m waiting for a …’
Honey cut across. ‘Let’s talk. Or do you prefer me have hotel security check your identity?’
Honey sat down and pressed her advantage.
Fingers adorned with gold and diamonds reached for and then tightened over the carrier bag handles. The brown eyes looked wary.
‘Are you with the police?’
‘Only by the most tenuous of threads. I’m looking for a missing person. Can you take a look at these? You may have seen her here in this hotel.’
‘I’m sure I can’t help you.’
Her gaze didn’t waver from Honey’s face.
‘I think Perdita came here to meet a client and now she’s disappeared. Her family are worried about her. Wouldn’t you want somebody to help your family if you went missing after meeting a client?’
For a moment the knowing eyes held her own as she made the decision whether to help or not. At last she looked at each photograph in turn.
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I’ve never seen her.’
Disappointed but not surprised, Honey considered how to play this. More than one high-class tart frequented this hotel and like working girls in a factory or office, they all got to know each other.
In offices or factories, experiences were shared and, grievances about pay and conditions were aired around the coffee machine or in the canteen. Heaven knows where these girls did their moaning and groaning, but no doubt they did. And girls swapped lots of things; boyfriends, lipsticks. And information!
Honey kept up the we’re-all-sisters-under-the-skin tone. ‘I would much appreciate if you could take these with you and show them around. I’ve got spare copies. The hotel was very generous. Do you mind?’
Diamanté fingernail inserts flashed as the girl’s four lengthy talons tapped thoughtfully on the table.
At last she raised her eyes to Honey’s friendly smile.
‘OK. But I can’t promise anything.’
The woman slid the photos into one of her designer carrier bags. While in the process, Honey glimpsed something in the carrier that was not obtainable from Harrods. It resembled a cucumber but was made of rubber and definitely not intended to be used in a salad.
Seeing where Honey was looking, the woman glanced down. ‘I’ve got a living to make. I’ve got two kids at private school.’ She tossed her head defiantly as if inviting her to cop that for bonus-related pay. ‘I’m not ashamed of how I make my living.’
‘I wasn’t criticizing,’ said Honey. ‘I need your help. Besides, we’d do anything for our kids, wouldn’t we? Anything also for a friend in trouble?’
The woman’s features softened. They were on neutral ground, both hard-working and both mothers. They knew what counted.
She turned her head slightly so she was eyeing Honey sidelong. Honey sensed a question was coming.
‘Can I ask you something? How did you know I was on the game? My clients expect a piece of class ass. I can’t afford to make errors. I don’t want to upset the management either. This is a nice hotel. I like coming here. What gave me away?’
Honey pointed. ‘Your shoes. They’ve got ankle straps and they’re too high. Your stockings are a bit of a giveaway too, but mostly it’s the shoes. How about sticking to a plain pair of court shoes with a three-inch heel? Plain stockings – I presume you wear st
ockings not tights?’
‘Absolutely. Most of my clients feel that whoever invented tights should be strangled with them.’ She slid a shapely leg out from beneath the table and looked at it. ‘Do you think plain tights would be best?’
‘Why not? You’ve got good legs. Great calves and slim ankles. Why muddy the water? Tan or black would be best. But not patterned. And a plainer shoe with a slightly lower heel.’
‘You think that will convey the right impression?’
Her expression was interesting. The beautifully made-up face held a vulnerability recognized by all women; the need to meet the approval of their peers. Every girl appreciated what her best friend thought of her outfit.
Honey obliged. ‘Power dresser. Business woman of discreet and particular taste.’
Heavens above, she thought to herself. I’m aiding and abetting prostitution! I sound as though I know everything there is to know about the sex game. Truth is I’m more than a bit rusty. It occurred to her that Steve Doherty was more than willing to oil her engine. In time, she told herself. All in good time.
She gave the woman her card. ‘Give me a ring if anyone knows anything.’
The woman examined the card. ‘Honey Driver. You could pull a trick or two with that name,’ she said with an impish smile.
‘I’ll stick with the bank overdraft,’ said Honey. ‘I prefer undressing alone in the dark. It’s an age thing.’
‘Shame. Take my card,’ said the girl. ‘Zoe Valli. That’s my name. I specialize in French polishing, education, and discipline, though I’ve a different card for that.’
The card she gave Honey was black, shiny and embossed with gold lettering. Expensive. It said she was an actress and entertainer.
The card was added to the profusion of other bits and pieces floating round in Honey’s bag.
‘Are you really an actress?’ she asked.
Zoe Valli’s smile could best be described as worldly wise. ‘We all are, darling. All the world’s a stage and all that …’
Just what I said earlier, thought Honey.
Zoe Valli called for a good bottle of Chardonnay and invited Honey to join her. She admitted that Honey had found her out. She hadn’t really been shopping. She was there on an assignation; a client willing to pay for her services.
Killing Jane Austen - A Honey Driver murder mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 11