‘I like to have lunch first. It puts the hotel management at their ease. Like it or not, they benefit from my income. I tip well too.’ Pulling back her cuff, she checked the time on what looked like a Bulgari. Real or rip-off, Honey wondered. She suspected the former.
‘In case you’re wondering, it’s real.’ Zoe pulled back her cuff so Honey could get a closer look.
‘Nice,’ Honey murmured.
Zoe had gained confidence. She chatted gaily as though the two of them were merely ladies who had arranged to meet up and take lunch together.
They both leaned back as the waiter placed a silver-plated tray on the table.
He opened the bottle and offered it for tasting.
Zoe waved an elegant hand. ‘Just pour it, darling. I’m sure it will be fine.’
Honey sipped and sipped again. It was good.
She felt Zoe scrutinizing her over the rim of her glass.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t fancy earning yourself a bit of extra cash? It doesn’t have to be hard work. Sometimes it’s just baring your breasts and listening.’
Now it was Honey’s turn to raise her eyebrows. ‘Literally?’
Zoe nodded. ‘Money can’t buy youth and Viagra causes heart failure in the elderly. I’ve banned the damned things. Can’t have a bloke dying on the job, can I?’
With thoughts of her mother’s experience zinging into focus, Honey had to agree with her. What was there not to agree with? Zoe Valli was pleasant company.
The waiter brought salmon sandwiches on granary bread accompanied by sweet cherry tomatoes, black olives, and an expertly quartered lemon.
This lunchtime had turned out pleasant. Here she was swigging back white wine and listening to a fascinating woman. She almost forgot about Doherty, but avoided looking in his direction. She also almost forgot about why she was here.
‘By the way, do you know a guy called Brett Coleridge?’
At mention of Coleridge, Zoe’s mood changed.
‘I don’t discuss clients.’
Honey tried to read the look in her eyes. What she saw there troubled her. Zoe wasn’t saying that she didn’t know him. Her eyes were telling her that she did. They were also telling her that she was afraid to talk about him.
Honey asked a difficult question. ‘Is he a pimp?’
Hollywood usually portrayed pimps as black, flash, vicious and part of the crime scene in a rundown area. But that was in films where the characters were as two-dimensional as the plot.
Money can buy almost everything and to some sex was a commodity like everything else and sold at the top of the scale as well as at the bottom. Only a man who moved in the upper circles could best provide for clientele from that circle. Was that what Zoe was saying with those baby-blue eyes of hers?
Honey decided not to press the point. Besides she could see Doherty out of the corner of her eye. He was pointing at his watch.
‘Call me,’ Honey said as she took her leave. ‘And thanks for the wine.’ She swigged back the last from her glass. ‘Lovely.’ A sudden thought occurred to her. ‘Look, I think I should give you something towards the price of this …’
A palm size laptop appeared from one of the bags. Zoe tapped in figures. ‘It was expensive, but don’t worry, I’ll charge it to the client’s account. He’ll expect to be screwed – and in more ways than one!’
Chapter Twenty
Heavy traffic and the need to eat a proper meal intervened with their planned visit to Brett Coleridge.
‘I’ve eaten,’ said Honey.
‘I’m starving,’ said Doherty. ‘A policeman marches forward on his stomach.’
‘I thought it was only armies that did that.’
He pointed out that a pot of tea and a few fingers of shortbread were not enough to sustain a growing man.
He asked the question that won her over. ‘Do you like chocolate muffins served with Cornish cream?’
Over coffee and chocolate muffins, Honey related her conversation with Zoe Valli.
‘Zoe Valli’s her professional name,’ she told him, matter-of-factly. ‘Exotic names attract the punters.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Hmmm. Yes. Zoe thought the name Honey Driver could go places if I ever decided to make a career change.’
The look of alarm on Doherty’s face surprised her. ‘You didn’t give her your card by any chance?’
Honey’s mouth was open, ready to bite into a chocolate muffin. She looked at Doherty. What was he suggesting?
‘I only gave her my card, for Chrissake! Where’s the harm in that?’
‘Beware. You could get some very funny phone calls at some very odd hours.’
Honey felt her stomach churn over like a concrete mixer. She decided he was joking and chuckled. ‘You’re kidding me. Right?’
She didn’t like the deadpan expression on his face.
She willed him to smile and say what she wanted to hear. Eventually, he did.
‘Yeah. Just kidding.’ He bit into a muffin. ‘But if anyone does call, just tell them you’re only the maid and Miss Whiplash is out on a call.’
‘Stephen!’
He grinned. ‘Sorry. Couldn’t resist. So come on. Tell me about how you gained her trust and how you reckon she’s got a heart of gold.’
Honey sipped her coffee, bit into another piece of chocolate cake, chewed and thought some more. She didn’t look at Doherty as she was doing this. She wanted him to stew a bit; to make him think that she possessed some pretty juicy info. In a way she did. The look in Zoe’s eyes when she’d mentioned Brett Coleridge spelt out what he was in plain language. But Doherty wouldn’t see it that way. Hard evidence counted. Female intuition did not. Still, he had to know, so she told him. His reaction was exactly what she thought it would be.
‘A pimp? Come on, Honey. Get real. The guy’s loaded.’
‘Ah,’ said Honey, already primed with a thought-provoking response. ‘But is he bored? Rich men get bored and do stupid things to keep themselves amused. They take a walk on the wild side, so to speak.’
Doherty looked off into the distance as he considered the probability. At last he stopped chewing, stopped gazing and brushed the crumbs from his chin. ‘Let’s get going.’
‘You don’t agree with me?’
Doherty pulled on his coat and settled with the cashier for the coffee and muffins. ‘Let’s just say I’ll keep an open mind.’
‘Boris, come here.’
Penelope was sitting before the mirror in her spanking new trailer wearing nothing except a straw bonnet and a pair of white stockings held up with blue garters.
The director’s jaw dropped before he swiftly closed the door behind him.
The trailer was bigger than Martyna’s; Penelope had insisted. Somehow Boris had persuaded the financial people to put up the extra to ensure the new star’s satisfaction. He was about to get his just reward and was salivating at the prospect of it.
His hands slid down her shoulders and cupped her small breasts. He liked small breasts, especially if the nipples were large. Penelope’s were perfect.
He rolled her breasts in his palms. His mouth and tongue savoured her neck, her jawline and her lips. His hands slid lower, smoothing her belly and diving between her legs.
‘I’m going to make you a star,’ he murmured against her ear.
‘And I will make you my own special stud,’ she murmured back, her voice more sultry than in any part she’d ever played. ‘You deserve it for getting rid of Martyna Manderley. You really do.’
‘I’d do anything for you, darling,’ he said thickly, his breath catching in his throat. ‘You know I’d do anything for you.’
‘Yes, darling,’ she said, her catlike eyes glowing like coals. ‘Of course you would.’
Chapter Twenty-one
The concierge at the building in which Coleridge had a penthouse was Eastern European, judging by his accent. He was also built like a brick wall and standing squarely in front of them, reluctant
to let them in.
‘You must have appointment. You not have appointment.’
‘I don’t need one.’
Doherty produced his warrant card.
‘Now, how about your papers?’ he asked, his voice thick with authority. ‘This might be a good time to check them.’
The brick wall crumbled. They were let in.
Honey was still huffing and puffing from their run to the Underground.
‘You’re unfit,’ Doherty remarked.
‘Untrue! I wish I’d only eaten one muffin. I need to burn this off. Can we take the stairs?’
Doherty looked at her as though she’d just asked the most stupid question ever.
‘You ate three,’ she reminded him.
He considered the facts for a nanosecond. ‘There are better ways to burn off the calories, but I take your point. However, we’re talking penthouse and the fifth floor. That’s ten flights of stairs.’ He held his head to one side and raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m up for it if you are.’
They headed for the elevator.
Gleaming doors of brushed steel hushed open. They stepped in. Doherty pressed the button marked Penthouse – Private. Whoosh! Up they went. Smooth, real smooth.
The stainless-steel doors hushed open again in a glass-covered atrium at roof level.
‘We’ve arrived,’ whispered Honey. ‘He’s got bodyguards.’
Two sides of beef in tuxedos padded across the double-thick carpet.
‘I think you may have come to the wrong floor,’ said beefy number one. Beefy number two stood two paces behind his colleague and four sideways. They were each sporting spindly ear connections like FBI agents. They looked like the rough end of FBI agents, the sort that get the more physical stuff like breaking people’s legs or getting them fitted for cement jackets.
Doherty pulled out his warrant card for the second time since arriving here. Honey lingered behind. Bravery wasn’t something that came spontaneously. She preferred a lengthy build up.
The identification was scrutinized. Honey could tell by their faces that they harboured an aversion to policemen. Not that Steve Doherty gave a stuff.
‘Mr Coleridge has guests.’
The guy sounded as though he was speaking from inside a hollow drum. Honey assumed he’d received a Kung Fu chop to the larynx at some time.
‘That’s what we are. Guests,’ said Doherty.
The big goon frowned at a piece of paper in his hand. ‘All the guests are here. There is no one else to check off the list.’
Doherty didn’t budge. ‘We’re the floor show.’
‘You must go.’ Beefy number two shook his head and took small paces forward, paces designed to force unwelcome guests back into the elevator.
‘I’m sorry. But Mr Coleridge is indisposed at the moment. Perhaps you could call again?’
‘You cannot refuse to let me see him.’
‘Do you have a warrant?’
‘I don’t need one. I just want to talk to him.’
‘No.’
‘Does he own the whole building?’ asked Doherty suddenly.
The two guys exchanged glances. Defiance they could cope with. But what was this about the building? What the hell did they know? They shrugged.
‘We just work here,’ one said.
Doherty took a step forward and stood with legs slightly apart. Honey had noticed that men did that kind of thing when in challenging mode – as though they kept some kind of weapon in their trousers.
‘Just tell him we need to have a talk with him about structures and strong foundations. Especially when giving a statement to the police. There’s such a thing as perjury.’ His tone was grim, no nonsense.
Number one broad beef gave the halt sign with his hand, palm inches from Doherty’s face.
The air hung heavy with testosterone. Honey snuggled in behind Doherty. ‘Shouldn’t we summon reinforcements?’ she hissed.
Doherty ignored her jelly-tot voice and squared up to the big guy. ‘You licensed to do that?’
In the split second the guy got to think about it, Doherty had grabbed his fingers, bending them backwards until he went back and down until his knees buckled. While one guy grimaced with pain, Doherty addressed his companion.
‘Stop this pissing about or your pal will be picking his nose left hand only. Tell Mr Coleridge I want to see him. Right now!’
Honey held her breath. At the same time she pictured the general layout of where they were just in case they needed a swift exit.
Number one, the elevator was right behind her. That was good. The stairs were off to her right.
The elevator depended on luck, press the button to summon it and hope that the doors opened at the right time. The stairs, she decided, were the best bet. Smash open the door and run like hell!
As it worked out there was no need to do either. Beefy number two took reluctant footsteps towards the copper-coated doors of the penthouse.
Beefy number one was still on his knees, his face screwed up in pain.
Preceded by the bovver boy, Brett Coleridge emerged James Bond style; smart suit, smooth hair, and strong jaw. He didn’t smile. Didn’t bid them welcome. His jaw was clenched tight enough to burst his teeth fillings. Whatever his feelings, he was keeping them under tight rein.
What passed for a smile was closer to a smirk. ‘Ah yes! The policeman and his sidekick. Sorry, I don’t remember your rank – or name for that matter.’ He checked the gleaming Rolex on his wrist. ‘I can give you three minutes. What’s this about?’
Doherty’s expression was impassive, but Honey knew that underneath the cool veneer he was aching to give Coleridge a mouthful of broken teeth.
‘It’s regarding your statement. We’ve checked on your whereabouts at the time in question, and it appears you were staying at a London hotel, not one in New York. Do you have trouble telling the difference, sir?’
For a moment Brett Coleridge’s face looked as though it had been fashioned from marble. He stood dead still. Given his good looks and perfect grooming, he could have been taken for a tailor’s dummy.
He managed one word. ‘So?’
Honey was a great gal for judging on first impressions. Her first impression of Coleridge had been of a man who thought too much of himself. She’d disliked him to the power of eight. Her opinion had changed a little, but only to upgrade her dislike to the power of ten. Her mother would like him. He had the right trappings for her. But not for Honey. She couldn’t help jumping in with a question to throw him off guard.
‘Do you know a young woman named Perdita Moody?’
She sensed a loosening at the point where his jaw met his ears.
‘Can’t say I do.’
He said it slowly as though he were wracking his memory banks. Honey flashed him the photograph.
‘Her,’ she said, stabbing at the enigmatic young woman.
He made a dismissive gesture with his right hand. ‘I see quite a few girls nowadays. It goes with the job.’
‘Excuse me?’ said Honey,
Doherty took the photograph from her. ‘Members of staff at the hotel are willing to testify that this woman had an appointment with you. She was positively identified.’
Coleridge frowned. ‘What does this have to do with the death of my fiancée?’
‘Perhaps you were set to benefit from her will.’
Coleridge’s manly complexion turned puce. ‘That’s ridiculous. I have my own money!’
Honey pressed on. ‘Isn’t there a clause whereby the leading lady is indemnified against non-appearance?’
To his credit, when he turned on Doherty, Coleridge’s expression seemed almost sincere.
‘How dare you!’
Doherty bounced right back. ‘This woman …’ He stabbed at the photo too. ‘Were you having an affair with her?’
Coleridge blanched. ‘Certainly not! She was just a …’
Honey sensed rather than saw a small smile of satisfaction on Doherty’s face. Coleridge�
��s disquiet had caused him to blunder into a declaration – a declaration up until now that had remained unspoken.
‘Just a what, Mr Coleridge?’ asked Doherty.
It’s the eyes, thought Honey. I can see from his eyes that he’s beaten.
She was right. With a nod over his shoulder, the two sides of beef were dismissed. They lumbered off, their thick shoulders hunched around their stocky necks.
Coleridge wiped at the beads of sweat that had broken out on his brow. He must have seen they’d noticed.
‘I have guests. The room is full of hot food and hot air.’ He chanced a grin.
Neither Honey nor Doherty was swallowing this.
Honey said what she was thinking. ‘You’re very resilient – partying even before your fiancée is buried.’
His look visibly hardened. ‘Friends and family. The dinner party was their suggestion. They felt I needed a distraction. That’s why it’s so early in the evening.’
Honey opened her mouth to suggest that meeting girls in hotel rooms was pretty distracting, and he’d been doing that on the day Martyna was killed.
Doherty interjected sharply. ‘So Perdita – and the other girls?’
Good old Steve! Honey harboured an inner glow. They were so alike, him and her. Yet again they’d been singing – or rather thinking – from the same hymn sheet. They’d had the same things in mind.
Coleridge held a steady gaze. ‘Girls? What other girls?’
‘Your nieces.’
‘Oh. Those. I was interviewing. I own a very large nightclub – the Venus Trap – you may have heard of it.’
Both Honey and Doherty shook their heads. ‘We’re from out of town.’
‘I was interviewing girls for the cabaret. There’s no law against that, is there?’
‘Were you alone?’ Doherty enquired. ‘I mean, other than your two nieces.’
‘No. I had two other girls with me. They work at the club too. They’re good to have around to give a second opinion.’
Somehow Honey couldn’t buy this. The fearful look in Zoe Valli’s eyes kept coming back to her and wouldn’t go away. What had she been scared of? Was Coleridge really a pimp?
Killing Jane Austen - A Honey Driver murder mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 12