Killing Jane Austen - A Honey Driver murder mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘He paid me one thousand pounds for it and said he would give me more once it had gone into production and he’d sold some rights. I asked for a written contract. He said a handshake was good enough for him and that he was a man of his word.’ She swallowed hard. Honey presumed she was about to sob. She was wrong.

  ‘Shyster!’

  Honey jumped. Even Doherty stopped layering jam on the butter melting through his crumpet.

  The comment was obviously heartfelt if measured by loudness.

  ‘I take it we’re talking about Brett Coleridge here.’

  Perdita gulped again. ‘No. Not initially anyway. Boris Morris bought the script from me, then sold it on to the production company. He didn’t give me any extra money though.’

  Honey frowned. ‘So who’s Chris Bennett?’

  ‘That’s him too. He didn’t want Coleridge to know he’d written – or rather he’d claimed to have written it. He wanted to direct it as well, you see. Brett Coleridge had assumed head of production and wouldn’t be keen on Boris wearing two hats. That’s what he said.’

  The picture was gradually becoming clearer. She felt angry for Perdita’s sake. She’d been made promises and they’d been broken.

  ‘So you didn’t go to see Brett Coleridge about a job; you went to see him about the script.’

  She nodded. ‘I threatened to sue. I didn’t tell Candy and Zoe that though. I didn’t want to muddy the waters – if you know what I mean. So I let them believe that Brett Coleridge had made advances towards me…’

  ‘Hence the split lip…’

  Perdita’s face lit up. ‘You should have seen the other guy …’

  She laughed until she’d realized what she’d said.

  Honey remembered noticing the shininess around Brett Coleridge’s right eye. Bet he never thought a woman could throw such a big punch. Great stuff!

  ‘He hadn’t guessed, and neither had Boris Morris,’ added Perdita. ‘Scheherazade did. It was her idea to turn the tables on him once I told her about Candy and the other girls. He called them “tabloid tarts”.’

  ‘Honeypots by any other name.’

  ‘And he was Mr North.’

  ‘Sounds a bit Jekyll and Hyde to me,’ Doherty remarked.

  Perdita handed him a tea towel. She indicated the butter around his mouth. She continued to speak.

  ‘That’s about it. Scheherazade wanted revenge on Coleridge for taking Martyna away from her. She hated him and knew him for what he was. She’d tried to persuade Martyna not to marry him, but she wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘And you told Scheherazade that the script was yours and she knew …’

  Honey stopped. She knew Perdita’s secret, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to say it.

  Perdita did it for her. ‘Martyna never let on. She didn’t need to. Scheherazade was an expert make-up artist. We’d met before. I’d done a few walk-ons and bit parts in the past. A good make-up artist knows the difference.’

  ‘That would have made Brett Coleridge mad – with you and with Boris.’

  Perdita laughed. ‘Not nearly as angry as when Scheherazade flashed him the photos of him and me and told him what she was going to do.’

  Her expression saddened. Scheherazade was found dead shortly after she’d called Brett Coleridge and had mentioned the photographs.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us about the script earlier?’

  ‘I didn’t think it had anything to do with the murder. Anyway, I felt such a fool. Boris had paid me. In law there was nothing left to do. I had to accept things as they were.’

  ‘So the bit that was read out at the play reading?’

  ‘It shouldn’t have been. Aunt Jane put it forward and I completely forgot about it. The copyright lies with Boris Morris.’

  Steve Doherty was already phoning the station. ‘Get Brett Coleridge back in. There’s new evidence. I’m on my way over.’

  He turned to Honey. ‘Stay with her. Try and find out anything else you can that’ll nail Coleridge. He’s our prime suspect. I don’t want him walking free.’

  She nodded. Her eyes sparkled when he kissed her on the cheek. She doubted he noticed, fired up as he was with hopes of bringing things to a swift conclusion. Last night was one thing. Today was another.

  Honey sat back down opposite Perdita. The facts of this case were falling into place and Brett Coleridge was about to tumble. She was under no doubt he would have tumbled a lot earlier if Perdita had mentioned the script. There was only one reason for her silence.

  ‘So! You thought your aunt – Miss Cleveley – killed Martyna?’

  Perdita looked up, a startled expression on her face. ‘He said he saw her going into the trailer.’

  Honey frowned. ‘Who said?’

  ‘The man on the mobile canteen. He said he definitely saw her enter the trailer.’

  Ryker! It had to be Ryker. But he’d told the police that he’d seen a woman wearing a shawl and bonnet enter Martyna’s trailer. He told Perdita that it was definitely Miss Cleveley.

  Honey felt her own expression clouding. Why would Ryker do that? Anything was possible of course. The man was a mix of chameleon and liar. He’d pretended to be Dick Richards, then swore black was blue that he hadn’t. The real Dick Richards’s words came back to her: ‘I only use him when I’m pushed. He’s a bit of a liar and is downright pompous about his cooking.’

  Perdita’s continuing description of events interrupted her thoughts.

  ‘He was a good listener – and a good cook,’ Perdita added with a smile. ‘I told him all about the script and how Boris had bought it off me for a song. He commiserated and said he hated people like that. They deserved their comeuppance.’

  A chill ran down Honey’s spine as she listened. She thought back to the day Martyna was murdered. There had been people accompanying her across the road that day. She hadn’t paid them much regard. At first they’d been aiming for the same seating area. Preferring to all sit together, they’d diverted to another location.

  Yet they’d told her they had allotted chair space. Their names were printed on the back of the chairs. She hadn’t a clue what name had been on the back of her chair. She could guess who was supposed to be sitting next to her. Boris Morris!

  She’d inadvertently sat in the chair next to that of the director, though she hadn’t noticed at the time. It was all about shifting the blame. He should have picked up the bloodstained script.

  Brett Coleridge closed his eyes and exhaled a deep sigh. Questioning by one police detective after another had got to him. It was only with the insistence of his lawyer that they had let him go.

  What with them and the pressure of dealing with Ross Gordon, his nightclub partner, and the insurance company, the going was heavy.

  Ross wound him up no end.

  ‘Silver spoon in yer mouth and gold-trimmed underpants! You don’t know nothing! Came from the rough end of town, me. Grew up with crap, made a living from crap!’

  Brett could imagine Ross being the school bully, nicking the other kids’ pocket money, flogging ciggies in the playground, even drugs at the school gate. Ross had no scruples; he liked to think he still did.

  As for his bankers, they were on his back, bullying him in a different way, but nonetheless just as overbearing. The insurance money had paid off a lot of debt, but not all of it. The banks were not happy with the group of companies left to him by his father. They’d told him to his face that he wasn’t up to the job. Either they bring in outside help or the Coleridge Group would be no more.

  He poured himself a double Scotch, tipped back the glass and closed his eyes. It helped, but he needed something else. He needed to forget his problems. Self-indulgence suited him best. Drink, coke and sex – not necessarily in that order, but plenty of it. Two bottles of champagne rather than one – and two girls to match.

  Yes, he thought to himself. I need to lose myself in loose living and looser women.

  He reached for the phone and dialled a famili
ar number.

  ‘This is for you, old chap,’ he said out loud, before she answered and he put in his order.

  Eight hours later he woke up naked in a king-sized bed at a top London hotel. The room was in semi-darkness, lit by the light of a black and gold shaded table lamp.

  He attempted to raise his head. It hurt. He groaned. His head ached something rotten.

  The girls were gone. He hadn’t expected anything else. Girls like them were a regular habit. He tried to remember what they looked like, but couldn’t. He tried to remember the events of the night before, but couldn’t – not in any great detail.

  OK, he’d taken a little this and that to help things go with a swing. The girls had brought the stuff with them – high-quality cocaine. A fitting accompaniment to two bottles of Krug – or was it three?

  Mixing drugs and alcohol didn’t usually knock him out, but there was always a first time. Suddenly a thought came to him. Had they given him more than what he’d bargained for? Had they drugged him up and cleaned him out?

  It felt as though a guy with a hammer was pacing around his head and taking swings at a cast-iron bell.

  Christ, what had they given him?

  Pushing himself up on his elbows, he blinked until his eyes focused. His clothes were still folded over a chair. His wallet, mobile phone and Faber gold cufflinks were still on the bedside table along with his Rolex watch.

  ‘Must have been bad stuff,’ he muttered to himself. Closing his eyes, he let his head fall gently back against the pillow. All was well with the world. He’d just had one hell of a night.

  It wasn’t until later that flashes of recollection came back. The two girls laughing. Men too. Just a crazy dream. He didn’t do men. Not his style.

  The Zodiac was its usual dark, smoky self. The fact that it was situated beneath North Parade in old wine vaults meant extractor fans had their work cut out keeping the atmosphere pure and sweet.

  Succulent steaks straight from Scotland sizzled on the grill. The bluish smoke kept coming even when the steaks were exchanged for garlic prawns. The smell from both was delicious.

  Doherty was late.

  Honey lingered over her drink. Tonight was to have been a purely social event. She’d dressed accordingly: a black dress with a cowl neck, long sleeves, and a sleek crossover panel that flattened her stomach and emphasized a pretty neat waistline.

  He came in with a grin on his face.

  ‘You’re late.’

  ‘You sound like a schoolmarm,’ Doherty replied.

  Honey narrowed her eyes and fixed him with a penetrating gaze. ‘Who’s rung your bell?’

  His grin blossomed into a fully-fledged smile. Reaching into his pocket, he brought out a photograph which he slammed down on the bar.

  ‘Bet you don’t know who this is.’

  Honey held the photo up to an overhead spotlight.

  ‘I know what he is. The number underneath is a dead giveaway.’

  ‘Serial number from a mugshot album courtesy of Thames Valley police. His name’s Ross Gordon. Used to be a mover and shaker in the criminal world. He’d like us to think he’s changed his spots – a successful businessman nowadays. Wears genuine Gucci suits instead of knock-off jeans and a leather jacket. He also knows our old mate, Brett Coleridge. His business partner in that nightclub of his.’

  ‘So dear old Brett is in league with a gangster …’

  ‘Word was he used to be open for contract in times gone by,’ said Doherty. The smile had gone from his face.

  Honey felt a sense of horror run through her. Had she guessed right? She looked him straight in the eye.

  ‘You think Coleridge paid him to kill the woman he was going to marry.’

  ‘More than likely. Thames Valley are taking him in for questioning. I’ve got the job of putting the million-dollar question to Coleridge. Did you do it and why?’

  ‘Don’t we already know why? The insurance money?’

  He made a so-so kind of nodding movement. ‘Not necessarily. I’m going to take another look at the stuff that forensics lifted from Martyna’s trailer. It’s a long shot, but there could be something we’ve overlooked.’

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Once a month the staff at the Green River Hotel had Monday lunch together.

  By the time they actually sat down to eat it, lunchtime – that period between twelve noon and two o’clock – was long gone. It was usually four o’clock by the time they tucked in.

  A group of Dutch tourists, checking out that morning, had commented on the crispness of the bedlinen.

  ‘Such a pretty lace trim around the pillowcases.’

  Honey had thanked them. Receiving compliments first thing made the day go with a swing.

  Lunchtime had been busy, and now they were all sitting down together.

  Conversation had flown back and forth. Honey was being asked about the case. They were more interested than usual, simply because it was the movies and a famous actress was involved.

  ‘It all goes back to Martyna Manderley.’ She sighed as she pushed the Brussels sprouts to one side, the potatoes to the other. Today she wasn’t really interested in food. They’d reached a dead end. Suspects had been questioned and discounted. So what next.

  ‘Phew!’

  Smudger collapsed into the chair opposite her, congratulating himself on introducing a carvery the day before. His idea had turned out to be very successful. ‘Carveries suit Sunday lunchtimes. Said it would, didn’t I?’

  Honey nodded. ‘True.’

  ‘They can’t take their eyes off the food. People eat with their eyes. Didn’t I tell you that?’

  ‘True. You did.’

  ‘Course I did. I asked this bloke if he wanted a bit from the breast and the leg. He nearly jumped out of his skin. Thought I was being rude. Another woman asked me for a bit for her pussy.’ He grinned. ‘Turned out she had a cat and wanted to know if I had any scraps. Anyway, this guy told me that he was that engrossed in what was going on his plate that he forgot that someone was standing behind the carvery serving ’im. That’s how it is when folks are ravenous.’

  Honey was about to agree in an offhand kind of way, when the immensity of what he had said clicked into gear.

  The chair scraped the floor as she got up. Two casual comments and everything had suddenly fallen into place. First, the Dutch tourist remarking on the bedlinen and how crisp the lacy borders were. No one commented on plain pillowcases, but put a bit of lace around them … they noticed!

  ‘Right,’ said Smudger, seemingly perplexed that his statement had triggered such an abrupt reaction. Struggling with an explanation, he looked up at her. ‘What did I say?’

  Honey cupped his face and kissed him on both cheeks. Smack! Smack!

  ‘You stated the obvious. When people are hungry, they don’t really notice who’s dishing out the food. Ted Ryker didn’t see anything because he wasn’t there. The last extras to be served had food heaped on their plates. Ted was usually pretty hot on portion control. Someone else had taken over for a short time. Nobody really noticed who. After all, who notices a caterer? So where was Ted Ryker during that period? Was he really having a smoke? Or while the lights were off, did he sneak into Martyna’s trailer himself?’

  She was on a roll. She couldn’t stop. All eyes were on her.

  ‘And then there was the atomizer. It was knocked over, yet it didn’t look as though there’d been a struggle. Ryker would have smelled of bacon and sausage and greasy things cooking for breakfast. The atomizer helped hide that. So did the fact that the fan heater was blowing cold air. It was a freezing cold day. The heater should have been blowing hot. But smells don’t carry as well on cold air as they do on warm or hot air. Don’t you see?’

  Smudger sat frowning. This stuff was beyond him, but he liked his boss and wouldn’t want her to think he was dumb or uninterested. He asked what he thought was a relevant question.

  ‘So what good reason did he have to murder her?’

/>   ‘She might have criticized his cooking?’

  ‘Cool. I’ll go with that.’

  Doherty was not persuaded. ‘You don’t know about Coleridge’s business partner in the nightclub. He used to make his living as a hit man.’

  Honey was skeptical. ‘And you think he may have killed Martyna?’

  ‘He might have done.’

  ‘And Scheherazade?’

  ‘Possibly, though he does have an alibi.’

  ‘I bet you Ryker doesn’t. I bet you he was the figure I saw running away. Perhaps he thought he dropped something in there. A plastic fork, crumbs from a Cornish pasty … or something.’

  Doherty went quiet. ‘I’ll check with Forensics.’

  Honey put the phone down. ‘Right. I need a man.’

  Smudger stopped hammering a veal cutlet and looked at his watch. ‘At this time in the morning?’

  ‘Lindsey and I cannot go alone. He’s a big man and we’ve got some uncomfortable questions to ask.’

  Lindsey was half-buried behind a box of toilet rolls. That’s how it was in the hospitality trade. Head receptionist one minute, bathroom attendant the next.

  ‘We?’ she said pointedly.

  ‘You wouldn’t want your mother to go alone, would you?’

  ‘I take it we’re off to question this mad chef who you think may have cut short Martyna Manderley’s acting career?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Smudger leaned on his meat hammer. ‘Give me a good reason I should come with you – besides being a gentleman.’

  ‘Because Ted Ryker reckons he’s the best chef in all the world and all the rest are rubbish?’

  Smudger began discarding his whites. ‘Take me to the guy. He’s got a lesson to learn.’

  They’d left by the time Doherty phoned. Mary Jane answered the phone.

  ‘They’ve gone to nab a murderer,’ said Mary Jane.

  Doherty groaned. ‘I was afraid of that.’

  ‘Shall I tell her you called?’

  ‘No.’

  After he put down the phone, a woman in forensics eyed him over her shoulder. ‘Was it helpful?’

  He looked down at the contents of the forensic bag removed from Martyna Manderley’s trailer.