‘Absolutely. Leaf mould. The organic type chewed up and distributed to organic growers. Karen Pinker had traces of it on her clothes. We’ve done extra tests on the mud in Lady Macrottie’s stomach and that checks out the same.’
‘The mud contained it?’
Cranfield shook his head. ‘No. The amounts were too small for that. Whoever pushed her under had leaf mould on their hands and clothes.’
Honey had left Lindsey with orders to check out the last will and testament of Lady Carlotta Macrottie. Just as John Sheer had said, her ladyship had owned a lot of property which she’d sold off. The dilapidated Hamthorpe Hall was the sole property of Justin Macrottie. Her ladyship had intended keeping all her money to herself, not spending it on her husband’s property. On top of that she’d been seeking a divorce. Seeing as her mother had gone off somewhere, Lindsey had emailed everything to Doherty.
Head down and deep in thought, Doherty headed for his office with just one thought on his mind.
‘Get a warrant for Macrottie.’
‘What’s his motive, do you think?’ asked one of his detective sergeants. ‘Insurance for the wife?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Is that going to be enough to arrest him on?’ The sergeant sounded as doubtful as Doherty felt.
‘It’ll do for a start.’
Yes, of course he’d like more. His gut instinct told him there had to be more. Once he had Macrottie under lock and key he could fire off a few more questions that he felt sure would nail his man.
As for Karen Pinker … he hadn’t quite got his head around that one just yet, but he was getting there. Once it was all over he’d phone the wife to make sure his daughter had got home OK. After that he’d invite Honey for dinner out followed by a dirty night in – all night.
The team were ready and raring to go, looking for him to lead the way.
Before he got moving he grabbed his phone, which had been playing up of late, running out of power at the worst moment. It had been on charge for a couple of hours. He checked the readout. It said ‘fully charged’. It also listed several messages, all from the same number. There was no time to check them all, so he checked the last, staring at it in disbelief.
‘Shit!’
Then he was off, a fleet of police cars dashing out towards the main A4 in the direction of Macrottie Hall.
Chapter Forty-two
Gloria Cross was not amused and the doctor and his assistant sitting across from her could see she was not amused.
‘I got my friend Nancy to check what facelifts cost in Venezuela and they sure don’t cost anything like what you’re trying to charge me.’
The statuesque blonde shifted in her seat and tried a slinky smile.
‘The establishments we use are very upmarket. Far superior to anything anyone else uses. We have many testimonials from satisfied clients.’
Gloria Cross, Honey’s well turned-out, well switched-on mother, glared at her.
‘Prove it!’
Serena Sarabande extracted a pale green binder from the desk. ‘If you’d like to look at these …’
Gloria shook her head, one eye narrowed as though she were looking through a telescope.
‘Let’s face it, your reputation is in tatters. I wouldn’t have come here if Enid hadn’t recommended you. I should have known my daughter was here for a reason. She was working for the police, wasn’t she? Looking into the death of that woman, poor soul! She only came in for a mudpack and went out in a coffin.’
If Gloria had given herself time to draw breath she would have seen their furtive looks, and the occasional secretive smiles that only lovers share. Now, Dr Dexter and Serena Sarabande exchanged looks of alarm.
‘What exactly is it you want?’ Serena asked her.
Gloria fixed her with an icy stare, the sort that could bring a shop assistant to tears and send her family running for cover.
‘I want my money back.’
‘Certainly. Here you are.’
Dr Dexter got out a cheque book.
Gloria eyed him speculatively.
‘I’d prefer cash.’
The nib of his pen had only just touched the paper. He paused. She expected reluctance. Instead she got a slippery smile.
‘Well of course, Mrs Cross. Shall I make it out to yourself?’
Gloria Cross had perfected different looks over the years and not just in dress style. She knew how to use her eyes, how to flutter them provocatively, how to give a sharp, piercing look that could skewer the strongest heart to the wall. ‘You’re not listening, buster. I just told you, I want cash.’
Both Dr Dexter and Serena Sarabande batted the same look backwards and forwards at each other. Gloria’s eyesight was better than a rabbit on intravenous carrot juice. It wasn’t so much about seeing in the dark. More about reading people like a book, and she could read these two all right!
Serena unfolded her arms. ‘I’ll get it,’ she said softly.
Gloria noticed the way she touched the doctor’s shoulder on the way out. She also sensed some understanding, some cross-referencing of emotions here. She hadn’t lived over seventy years without picking up on the vibes; these two were having an affair. She was sure of it.
Dr Dexter cleared his throat as he shut the drawer. ‘We are, of course, sorry to lose your custom.’ His smile was practised.
‘Have you ever been an actor?’
His smile wavered. ‘No. Not really.’
‘You should be. You’d make a good ham sandwich. Hammy through and through,’ she said, turning away to admire what was left of the parkland outside the window. Three children rode past on scooters, another on a pair of roller skates.
Her eyes narrowed as she watched the kids outside. OK, she was vain but she wasn’t stupid. These two were handing her back her money with little argument. They must have enough, she decided, and they’re not worrying about repeat business. That could mean only one thing. They were leaving for pastures new and they were not coming back.
‘That was close,’ said Serena as Roger Dexter heaved her suitcase into the boot of her car.
Dr Dexter laughed. ‘She was a shrewd old bird, that one. A damned good job the others weren’t like her or the bank account would be a lot smaller than it is.’
Serena looked back at the mansion. ‘I won’t be sorry to leave it. I hope John Sheer knocks it down.’
‘He can’t. It’s Grade Two listed.’
‘But you told me that you had special dispensation to knock it down.’
He patted the car boot amiably, as though, she thought, he was patting a woman’s backside. Any woman – not just her.
‘I forged a document. Anyway, by the time he finds out I’ll be long gone.’
‘We’ll be long gone,’ she reminded him.
‘Of course.’
His smile was as reassuring as ever. It was one of the things that had attracted her to him in the first place. That and the good sex. And an instinct for making money – in any way possible, and not necessarily legal – that matched her own.
She thrilled as he took hold of her shoulders, kissed her on the forehead, then on the tip of her nose. He was the only man she had ever met who made her feel childlike and vulnerable. He was the only man who dared treat her that way.
He took hold of her chin between finger and thumb. ‘I’m going to ask you something terribly important. Your answer may affect the rest of your life.’
Her heart leapt in her cast-iron chest. Deep down she was an old-fashioned girl. She wanted him to slip a ring on her finger and say that they would be together for ever.
She just looked at him, unable to move, unable to speak. She waited.
‘Very simply, darling, it’s this.’ His voice was low and seductive. He kissed her again, this time lightly on the lips. ‘Quite simply, do you have the tickets?’
If he noticed her crestfallen expression he made no comment. His own smiling countenance was unaltered. Brave bunny that she was, she
nodded and smiled, though a knife was cutting her guts into garters.
‘Of course I do. Rio here we come.’
‘Indeed. Now. You know what to do. Get the luggage cleared and I’ll catch up with you – and I’ll bring the tickets with me.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got enough time to clear out my desk at home. Don’t go without me now.’
Again he treated her like a little girl, flicking at her nose with his pinky. Again she went all gooey inside, totally at odds with her crisp, cold exterior.
Glowing in what she interpreted as affection, Serena Sarabande did as she was told. Chivalrous to the last, Roger Dexter closed the car door after her and blew her a kiss through the glass.
Half an hour later he was on the other side of the city, his case packed and secure in the boot of his Aston Martin DBS. He saw her wave to him from the window. Before he’d got more than half way from car to house she’d opened the door.
‘Magda, darling.’
Her arms were around his neck in no time. Her nubile young body was firm and held promises of unending vigour – just the sort of girl he adored.
‘Have you got the tickets, darling?’
He patted his chest. ‘Two one-way tickets to the Maldives where we pick up our yacht. From there the world is our oyster.’
Chapter Forty-three
‘I don’t approve of what you did. It weren’t right and you deserves to be punished. I’m going to the police.’
Lord Justin Macrottie took pleasure in the fact that he could mimic anyone and everyone if he had a mind too. Mimicking Jake Blunt, his Jack of all trades who had served him and his family for years, was no exception. Poor bloke. That was all over now.
The old sod hadn’t seen it coming. He was now lying dead at his lordship’s feet, a pool of blood spreading around his head like a liquid halo.
Justin Macrottie leaned on the shovel, his weapon of choice. Very fitting, he thought, that old Jake had been bludgeoned with a tool he’d used all his life for digging and planting.
‘Now ’tis your turn to be planted,’ drawled Justin, still mimicking the voice of the dead man.
Luckily for him, Jake was lighter in weight than he looked and of compact build. This meant he fitted quite well into the wheelbarrow.
Eyes glazed, arms dangling, old Jake was wheeled out of the potting shed and around to the vegetable garden.
Beds of newly planted vegetables sparkled green in the fresh clear air.
Justin paused for a minute to admire his and Jake’s work. In future he would have to hire gardeners from outside to help him in his organic venture. While Carlotta was alive he hadn’t been able to do that, but now he could – thanks to her wanting a divorce.
He hadn’t been able to allow that of course. She’d dangled the money she’d made from selling the old manor house in front of his nose for years before finally deciding she would not spend it on Macrottie Hall but would divorce him and spend it on herself. Stupid cow!
Jake must have guessed but hadn’t been unduly fazed by Carlotta’s demise. They’d loathed each other. She’d wanted to get rid of him, but Justin wouldn’t hear of it. ‘Jake has been here for ever.’
The odd thing was that he would indeed now be here for ever, but Justin was sure he would be pleased that he was still aiding plants to grow.
The ground was muddy so it took a bit of effort to push the wheelbarrow off the path and on to the grass. He’d dug an oblong hole that once filled with earth would become an asparagus bed. It was all set with lovely, squashy compost that was rotting nicely. Old Jake would rot along with it, a fitting resting place for the old man. Jake would be caring for the plants in death just as he had in life.
‘Heave ho!’ Justin cried, sending a flock of crows from the beech tree.
A quick tip and old Jake fell like a broken puppet on to the mulch at the bottom of the hole.
Lord Justin Macrottie looked down at the sprawled body.
‘There, old chap. Now look what you made me do. You’ve only yourself to blame,’ he said wagging a warning finger. ‘If you hadn’t got so uptight about that Karen person this would never have happened.’
Taking hold of the shovel he’d placed beneath Jake’s body, he began filling in the hole. As he did so he tried to piece together why Jake had reacted like that. The girl knew everything! Carlotta had told her of her intentions regarding the money she’d got for the development. That’s why he’d followed her.
The fact that she was having an affair with the doctor from the clinic had been useful. He’d met him the once, heard his voice, and had it off pat.
His impersonation had totally fooled the girl. Karen Pinker had been besotted with the doctor. He’d heard it in her intake of breath when he’d phoned her. ‘Karen, my precious … I dreamt of you last night and of all the delicious things I would do to you when we next meet.’
He laughed. He just couldn’t resist pretending to be somebody else. If he hadn’t been born to grandeur – faded as it was – he would have become an impersonator. He had the talent. There was no doubt about it.
He would have continued filling in the hole but the sound of a car crunching its way up the gravel drive made him stop.
‘Visitors,’ he said to the corpse lying at the bottom of the hole. ‘Won’t be long, old chap. I’ll be right back to cover you up.’
Stretching his legs and rubbing his back, Smudger took in the crumbling grandeur of Hamthorpe Hall and came out with a load of television mush.
‘Viewers! Who lives in a house like this? ’
Honey eyed him reprovingly. ‘You know who lives here.’
Smudger eyed the old place with disdain. ‘I know who should live here. The Addams Family. It’s crumbling.’
‘It’s the Macrottie stately pile.’
‘Yeah. And that’s all it will be before very long. A pile of old stones and rubbish.’
Honey clicked her tongue in reproof. Smudger reached for his asparagus.
There was something worrying about a chef clutching bunches of asparagus like that. Any other vegetable might not have been so bad; a cauliflower for instance. They were round and white, but asparagus had little spear-shaped heads. A chef looked as though he might do injury with a bunch of asparagus.
He accompanied Honey up to the front door, a step crumbling under his feet just as it had under hers.
He looked down at it. ‘Crikey. This place ain’t safe.’ He waved his asparagus. ‘I’ll probably find Jake around the back. See you.’
Smudger disappeared out of sight.
‘Here goes.’
Honey pressed the plastic doorbell and waited, listening for the sound of footfall from the other side of the door.
She was feeling nervous. Marching up to the front door had helped reinforce her courage.
She was nervous about what she had to do. Hopefully Doherty had checked his phone. On the journey here she’d checked her own phone. The batteries were down again. You need a new model, she thought to herself. Something with apps – whatever they might be.
Technology was not her scene. She left all that stuff to Lindsey.
Now what was she going to say to his lordship? She couldn’t just barge in and accuse him of killing his wife. Mentioning Scruffy might help. If Scruffy knew his lordship then his lordship might know him. At the very least he would know he’d been noticed, so he couldn’t lie – could he?
In a way she was hoping he might own up to killing his wife, just like they did in an Agatha Christie novel when the suspects all sat down at the end to learn who was guilty. While sipping tea of course, and munching on cucumber sandwiches or slices of Madeira cake.
The door creaked stiffly open and the smell of old dust and mouldy carpets furled outwards.
Justin Macrottie’s face looked like a wax mask against the interior gloom.
‘Yes?’
Honey sneezed.
‘I won’t say anything stupid like bless you. Just tell me what you want and we can both be on
our way.’
His lordship was obviously not in the mood for entertaining. Throwing caution to the wind she jettisoned any attempt to lie and say she was collecting information on behalf of some arcane organization. The truth came out.
‘My name’s Honey Driver. I’m with the police.’
‘In what way?’
One of his eyebrows kept twitching. It was hard not to stare. His mouth was wide and his bottom lip drooped and was wet with saliva. He reminded her of a character from an old black and white movie; the 1930s version of a madman.
‘I’m a consultant,’ she blurted. It seemed a reasonably acceptable definition of what she did. Pity she didn’t get paid the going rate for being a consultant. She’d shut the hotel down and spend one month every year in the Caribbean.
‘So you’re not a real policewoman?’
It was hard not to lie under his withering stare. ‘Not exactly … I’m here by myself. Some questions arose …’
‘Your questions or police questions?’
She hesitated. She was half way to being honest so she might as well go the whole hog.
‘Well, mine, actually …’
Suddenly he smiled. On anybody else it might have made them look less mad. On him it did the opposite and gave Honey the creeps.
The door was opened wider. ‘Come in.’
Her gut instinct was to dash back to Smudger’s car and lock herself in.
Thinking of Smudger helped her feel less threatened. ‘I have a friend with me,’ she said.
‘Yes. Me.’
He caught hold of her hand. ‘I’ve just made some soup. Do you know I grow my own produce here? It’s organic. Quite delicious. Do try some.’
She put her trust in him believing that she really did have someone with her. What difference would it make to try out his soup? He was obviously very proud of it.
He led her through the dusty passage and down an equally dusty staircase to the kitchen below.
Along one wall a series of pine shelves held everything from copper cooking pots to jelly moulds, huge china jugs, and vast meat platters.
The kitchen was heated by a vast cast-iron range set into the chimney piece. Free-standing pine units of cupboards and drawers ran all the way around the room and a brace of pheasants hung from the ceiling. The heat wasn’t doing them any good. They were beginning to smell.
Murder By Mudpack: A Honey Driver Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 23