The waitress returned to their table with the dessert menu. They remained silent for a while, as they selected their choice and placed the order. It had been a long road, more painful than most. There were still so many questions that would have to remain unanswered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
That afternoon Olivia and three workmen were busy redecorating Ada Beckerleg’s home in The Digey. Although her aunt had declined past offers of decoration, Olivia resolved to make the decision for her, while she was still in hospital. A new look to the cottage would also help her forget the trauma. What Ada Beckerleg also did not know was, that since her neighbour Vivienne had gone AWOL, the large semi-detached house next door was up for sale, and Olivia had bought it. Although, for now, she had booked into a hotel until the house was ready.
It had been an easy decision to seek a divorce from Piran, Olivia reflected. Mainly due to his constant womanizing and adultery. Their old home was up for sale, and Piran could look for a new sugar mummy. Although, she had to admit, his heartfelt pleas of love and adoration were Oscar worthy, and his onion filled tears were a sight to behold.
Apart from putting up new wallpaper and laying carpets, the workmen had also knocked down the high garden wall which separated the two gardens. Exquisitely landscaped with several water features and rockeries, it bore no resemblance to its former life.
‘Meow.’ The sound came from a tiny tabby kitten that she had bought for her aunt, to help her forget Marmaduke. Olivia bent down to pick it up and began stroking it. Her daughter, Polly, who was currently staying with a friend, would remain at Truro public school and live with her in St. Ives. Polly loved surfing and horse riding, so she would be fine. Yet, there was one thing that Olivia was dreading telling her daughter, and that was about her grandfather, Jonathan. They had always been so close. Never mind, she would take Polly on a Mediterranean cruise for Christmas, that would cheer her up, as she had always longed to go to Egypt. Piran could see her every other weekend, if he wished.
‘Excuse me, Mrs Trelawney, where does the four poster bed go?’ a workman asked.
‘Oh, sorry, I should have mentioned, my name is no longer Trelawney, it is Trevithick,’ Olivia smiled, having removed the ‘Bray’ from her maiden name. ‘Could you put the beds in the house next door? The four poster is for my daughter’s room, the double bedroom at the front. My bedroom is the double at the back, so can you put the electric bed in there, please.’
Olivia looked down at the soft bundle of fur in her hands. ‘What do you want, little fellow, some milk?’ But the kitten had only wanted a cuddle and had seemingly fallen asleep. She placed it down gently on the couch, and then made her way to the house next door.
Using a duster, she began to polish the new brass name plate on the wall. She had changed the name from Lyonesse Lodge to Primrose Manor; she would have the whole facia decorated with flowers. She had already chosen the colour scheme, yellow primroses and yellow and pink climbing roses.
‘Hello, me’ ‘andsome,’ the milkman called out from the milk float.
Olivia smiled and gave a nod.
‘Is Mrs Beckerleg coming home, I heard she was taken to hospital?’
‘Yes, she’ll be back in a few weeks. I’m her niece, I’ve just bought this house.’
‘Oh, that’s nice, she’ll be having someone to look out for her. She’s a lovely lady. And there will be a bit of glamour in the street now you’re here,’ he flirted.
Olivia blushed; it had been a long time since a man had said something nice to her. She was also feeling more confident due to having lost 6 stone and changing her hairstyle. She had even replaced her spectacles with contacts, revealing large hazel eyes which had been hidden for too many years. Only now she realised why she had let herself go for so long, it was all to do with Piran. He had made her feel worthless. Secretly, she had always had a soft spot for Guthrie, he was a real man, big and muscular.
‘Do ‘ee be wanting to sign up for a daily pint?’ the milkman interrupted her daydream. ‘Here’s a list of what we supply, although I’ll need a day’s notice to bring potatoes,’ he smiled, handing her the form.
‘Thanks, I could do with this.’
‘I can deliver bread, milk, butter, potatoes and clotted cream.’
‘Okay then. Can I order two pints daily, and a loaf of bread every other day, as my daughter will be living with me,’ she explained. ‘And a packet of unsalted butter, a tub of clotted cream and a bag of potatoes once every three weeks, please?’
‘Certainly. I collect the payment fortnightly on Saturday mornings. If that’s not convenient for any reason...’
‘No, that will be fine, thank you. You’re running a bit late today, aren’t you?’
‘Ha-ha, no, me ‘andsome, I’m just taking the float to the garage for repairs,’ he grinned. ‘Do ‘ee want anything now? I still have some bits and pieces left.’
‘Don’t suppose you have 3 spare pints and a loaf?’ she smiled hopefully.
‘Yes, I think I can manage that,’ he winked.
Olivia needed the extra milk for the workmen’s tea.
Only a few moments after the milkman had gone, her mobile phone rang.
‘Hello... Oh, hello, Gemma... Yes, I know... Well. I’m sure you’ll manage. Daddy has left a tidy sum for you and the girls... Of course you’ll cope... Yes, of course we’re still friends. Bring the girls over during the school holidays to see my new home here in St. Ives... No, I’m divorcing Piran.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
‘Moreish,’ Brian said, dipping into his creamy dessert, as they sat outside on the terrace. They could view the cool blue Malpas waters from here, and watch the occasional yacht sail by.
‘This gateau is also really nice, I love walnuts,’ Abigail mumbled, her mouth dribbling cake. Then she turned to face Guthrie. ‘Can I ask why Sebastian Dubois chose to involve himself with the Trembaths, I mean, why choose them and not someone else?’
‘I think there was a family connection way back due to their bee farming businesses.’ Guthrie dipped his spoon into the cherry and cream cake. ‘Sebastian Dubois ran a legit bee farm back in Belgium. The product was called King Bee Honey. The problem for him was, how to prolong the shelf life of the sarin, and make the packaging and product unique to the buyer.’
‘How would that be possible?’ Abigail asked.
‘Dubois’ contract with Jonathan also included violet and saffron contamination. It’s all in my report how it was achieved, and about how the flowers were artificially sweetened.’
‘I think I have heard of this sort of thing before,’ Gerry frowned. ‘Japan I think.’
‘Yes, it is known as entomological warfare to be precise,’ Brian expounded. ‘Lt. General Shiro Ishii used fleas that had been infected with the plague to attack China.’
‘I’d always thought it was flies.’
‘It may have been both.’ Guthrie rubbed his eyes, he was so very tired. Even his throat was sore from talking too much; forced to remember things that he would rather forget.
‘Mm sweet violet,’ Gerry raised his thick brows. ‘Worth a couple of Michelin stars if the Penventon adds that to its menu, ha-ha.’
‘By the way, Guthrie, you were recently seen chatting to a chamber maid there, so my spies tell me,’ Brian laughed.
‘I have several lady friends there, actually.’
‘You’re not on the game are you?’ Gerry quizzed. ‘I have heard that black men are twice the size, ha-ha.’
Abigail frowned.
‘What’s up, honey, don’t like my vulgarity?’
‘It’s not that, Gerry. I was just thinking about what on earth could anyone do with flowers as chemical weapons?’
Brian put down his spoon. ‘Well, we know the Trembaths’ produced violet and lavender soaps and other toiletries, some had sarin in them.’
‘Oh my God!’ she cried, her eyes open wide. ‘That’s why you went mad at me, when someone had sent me the box of toiletries.’
/>
Guthrie gave her a subdued smile.
‘I suppose contaminating the flowers would be an easy way of getting the bees to be carriers. Contaminated pollen. What do you think, Guthrie?’ Gerry asked.
‘Yes, of course. Contaminating the flowers is far easier than injecting every bee,’ Guthrie nodded. ‘As for the soaps and perfumes, like the flowers, I think the only contaminated ones were the violets. Cornish violets.’
‘You mean only the violets had sarin in them?’
‘Yes, violets, and maybe honey. I don’t think Jonathan had managed to infuse saffron with the sarin yet, he only got as far as contaminating it with cocaine.’
‘What does sarin look like?’ Abigail asked, as she wiped cream from the edges of her mouth with a serviette.
‘It’s a liquid that is turned into a gas,’ Brian explained. ‘It was invented in Germany in 1938 as a pesticide, you know, for killing insects. It’s now listed as a chemical weapon of mass destruction.’
‘So if it is designed for killing insects then how comes it didn’t kill the bees that were carriers?’
‘Yeah, good point, Abigail.’ Gerry was impressed.
‘Jonathan must have produced some antidote in the bee. Very clever I admit,’ Guthrie remarked.
‘So, perhaps whatever made them immune, caused them to change colour, orange rather than yellow,’ Abigail suggested.
‘I expect you’re right,’ Guthrie conceded. ‘Maybe Jonathan developed some sort of mixture of Atropine and Pralidoxime chloride – they are antidotes for nerve agent toxicity. Well, that’s what my friend Solly thinks.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know anything about nerve agents,’ Brian admitted. ‘What about Jonathan, not so altruistic after all?’
‘Well, he was in some ways, oddly enough,’ Guthrie sighed. ‘Jonathan had initially been dealing with the Emirates to help him with his own research.’
‘I know they’re over budget at Treliske, but I didn’t think they’d resort to killing off the patients,’ Gerry jested.
‘Scientists in Dubai had claimed that the glue obtained from bees could stop cancer. Jonathan had genuinely wanted to continue this research in Treliske.’
‘I suppose it was Dubois’ idea to make the bees sarin carriers, so it must have been just pure luck that he met up with Jonathan,’ Gerry said.
Abigail considered Gerry’s comment. ‘Unless of course they already knew each other, Dubois and Jonathan I mean.’
‘Why would they have known each other, if Sebastian Dubois was based in Belgium?’ Gerry looked bemused. ‘And why would a beekeeper have had any prior link to a hospital executive?’
Guthrie decided it was time to speak.
‘Because they both, be it sporadically, worked for the MOD.’
*****
They ordered coffees and liqueurs to finish off the meal.
Guthrie handed out cigars for the men and a bottle of Chanel for Abigail as a small treat.
His body still ached from the numerous assaults and bullet wound, his mind fared no better.
Abigail was now sharing a smell of her wrist with her two colleagues, for them to review the perfume. He knew he had got it so badly wrong. He would have to make it up to her big time, some day.
‘Brian, why did you tell me over the phone that Guthrie will be charged with murder?’ Abigail suddenly digressed. ‘You aren’t really going to charge him, are you?’
‘I’m afraid we have to,’ the DI replied. ‘Unless he can think of a way to get himself out of it. One corpse was found, and bits of another body, both had Guthrie’s DNA.’
‘Well, that’s not evidence.’
‘Guthrie has privately admitted to me that he committed these crimes, in self-defence.’
‘Not crimes, Brian, self-defence is not a crime,’ Guthrie winked. ‘The other guy fell on his own knife, so basically, I had nothing to do with his death.’
‘But you got rid of the body.’
‘Well, it saved the force a load of work,’ he laughed. ‘Anyway, please don’t worry about me, Abigail, I’m sure things will work out just fine.’
‘If only you had been working for the MOD at the time, then you would have been protected from prosecution,’ Brian sighed.
Then suddenly, the policewoman asked the one question that Guthrie had been dreading all day.
‘You still haven’t told me the name of the Godfather behind all this malarkey. Was it Dubois?’
Brian shook his head. ‘I’d take a bet it was either Jonathan or Paul Trembath. I’d put my money on Trembath?’
‘Jonathan,’ Gerry said with certainty.
‘Really?’ Abigail looked perplexed.
‘We know it is a possibility that he murdered the mortician,’ Brian reminded her.
‘Well, Guthrie, was it Trembath?’ Abigail demanded.
Guthrie looked sheepish as he turned to face them; and, in almost a whisper said, ‘she’s dead.’
‘Who is?’
‘The Godfather.’
Guthrie kept his head lowered as he said, ‘Katie was the boss of the whole shebang.’
‘What are you talking about?’
He turned to face Abigail and placed his arm around her shoulders.
‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t want to tell you, but Katie’s dead.’
Abigail just stared back at him.
‘Her husband shot her by accident while flying a Sea King helicopter.’ He smiled, trying to hide his pain. ‘She was married to Wing Commander Paul Trembath.’
‘Never!’ Abigail turned pale.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Katie’s dead? And you let me think you’d had a row and she’d gone back to Ireland.’
‘I didn’t want to upset you.’ But he failed to mention his own part in her death.
‘I know that Paul Trembath is being held at Bodmin along with another other suspect,’ Brian said.
‘The other guy skippered the trawler, Brian, name of Maxime Dubois.’ Guthrie put the cigar to his lips and breathed in deeply.
‘God, you’re so lucky to be alive, Guthrie,’ Abigail said tearfully. ‘I know this sounds bad, but she seemed such a lovely person... She was so beautiful, and that glorious auburn hair.’
Guthrie gave Abigail another comforting hug. ‘I don’t know how to tell you this, but that was a wig, her real hair was black.’
‘How did you know Katie was wearing a wig, did it come off?’
‘When we had sex, Abigail, her pubes were black not ginger.’
‘Don’t be coy, Guthrie, say it as it is, ha-ha,’ Brian teased.
‘Yeah, don’t beat around the bush – get it, bush?’ Gerry laughed.
‘I just don’t understand how Katie could have got herself mixed up with criminals, it didn’t seem to be in her nature.’ Abigail squinted, as if her brain was in turmoil.
‘But, if I told you that Katie’s father was the notorious Sebastian Dubois, then you would understand.’ He kept his arm tight around her, but it took all his strength not to break down and weep himself. ‘She inherited the business when her father was killed a couple of years ago, in Ostend.’ But, he omitted telling her that it had been himself who had killed Dubois.
‘I still can’t believe it, Katie was so naïve.’ Abigail sniffed.
‘Her name wasn’t Katie,’ Guthrie corrected her. ‘Her real name was Suzette Dubois. She was from Belgium.’ The name was so hard to say, sticking in his dry mouth. ‘She wasn’t a simple little Irish colleen. At 18 years of age Suzette Dubois studied music and drama at the Sorbonne.’
He swallowed hard. He had made love to Katie, he did not even know the educated, sophisticated woman, Suzette. Then suddenly, he remembered the first time they had met at Tehidy Bee Farm, when she had said: “She’s also a classically trained musician. Mrs Trembat’ is a very clever woman.” How could he have ever guessed that she had been speaking about herself?
‘Katie may have been many things, deliciously beautiful, quirky, funny, but t
he one thing she wasn’t was naïve.’
‘She was a damn good actress then,’ Abigail conceded.
‘How did you find out her real name?’
‘I received a letter some time back, it contained clues to solving the crime, and it mentioned French Pancake Day. But, it didn’t make sense at the time. That was, until I visited the bee farm and saw a painting by the daughter-in-law, Suzette,’ he explained. ‘And then, as time wore on, I put two and two together.’
‘What’s that got to do with the price of kippers?’ Brian mocked.
‘What do they call a thin pancake in France and Belgium?’
‘Oh, my God,’ Abigail laughed, ‘Crepe Suzette.’
‘So who was the person who sent you the letter?’
‘Have no idea, Brian. It could be someone who works for the MOD or an RAF man, no idea to be honest.’
‘I still think Katie cared about you,’ Abigail protested. ‘I mean; she was always kissing you. It doesn’t make sense why she moved in with you, if she had a husband, what was the point?’
‘If you remember, she didn’t spend that much time with me, she was only in Lobster Rock a couple of weeks,’ he reminded her. ‘And every other night she claimed to be staying over with a friend in Hayle, when in truth, she was returning to her husband at the bee farm.’
‘But what was the point?’
‘I would hazard a guess and say she wanted to find out what I knew. From the start her plan was to eliminate me.’
‘But she could have done that after the first meeting. I mean, they could have just shot you on the first day you moved down to Cornwall. I think she really did like you.’
‘Well, as for the whys and wherefores that she went to all that trouble, I can’t answer that.’
‘I have to say I agree with Abigail,’ Gerry said. ‘I mean; why would she have slept with you?’
‘Can’t answer, don’t know. But I should tell you that she was the one who killed Stella Johnson in...’ He suddenly stopped speaking, his heart was racing now, unable to breathe. Pouring himself a glass of water he tried hard to hide his emotions. ‘She dressed in a gabardine raincoat, black hat, beard and fake side-locks, imitating a Hassidic Jew. Suzette I mean. It was a clever disguise to wear in Antwerp, when there were so many orthodox Jews in the vicinity.’
Catch The Stinger, Before It Stings You! Page 20