Death of a Diva: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 9)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Doherty’s eyes darkened. ‘I would have thought he would have made the effort, though. I would.’

  Doherty and his own wife had over a hundred miles between them. His teenage daughter appeared occasionally, though only when she’d had a fall-out with her mother and wanted his support – and his money – to keep her going.

  Honey was unrelenting. ‘She still carries a candle for him. Bet you a tenner.’

  ‘Bet’s on.’

  ‘I’m not sure he did it though, Steve. I mean, he was a bit of a mouse. She was much stronger than him. And he isn’t a big man – broad in the shoulders, though.’

  Doherty pursed his lips. ‘Dwyer was big all over. So were his brothers.’

  It came as a big though pleasant surprise to Steve Doherty when Adam Rolfe presented himself at Manvers Street the following day. Not that he let the grass grow under his feet as regards interrogation.

  The atmosphere in the interview room felt electric; Doherty put it down to foregone conclusion. As it turned out he wasn’t far wrong though the feeling didn’t last that long.

  Adam Rolfe was sitting there with his knees clamped tightly against his clasped hands. His face was gaunt, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor.

  ‘I did it. I killed Arabella.’ He said it firmly enough, though Doherty didn’t set much store by that. On the contrary, he hadn’t even started the interrogation. Confessing before he’d even asked a question was not just off-putting, it didn’t feel right. A little cut and thrust had to be done before anybody confessed – really confessed – as though they meant it.

  In the act of folding his arms, Doherty felt the sleeves of his T-shirt tighten around his muscles.

  ‘Why?’

  Adam Rolfe raised his eyes, eyelids flickering nervously. ‘Why? Well, because she deserved it.’

  ‘Why?’

  In Doherty’s opinion, Adam Rolfe was probably lying. Doherty could see all the signs: the fidgeting fingers, the legs tightly clasped as though he were riding a horse. Maybe Rolfe thought he was doing the right thing and that his confession would be taken at face value. Doherty was playing with him, or at least it seemed that way. In fact he was delving deeper, asking for confirmation that Adam really had killed his wife.

  ‘I just did,’ he blurted.

  Doherty rubbed his fingers over his bristled chin. ‘We all want to kill our wives and partners at some point. But something has to trigger it. I’m talking about one last almighty row where you finally snapped. Tell me when you finally snapped, Mr Rolfe. Tell me when you finally decided you could take no more, clobbered your wife, and stuffed her up the chimney.’

  Rolfe stared at him round-eyed. Doherty could almost smell his fear but knew instinctively it was not for himself that Adam feared. Mr Rolfe was protecting someone.

  ‘Your son didn’t do it either, Mr Rolfe. So no need to protect him. He was at his grandmother’s on the night in question.’

  There was a strange moment when Adam Rolfe seemed to freeze then swell up. His head fell forward into his hands. Doherty knew he was crying.

  ‘On another score, Mr Rolfe. Do you know a man named Sean Fox?’

  A tear-stained face appeared from behind the white trembling hands. ‘What?’

  ‘Sean Fox. Do you know him?’

  He shrugged in an off-hand manner. ‘Just somebody my wife used to work with.’

  ‘Were they close?’

  He shook his head. ‘I couldn’t really say. I tried not to have anything to do with television people. I didn’t like them very much.’

  It occurred to Doherty that if that was the case, why the hell had he married Arabella?

  The million-dollar question was next. ‘Did your wife ever mention having been married before?’ Doherty asked.

  Adam’s face was as white as unbaked dough. He looked lost. He looked frightened.

  ‘Or the fact that she had children?’

  ‘No!’

  His voice echoed around the interview room. There was something about that echo that didn’t ring true.

  ‘Where were you on the night of her murder?’

  He sighed. ‘I was with Susan. We met at a pub. She wanted to discuss a few things.’

  ‘Did you often meet up to discuss things?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Without telling Arabella?’

  He nodded again. ‘It was best not to. She was so jealous of anything I did with the kids.’

  ‘Jealous? Of Susan or the kids?’

  ‘She didn’t like kids.’

  Doherty pursed his lips and steepled his fingers. ‘OK. We’ll check with Susan.’

  Doherty couldn’t put his finger on it, but he felt sure there was more to be had from Adam Rolfe. Keeping to the obvious questions based on facts he knew was not going to work.

  ‘Sean Fox. He was her son, wasn’t he?’

  Adam’s eyes seemed to sink into their hollows, yet at the same time stand proud of his face.

  ‘There was a girl too. Do you know what her name was, Mr Rolfe? Do you know where we might find her?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. She worked with someone called Sean Fox. That’s all I know.’

  Doherty eyed him silently.

  ‘And you knew nothing about your wife’s former marriage and her two children by that marriage?’

  ‘No.’

  Adam was not meeting his look; that was when he knew, he absolutely knew, that Adam Rolfe was lying.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Susan Rolfe confirmed that her husband had been with her. ‘We needed to discuss things regarding the children.’

  The husband was off the hook. The barman at the pub – The Crooked Oak near Farrington Gurney, was pretty certain that he remembered them.

  ‘Pint of lager and an amaretto and cranberry juice for the lady.’

  Doherty had no good reason to hold on to Adam Rolfe. The alibi checked out. There was no evidence to attest that he’d been at Cobden Manor that night.

  Exasperated, he caught up with Honey just after lunch.

  As usual she was in a dizzy spin of busyness. Clint had gone to the natural childbirth classes with Anna and the dishwasher had broken down. Honey had suggested to Smudger that he help her do the dishes by hand. The stony look he’d given her was all the answer needed. So Doherty was washing while she wiped. At the same time he was giving her the details and washing up as swiftly as he could.

  ‘And Petra Deacon?’

  ‘Ah yes. The woman in the ladies’ loo. My officers have already spoken to Petra Deacon. She denied saying any such thing – which means that you and I need to pay her a visit. You were there. You heard her.’

  Frowning, he helped himself to coffee. ‘Adam appeared unsettled when I mentioned Arabella having been married before, though he didn’t get angry. I would have expected him too. I would have expected him to rant and rave when I mentioned her having two kids, but he didn’t. I would have.’

  Petra Deacon lived in the wing of a country house. Once upon a time Haverton Hall had been home to a nineteenth-century wool merchant. Already comfortably off, Cecil Haverton had become mega rich following the invention of a new system for combing the lanolin out of fleece. The method and resultant benefits to the chemical as well as the wool industry, had earned him a fortune. Thus he’d found a nice hill some miles west of Bath with a lovely view of Clevedon Bay.

  The house was built in a mix of styles; Tudor, Gothic, and a touch of fairytale Hollywood at a time before Walt Disney was even born.

  Long gone were the days when anyone of wealth could or would want such a sprawling place. Thus it was now divided into a dozen luxurious apartments which all shared the tennis courts, the residents lounge and concierge services.

  Petra’s apartment was accessed via a lift to the second floor and took up two floors of a corner tower of Strawberry Hill-esque Gothic design.

  The lift doors opened on to a landing of shiny brightness.

  ‘This wa
y, I think,’ said Doherty.

  Someone came out of a door some way ahead of them. Honey glimpsed a tall man smartly dressed and quick on his feet, so quick that with one glance in their direction he was off down the stairs.

  Honey frowned. ‘It might be my imagination, but I think I’ve seen him somewhere before.’

  Doherty regarded her seriously. ‘Anywhere special?’

  She knew he meant with regard to the murder.

  She shrugged. ‘No idea. But it’ll come to me.’

  Petra Deacon was one of the coolest women Honey had ever met. She was tall, lean of body, and had the kind of flawless complexion usually only seen on airbrushed photos. Her hair was a veil of reddish brown tumbling down her back. Her eyes were that wonderful shade of green only found on heroines of romantic fiction. She was wearing a cream off-the-shoulder sweater that clung to her waist. Her trousers were a speckled mix of cream and tan. Her feet were bare, her toenails painted in alternate shades of pink and purple.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, white teeth flashing between glossy apricot lips.

  One word wasn’t enough for Honey to say that she recognised the voice.

  Doherty flashed his warrant card and explained why they were there.

  ‘You do recall attending the event at the Roman Baths?’ he asked her.

  She could hardly deny it. Her name had been on the list supplied by Glenwood Halley. Until recently her name had not attracted any interest – until Milly had admitted to recognising her voice.

  She held the door open by no more than twelve inches and looked loath to let them in despite Doherty’s warrant card.

  ‘What’s this about?’

  Her voice was husky. If she hadn’t been a television presenter, she could have made a good living selling online smut. She’d have had them drooling in their pants.

  Doherty explained about the death of Arabella Rolfe. ‘You may have known her better as Arabella Neville. She was a TV presenter.’

  The perfectly poised expression froze. The soft lips seemed to adhere more tightly to her teeth.

  ‘I knew her. I heard she was dead. What’s that got to do with me?’

  ‘You were overheard threatening to kill her.’

  ‘Who says so?’

  Honey spoke up. ‘I do.’

  Her mouth opened slightly as though she were emitting a silent gasp. Her eyes hardened as her look landed on Honey’s face.

  ‘Now,’ said Doherty, taking one step inside the door. ‘Do you mind if we come in?’

  Silently, she let them in.

  ‘Right,’ she said, folding her arms, her stance defensive and hostile all at the same time. ‘What am I supposed to have said?’

  The hostility was directed at Honey.

  ‘Your threat to kill Arabella Neville; did you carry it out?’

  ‘Of course not. I’m not an aggressive person.’

  ‘You said you knew people who could carry out the job,’ said Honey.

  ‘Get lost!’

  ‘Do you know the right people?’ Doherty asked her. His tone was firm and without emotion.

  ‘I just said. I didn’t do it. Neither did I pay anyone to do it. I got the job she was after. Anyway, it was her own fault. She flounced off the set.’

  ‘She argued with someone?’

  ‘Arabella was argumentative, full stop! Especially if she didn’t get her own way.’

  ‘So we hear. Who did she argue with?’

  ‘Beats me.’

  ‘Was there anyone in particular she didn’t get on with?’

  ‘Everybody.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Ms Deacon. Somebody had to like her.’

  ‘A needle in a haystack! I certainly didn’t like her! That bitch ran off the set, then phoned me later that same night accusing me of stealing her handbag.’

  ‘Come on,’ persisted Doherty. ‘You must have some idea of what the argument was about?’

  ‘I don’t know. Someone phoned her, she shouted at them and then she stormed off.’

  ‘And her handbag. Did you take it?’

  ‘Why the hell would I? We didn’t share the same taste in fashion. She was so much older than me.’

  ‘Who else would want to murder her?’

  ‘A lot of people.’

  ‘Isn’t it possible that some people might miss her?’

  ‘So few, darling,’ Petra said, a sneer darkening her so perfect features. ‘Gone but not missed, at least not by anyone who knew her.’

  ‘Who was the phone call from? Do you know?’

  ‘I’ve already told you, I don’t know. Husband. Boyfriend.’ When she shrugged the sweat slid further down her arm exposing yet more sultry shoulder, more of her silky upper arm.

  So people willingly invited the likes of Petra Deacon into their homes via their television sets thinking her a really lovely person. If only they knew, thought Honey. But they wouldn’t know. Petra Deacon was a celebrity, hero-worshipped by those who knew no better.

  Doherty continued to probe. ‘Did you know much of her past life?’

  Petra burst into mocking laughter. ‘What do you think I am? A bloody psychic? Arabella kept her private life private – except when it was likely to benefit her financially then it was all over the tabloids – anyone who would pay for her story – and I do mean story – could have it.’

  Just titbits, thought Honey, and then suddenly it came to her. Nobody had known anything about her background, and that included her husband. Was it possible that someone had made it their business to find out more than was publicly available?

  Doherty was fixing the TV presenter with a questioning eye.

  ‘I take it you knew Sean Fox.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He was found hanging from a tree.’

  ‘I’d heard he committed suicide. He was gay, you know.’

  ‘He didn’t commit suicide. He was murdered.’

  Petra’s defensive stance shattered. Honey judged that the moment would only be short-lived and jumped in.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘but who was that gentleman who left here just before we arrived?’

  ‘A friend. Just a friend.’

  Seeing where this was going, Doherty picked up the baton. ‘How about a name?’

  She tossed her head nonchalantly, her eyes blazing in an attempt to stare him down. ‘He was just a friend.’

  Doherty was persistent. ‘Then perhaps you would give me his name.

  Her jaw moved. She was grinding her teeth.

  ‘Gabriel Forbes. He’s been asking questions too. The man’s obsessed. Thinks his wife is having affairs. The bloody woman should have one. More than one. She can’t even go off to paint a watercolour without him having her followed.’

  Chapter Thrity-three

  On the drive back Honey tried to work through the puzzle of how all these people were interlinked – incidents too. She remained thoughtful for too long.

  Their sudden braking heralded an abrupt standstill in a handy lay-by.

  ‘OK. What gives?’

  The engine was off. The hood was down. She felt the questioning look in his eyes even before she turned to face him.

  ‘That man. Gabriel Forbes. Sofia’s husband. I’ve seen him before. He was in JR’s Bookshop. And the painting!’

  ‘Your friend’s place. John, isn’t it?’

  The fact that he’d referred to John as her friend came as something of a surprise. She’d always played it so cool on that front.

  She nodded. ‘I saw him there.’

  ‘Does he have any bearing on the case?’

  She chewed her bottom lip a little. ‘Only with regard to John and Adam Rolfe being old friends. That’s the only connection. But that doesn’t matter now, does it? Adam is off the hook.’

  Doherty reached a hand around her neck and stroked it. ‘Honey. There’s something important that we have to do.’

  Convinced he was going to ask her about her relationship with John, her heart went racing, leaping over five-foot fe
nces.

  ‘What’s that?’ she said after a good swallow.

  ‘We have to find Arabella’s phone. Whoever phoned her knows who murdered her.’

  ‘Or did murder her?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And Sean Fox?’

  He frowned. ‘I’m not sure how he fits in with things, but I’m certain he does.

  The tickets for a live recording of the programme, Past Lives and Prophesies, came as a complete surprise. The compliment slip was from Faith Page.

  ‘I think you will find the production extremely enlightening.’

  Two tickets. Honey flicked them against her chin. Steve Doherty needed to be told this. She rang but was told by a female officer that he was unavailable.

  ‘He’s been called out to an incident.’

  ‘What sort of incident?’

  The female officer at the other end of the phone was far from forthcoming.

  ‘A very serious incident. That’s all the information I’m prepared to give you.’

  Raising her gaze from the tickets brought her into eye contact with Mary Jane.

  ‘Care to see a paranormal television programme being made?’

  ‘Is it in Chinese?’

  Honey frowned. A straight yes or no would have been preferable. She gave the tickets the once-over. Nowhere did it say anything about the programme being in Chinese.

  ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Not according to the tickets.’

  ‘Great. I had this dream last night, and some details of it have stayed with me. This Chinese guy in particular. He wore a green silk jacket with a lot of embroidery and a little black hat. I think you guys would call it a pork pie hat. Yeah,’ she said with a series of short nods. ‘A pork pie hat. And he had a long pigtail. Old-fashioned I know. Pigtail hairdos went out with the death of the last Chinese emperor. Say, do we need to take a bite to eat?’

  ‘It doesn’t say so.’

  Mary Jane closed one eye, the other one squinting thoughtfully. ‘I’ll take some rice cakes and a tub of humus just in case. Can’t have the spirits coming through and finding me with an empty stomach. My stomach makes angry noises when I’m hungry and it upsets my concentration.’