The blond jogger was looking nervous. A trio of crescent-shaped lines beneath his eyes jerked nervously.
‘Perhaps I could come in and we could discuss the matter further,’ the blond jogger said hopefully, his jowls following his eyebrows in a swift upward sweep.
The sight of him in his running gear was enough to make anyone nervous, so Honey held back. What was he capable of? How threatening was today’s outfit and was he respectable enough to be seen in her hotel? It seemed that he was. Thankfully he was wearing clothes; not exactly smart but perfectly respectable. They consisted of faded jeans, a green sweater, and a khaki-coloured waistcoat plus a red bandana worn as a headband with the ends trailing down the back. Overall he didn’t look bad – quite normal in fact if you could accept the straggly hair feathering on to his shoulders.
An old saying came to mind: less is more. In this man’s case it was absolutely spot on; the less he showed the better he looked.
‘I’m sorry about what I did,’ he said and sounded apologetic if a little weary. Cleaning up after Bobo had to be the cause of that.
Honey folded her arms, forced her mouth into a straight line, and fixed him with an accusing glare. ‘It wasn’t very nice.’
Beneath the surface she was bubbling with laughter. She had wanted to say ‘I much appreciated you doing it, better your carpets get ruined than mine’. Besides, her mother hadn’t noticed the dog was missing. She wouldn’t have been pleased if she had.
‘My name’s Ken Pollock,’ he said and offered his hand.
Honey was careful to note that he wasn’t holding the leash in that hand where he could easily slide it across on to her wrist. She reminded herself that it had to happen; the dog was her responsibility.
She was about to take it, then reconsidered.
‘Why should I shake your hand? You stole my dog.’
He looked at her askance. ‘But you just said she wasn’t your dog and you didn’t sound as though you cared much.’
His accusation made her a little indignant.
‘That’s not the point. You kept on about a bloody letter that I knew nothing about. You’re at fault. Now you come by here expecting everything to be hunky-dory as though nothing really happened. Have you any idea of the anguish you’ve caused? This poor little dog was owned by my mother’s best friend who died recently. It was a terrible, terrible thing to do and you should feel really ashamed of yourself.’
She considered her outburst good enough to win her an Oscar. Acting was an important aspect of running a hotel. Many a guest had received her sugary sweet smile when she’d been steaming inside. It made a big change to do things the other way round, vehement on the outside whilst inside she simmered with amusement. She hadn’t felt any great anguish at all. But still, you have to play the part, she reminded herself, and you played it bloody well.
The gaping mouth and round-eyed staring shock on his face confirmed she must have hit the right button. Ken Pollock blanched, his pale face turning paler than his hair. The poor man’s sharp intake of breath and shocked expression said it all. He looked as though she’d jumped up and down on his body. He was on the ropes, as they said in boxing. If she boxed clever, she might get something out of this: the amateur sleuth’s interpretation of a knockout – or at least an admittance of defeat.
Standing with hands on hips, chin held high and punching straight, she gave him it full blast.
‘So, Ken Pollock. What the hell was this all about?’
At her shout, passers-by jumped from the pavement, their cameras leaping out of their hands. Tourists in a horse-drawn carriage turned to face her. The horse shied. The driver threw her an angry glare.
Ken Pollock was as shaken as the huddles of foreign tourists with nervy expressions, wondering no doubt what exactly they’d done wrong.
Pollock on the other hand knew exactly what he’d done wrong. All she needed now were his reasons.
All the same she wanted to laugh, ripples of it barely held at the back of her throat.
His gaunt face, pale at the edges and pink in the middle, turned sheepish. He suddenly seemed smaller.
‘I knew you had friends in the police force. Honey frowned. ‘I’m not terribly sure what you’re talking about.’
‘The con. The money. Everything!’
He hadn’t mentioned murder. She decided it must be an oversight.
Slinging her shoulder bag over her shoulder, she took hold of his arm. The bank and her uptight bank manager would have to wait. ‘How about we discuss this further over a cup of tea?’
He looked instantly relieved and nodded vigorously. ‘I would absolutely love that – if it’s not too much trouble.’
She didn’t know how he did it, but somehow on their passing through the revolving doors, she found herself in reception with Bobo’s tartan leash around her wrist. Bobo was stuck in the revolving door.
She called for Lindsey.
‘Bobo’s back. But stuck.’
‘Leave it with me.’
Smoothly, she took the leash from her mother, let it go, and waited for the door to revolve again.
‘The leash is jammed between one section and another. She can’t run away.’
‘I’m not sure she’ll want to. She’s wagging from head to toe,’ said Honey, feeling a mixture of both relief and annoyance. The dog went straight for Lindsey, adoration shining brightly in its eyes.
Lindsey seemed as glad to see the little dog as Bobo was to see her. ‘Great. I’ll break out the Huggies.’
‘Now,’ said Honey, cupping Ken’s elbow while guiding him behind the reception desk and into her office. ‘Let me and you have a little chat.’
Bobo also attempted to follow. Honey stuck her foot out.
‘Not you, doggie. You go with Auntie Lindz whilst me and this man take a cup of tea.’
Bobo went willingly with Lindsey. Honey knew it was only temporary. Lindsey was on reception duty and a yapping dog with incontinence problems wasn’t good for the image.
A few minutes later, barely giving them time to exchange names let alone notes, Lindsey brought Bobo back, a baby’s disposable nappy fixed firmly around her nether regions.
‘Aha!’ said Ken, eyeing the disposable underwear with a look of pure revelation. ‘I didn’t think of that.’
‘Bobo has a problem but at least we know how to deal with it. Now what’s yours? I warn you right now that it had better be good. You need to give me a good reason for stealing this dog.’
Ken Pollock made himself comfortable and drank the first cup of tea down in one.
‘That’s better. Now let me see.’
She was finding it hard not to stare at his chest which was even more concave than she’d first thought. He rasped with each upward heave of his bony ribcage. The dog curled itself over his foot.
‘She’s very affectionate,’ he said and smiled before continuing with his wheezing and the act of collecting his various thoughts.
‘I think she likes you. Perhaps you’re her ideal owner.’
He winced. ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ he said, shaking his head.
Chapter Twenty-one
Honey was on the phone to Doherty the minute Ken Pollock had left the premises, explaining that Bobo was back and that the blond jogger had nothing to do with sending threatening letters to C.A. Wright.
‘He wanted to draw your attention to the Cardboard Coffin Company. He’s accusing them of using substandard material that rots away pronto once it comes into contact with water.’
She imagined Doherty’s puzzled frown.
‘I thought that was the whole point,’ he came back with. ‘The coffin is supposed to rot and then the body. Isn’t that what this natural, eco claptrap is all about?’
‘That, and saving the rainforests. Ken says they’re overcharging. He also reckons there’s some kind of cartel going on. It sounds preposterous I know, but stranger things and all that …’
‘Have happened at sea – or something.’
‘Right.’
‘What’s he basing this on?’
‘Something about the caskets being used twice. He reckons they’re reusing the coffins.’
‘Aren’t they marked recyclable?’
‘Well yes. But I don’t think …’
‘He’s a crank. He has to be. Besides, I’ve got more important things to do than ask questions about cardboard coffins.
‘You sound in something of a hurry.’
‘There’s been developments. Deke, the guy who went back into the Roman Baths and was found standing over Wright, is related to one of the complainants.’
‘Which one?’
‘Adelaide Cox. She’s his aunt.’
Thursday night came and the deal was on: they were staying at the Poacher. First they dined on guinea fowl followed by rum truffles with Cornish cream. The food was good. So was the wine.
‘An old friend came in today. She’s been having family problems. Her daughter’s a little wayward.’ It wasn’t really relevant to the case, but Honey felt a need to lighten up, to be close to normal in fact.
It must have been her tone that made Doherty looked at her expectantly.
‘Daughters are problems?’
Honey sighed. ‘It seems I’ve been lucky having Lindsey.’
Doherty said nothing. He was looking down at his unfinished wine with a slight pout on his very appealing lips.
‘Is there something you want to say to me?’
He looked up. ‘A confession. I have a confession to make.’
She tilted her head to one side and eyed him inquisitively. At the same time she held her breath. Confession was said to be good for the soul, but that depended on the depth of sinning they contained.
‘When we were here the other day, I didn’t just pick up a brochure – well I did, but only as an afterthought. I was asking the manager whether he knew C.A. Wright. I showed him a photo. I also showed him one of Cathy Morden. He said he was new here but that he’d show them to the rest of the staff. Nobody knew Colin Wright, but they did know Cathy Morden. She used to work here. Lived in.’
Honey was astounded. ‘She was working here, just a few miles from her mother, and she never let her know?’ She shook her head. Teenagers were not easily understood. Their inexperience of life was no excuse for hurting those that loved them.
Doherty shrugged. ‘That’s the way it seems.’
Pushing back the dirty plates, he made space for the two photos on the table in front of him. Cathy Morden’s looked as though it had been taken on the day she’d left school: fresh-faced and smiling towards the future. C.A. Wright was unsmiling, his chin up and staring directly at the camera; his version of a professional portrait for heading his column or on the dust jacket of a book.
The waitress arrived to take their plates. At first she did it swiftly. On seeing the two photos she slowed down.
‘That’s Cathy.’
Doherty looked up. ‘You knew her?’
The waitress nodded. She was dark-haired and not much older than Cathy if she was at all.
‘She didn’t stay long, just long enough to scrape together enough tips to go away and make a life for herself.’
‘Do you know where she went?’ asked Honey.
Inside she felt total empathy with Agnes Morden. She’d feel just as sad, just as helpless should Lindsey ever go off without a word. Devastated was the only word to describe what her mother must be feeling.
The waitress shook her head. ‘No. It was a bit sudden. I think she suddenly came into a bit of money so she left quicker than she thought she would. Gone off with one of her sugar daddies, I expect.’
Mention of sugar daddies sent a chill coursing down Honey’s spine. ‘You’re saying her boyfriends were a lot older than her?’
The girl, kiss curls of black hair sticking like limpets to her cheeks, placed one set of red-varnished nails on her trim hip and nodded. ‘I should say so. She was always with an older bloke. Used to meet them in that old tomb in the churchyard. She reckoned it added a bit of “frisson”, whatever that is when it’s at home.’
‘Any names?’ Honey asked. ‘Do you know any of the boyfriends’ names?’
The waitress winked. ‘One or two. Him for a start.’
She nodded down at the photo of C.A. Wright.
‘Him?’ Honey stabbed her finger at Wright’s photo. ‘You saw her with him?’
‘Yes. Among others. I think he gave her money. Was she underage?’
Honey shook her head. ‘No. Do you think you can …?’
‘Hold on.’
Doherty’s hand landed on hers, cutting her short.
‘Can we speak to you in the morning about this?’
The waitress nodded, smiling as she glanced from one to the other. ‘Staying the night, are you?’
‘Yes.’
Her eyes twinkled. ‘See you in the morning.’
‘Steve, how could you?’
Doherty hunched his shoulders. ‘What?’
‘You heard what she said. Wright was having some kind of ongoing liaison with Cathy Morden, exactly as her mother feared.’
‘For Chrissakes, Honey, this is not a missing person’s case, and even if it was, it’s not my department. We’re looking for the murderer of C.A. Wright.’
‘I feel sorry for her mother.’
‘But we’re not here …’
‘There’s no need to remind me. I know what we’re here for,’ she snapped.
It came out sounding worse than she intended. Normally she might have apologized, but under the circumstances she did not. A missing daughter touched a raw nerve. She’d sympathized with Agnes Morden. It was easy for one mother to have empathy with another.
‘You don’t understand. You’ve never been a …’
‘Parent?’
She had been going to say that he had never been a mother – which was true. But he was a father.
His face softened. ‘I’m sorry. It’s my fault for leaving the photos here the other day.’
She forgave him easily. He was giving off vibes – very warm vibes although all they were doing was having a night away in a country pub. A very nice country pub, but a pub all the same. And yet he seemed to be setting great store by it. OK, he did have a thing about four-poster beds, but even so …
‘The girl will turn up,’ he said with some finality. ‘Teenage girls like to worry their parents. It’s par for the course.’
In a bid to ease the sudden tension between them, Honey cast her eyes around the restaurant. There were oak beams in abundance and antiques/junk shop finds dotted around as decoration. The tablecloths were white, the lighting low, and the ambience was first class. For a pub restaurant it seemed to have everything going for it, and yet there was something about the atmosphere …
‘A penny for them?’
‘Sorry. Did I drift that far away?’
‘You did. What were you thinking?’
‘I was thinking about C.A. Wright, that master of the poison pen. He was into everything: blackmail, seduction … how about murder? I wonder if he was into that too.’
‘I can barely get up these stairs,’ Honey stated as they made their way to their room.
‘Lie down on the bed a while. Take deep breaths. You’ll be OK. It’s a four-poster.’
‘I know. It was me told you that.’
The room was pretty much as depicted on the brochure. The bed was of dark mahogany, the coverlet burgundy and gold, and the open window looked out on to the field that had become Memory Meadow.
Replete with food, there was nothing left to do for a while but talk. The conversation centred around the case, batting the particulars backwards and forwards until a detail that had appeared as a tennis ball was transformed into a shuttlecock. That was the way it was.
Honey had bagged the bed. She lay down full stretch, arms folded behind her head. ‘Perplexing,’ she said, puffing out her cheeks then exhaling on a long zephyr-like breath.
Doher
ty sat on the bedroom chair in front of the window, his eyes boring into the night beyond the window. He sat there as though as wooden as the chair itself, just staring thoughtfully.
She guessed he was thinking about what she’d said, mulling it over, that and the fact that the waitress had recognized the photo of C.A. Wright. What deduction could be drawn from that?
Honey waved her fingers at him in a bid to break his concentration. ‘So. Cathy was here and Wright was here. Where does that leave us?’
‘Nowhere really.’
She rolled on to her side and looked at him.
Doherty stretched his arms above his head and yawned. His body went limp as he slid down into the bedroom chair, putting him in danger of sliding off completely.
‘Hey. Do you have something to say?’
He took in a deep breath before he responded. ‘OK. Yes. I know you want to hear it so here it is. I felt sorry for Agnes Morden. I didn’t doubt she was right about Wright making a pass at her daughter, but there was no evidence to suggest she went off with him, with anyone in fact. Now it seems that it was kind of half-true. They weren’t living together. By the sound of what the waitress said, he called by, spoke to Cathy, and they met up. Still, what was the reason for not returning home?’
‘Mother and daughter had an argument.’
Doherty pulled a disapproving face. ‘Is that any reason for her to shove off and not get in contact?’
Fingers linked on top of her head, Honey shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Happens all the time. It’s a mother/daughter phenomenon. Daughter wants to do something, mother objects, daughter wants to do it all the more. They argue, mother puts her foot down, daughter goes off in a huff.’
Doherty jerked his chin in understanding. ‘I bow to your superior knowledge. But did Lindsey ever go off in a huff and not come back? Even for a short while?’
‘No.’ She paused as an old memory came bounding back. ‘That’s a lie. She did leave home for a whole day and vowed never to come back.’
‘So how long was she away?’
‘Less than a day. She came back PDQ because she was hungry and her grandmother was threatening to take her to a shop selling tartan kilts. My mother thought they looked fetching. My seven-year-old daughter had set fashion views – even back then.’
Wicked Words: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 20