Honey understood where he was coming from. She’d tried that approach to meeting a man herself once. Three men had been referred to her. One had described himself as a ‘dapper businessman’. Turned out he was five-foot-two and sold brushes from door to door on some kind of franchise arrangement. The second had described himself as an adventurous and fun-loving outdoor type. The caravan he was living in occupied the corner of a field halfway up a mountain in Wales where the nearest neighbour was a farmhouse two miles away. Candidate number three had seemed OK at first until one of his kids had phoned him saying that their mum wanted to know when he was coming home.
Setting her own experiences to one side, she focused on the job in hand.
‘So he divorced one then married another.’
Sam looked thoughtful. ‘I suppose so. Mind you there didn’t seem much of a gap between the two. Gettin’ divorced don’t ’appen overnight, do it?’
She agreed that it didn’t.
‘So what happened to his first wife?’
Gripping the pipe between his teeth, Sam managed to sup at his drink without letting the pipe go. It was quite a feat in Honey’s book. Quite funny to watch him doing it too.
‘Patricia,’ he said once he’d wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘Ran away with a bloke that taught her golfing. Never even knew she was interested. Funny thing is though that the boys never hear from her. As I told you, Peter got two boys. He tells everyone who enquires that him and his wife thought it best that she made herself a new life and didn’t interfere with him and bringing up the boys. Best to make a clean break, he told everybody. Seems strange to me.’
It seemed strange to Honey too. Above all else it appeared that Peter Pierce was not a nice man and the more she found out about him, the more she suspected him of having done some pretty bad things. Number one, there was Cathy. Number two, there might even be a wife. What if she hadn’t gone to Australia? What if, as Sam suspected, she’d never played golf? Nobody keeps their hobbies a secret – not unless it’s something best kept between the pages of Penthouse magazine.
Ned Shaw had been the last person to see Cathy Morden alive. She’d been leaving the pub for the digs she’d shared with three other girls. Ned had offered her a lift. There were witnesses.
Outside the sun had deigned to appear and the clouds looked to be falling from the sky and into the horizon.
Retrieving keys from her shoulder bag was always something of an adventure, there being so many bits and piece to forage through before finding them.
Lunchtime being three-quarters of the way through, the car park was emptying of customers. Whilst cars were coming and going it made sense to keep a lookout and stay close to the perimeter. Now less busy, it was possible to traverse on the diagonal without being mown down.
Head bowed, hand still groping in her bag, she did exactly that. At the same time as searching for her car keys she took on the secondary task of locating her phone. Doherty was bound to call shortly confirming the identity of the corpse found in the cesspit. Sadly she guessed that it was Cathy Morden, though for the sake of the girl’s mother she hoped it wasn’t. After her brush with Peter Pierce and Sam’s comments she was beginning to suspect otherwise.
‘Damn! Where the devil …’
She found the keys. She found the phone. Clasping the keys in one hand she slung her bag over her shoulder. The phone glowed blue the moment it was switched on at the same time as it belted out ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’.
‘Hello.’
It was all she had time to say. Suddenly she heard a screech of car tyres. Momentarily blinded by sunlight bouncing off a profusion of chrome radiator and fender, she backed into a parked car and staggered. Her shoulder bag swung as she overbalanced. It landed with a thwack on the ground, spilling contents all around and she went down with it.
Knees grazed, nose bruised from contact with the car she’d bumped against, she could have lain there dazed, waiting until she’d sorted herself.
But the idiot driving the speeding car had angered her.
‘You bloody idiot,’ she shouted, raising herself on one knee and waving her fist.
Blood trickled from one nostril and into her mouth. She barely noticed. A blue Range Rover over-endowed with chrome swerved out from the car park and onto the road, a road that wasn’t usually that busy. The Range Rover had chanced his luck. On this occasion his luck had run out. There was a loud bang as a large horsebox – the dead smart sort big enough to house a family of Romany gypsies –had ploughed straight into the front of the Range Rover. Steam was gushing out from beneath the bonnet. Whoever was in it wasn’t getting out – at least not until the fire brigade was called and he was cut out.
A whole flurry of lunchtime diners and drinkers flowed out of the Poacher. At least one of them had some medical knowledge judging by the way he seemed to take charge, hovering around the smashed up door of the dark blue Range Rover.
Honey got to her feet.
‘You all right, love?’ someone asked her.
She nodded, her eyes still on what had happened. More to the point, she wanted to know who would want to run her down.
‘Who is it?’
The woman helped her retrieve her bag and the items that had fallen out of it. On top of that she pointed at the receding Range Rover.
‘That’s Peter Pierce’s car, though he shouldn’t have been driving it. I saw him at the bar knocking them back. He’s had a skinful. Still, bad luck to bad rubbish.’
The woman handed Honey her very battered phone, which was now no longer a unit but split into two pieces. The sliding lid had parted company with the rest of it. The blue light no longer sparked into life when she pressed the ‘on’ button.
She pouted at it. ‘Damn. I liked that light. It was so pretty.’
‘Never mind. You can always get another,’ the woman said helpfully. ‘Do you need to phone someone? You can use my phone if you like.’
Honey nodded. ‘Two people. If you don’t mind.’
She phoned Lindsey first, explained about the accident and then asked her to delve around on the internet with regard to local businessman Peter Pierce, resident of Much Maryleigh.
‘Will do. How far do you want me to go back?’
‘As far as you can.’
‘OK. Anything else?’
‘Yes. Check whether he’s listed with any dating agencies.’
There was a sudden pause as though Lindsey was holding her breath as she considered the implications of this.
‘They’ll want me to go on their register if I’m to find that out. He’ll be put forward as a possible match. Every man on their books is put forward regardless of the fact that he could have two heads and a sting in his tail.’
‘Do whatever you have to do. Pierce met his second wife through a dating agency and there are rumours he still resorts to meeting women that way. He married wife number two pretty soon after his divorce came through.’
‘OK, but I’ll use your name.’
‘Do that. And check up on the whereabouts of his first wife – Patricia Pierce. It’s rumoured she ran away to Australia with a golf pro, but nobody knows for sure. Check the membership lists of the local golf clubs from about ten years back – if that’s possible. If she was learning how to play golf her name should be there.’
‘Not necessarily from ten years ago. Club memberships aren’t obliged to keep lists from that far back, in fact the Data Protection Act wouldn’t allow them to.’
‘OK. Do what you can.’ She sighed. ‘I’ve got a funny feeling about this. The boys are still with their father but never receive word from her. That’s a little odd in my books. Blood’s thicker than water and all that. First things first though, check on the dating agency.’
‘That’s fine. I’ll do all you ask of me, but I have to warn you, there could be implications.’
‘What kind of implications?’
‘You could end up wearing a carnation and carrying a copy of the Bath Chronicle under your arm. Tha
t’s what people do if they’ve been introduced by a dating agency – the old-fashioned type at least.’
‘I’ll have to chance it. I’m determined to nail his ass!’
‘Whoa!’ yelped Lindsey. ‘So what’s he done to turn my mother into the harpy from hell?’
‘He tried to kill me while under the influence of alcohol.’
Chapter Twenty-four
The national news had headlined the body found in the cesspit. Just like in a relay race, the local television station had picked up the baton and was running with it, though on a more personal note.
Agnes Morden was being interviewed on the local television news about the body recovered from the cesspit next to St Luke’s Church.
‘How do you feel about the news that the body is not that of your daughter?’
Honey watched with increasing pity for the poor little woman who had lost so much since she and her husband had moved to Bath. She herself was still coming to terms with the fact that it wasn’t Cathy Morden in that cesspit. On the other hand the identity of the unknown woman was not yet known.
Honey tuned into Cathy’s mother.
Agnes sighed heavily. ‘In one way I’m relieved, but obviously, I’m desperate to know where my daughter is. She’s all I’ve got now since her dad died.’
‘Poor woman,’ said Lindsey, expressing her mother’s thoughts and wearing the same concerned look.
Honey shrugged, reached for the remote control, and turned it off. Like Agnes Morden, she was feeling a little disappointed, but for an entirely different reason. She’d been so sure that the body had been that of Cathy Morden or even Patricia Pierce. To hear that it was a man buried there had certainly taken the wind out of her sails.
‘A tramp,’ Doherty said to her. ‘He fell in. Shame he wasn’t conscious and saw what else was down there. He would have been a rich man. A Celtic torque – whatever that is – a cloak clasp, cups, even a sword. I understand from an expert that it’s worth a small fortune. Somebody buried it fifteen hundred years ago. She said it was probably being hidden away from the Saxon hordes who were invading following the withdrawal of the Roman army.’
‘Sam Trout!’
Her exclamation made him jump. She explained what Sam had told her, describing the metal detector as something that hummed most of the time but beeped on others.
‘He wanted to keep it for himself. As for the tramp …’ Doherty spread his open palms. ‘It appears he fell in by mistake. He was not murdered. I’ll confirm later.’
He breezed into the Green River Hotel just long enough to fill her in on the details and chug back a cup of coffee. His first priority had been to ask her if she was OK following her brush with Peter Pierce.
‘Stop looking me over as though you can see through to the bruises,’ she said in answer to the all-encompassing look he gave her.
‘I like doing that.’
‘Back to business. Where does that leave us with the murder of C.A. Wright?’
Doherty shrugged. ‘Lost in the desert, though I do have one glimmer of hope; I think that our friend Deke did give Wright a bashing in whilst he was out cold. However, I don’t think he killed him. Wright was transported out of the city without anyone really giving the giant teddy bear very much attention.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not happy about this, but I have to accept it. I’m going to ask all four students more questions. I might get somewhere, there again I might not. I’ll just play it by ear.’
Honey poured more coffee for herself. ‘That’s my theories and my womanly intuition out of the window. My money was on it being Cathy Morden. Failing that, Patricia Pierce.’
‘Sorry, doll. You were wrong on all counts.’
‘So what next?’
‘We’re waiting to ask Peter Pierce that question. It’s too much of a coincidence that he was protesting against the cesspit being demolished.’
‘Pretty telling that he tried to run me over when he found out that I was with you – thanks to Sam Trout.’
Frowning, she stroked a hair on her chin as she considered all the bits and pieces that made up the whole of this. ‘I would have thought he would have wanted it demolished. Don’t they fill those places in?’
‘Yes, the deceased would have been buried, but not quickly enough. Apparently the bricks were scheduled for a reclamation yard. Old bricks are sought after for building and repairing listed buildings. Pierce was panicking. The body would be discovered. The treasure trove was buried beneath him. We’re looking for Pierce but so far no joy. Somebody’s hiding the bastard. I can feel it in my bones.’
‘What does Pierce actually do for a living?’
‘Maintenance. Apparently he’s got a full crew working for him going around and maintaining buildings like flats and things. Apparently the main thrust of his business is in the heart of the city. He does a lot for the local council. Good rates and workmanship as far as I can make out.’
Honey was thoughtful. ‘I was wondering if Wright could have been killed by a woman.’
‘I take it you mean Cathy’s mother. You’re letting your imagination run away with you. How would she get him out here? She couldn’t have carried him to her parked car, not unless she had a disabled badge.’
Doherty shook his head. ‘None of our suspects are incapacitated to that extent.’
Pulling a frustrated face she shook her head. ‘OK. I’m talking rubbish.’
‘You just want this finished. So does Casper, by the way. I didn’t know he was sunning himself in Majorca.’
The thought of Casper St John Gervais wearing shorts and sunglasses in sunny climes brought a smile to Honey’s face. ‘Casper doesn’t do sunbathing. He does pale and interesting whilst looking elegantly superior.’
Doherty nodded. ‘True. Anyway,’ he said, tipping the last of the coffee into his mouth. ‘I’ve got to go. We’re still looking for Peter Pierce regarding the buried treasure. It’s too much of a coincidence about him protesting and finding such a superb haul.’
He said he would swing by later if he had anything to report. ‘But between now and then you can come into the station if you’re out and about. I’ve got a surprise for you.’
She raised both eyebrows. ‘That sounds interesting.’
He grinned. ‘We need to communicate more.’
Doherty swung out through the swing doors in one direction at the same time as her head chef, Smudger Smith, came swinging in the other, heavily burdened with a three-foot long salamander. The way he was carrying it – with both arms and resting on one shoulder – reminded her of the pallbearers at Sean O’Brian’s funeral.
‘You could have used the tradesman’s entrance,’ she said to him.
‘It’s locked. Isn’t it great though?’ he chortled, face pink with effort and grin almost splitting his face in half.
Honey smiled. Only a chef could be so pleased about a gas grill.
He disappeared into the kitchen. Regardless of regulations about having a gas fitter sort out the connections, Honey was in no doubt that the grill would be up and running by six this evening; Smudger kept a supply of tools for such eventualities. He was self-sufficient and totally sure of his own expertise.
Lindsey was scouring the net; so far she’d entered her mother’s particulars on every local dating site she could find.
‘They’re a bit slow to respond. I expect they’re checking you out,’ Lindsey informed her mother. ‘No luck on the golfing angle for the wife. Unless she had friends who went golfing with her, the actual clubs don’t keep their records that long.
‘Hmmm.’
‘However, I do have some info on our friend’s business dealings. Right Wrightway Holdings. They appear to own commercial properties, i.e. shops, cafés, and units on trading estates as well as running a maintenance service.
‘Back to the drawing board.’
‘It would seem that way.
Peter Pierce looked as though he’d gone ten rounds being punched by a heavyweight boxer. His face had t
aken most of the impact; there was blood beneath his nose, around his eyes and bruising on his cheeks.
Doherty was surprised to see him on his feet and said so.
‘I thought you’d be in here longer.’ He was referring to the hospital ward, but the hospital needed the beds and Peter Pierce was out on his ear.
Pierce looked at him as though he’d crawled up out of the ground.
‘Sorry I can’t hang around here talking to you, Chief Inspector, but I do have children and a home to go to.’
‘Not driving, I hope?’ Doherty kept the tone light, not that it cut much ice with the man presently buttoning up his shirt.
Pierce had the look of a man with a hangover, bloodshot eyes, dark circles, heavy bags, and a waxy complexion. His eyes narrowed.
‘You bloody coppers. Never miss the opportunity to convict, do you?’
‘Only when it applies to guilty people.’
Pierce wouldn’t know it, but Doherty was having trouble keeping his temper. Neither did Honey know how he’d reacted when he’d heard the news. In his early career he’d been the ‘Angel of Death’, the bearer of bad news to the relative of the victim of a road traffic accident. It was a nasty job, but nothing compared to how it felt to the relative of the dead person or even an injured person. It made him angry; it made him want to lash out.
Pierce’s prim lips curled into a girlish smile.
‘Well I know I’ll be found guilty seeing as she’s your girlfriend. She keeps bad company, she does. Old Sam Trout is best avoided. So out of my way, Chief Inspector. I’ve got work to do …’
Doherty grabbed him.
‘I’m going to do you for dangerous driving,’ Doherty snarled. ‘And then it’s a summons with regard to the treasure trove you found.’
Pierce adopted a pained expression as though he had no wish to deal with the likes of him.
‘I could sue you, Doherty, for police brutality. Is that what you want?’
Doherty could smell the man’s sweat, but more so than that he could smell his arrogance. ‘You don’t know what the word means.’
‘OK, I got drunk. We all do now and again.’
Wicked Words: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 23