‘He used to be in the army,’ the vicar whispered to Honey. ‘Sometimes he still thinks he is.’
‘Who’s this Mr Clinker?’ Honey asked.
‘An ignorant man who came here from London and wants to change everything,’ said Mr Masters huffily. ‘Now push off outside will you and see where Mrs Flynn has got to.’
Although a stranger to the village and not having the slightest clue what Mrs Flynn looked like Honey knew she’d been volunteered.
‘A fine night this is turning out,’ she muttered as she peered around the garden and towards the village hall. She was beginning to go off having a church wedding.
There wasn’t a soul in sight, but she did hear the sound of a car driving off – that was just before the doctor arrived.
The doctor told everyone to give the vicar some air, to go home, and that everything was being done that could be done.
‘Constance is made of pretty tough stuff,’ said the doctor. ‘It comes with the vocation.’
‘It looks a pretty decent pub,’ Doherty remarked once they were standing in the night air.
‘Are we likely to find the culprit there?’
He shrugged. ‘No idea. I just thought I might check if their beer stands up to scrutiny.’
The sky outside was crowded with stars and the moon was throwing silver stripes between the houses in the high street. It would have been quite romantic if it hadn’t been for the ya yaw of a police siren.
‘I didn’t know anyone called them,’ remarked Honey.
‘Even if they did, it wouldn’t warrant a screaming siren,’ muttered Doherty with a frown.
The police car careened over the uneven surface, finally stopping with its nose into the double gates of Belvedere House.
The driver recognised Doherty.
‘Sir? I thought we were going to be the first ones here. We were only a couple of miles away. Your car must be a bit of a goer.’
‘Teleported,’ said Doherty without the trace of a grin. ‘It’s the Flying Squad’s new secret weapon. We’re trying it out for a time.
For a jaw dropping moment it looked as though the driver had swallowed it. His partner looked more sceptical but wasn’t going to ruin either the joke or his chances of promotion. In his opinion it paid to keep in with one’s superiors; that included falling in with their wind-ups.
The electronic gates chose that moment to open.
‘Better get to it,’ said the driver.
‘So what were you told,’ asked Doherty, unwilling to admit that he didn’t have a clue what was going on.
‘Domestic. A complaint from a Miss Marietta Hopkins against her partner, Mr Harold Clinker.’
Honey recognised the name Mr Masters, the leader of the parish council had mentioned. She also recognised that of Marietta Hopkins.
‘Better get to it then,’ said Doherty.
‘Do you want to...?'
Doherty shook his head. ‘No. I’ll be at the pub if you need me.’
Honey nudged him. ‘That Mr Masters, the leader of the parish council mentioned a man named Clinker.’
‘What’s he done?’
‘I’ve no idea, but I did get the impression there’s some kind of dispute going on.’
‘Hmm.’
It wasn’t much of a response, so Honey gave him another dig. ‘I used to know a girl called Marietta Hopkins. She used to be called Mary. I think she’s an old friend.’
Again that non-committal sound.
She tried again. ‘Shouldn’t you make the effort, you know, seeing as there’s already been one incident tonight – get a bit of background information?’
Doherty looked as though he was chewing a thistle and he had that look in his eyes, like a greyhound about to spring from the trap. His gaze wandered to the main street and the wooden sign swinging outside the pub.
A pint of beer beckoned, but Honey had waved the duty flag. He was out of order and seeing as closing time was some way off...
‘Mary Hopkins used to talk about changing her name to something like Marianna or Marietta. She was very glamorous and had high hopes of a modelling or film career. Loved Hollywood style right down to those old white telephones and polar bear rugs; I did mention to her that it just didn’t suit the semi detached she’d probably end up with.’
‘Did she take much notice?’
‘Don’t know. We lost touch. Could be about to find out though,’ she added more brightly.
CHAPTER SIX
From the outside Belvedere House looked your run of the mill historic place with a hefty price tag. The moment they were shown inside, Honey knew that Mary Hopkins had become Marietta.
The maid who answered the door requested they take off their shoes. Her request was denied when Doherty flashed his id card.
The room was white; white walls, white carpet, and white furnishings. If Belvedere House had ever had any colour, it didn’t have any now. Even the features that might once have made the period house look interesting had been obliterated. History had been whitewashed in favour of recessed lighting and penthouse decor. It was like having a near death experience except that the white light was all around instead of at the end of the tunnel.
Miss Marietta Hopkins was perched on the arm of a snowy white sofa sporting a black eye and there was blood streaming down her nose. A woman with pale blonde hair and dark brown skin was administering a piece of lint and a bag of peas.
The two uniformed policemen had been told to wait outside.
Marietta pushed away the bag of peas. ‘I want him arrested,’ she shouted as the pair of them entered the room. She frowned on spotting Honey. ‘Don’t I know you?’
‘Yes. When you were Mary.’
As if her bruised face wasn’t enough, Marietta scowled. ‘Please don’t call me that. Marietta. My name is now Marietta.’
She was dressed in animal print leggings and a black thigh length top. Her hair was blonde and shoulder length and she wore lots of gold studded with flashing jewels. Honey doubted they were diamonds. Christian Dior did a good range of costume jewellery.
‘Your husband did this?’ asked Doherty.
‘That’s what I just said,’ lisped Marietta through a nostril of bloody mucous.
‘So where is he now?’
‘Off to cause aggro elsewhere. He’s had it this time.’
‘What time did this happen?’
‘An hour ago.’
Each response was gurgled through blood whilst she held her head back and the other woman, who so far had not been introduced, dabbed on the lint and the frozen peas.
‘Were there any witnesses to this attack on your person?’
‘I was upstairs getting dressed,’ said the dark skinned woman with the peas.
‘You live here?’ asked Doherty.
‘No. I was visiting.’
It occurred to Honey that an odd expression had passed between the dark woman and Marietta. She wasn’t sure Doherty had noticed.
‘And your name?’ he asked, making notes as he did so.
‘Carolina Sherise.’
‘How do you spell that?’
She spelled it out for him.
‘It’s an unusual name.’
‘It’s my professional name.’
Doherty nodded. ‘And your profession?’
‘Exotic dancer. I’m employed by Mr Clinker.’
‘Oh, so you know him well.’
‘Perhaps a bit better than some and not as well as others,’ she responded with a smirk.
‘So you saw Mr Clinker hit Miss Hopkins.’
‘Yes. Immediately after she hit him. We both came down the stairs when we heard her come in.’
Doherty stopped writing. Like Honey he’d assumed it was common assault; i.e. argument between common law spouses that had got out of hand.
Honey guessed from Doherty’s expression that his thoughts were about to collide with her own and his assumption was about to explode.
‘Both?’
‘Mr Clinker and me. We’d been gettin’ it together up in the bedroom, then Marietta here came waltzing in all unexpected like.’
‘Are you from Liverpool?’
‘I was once. But not now.’
‘She was screwing Harold,’ said Marietta between sniffs and swallows. ‘And before you say anything, Harold and I have an open marriage.’
‘You’re married?’
‘I retained my maiden name. We’ve been married for twelve years.’
Honey tried not to look surprised but her face simply refused to do impassive.
Marietta glowered at her with the eye that wasn’t sporting the frozen vegetables.
‘A research on line pointed out that marriage is always a compromise. That’s why some fail and some survive. Mine survived because both of us were willing to compromise,’ she said defiantly.
‘So you do compromise and confrontation, or was this a one off? I mean, have you come to blows before.’
Marietta pursed her lips. ‘He hadn’t brought a stranger into our bed before!’
Doherty’s notepad was halfway to firmly shut. He wasn’t getting this.
‘You had a fight because he’d brought this young lady home.’ He gave a brief nod to Carolina.
‘We had an agreement that we can both screw around without treading on shared territory. He broke the agreement. He brought her into our bed.’
‘So you hit him.
‘I saw red. Besides...’
She swallowed whatever she’d been about to say.
‘Have you been having other problems?’
‘We all have them from time to time.’
And then some thought Honey, although in her experience they never came to the weight of blows these two had exchanged.
It wasn’t part of Honey’s remit as liaison officer for Bath Hotels Association to get involved with domestic violence, but that was on a professional level. This scenario was getting juicier by the minute and definitely the stuff good gossip is made from. Besides, she’d known Marietta from schooldays. She was kind of a friend even though Marietta hadn’t yet recognised her.
Honey wondered what was Harold Clinker like. Given that Marietta was a glamour puss, he had to be a wealthy man, certainly wealthy enough to own Belvedere House. Was he old, young, ugly, handsome?
Her curiosity was roused. Given the circumstances, she could hardly ask Marietta. A sly glance around the room gave nothing away; there were no photographs in silver frames of a smiling couple on their wedding day or on holiday. One large painting depicting four interlinked circles of various shades of white hung on one wall. Three smaller pictures, all very much the same, hung in a row immediately opposite. So much for period decor! Not here. It didn’t exist.
‘Do you wish to press charges?’ Doherty asked, his attention fixed on his notes rather than Marietta’s plunging neckline.
Marietta shrugged. ‘If you can find him.’
‘We can give it a stab. Where does he usually go if you have a misunderstanding?’
Honey almost smiled at that. No misunderstanding she’d ever had ended up with a shiner like Marietta’s.
‘If he hasn’t taken the car, he’s probably gone for a walk.’
‘Not to the pub, by any chance?’ said Doherty hopefully. All these questions his throat was getting dry.
‘He doesn’t drink in pubs. He doesn’t usually go for a walk either, but if he hasn’t taken the car he can’t do much else but walk, can he!’
‘OK,’ said Doherty, notepad put away, hands tucked in his pockets. ‘I’ll register the complaint, though I will still have to formally charge your husband. We’ll take a look outside, but if you see him before I do, let me know. He can come into the station to be charged.’
Marietta thanked him.
‘That’s all we can do,’ said Doherty once they were outside and squeezing past the police car.
‘All done?’ the driver asked.
‘Sorted,’ said Doherty. He slapped the roof and told them to go home. ‘And go easy on the siren. You’re not starring in Miami Vice!’
The car left, siren now silent.
So typically male that policemen love the sound of their sirens, thought Honey. It was a bit like the charge of the light brigade; shout to the sky to let everyone know you’re coming.
‘Under the circumstances, I don’t think they had a church wedding,’ said Doherty as they headed back to the car.
‘Of course they did! Mary – or Marietta as she calls herself now, always did love being the centre of attention. I bet you she had a white gown, three bridesmaids and a four tier cake.’
Up ahead of them in the heart of the village, squares of amber light fell from the windows of The Angel Inn. Half a dozen cars lined the forecourt out front. The sound of a car door and two people laughing drifted on the night air.
Doherty eyed the pub mournfully. ‘Shame our Mr Clinker doesn’t drink.
The pub door opened and closed as he said it. A figure came out, head hunched into shoulders and gaining speed as whoever it was came towards them. By the time he drew level they could see his intense expression and the fact that his hairless skull gleamed in the glow of a solitary street lamp.
On seeing them he stopped abruptly. ‘You anything to do with the coppers?’
‘Yes, though off duty.’
‘What a terrible thing to happen. But there, nobody’s safe nowadays are they.’ He made a sucking sound through his teeth.
‘They should be safe enough in their own home,’ Doherty responded.
The man frowned and said, ‘Well she don’t exactly live there, do she. I mean, it’s God’s house really, innit?’ He sucked again and his smile edged on a leer.
‘Ah yes! The vicar,’ said Honey in a smack against the forehead moment. ‘Somebody hit her on the head, but she’s all right.’
A question relating to the whereabouts of Harold Clinker was on her lips, but Doherty got there first.
‘Are you Mr Harold Clinker?’
The bald headed man, who looked to be in late middle age, looked affronted.
‘Not bloody likely. I’m Alan Price.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Down that alleyway. Third cottage on the left.’
He pointed to a narrow opening between two buildings, barely the width of a car.
‘You don’t happen to have seen Mr Clinker pass this way?’
‘Clinker? Out on his own in this village? I should cocoa!’
His tone was the other side of friendly.
‘Not one of your favourite neighbours?’
‘He’s nobody’s favourite neighbour, especially the vicar. Take my word for it the woman’s a saint to have put up with him. I wouldn’t want to deal with him that’s for sure.’
‘Do you know his wife?’
‘Only in passing.’
‘Not to speak to? I find that hard to believe. I’d speak to her,’ said Doherty.
‘What you trying to say?’
No sucking this time, just a jarred look.
Doherty shrugged. ‘I asked a perfectly reasonable question, sir. I asked if you knew his wife and pointed out that it was no crime in speaking to her.’
Mr Price considered and nodded his head. ‘Only in passing mind you. Nice looking woman and friendlier than that git. I’m telling you now he’d never win the popularity stakes in this village. Most people who move to the country make the effort to adjust, but not ‘im. He expected the village to change to suit him.’
Once Mr Price had moved along, Honey and Doherty stood silently looking at each other.
Doherty screwed up his face. ‘How do you feel about an open marriage?’
She knew what he was really asking; is Marietta Hopkins for real?
‘Look, if you don’t want the cost of a white wedding, you only have to say.’
His grin was only a teeny bit nervous. He shook his head. ‘That isn’t exactly what I meant.’
‘I haven’t met this Mr Clinker,
but I already dislike him. Live together if you must, but what’s the point of getting married if you’re not going to follow the rules...especially the one about ‘keeping only unto her or he, for as long as you both shall live.’
‘And she kept her maiden name.’
Honey frowned. ‘Ye..ss. I know women do, especially professional women.’
‘Will you keep yours?’
They stopped walking and turned towards each other.
Honey pulled a so-so kind of face. ‘I’ve never really thought about it.’
‘Sounds as though the village didn’t like him much either. What say you to getting the lowdown on Mr Clinker?’ said Doherty sounding brighter than he had all day. ‘Ask around a bit. Get the lowdown from the locals. Any comments?’
‘Yes. It’s your round. I’ll have a vodka and tonic.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Plates, platters and old paintings helped hide the rough plasterwork at the Angel Inn. Pewter tankards hung from dark beams and enamel signs advertising everything from Sunlight soap to Coleman’s Mustard filled the gaps the plates and platters failed to cover.
By the looks of it, somebody had a passion for collecting old furniture. Jacobean style chairs with barley twist legs and raffia seats jostled with Victorian balloon backs, rounded Bentwood and lyre backed Chippendale styled with cabriole legs. One or two had the dubious look of having once been a commode.
The tables too were a mishmash of styles; some refectory, the smaller ones round and stout.
Diners were digging into whatever food was on offer. Helpings were generous so many of the diners were stout too.
Typically, the locals took up the bar stools, and those without bar stools stood. Beer mugs hanging from overhead racks barely skimmed the top of their heads.
Conversation in the bar area died once the strangers were spotted. Heads turned, eyes scrutinised. It was like a host of flashbulbs going off. Honey had an urge to strike a pose.
‘Good evening,’ said Doherty meeting their hard stares as he nudged the locals aside to make room for himself and Honey at the bar.
The man behind the bar was at least six feet four with dark hair and small eyes. He stooped forward, hands resting on the countertop, and even then his head only barely missed the hanging mugs.
Marriage is Murder Page 5