‘Of course they do. But only if you’ve got the figure of a bean stick. Oh, and it also helps if you’re about sixteen years old. Do you know that some of the models you see on the catwalk and in these magazines are sometimes thirteen and fourteen?’
‘So! You’re saying I don’t need to worry.’
‘Not at all. You’re fine as you are,’ Lindsey responded giving her mother a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
‘How does she fit into the case?’
Honey picked up the one showing Carolina smiling at the camera. She’d been smiling this morning too. Even once she knew more details of the murder, a smile had never been that far from her luscious lips.
‘She was known to the murder victim and an even closer friend of the victim’s husband.’
‘Is she the prime suspect?’
Honey shook her head. ‘No. Not so far anyway. The husband has that position. He’s done a runner.’
‘Well he would do.’
‘They had a fight – him and his wife. They also had an open marriage.’
‘Ugh Oh! Be celibate or be faithful. That’s my view on marriage.’
Mention of celibate brought to Honey’s mind her recent interest in becoming a nun.
‘You’re not really considering it; are you?’
Lindsey curled herself into a comfy chair, the magazine on her lap.
‘Think of the money I’d save on buying the latest must have fashion.’
‘Think of the lack of male company.’
Lindsey stopped turning pages. Her eyes appeared to be scrutinising the magazine, but Honey knew she wasn’t. The signs were there for the reading; she was biting her bottom lip and the pages were not being turned.
She lifted her heart shaped face, her eyes gleaming mischievously.
‘I need to consider my options.’
‘I think you do,’ said Honey who had finally settled on wearing yellow trousers and a black and white striped shirt that skirted her thighs. Her Italian court shoes finished the ensemble.
‘You’re looking good,’ she hissed to her reflection. Her eyes glanced at her favourite bag; a big brown with room for everything she needed including a loafers to change into when her feet started aching. She’d thought she’d thrown it out after buying the pink bag. The pink bag wouldn’t hold a pair of shoes. The brown one would.
‘You’re looking good,’ Lindsey repeated, then added, ‘Aren’t you going to try and talk me out of it?’
‘No.’
She looked surprised. ‘Why is that?’
Honey was halfway out of the door. ‘Because it won’t happen. Being celibate isn’t in the genes.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
The lockup garage where Ahmed had kept his Rolls Royce was to the rear of a rank of ex local authority houses on the edge of Keynsham, a small town sandwiched between Bath and Bristol.
On hearing the garages were up for sale and likely to attract a decent rent, the owner of one of the houses put in a bid and got the lot. His neighbours had been given the chance to buy each garage individually, but most preferred to either park their cars on the road or rip down the front hedge and pour a concrete drive on the front lawn.
Honey parked her car, got out and looked along the back of the houses. There were only three gardens backing directly onto the lane with a good sight line of the garages where Ahmed kept his car. One of them might have seen something. It was planned to put out an appeal on TV detailing the woman having been found dead in the back of a white Rolls Royce and saying where that car had been kept. Hopefully it would ring a bell with someone, but it didn’t hurt to jump the gun.
The first resident she tackled was using a hedge trimmer to attack a stubby row of conifers that had already been truncated but were now being trimmed.
Seeing as he was wearing a pair of ear defenders, Honey used sign language to attract his attention.
First she apologised for bothering him.
‘That’s all right, love. I could do with a break.’ After shoving his goggles and ear defenders onto the top of his head, he glanced back towards the house. ‘This bloody hedge could have been left a week or two longer and I could have sat down and watched the cricket this afternoon. It was an executive decision that the hedge would be trimmed today!’ A plug of grey hair surged up over his neckline when he shrugged his shoulders. ‘And who am I to argue. Only the dogsbody. That’s what I am.’
‘You’re doing a good job.’
He eyed her suspiciously. ‘She ain’t paid you to say that, ‘as she?’
‘No. It just looks very neat and tidy.’
‘Bloody conifers. I told ‘er indoors not to go for ‘em, but she insisted. That was fifteen years ago. And they grew, didn’t they, grew and grew until we ‘ad moss instead of lawn growing ‘ere, and didn’t see the sunlight for half the year.’
Honey nodded in agreement. ‘That’s the trouble with conifers.’
A forest of hair sprouted from beneath his arm when he raised a bottle of water to his thirsty lips. He was wearing a checked shirt left open over a string vest. His skin glistened with sweat.
‘You sound as though you know yer stuff. Are you with a garden centre?’
‘No. I’m with the police.’
His eyes opened wide. ‘Jesus! ‘Ave she in number ten been complaining about me making a noise?’
‘No. It’s nothing to do with noise. It’s about the theft of a motorcar from one of the garages. A white Rolls Royce. Do you know anything about it?’
‘The young Asian kid’s car? I heard it got stolen, but by nobody round ‘ere, I can guarantee that. If they was goin’ to take a car they like something sporty, know what I mean? Something that will outrun the cops’ car.’
‘You didn’t see anyone taking it?’
‘He shook his head. ‘No, though I could ‘ave done, now that I’ve cut these bloody trees down to size.’
Honey began rummaging in her bag for a picture she had of Marietta but instead brought out the head and shoulders portrait of Carolina Sherise. ‘Can I ask you if you’ve ever seen this woman before?’
Marietta’s photo must have got caught beneath the naughty photo of Carolina Sherise. Well that can stay where it is, she said to herself. It was the face that people remember. Half naked wearing sequins and a feather would only serve to cloud a man’s recall.
A dirty finger and thumb delved in the pocket of his checked shirt to retrieve a pair of spectacles. A quick flick and he had them on the end of his nose.
Firstly he looked at the photo close up before stretching out his arms and eyeing her from a distance.
‘Nice looking girl. A bit like that Naomi Campbell, you know, that supermodel; all teeth and legs that go on forever, though basically a bit too skinny for my liking. I prefer something with a bit more meat on the bones...’
‘Reginald! What’s going on here?’
At the sound of his wife’s ear splitting voice, Reginald handed back the photograph. ‘Sorry love. I can’t ‘elp you. Voluptuous Vera,’ he added dourly before his expression changed as his wife got closer.
‘This lady is with the police, my darling. It’s to do with that car that was nicked.’
Vera had arms like legs of ham and a roll to her ample hips similar to that of a hippo about to indulge in a bit of mud rolling.
Her corn coloured hair looked as though she hadn’t long left the stylist and her triple chin quivered with laboured breath until she came to a standstill. She had pink skin. Even her arms. Probably pink all over, Honey decided.
‘Doesn’t the hedge look nice dear,’ Reginald said to his wife, but Vera wasn’t listening. Her expression was very intense.
‘I heard that car was involved in a murder,’ she breathed, her words expelled in a rush, her eyes bright with interest.
Honey told her she was correct. ‘I know you’ve already been asked if you saw anything, but I wonder if you could take a look at a photograph.’
‘Pleased to,’ said Vera. ‘Any
thing to help catch whoever killed the poor girl. And in her wedding dress too. How tragic is that? That’s one who won’t be promising till death us do part.’
‘Terrible shame,’ said Reginald, shaking his head. Honey wondered whether he was being sincere, or merely agreeing with his wife even though his view of marriage might not match hers.
‘If you could take a look?’
Vera took her husband’s spectacles and looked at the photograph.
‘No,’ she said, sending her chins quivering as she shook her head. ‘Never see her before. Never seen her before, have we Reg?’
Reg shook his head too and agreed they’d never seen her before.
Honey thanked Reginald and Vera for their time and asked if she might have their surname and telephone number just in case she needed to talk to them again.
‘Pludd,’ said Vera. ‘Mr Reginald Leonard Pludd and Mrs Vera Elizabeth Pludd.’
‘Do you think your neighbours might have seen something?’ she asked before heading off down the alley that led from the garage block to the street.
Husband and wife exchanged wry looks.
‘That’s anybody’s guess. Her at number six works nights. At a club. So she says.’ Vera’s chins folded one upon the other as her eyes flashed in disbelief. ‘Still in bed I dare say, though not necessarily alone. Or in ‘er own bed for that matter.’
Honey nodded confirmation that she got the picture. It came to her that she didn’t know where Carolina Sherise lived. She crossed her fingers, hoping she might have struck lucky.
‘Do you know her name?’
‘Only her first name,’ said Vera. ‘Geri. That’s what she’s called. I presume it’s short for Geraldine. I don’t know her second name’
‘Evans. It’s Evans,’ said Reginald.
His wife looked up at him in surprise. ‘How do you know that?’ She didn’t sound best pleased.
‘The postman left a parcel here the other week. Something from Amazon I think. It had her address on it.’
‘And I suppose you delivered it to her. Once you knew she was home!’
Reginald laughed. ‘Now come on me love. I was only doin’ what’s right.’
His wife remained po faced.
Disappointed that the occupant of the house was not named Carolina Sherise, Honey felt obliged to chivvy things along.
‘That house there seems to have a good view of the garages.’ She pointed to the third house along, another brick built semi almost identical to that occupied by Reg and his wife. ‘Are they likely to be home?’
Vera led the way. ‘Oh yes. Him at number eight will be there. He’s always there. Not that you’ll get much sense out of ‘im. He’s a bit touched you see. Ain’t been the same since his wife went. And I don’t mean that he’s a widower. She took off with a second hand car salesman from that place in Temple Street.’
‘But I am likely to find him in?’
Reginald pulled a rueful face. ‘Oh yes. Nigel Brooks. He’ll be very pleased to see you and probably invite you in. Take my advice. Don’t go in. You might never get out again.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Taking the alley connecting the parking lot to the street front of 1930’s red brick semi-detached houses, Honey smiled at the way Reginald Leonard Pludd tapped the side of his nose. She took it as a warning that as a woman entering the house of a single man, she might not be safe.
She wasn’t been able to deduce much about the two houses she intended visiting from their rear aspect. Number six and number eight. Those were the numbers though she couldn’t quite recall which was which but decided that the bachelor pad will be dead scruffy whereas the one occupied by Geraldine Evans would be clean, neat and tidy.
‘This is it,’ she murmured pushing open what was left of the front gate. There was no latch but some of the wooden spokes of the gate were missing along with one hinge so it creaked when she pushed it open.
A jungle of weeds sprouted from what had been a rose bed. Both front door and windows were in need of redecoration, paint peeling like slivers of dried skin. No woman in residence promoting upkeep and the benefits of DIY.
The doorbell hung forlornly on the end of a single wire. Honey rapped at the knocker on the wooden door. The sound reverberated from inside and there was nothing else; no television, no radio, no pinging singing of a play station or computer.
‘Come on Nigel,’ she muttered.
She was getting impatient and this time gave the knocker another almighty rap.
Shoving her hands in her pockets, she stared at the door, willing it to open. Some people had the power to open doors and move immovable objects. Perhaps she could do it. Well you never know until you try. You might have the power and it’s called...
She searched her brain for the right term. Ah yes. Telekinesis! That was it.
Another minute or two ticked by.
One more minute, one more tap on the knocker and she knew the power of mind over matter simply wasn’t hers.
Turning her back on the door she headed back through the scruffy front garden to the rusty gate.
Now for the next house.
The gate was painted mustard and didn’t squeak or creak when she opened it. The front lawn was bereft of moss or weed, and bordered with sweet smelling summer flowers; everything from delphiniums to carnations, cornflowers and Canterbury bells. All these lesser flowers grew in circles around a multitude of rose bushes.
A pale pink rose climbed neatly up a trellis at the side of the door. The plastic windows and front door looked new, the glass was washed and polished.
The aspect of this house compared with the last one couldn’t have been more different. It also bore out her belief that a woman, whether she was single or had a man in tow, made all the difference to how a house was looked after.
The doorbell was brass and played the strokes of Big Ben; a little ostentatious perhaps, but better than the lonely sound of a doorknocker.
She took another look at the sunny garden, smelled the roses and leaning slightly to one side, admired her reflection in the window. She wasn’t kept waiting for long.
The man who answered the door didn’t exactly greet her as a long lost friend, but he was friendly. He was also about six feet tall with blonde hair that might have been natural at one time. He was about fifty and had a deep cleft in his square jaw – like a peach – cleaving it almost in half.
The chin drew Honey’s attention so she forgot to check everything else.
‘The expected visitor!’
‘You’ve been expecting me?’ She couldn’t help sounding surprised. How had he known? Then it came to her. Reg and Vera must have phoned him. ‘So you know what this is all about.’
He opened the door wide. ‘Yes. Nothing’s a secret in this neighbourhood. Come on in. I’ll make you a cup of tea.’
Taking it as read, she didn’t ask that Reg and Vera had alerted their neighbour that she was coming. She also assumed that Geraldine Evans – Geri – was still asleep and had left the man friend to do the honours.
The smell of a clean house came out to greet her. Well this was more like it. She thanked him and crossed the threshold.
‘Take a seat in here,’ he said, opening the door into the front room. ‘The kettle’s boiled. The teapot’s warm plus I’ve made scones. Jam and clotted Cornish cream OK with you?’
Was it? The smell of freshly cooked scones wafted through from the kitchen and up into Honey’s nostrils. She told him it would be wonderful whilst trying hard not to salivate.
‘I take it Miss Evans is asleep. Understandable seeing as she works nights.’
He looked a little blank for a moment and then said, yes, she did work nights so mostly slept during the day.
She noticed his eyes were blue and although his smile seemed genuine enough, her gaze kept falling to that cleft chin. Like a deep dimple or the cleft between a pair of well rounded buttocks.
Whilst waiting for him to come back with refreshments, she looked
around the room and felt blinded by light. Everything in the room was magnolia, ivory or oatmeal with the exception of a series of scatter cushions sporting a rose bouquet design. The latter were placed at regular intervals along the settee and one in each chair. They were so very regular that she wondered if somebody had purposely measured the spaces in between with a ruler. Possibly. Some people were that sad.
A widescreen television occupied the recess closest to the window. Placed on a small table in front of the window was a bouquet of roses and other flowers tied round with a cream satin bow.
On the wall immediately opposite the window hung a Victorian style painting of a bride signing the register and the attentive bridegroom leaning over her shoulder. The glass covering it reflected the street scene outside the window; privet hedges, red brick and parked cars.
Her host returned with proper cups and saucers, all in a rose pattern design and balanced on a silver tray.
She tried not to let the smell of the scones cloud her judgement, but on the whole decided that this man – who as yet hadn’t given her his name – knew the way to a woman’s heart. He was very polite, plus he knew how to make scones.
The tray was placed on to a glass-topped coffee table.
‘It looks lovely,’ she said, and meant it. A man who could cook was a definite asset for a woman who worked nights.
She started to sit down.
‘Stop!’
Honey stalled, bottom poised above the settee.
‘The cushion. Don’t lean back on the cushion. You’ll disturb it. Sit forward please. I don’t want it disturbed.’
So. The lady of the house was fastidious and he was only following instructions.
She did as required.
‘Milk in first,’ he said before pouring the tea. ‘Sugar?’
Honey shook her head. ‘No thank you. I’m sweet enough.’
A trite joke, but he seemed to think it was funny.
‘Of course you are. Nobody ever said you were anything else.’
Alarm bells rang. He made it sound as though he knew her well. Had he mixed her up with somebody else?
She wondered what Geraldine – Geri – looked like. There were no photographs anywhere, just bland decor lifted by the bouquet of roses, the cushions, the Victorian painting of the bride and her whiskered bridegroom. Despite those little touches, the room was still too bland, too white, like a near death experience. Gathering her thoughts and wits into one tidy bunch, she decided the time was ripe to nudge things along a bit.
Marriage is Murder Page 14