‘I bet they are,’ muttered Honey.
She caught Lindsey eyeing her curiously.
‘What? What? What? What????’
Lindsey turned her head slightly away whilst eyeing her sidelong and trying not to grin.
‘You did tell me it was in the genes. What a turn up! Gran getting married before you. What will you say to them when they get back?’
‘Never mind me, how about you?’
‘Hello Dad?’
The shock wore off as the day wore on. As Doherty remarked when he came in to see her, ‘Look on the bright side. She’ll spend more time with him and less giving you grief.’
‘Stop looking so pleased about it.’
He shrugged. The grin stayed in place.
‘OK, OK. It could be that I’m being short sighted here. There are advantages to having a step dad. Could be we might have similar music tastes. That’s besides the fact that my mother will be indulged by him.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘My mother favours men that indulge her. She wouldn’t have it any other way. So. I give in. Lunch on the house. Let’s celebrate.’
Anna was around to run reception so Lindsey joined them. So did Mary Jane, dressed up to the nines in a pink satin party dress and elbow length gloves; a bit over the top for lunchtime, but Gloria Cross would have appreciated the gesture.
Dish of the day was meatballs, made to Smudger’s own recipe of beef mince, sultanas and basil, cooked in a tomato and onion sauce, dotted with mozzarella cheese, washed down with an Italian Syrah.
Once the meal was over, Honey and Doherty were left with a second cup of coffee they talked about Harold Clinker coming into the station with his brief.
‘He’s got a watertight alibi; he was in Spain at the time his wife was murdered and has a witness to prove it. The maid who said Carolina had gone with him got it wrong, so Carolina couldn’t vouch for him. He also made a statement to Spanish police confirming where he was and they, of course, had to agree he was indeed in Spain. Slippery bastard though, getting it in writing then knocking on the door at Manvers Street.’
‘So no easy wrap.’
He shook his head. ‘No.’
‘And Nigel Brooks?’
‘What did he have to do with Marietta or Mrs Flynn? OK, his ex wife lived in the village, but what’s that got to do with anything?’
Honey eyed him as he said all this, thinking that perhaps he wasn’t really being entirely up front.
‘Are you thinking both killings might be random? Both carried out by a serial killer with a penchant for wedding dresses?’
‘Penchant? That’s a long word to use just after lunch.’
‘I’m celebrating.’
‘You’ve got over the fact that you’ve acquired a stepdad?’
‘Just about.’ Honey poured the last of the wine into her glass. ‘Cheers.’
They clinked glasses.
She eyed him over the rim of her glass. ‘That’s what you think isn’t it? You think you may be dealing with a serial killer. You didn’t take those letters you received seriously and now you’re having second thoughts. And getting more concerned.’
He had been eyeing the stream of pedestrians trooping past the window, the cars trailing round looking for a place to park. With an air of reluctance, he stopped looking out the window and turned back to face her.
‘I have to consider it, though...’ That evasive look again.
‘You have had other thoughts.’
She paused recalling that she’d considered her mother the sender of the letters seeing as she’d never approved of Doherty, not that she’d voiced her suspicion. Nobody liked to think that a member of one’s own family would do such a thing.
‘Did you think your daughter sent them?’
Doherty was slow to look at her. That in itself was enough to tell her that he’d harboured the same suspicion.
‘I wasn’t sure. She’s off travelling again, so I phoned her mother. Apparently Karen is on a course in Scotland. Edinburgh.’
Although Honey had the urge to berate him for not telling her earlier, she held back. ‘How did she know my mother was away?’
He shrugged. ‘That, I’m afraid, was a shot in the dark. She didn’t know. Anyway, she was never that good at English, always getting her tenses wrong. From what I can gather from her mother, she’d meant to threaten kidnap not imply it had already taken place.’
‘Well that’s two reasons for being relieved. My mother has remarried and I am not under threat from a serial killer. Which brings us back to the case in hand.’
‘It does that.’ Resting his lower arms on the table, Doherty leaned forwards. Honey matched his stance. Their faces ended up about six inches apart. Doherty kept his voice low.
‘Somebody killed Mrs Flynn with a lethal injection. We don’t know who. A second person, finding the old girl supposedly at prayer, head resting on the pew in front of her, took advantage of the situation and bashed her over the head not realising she was already dead. We haven’t found the weapon as yet.’
Honey looked down into her coffee, twirling the cup round and round as she worked it through based on the information he’d given her. Her mind was clear of worrying about her mother’s kidnap or a serial killer so there seemed more room to manoeuvre.
Gradually things slipped into place.
‘The second murder. Marietta. It wasn’t the same person who bashed Mrs Flynn. We’re now sure of that, right?’
He registered his pleasure at her deduction with a brief kiss on her nose.
‘Clever girl. A smokescreen carried out to put us off the scent. Whoever injected Mrs Flynn thought they’d committed the perfect murder. David Chan informs me that an injection under the tongue is not discernible like it is if done into the skin. It also means the insulin enters directly into the bloodstream bypassing the gut which tends to lessen its properties. Mrs Flynn was given a large dose. The other fact is that the insulin itself is that after twelve hours, the insulin is absorbed into the bloodstream and destroyed. Undetectable.’
‘She wasn’t discovered until the next morning.’
‘That’s right. Chan jumped through hoops in the days following the death. There were no obvious injection sites and only a tiny amount of insulin found in her bloodstream. But he’d read somewhere about injections under the tongue, that and the fact that her dress was soaked in sweat even though she’d been dead for some time. He was a bit bashful about admitting where he’d read about insulin injected under the tongue,’ Doherty added with a wry grin. ‘A murder novel. Our Mr Chan reads them by the bucketful. He told me he was lucky to find the tiny amount he did. It should have all been destroyed by that time. He also assured me that healthy adults are likely to recover from insulin overdoses, but babies and the elderly are more at risk.’
Honey frowned. ‘That couldn’t have been her I saw running to the church.’
‘No. I think you saw Nigel looking for his wife. At her interview, Janet Glencannon told me he’s always doing stupid things like that.’
‘Not a pretty sight. He’s hardly a dainty man.’
‘I promise that at our wedding you can be the one wearing the dress.’
It was her turn to kiss his nose.
‘So where did Mrs Flynn get her wedding dress? And what was she doing sitting in the church at that time of night?’
Doherty took both her hands in his. ‘The vicar had only just left. The vicar had also been hit on the head and we took her home. The church was left open, not that it being left open is neither here nor there. As gang leader of the flower arranging committee, she had a key. The vicar assured me she did.’
‘I take it the person who injected Mrs Flynn has to be a professional – like an ex nurse.’
‘Possibly. Whoever it was also needed access to a supply.’
Doherty nodded. ‘Such as a hospital, clinic or medical practice.’
‘Or a diabetic friend or relative.’
‘Hmm. It’s possible. My thoughts are that whoever gave Mrs Flynn the injection panicked when somebody hit the old girl over the head. It complicated matters. Mrs Flynn saw her doctor regularly on account of her age. In those circumstances an old lady found dead would not have attracted the intervention of a pathologist. A visible injury from a blow on the back of the head was a different matter. The real murderer attempted to divert attention away from any forensic findings, so he or she orchestrated a second murder. Marietta fitted the bill. We did consider both murders were done by the same person.’ He shook his head. ‘But they weren’t.’
‘So who did it?’
‘The same person who hit the vicar over the head.’
‘Why the vicar?’
‘The murderer was disturbed.’
Honey frowned. ‘The vicar had only just come from Mrs Flynn’s house. Bearing in mind the time difference between when we discovered the vicar and when Mrs Flynn was murdered, the murderer hung around.’
Doherty’s eyes met hers. ‘The murderer remained there after we left. Damn!’ His fist hit the table. ‘I should have had a good look round.’
‘Our first thought was the vicar and anyway, it didn’t seem as though anything was disturbed and nothing was reported taken.’
‘Right. Just an opportunist. It usually is in church thefts.’
‘Can I have your autograph?’ The interruption was from the Japanese lady in room 17. ‘I’m recording everything we’ve done since we’ve been here. I’d like a photo too. Do you mind?’
‘My, my. I feel like Madonna,’ Honey exclaimed.
‘Oh, you’re not at all like her. She’s too skinny. A little fat would be good for her.’
Honey knew the Japanese lady meant well, but all the same, she found herself wanting to walk off her lunch.
‘I need more exercise,’ she said to Doherty once the lady with the autograph book and state of the art camera had departed to snap more memories for her scrapbook.
In the few minutes of indulging a guest, Doherty’s expression had turned deadly serious.
‘Harold Clinker told me Mrs Flynn kept records of everyone in the village.’
‘How did he know that?’
‘He might have meant it in a general kind of way, but what if he didn’t. What if Mrs Flynn kept written records? If so, where did she keep it? We didn’t find any notebooks or diaries at Mrs Flynn’s house. Only one fresh notebook if I remember rightly. Nothing written in it.’
‘Yet?’
He nodded in agreement. ‘Yet. So what if there was one already current. If she didn’t keep it in the house, where did she keep it?’
‘In the place she frequented more often than anywhere else. The church.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
When Honey phoned her, the vicar promised to meet them at the church as soon as she could and that she would bring her diary with her so Honey and Doherty could set a date.
They drove down the narrow alley to the parking area in front of the church.
‘Harold’s home,’ said Doherty and nodded to the black Mercedes saloon glimpsed through the gaps in the gates of Belvedere House. Next to it was a deep blue Porsche. ‘I wonder who that belongs to.’
‘I expect it’s one of his lady friends. He’s not one to let his bed get cold.’
The day was surprising bright, sunlight streaming through the open door of the church, brightening the old stonework so it shone like honey.
The slight figure of Hermione Thompson was gliding between flower displays topping up the water for the thirsty blooms. She smiled when she saw them.
‘Can I help you?’
‘We’re here to see the vicar,’ said Doherty and flashed his id.
‘Oh yes,’ she said, her voice hushed and respectful. ‘You’re the policeman aren’t you?’
‘We’re also hoping to get married here,’ Honey added. ‘The flowers look lovely.’
‘We do our best,’ said Hermione, sounding and looking more like a little girl than a fully grown woman, though judging by her face she was on the plus side of forty.
The sound of Doherty’s mobile echoed around the church.
‘Sorry,’ he said apologetically after seeing who was calling. ‘I’ll take this outside.’
Honey shook her head. ‘Sometimes I think we won’t ever get to the altar.’
‘Oh I dare say you will. If you really want to,’ said Hermione.
Hermione Thompson struck Honey as one of those people who can’t speak unless somebody else leads the conversation. With that in mind she plunged straight in and asked her about the murder.
‘I suppose it must have come as quite a shock to the village.’
‘Yes,’ Hermione murmured. ‘It did.’
‘Quite surprising, don’t you think? Seeing as Mrs Flynn wasn’t exactly that popular.’
‘She told the truth about people; saw beneath the surface,’ Hermione retorted hotly.
This was not the response Honey had expected. Hadn’t Janet Glencannon said that Mrs Flynn had picked on Hermione?
‘Oh go on! There’s no need to be frightened. She’s not around to bully you any more. You speak your mind.’
The pale face reddened and turned rigid.
‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘You mean she didn’t bully you?’
‘Her attitude towards me was misunderstood.’ A sudden change came over her face. ‘It was here, wasn’t it? Janet Glencannon. It would be her, having a dig at us because she had to compensate us for Quincy’s problems that she should have told us when we bought him from her.’
‘Quincy is your dog?’
‘A Labrador. He had fits. She said it was because he was a puppy, but that was a lie. Quincy is an epileptic. It costs us a fortune to keep him topped up with barbiturates. She said he would grow out of it, but he didn’t. And before you suggest we should have put him down, we couldn’t do that once we’d grown fond of him.’
‘Oh of course you couldn’t,’ Honey said sympathetically. It surprised her that Hermione didn’t see things quite that way. However she wasn’t here to pass judgement, only to ask questions.
Hermione rubbed what looked like tears away from her eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t let things get to me, but there you are. I’m not a hard boiled type like some around here.’
‘Some? Do you have anyone in particular in mind?’
Hermione blinked at her as though trying to make up her mind whether to spill the beans or not.
‘I’m not a gossip but I wasn’t surprised when Marietta was found dead. I suspect her husband. He had good reason too, you know, though it’s not for me to condemn – not really, but...’
‘It wouldn’t be condemning if it helps apprehend the killer, Mrs Thompson.’
Head inclined over the vase, Hermione began deadheading those flowers that weren’t likely to last the week.
Judging by the fact that she was sucking in her lips, she was yet again considering exactly what to say and how to say it. Honey suddenly entertained the view that Hermione was not quite the innocent little woman she made herself out to be.
‘Well. Let’s put it this way. She was always home on the days the gardener was there. He’s a big burly fellow is Dave Lee and despite English summer weather, was often to be seen mowing the lawn or pulling weeds without his shirt on. Perhaps it was a prerequisite for the job,’ she added.
Honey perceived a sudden spitefulness in Hermione Thompson’s smile, one corner of her pale pink lips curling up and making her plain face more animated, more interesting even. It was as though her outward show of pliable innocence had turned brittle and cracked in the corners.
Although she had already guessed the answer, she followed Hermione to where yet another vase of flowers with drooping heads were dropping dead petals all over the floor. She asked the obvious question. ‘Do you think they were having an affair?’
Her face went redder. ‘Excuse me. I have to take these outside to the compost heap.’
‘Fine,’ said Honey. ‘I could do with a bit of fresh air.’
She followed her outside. Doherty was nowhere to be seen. She wondered where he’d got to, but wouldn’t go looking for him just yet, not whilst she had Hermione in her grasp.
Flies were buzzing around the compost heap and bees around the rose hedge bobbing against the wall. The compost heap was just before the long grass and the place where Harold Clinker had been discovered.
‘So what do you think?’
‘About?’
Was this woman seriously obtuse or just evasive? The urge to give her a good shake was exceedingly strong. Patience, said one of Honey’s inner voices. Another one said plough on. She wasn’t sure whether that second voice meant with regard to asking more questions or to giving the limp looking girl a good shake.
Patience won out. ‘I said do you think Marietta and this Dave Lee were having an affair.’
A breeze suddenly sprang up from nowhere blowing her fine fair hair across her face. Hermione brushed it back. Honey noticed her fingernails were black which seemed at odds with somebody so fragile looking.
‘I’m not sure it’s right to describe it as an affair. I can think of a more lewd phrase,’ she replied, her lips quite thin and taut, her eyes hidden by spoon shaped lids. The malice was tangible.
Wow, thought Honey and compared Hermione with a chocolate. Soft or hard centres, chocolates all looked the same. It was pure chance which had hard centres and which were soft. She’d put Hermione down as a soft centre such as strawberry cream or fondant. Wrong. Hermione was either toffee or Brazil nut. Hard centred.
‘This is a very pleasant church,’ Honey persisted as she watched Hermione tip the dead flowers into the bin before pouring the stagnant water into the long grass. ‘It’s very pretty, the church and its gardens.’
‘A churchyard,’ said Hermione. ‘Not gardens. It’s a churchyard and it’s full of stone angels and empty urns.’
‘I stand corrected.’
Marriage is Murder Page 20