Never mind, Honey, she said to herself. Leave the problem at the door and go home. Put your feet up. Pour yourself a glass of something interesting. She wondered if Mary Jane had any Armagnac left. Nice thought.
The windows of the hotel reflected the daylight, though not everywhere. Here and there she could see through and see tied back curtains and the odd chandelier.
Her gaze swept from floor to floor. All the rooms would be cleaned by now, beds changed, carpets vacuumed, loo paper revitalised. A taxi drew up outside the main door and two people got out, the boot was opened up, suitcases retrieved and taken inside.
The arched window above the front door suddenly caught her attention. A woman who looked as though she were wearing a nightdress, was looking out, staring across to the buildings on the other side of the road. Her arms were outstretched as though she were about to crash through the glass and fly.
Honey’s breath caught in her throat. The arched window had a low sill and was not a bedroom window but was situated on the second landing.
Oh my God! The woman was going to jump!
Racing into reception, she flung the corsets onto the reception desk and dashed up the stairs shouting at Lindsey to send Smudger the chef up to the second landing – pronto!
It must have been the tone of her voice, but Lindsey didn’t hesitate.
The flight of stairs to the first landing was tough enough; the second flight to the second landing where the arched window looked over the street left her puffing and panting.
She leaned against the wall, the eggshell blue of the walls blindingly bright. A blue and white vase – suitably Chinese looking – sat on the low sill of the window. It was quite large and had been put there to stop people clambering up onto the sill to look out of the window. Not that there was much to see; only the buildings opposite and some greenery beyond the main road to Warminster.
‘What is it?’
Smudger was pink in the face, probably because he’d taken two stairs at a time – it had sounded urgent.
Honey turned sheepish. ‘I was out in the street. I looked up and thought I saw somebody about to throw themselves out of the window.’
Smudger looked unfazed. He shrugged.
‘Nobody here now.’
‘No. I was mistaken. It must have been the vase.’
‘Or an unsettled spirit,’ said Smudger with a chuckle.
She refused to respond to his wicked grin.
He stood there regarding her, stiffly white in newly laundered and starched chef’s gear. ‘You OK?’
She nodded. ‘OK.’
‘Right,’ he said already turning to go back downstairs. ‘Then I’m back to my coq au vin. No more hysterics please. It affects my creativity.’
‘I promise. It must be this murder playing on my mind.’
Or the smell of jasmine in Mary Jane’s room. And here. On the landing. It was back. She kept her thoughts to herself.
Smudger paused and turned a few stairs down.
‘Do you want me to mention it to Mary Jane?’
Honey considered his suggestion to tell Mary Jane, Professor of the Paranormal and a fashion disaster on legs. Finally she shook her head. ‘No. I don’t think so. I was mistaken. Anyway, one ghost in this hotel is quite enough to cope with.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Honey was interviewed at two on the dot. Accordingly she glided in having attired herself in blue jeans and a black sweater for the occasion. Doherty wouldn’t expect her to dress up.
‘Am I the first?’
‘First what?’ asked the sergeant in reception.
‘The first of the people who judged the window display competition.’
The sergeant shook his head. ‘You’ve just missed the first. The other is due in at four.’
‘Do you have their names? You know, just so I can...’
‘I don’t think the guv’nor would appreciate you fraternising with other witnesses, Mrs Driver. You know how he is.’
Yes, she knew how he was. She knew things about him that nobody in the police force knew. Personal things. The fact that he snored when he lay on his back asleep, that his right hand fidgeted with his left ear, one arm thrown across his chest, hand fiddling with his ear.
Doherty hugged her before offering her a seat.
‘Coffee?’
‘No. I’m all coffeed up!’
He sat casually, leaning forward, hands clasped, elbows on desk. The desk was old and made of wood. He had been scheduled to have a brand new metal one with a leather top, but had strongly resisted. He liked the old wooden one. It had scratches and dents which only added to its character – just like him.
‘So. Tell me all about it.’
Honey leaned back in her chair, the heel of her right foot resting on her left knee.
‘I was asked to judge a window display competition.’
‘Did you think that unusual?’
Honey gave it her considered thought. She’d wondered herself but the reasons the organisers gave seemed logical enough.
‘No. Not really. I mean, I’m a woman. I window shop. Who better to know a good display when I see one.’
She was repeating what Lee had said to her. It seemed a good enough reason. She did not mention his comments about her familiarity with the local police force.
‘You saw Nigel Tern?’
‘I did.’
‘Is that the first time you’ve ever met?’
‘I think so.’
‘When was the last time you saw the display at Tern and Pauling?’
‘When the presentation was made; the judging happened before lunch, the presentation was done in the afternoon.’
‘Was there anyone there who looked suspicious?’
Honey threw him a wry look. ‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘Any obvious animosity towards Mr Tern?’
‘I did keep a lookout for any sore losers, but there didn’t seem to be any. In my opinion the only time animosity raises its head at such events is when the champagne runs out.’
A flicker of a smile lifted Docherty’s mouth. ‘And it didn’t.’
‘No. There was plenty enough for the judges, the well wishers and the rest of the crowd.’ Her thoughts went back to the tension she’d seen between Nigel Tern and the woman in the wheelchair. She decided to mention it.
‘I did notice that Mr Tern and a woman seemed to be having a tight moment.’
‘Tight?’
‘She wore a tight expression, not a hint of a smile. Nigel maintained a tight grin as though he were doing his best to look as though what she was saying to him was of no consequence. Nothing but tightness between them!’
‘And you thought whatever was being said might be of some consequence?’
‘Of consequence, yes, I did. Judging by his expression, he didn’t much like what she was saying to him.’
‘But you didn’t hear what was being said.’
‘No. I did not. All I was sure of was that it was not well received.’
‘So you know who the woman was?’
‘Yes. Grace Pauling. I understand she’s the family lawyer – besides being the daughter of Mr Arnold Tern’s deceased partner.’
Doherty ran his fingers over his pursed lips. Honey heard the familiar purr of three day stubble. Steve hated shaving. She hated him doing it. Stubble suited him. So would tight britches. So would a mask and knee length boots.
‘I’m off to ask Mr Charles York a few more questions. He’s the road sweeper who found the body. Care to accompany me?’
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was the smell of Charlie York’s flat that reminded Detective Inspector Steve Doherty that he hadn’t got round to washing the dishes this morning.
Honey noticed his hesitance. ‘Anything wrong?’
He smiled at her. ‘I was thinking of last night.’
The night before he’d tossed a salad, sprinkled it with Parmesan plus garlic flavoured oil and set it in the centre of the table. Smoked s
almon had been on the menu, Scottish of course. Norwegian was too salty. Butter, Gorgonzola and chunks of crusty farmhouse bread had been added plus a bottle of Italian D’avola. Honey had stayed until late, an hour or two on the rug together, then a taxi back to the Green River Hotel.
Charlie York hadn’t washed up either, though the smell was stronger. One sniff and he perceived the prime suspects as being fried bacon, Cumberland sausages, eggs, fried bread and baked beans. He already knew that Charlie’s wife had passed away some time ago. He understood how it must be for the man, but still, although pleasant enough when fresh the smell became cloying after a few hours.
However, Doherty had been in enough stinks in his life to have perfected the skill of half closing his nostrils and taking shallow breaths.
Charlie showed them into his living room moving a few days newspapers to give them room to sit down.
‘It must have been quite a shock for you,’ he said once he’d declined a cup of tea and a slice of toast. Charlie had also presented a jar of thick cut marmalade, but Doherty was firm. When murder reared its ugly head he preferred to be lean and mean. Being hungry helped him do that. Besides it was long past breakfast time. He wondered whether Charlie was aware of that. Getting up early for work played havoc with a bloke’s body clock.
Honey made the excuse that she was on a diet. She was always on a diet. It’s something that became a permanent routine once you were over forty.
Charlie sank gratefully down into a chair, his hands wrapped around a mug of tea. Doherty noted it was decorated with a picture of Miss Piggy, pink and fat against a lime green background.
When he took a sip he made a loud slurping noise, his hands shaking slightly.
‘It were a shock alright. At first I thought it were a great window display. Adam Ant! Who would have thought of decorating a window with him? Amazing.’
Doherty frowned thinking perhaps that he’d misunderstood.
‘Adam Ant?’
‘Yeah. That’s right,’ said Charlie wide eyed as he nodded. ‘Were you a fan?’
‘No. I’m sorry, but I understood the window display was of a highwayman.’
Charlie shook his head. ‘Didn’t look like no highwayman to me. That were Adam Ant. It came to me at the same time as the tune on my ipod. I like a bit of music when I’m on me rounds. Stand and Deliver he was singing. Have you heard of it?’
Doherty said that he had though it was slightly before his time. The road sweeper had to be in his mid to late fifties.
Charlie continued to shake his head, his protruding eyes staring into space.
Although impatient to hear what Charlie had to say, Doherty knew better than to press him. The poor chap looked a bit shattered to say the least.
‘You didn’t see anyone around?’
Another adamant shake of the head. ‘No. There’s never anybody much around at that time in the morning. Not even the pigeons.’ He chuckled before taking another sip of tea.
‘Can you tell me at what point you noticed the body swinging from the noose?’
Doherty studied Charlie’s features whilst awaiting a response. His attention was drawn to Charlie’s ears which waggled as he prepared to answer. Tufts of hair stuck out from each ear, their colour and wiry toughness matching his eyebrows. He reminded Doherty of an alien from Star Wars, one of those who hung around in inter galactic bars and looked almost human.
Charlie heaved a big sigh. ‘I didn’t really notice the hanged man until the finale came.’
‘Finale?’
‘On my ipod. There was nobody around so I was doing a guitar solo on my sweeping brush. Being a kid again I suppose,’ he added with a self conscious chuckle.
Doherty managed a saturnine smile. Humour tended to take a back seat when his mind was stuffed with the intricacies of a murder investigation. There was so much to think about and what with the paperwork...
‘So this was early morning.’
‘About five thirty. There’s nobody around at that time in the morning, you know, tourists and such like. That’s what it’s all about, keeping things tidy for them.’
‘You obviously take pride in your work.’
Charlie nodded avidly. ‘You bet I do. I want them to go home with lovely memories of a clean, historic city not wading through Big Mac wrappers and cigarette packets.’
Doherty was impressed that a humble road sweeper could be so conscientious about sweeping the pavements and gutters.
‘Is it always food cartons and cigarette packets?’
Charlie shifted in his chair. ‘Not always. Other things get thrown away.’
‘Have you ever found anything of value?’
Charlie shifted again and his bright eyes suddenly dimmed. Doherty waited, noting the caution that had come to Charlie’s face.
‘Go on. You can tell me. Finders, keepers.’
Charlie shrugged. Nothing special. Sometimes a few coins, even a bit of paper money. Not your hundreds and thousands mind. And not a wallet or purse! I wouldn’t keep that. Not anything with a name inside it. I take stuff like that to the nick and hand it over to your blokes. I’m honest, I am. Always have been, always will be.’
‘Did you find anything that morning?’
Charlie squirmed for a bit, his head almost rotating on his scrawny neck as he fought to overcome his natural distrust of policemen.
‘A fifty pence piece. A few pound coins.’
‘I see. You didn’t mention them in the statement.’
‘Was I supposed to?’ His eyes flicked wide open. He looked worried.
Doherty thought about it. ‘I only ask because it might have been dropped by the murderer and have his fingerprints on it.’
Charlie looked dismayed.
‘I ‘adn’t thought of that.’ He sprang to his feet. ‘Look, if you want to rifle through what I’ve got in my pockets...’
His baggy trousers hung like a clowns low on his hips and sagging at the knees. The coins jingled as he rummaged deeply into both trouser pockets.
Honey considered the rubbish lurking in those pockets. No way was she rummaging in there.
‘No need,’ said Doherty getting to his feet. ‘You found them before finding the body. There’s nothing we can do about that. The evidence – if they were ever evidence in the first place – is contaminated.’
Doherty excused himself thinking of how the solicitors at the Crown Prosecution Service would turn their noses up at the prospect of evidence fingered by a scruffy road sweeper with a penchant for cooked breakfasts and a nineteen eighties band leader they’d probably never heard of.
‘Just the man who found the body,’ said Honey.
‘I think so. Though he did fidget a bit when I asked if he ever found anything of value.’
‘He could be lying, though there’s no guarantee if he does have anything valuable that it’s anything to do with the case.’
‘True.’
Once he’d closed the door behind Doherty, Charlie drew the chain across and turned the catch. There wasn’t much in the way of crime where he lived, but securely locking the front door enhanced his sense of security.
Assured all was safe and secure, he trotted back along the passage to his living room, heading for the painted pine sideboard that was set against one wall.
He’d rescued the sideboard from a skip early one morning, balancing it across his cart once he’d finished his shift.
It hadn’t been easy, but with a bit of help from a friend he happened to bump into, he’d got the sideboard home before returning his cart to the depot.
The sideboard looked good – not too heavy, not too big. For the first few days he’d never tired of admiring it. He didn’t do that now. There was something else he was desperate to admire.
On opening one drawer, he took out the watch he’d found in the gutter just last week. It was heavy and obviously expensive, the name Bulgari picked out in small silvery letters on the watch face.
Tentatively, he held it in both han
ds, licking his lips as his heart quickened with delight.
It had been hard not to brag to the policeman about this watch, but then if he had he would have lost it. Taking a lost wallet or purse to the police was one thing. A watch was something different.
Like a magpie, Charlie was drawn to bright things. If he had taken the watch in it would have gone into the lost property department at Manvers Street Police Station never to be seen again – at least it wouldn’t be seen by him. Probably auctioned off at a fraction of its value. That’s what they did with lost property if it didn’t get claimed. Even so, he guessed the price would still be beyond him. Street sweepers didn’t earn enough to buy top of the range items like that.
He’d found the watch up the steps at the end of Beaumont Alley so that had to mean it was nothing to do with the murder. That’s what he counselled himself. Deep down he knew he was doing wrong, but this was the most lovely thing he’d ever found and he wanted to keep it.
CHAPTER NINE
It was two days later when Doherty phoned to invite her to take a look around the tailor’s shop.
‘I’ll meet you there. Access shouldn’t be a problem. After all you are a witness.’
Honey referred Doherty back to her interaction with a very pissed off Alan Roper. ‘Any news on how much property Nigel Tern owned?’
‘The Tern Trust still owns a great deal of property. The old man set it up. It’s early days, but I’m not sure the murder victim knew much about the trust but was merely the sprog who reaped the rewards.’
‘Which were considerable?’
‘They still are.’
Long shadows fell across Beaumont Alley giving it a rather secretive and even gloomy air. She guessed its shadowy aspects were much appreciated by the select band of clients the business attracted.
Walking hadn’t taken too long. The city pavements were occupied mostly by tourists at present. Everyone else was still in France.
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