A Taste To Die For - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) (13 page)

Chapter Eighteen

The day could have started better. The dishwasher decided to have one of its away days, so the kitchen resembled a Turkish steam room.

‘The rotation arm’s not turning,’ shouted the kitchen porter, his head emerging from the machine in a hot, sweaty haze.

Honey resigned herself to ringing the repair man. His answer phone gurgled into life telling her that he was away on a cruise around the Mediterranean and wouldn’t be back until the 16th.

She swore at the phone as she slammed it down. People could be so selfish. On holiday! Did he have no idea of her dishwasher’s fickle temperament?

A lever arch file of useful contacts left by the previous owner was her next port of call. As thick and heavy as a volume of Encyclopaedia Britannica, she heaved it up on to the desk.

‘I need to enter all this stuff on our database,’ she murmured with a sideways glance at Lindsey. Her daughter’s face was presently lit by the computer screen.

‘That’s impossible,’ said Lindsey.

‘Why?’

‘You don’t know how to.’

Lindsey had a point.

‘By the way,’ her daughter added. ‘What’s the decoration hanging from the ceiling fan?’

Honey glanced over her shoulder at the closed door to her private office. She remembered the huge brassiere she’d flung into the air on her return from the kitchen last night. She’d left her bag on her desk in the office behind reception. As she’d grabbed it the contents had spilled onto the floor. The ‘brazier’ had been amongst them. Irritated by Steve’s snoring and then that mishap, she’d thrown the bra skywards. More aerodynamically designed than she’d thought, it had flown higher than she’d envisaged and landed on the ceiling fan.

She searched for and found an unbelievable excuse. ‘Those things have multiple uses don’t you know. Lampshades. Trendy, don’t you think?’

After sorting out a repair man for the dishwasher, she rang Francis Trent, aka Obadiah the Masai warrior. There was no response. Shame. He was the only person who knew the identity of the bloke who’d hired him.

Before dropping off to sleep, Doherty had told her about the other incidents at the Beau Brummell: misdirected coach parties, a rat in the pantry, and a series of paint jobs done on Stella’s Mercedes and Stafford’s BMW. Both cars had been the object of a spray-can fiend. The ridiculous hiring of a kissogram actor was over the top, but also a flaw in the perpetrator’s thinking. Someone had had it in for Stella and her chef. Francis had to have a name. Sylvester Pardoe fitted into this somewhere, but she hadn’t figured out where yet, and neither had Steve Doherty. He’d told her that over toast and coffee this morning – after apologising for falling asleep the night before. She’d made him suffer a bit, showing her displeasure, though not letting on about the floor show he’d missed. It could be a while before she was that keen again.

Totally out of the blue, Roland Mead turned up to talk business and sent the morning into a nosedive. Thinking crime was not threatening. Talking business with a supplier that her chef so obviously disliked was close to suicide of the financial sort. She didn’t want this.

‘Am I expecting you?’

‘Of course you are. And you’ll be glad I came. I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse.’

He was big, bluff and over-confident.

‘My regular butcher rings to make an appointment if he wants to see me.’

Roland shook his head and made a hissing, disapproving sound. ‘Strike while the iron’s hot. That’s my motto. And anyway, Hannah, I’m not a
regular
butcher. I’m a wholesaler with a wide range stored in a cold store at Avonmouth. I can supply you cheaper than your
regular
butcher.’

His familiarity with her name put her back up. ‘My name’s Mrs Driver. Only my mother calls me Hannah.’

Mead’s smile was like an old rag doll’s, with the stitches showing around the edge. Too ragged to be real.

He eyed her appraisingly, drawing himself up to his full height in an effort to impress her. ‘A woman who sticks to business. I like that. That’s why I know you’ll be glad I came. No one can touch me for price. It stands to reason. You can’t afford not to try me. I know you’re tempted,’ he said, clicking his teeth and tipping her the wink. ‘Go on. Admit it.’

Was that a double entendre?

‘I’m afraid I can resist you,’ she said, her tone meant to leave him in no doubt that she’d sooner be sunbathing in a ditch full of snakes.

She drew a deep breath and deftly buttoned up the blouse button that had come undone. ‘I leave the choosing of suppliers to my chef and he’s very happy with the Davis brothers.’

Roland guffawed as though she’d just cracked a huge joke. ‘They’re past it.’

‘Their meat isn’t.’

Roland’s eyes hardened and fixed on her face. Leaning forward, he dared to place his beefy palm on the open lever arch file. His fingertips edged towards hers.

‘Let me remind you, sweetheart, that you employ that chef of yours, not t’other way round. Get on top of ʼim darling, before he gets on top of you. Take my advice.

‘Take mine, Mr Mead. Remove your hand from mine this instant.’

He grinned. His hand remained.

Honey’s fingers were already over the paper punch. She clobbered his knuckles. The rag doll smile hung on by a few loose stitches.

She purposely turned her back on him. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to attend to my website.’

Lindsey had got up from her chair to use the photocopier. She looked back in horror as her mother took her place.

Roland lingered.

Honey pressed a few keys. A string of gobbledygook raced across the screen.

Roland leaned as close as he dared, none too sure of what she was likely to do with the hefty computer screen if he got too close. ‘Think on it and give me a call when you’re not too busy. You know it makes sense.’

‘Will you tell Grandma that he was making a pass at you?’ asked Lindsey after he’d left.

‘Was it that obvious?’

‘Dead right it was. Are you going to tell Grandma? Come on. You have to do something, surely.’

Honey thought about it. What would be gained by telling her mother that Roland Mead was a creep? The answers were easy-peasy. There was a fair chance that her mother wouldn’t believe her and, besides, her pride would be damaged, her ego pinched like a pair of too-small shoes. And if she did believe her, there was an equally fair chance that she’d chuck him and revert back to finding a new man for her widowed daughter.

Honey pulled a face. ‘I donʼt want my mother hurt, but you know how headstrong she can be. Warning her will do no good so for now I think I’ll let sleeping pigs lie – at least for the moment.

‘Don’t you mean sleeping dogs?’ asked Lindsey.

‘No. The man’s a pig. Sleeping pigs sounds about right.’

Chapter Nineteen

A party of doctors from the city hospital had booked in with their wives for a birthday celebration. Work hard, play hard was a saying they lived up to – and then some! By the time they’d been shoe-horned up to their rooms, they’d polished off far more than the monthly alcoholic limit, as recommended by the National Health Service, per head. Not bad for a four-hour session.

Giving a hand with the clearing up was more of a necessity than an option; mainly because someone had to be in charge of operations and those that should have been could not. Highly appreciative of the food, wine and service, the chef and head waiter had been invited to join the merry throng – one of whom was wearing his wife’s high heels by the end of the evening. Hence Smudger and Claus were sleeping it off on the settees in the bar and the boss was left with debris, a mop and a bucket.

Those left exchanged their concerns about ever ending up in the operating theatre with one of that lot holding a scalpel.

‘Might cut out the wrong thing,’ said Doris, their casual and very plump breakfast cook. ‘I knows I got a lot of flesh, but I don’t want to lose any by misadventure.’

It briefly crossed Honey’s mind that Doris could do with a bit of flesh reduction. She couldn’t say so of course.

By one o’clock she was left to lay the tables for the morning. The hotel was quiet, the building creaking as the day’s heat seeped from its walls.

She was lost in thought when someone banged on the bar door at around two.

‘We’re closed,’ she called out once she’d settled back in her skin.

Whoever it was banged again.

In no mood to be pleasant, she adopted her
I’m going to punch your lights out kind of voice.

‘Go away. You’ll wake my guests and I won’t be happy. If you keep it up, I promise you, I’ll call the police.’

No more knocking.

The mop and bucket were finally finished with. It was approaching three o’clock by the time she tumbled into bed, face unwashed, limbs aching with weariness, and clothes thrown into a heap on the floor.

A church clock chimed three. As if she needed to be reminded. Instantly roused from a moment of truly deep sleep, she blinked her eyes open as the clock struck its last note. She frowned. Why had she woken up so abruptly? She was used to the clock. It didn’t normally disturb her. It swiftly entered her head that she had heard something else. A tap, tap, tapping at her door.

Feeling puzzled rather than nervy, she got up on one elbow. ‘Lindsey?’

Lindsey was sleeping over at a friend’s in Bradford-on-Avon, but it was possible that she’d changed her mind and come home.

Her tired brain flipped a mental coin. Heads it was Lindsey, tails it couldn’t be Lindsey. Lindsey would have answered if it was.

She reached for her silk dressing gown then glanced down at herself. Naked. Silk dressing gown was not a good idea. She pulled on a scruffy pair of leggings and a comfort sweater; big and baggy and hiding a multitude of sins.

Looking like an egg with legs, she crept out to the hallway grabbing what she thought was a walking stick en route.

‘Who’s there?’ Her voice wasn’t much more than a loud whisper. ‘This is my home. The hotel entrance is round at the front,’ she said, suddenly deciding that it must be a hotel guest who’d gone astray, not beyond the bounds of possibility. Perhaps one of the surgeons had gone walkabouts. Thinking about it, at this moment in time they’d be hard pressed to find their way back to the hospital unassisted.

This is my home!
The thought was profound, like possession being nine-tenths of the law but no one quite knowing what it really meant. An Englishman’s – or woman’s – home was her castle seemed to fit the bill. She had a right to protect it, though it helped if you were bigger than the other guy.

‘I am armed,’ she said, a little too shakily. She raised the walking stick, which promptly attacked her. Her hair was caught on fine metal spokes. She’d picked up an umbrella by mistake and pressed the button!

Judging by the length of shadow falling through the glass half of the front door, this guy was big! Really big! His shadow was all height and no breadth – a bit like a telegraph pole.

‘Hello? Mrs Driver? I’m talking softly so I don’t wake your guests. It’s Francis Trent. I heard you wanted to speak to me.’

He was here? At gone three in the morning? What sort of excuse did he have? She asked him.

‘I’ve just flown into Gatwick – at eight o’clock tonight. Things took longer than they should have done because they lost my luggage.’

OK. A good one. Though Honey wondered how he had got in and out of the country without a work permit. If he was even telling the truth about that.

After disentangling herself from the umbrella spokes, she opened the door. Her hair stuck out at one side in a tangled mess. A good match with the outfit, she thought, on catching a glimpse of her reflection.

Looking up at Francis Trent took some doing. He really was a good stand-in for a tent pole. Billy Smart’s Circus would probably find a use for him.

As she opened the door, his smile shone in the darkness. ‘Andrea said you wanted to speak to me.’

He was dressed to kill – though more suitable for a night club than East Africa.

‘My day-wear,’ he said on seeing her eyes sweep over him.

His voice surprised her; rich and deep; not at all like when she’d met him in Casper’s office. Put on of course, she told herself.

Once they were both cradling cups of coffee and sitting comfortably, she asked him what she wanted to know.

‘Who hired you?’

‘A chef.’

The most obvious contender – the one she knew best – immediately sprang to mind.

Her stomach cleaved to her spine. ‘Do you know his name?’

‘Sure I do. So do you.’

The worst-case scenario had reared its head: Smudger serving time in the modern-day equivalent of Devil’s Island. With luck he’d get an en suite room. Smudger wasn’t very sociable at the best of times, but he was terrible in confined spaces.

She heard herself asking confirmation in a squeaky, unfamiliar and very nervous voice. ‘Who?’ and ‘What was his name?’ Her voice sounded far away.

Please don’t let it be Smudger. Please, please, please!

Francis carried on, all youthful confidence and lust for living glowing in his big brown eyes. ‘That young chef fella – Richard. I wasn’t going to do it at first. It was a bit too heavy to be a fun thing. But I could see he was suffering. That’s what makes people do over the top things. Had no time for that boss of his, none at all.’

Well that was OK! As long as Smudger was out of the picture. Honey sighed with relief and was sure her blood pressure chose that moment to take a nose dive. Great. She’d spotted a custard slice in the fridge back at the hotel. And a tub of Cornish clotted cream and a piece of over-ripe Stilton. This was cause for celebration. No need to advertise for a new chef.

‘So why didn’t you tell us the whole truth about the Stella thing?’

‘Didn’t want any trouble,’ said Francis stretching his lips to emphasise the words. ‘I didn’t mention Richard to you and that Casper fella because it weren’t what mattered. I heard the argument and thought I should tell you about that. Anyway, I thought I should give Richard his money’s worth. Fair’s fair.’

‘Very naughty all the same,’ said Honey, shaking her head like a disapproving, aged aunt.

‘Well …’ he looked contrite and made a ‘so-so’ movement with his hand. ‘I just felt sorry for that guy. Mind you,’ he said, his face brightening. ‘I enjoyed dressing up like that. I especially liked the spear.’

Honey eyed him from beneath darkening brows – as fiercely as Gandalf in
Lord of the Rings
, though without the bushiness, or the greyness. Thank goodness for eyebrow pencils!

‘The police did want to examine it. Something very sharp was used to cut Stafford’s throat.’

Francis grinned. ‘Not my spear. I loved it. The shank was long and hard all right, but the spear head was made of rubber.’ He sighed. ‘I’d really like to have been a real Masai warrior. Anyway,’ he said, suddenly coming out of what she guessed was a vivid fantasy, ‘I just did it to wind her up and make her look bad. But Richard did pay me. I had a bit of a problem – I won’t go into what kind of problem, but let’s just say I was in need of cash. It seemed a great idea at the time.’ His wide mouth stopped smiling. He sucked in his bottom lip. ‘Fact is, my wife – my pretend wife that is – was a tart and her chef was a total shit. They suited each other.’

He confirmed what she was thinking: yes, he had been telling the truth about the argument and Stella threatening to kill him.

‘I think someone was hustling her for money, if you know what I mean.’

‘Blackmail?’

‘No. Sex. She paid him for it. That Oliver bloke. That’s what Richard told me and judging by that argument …’

Clocking Honey’s dumbstruck expression, he proceeded to explain.

‘It was like this,’ he said, using his hands as an extension to his voice, waving them up and down in line with cadence. ‘According to Richard, she paid this guy Oliver Stafford far more than he was worth. Mind you it’s rumoured Oliver had a lot of stamina. Did you know him?’

His question took her unawares. ‘Uh … no, no I didn’t.’

Honey was no longer concentrating on Francis’s long-drawn-out explanation. At last they had a suspect. Richard Carmelli. Now what had Stella and Oliver done to him to make him that mad? Mad enough to kill?

Deep in thought, she didn’t immediately notice that Francis was eyeing her over the rim of his cup. Alarm bells rang.

‘You’re a nice-looking woman. Have you got a husband?’ he asked.

‘No. I’m a widow.’

‘Do you want one?’

His brown eyes were full of innocent appeal, like a puppy looking for a home.

‘No,’ she said adamantly shaking her head. ‘I’ve got someone in mind.’

It was almost the truth, just that Steve had been too tired to read the signals lately. But he would. In time he would.

The phone rang just as Richard Carmelli got out of the bath. Typical. Night off and someone couldn’t wait until he’d finished. No matter.

He picked up the phone. ‘Hi there.’

Nobody answered. His jaw tightened. ‘I know it’s you. Stop mucking about.’

Still no response and yet he knew – he just knew – that someone was there.

‘Sod off!’

He slammed the phone down. His heart hammered in his chest. The game was over. He had to get away. He picked up the phone and dialled the only person he knew was truly innocent.

‘Mark? I need to lie low for a while … no. Not in your place. I’ve got a tent. I’m going to camp out. Can you give me a lift to my lockup?’