Something in the Blood (A Honey Driver Murder Mystery) (8 page)

Chapter Eleven

It became obvious to Honey from his attitude that it wasn’t Doherty’s idea that she should accompany him to Ferny Down Guest House.

‘I don’t see the point,’ he told her bluntly.

He’d adopted a glum look, an unmistakable grimness around his mouth as the disgruntled grumbler took over.

She stated what she thought was the matter. ‘You were told I had to come along.’

He shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘The Chief Constable thinks he might get more media coverage with you on board. He likes having his picture in the press.’

He said it through gritted teeth.

‘Never mind.’ Honey patted his hand. ‘Oww. Your hand’s cold.’

‘Cold hand, warm heart.’

‘Well there you are then. Warm to me. We’re in this together.’

He grunted something unintelligible.

‘I’ll take that as an affirmative.’

There was nothing for it but to settle comfortably into her seat in Doherty’s sports car.

Doherty sat silently beside her.

Honey made a point of eyeing the passing scene.

‘The flowers look lovely this year. I like pink and mauve together. Don’t you?’

‘Mrs Driver, this is hardly the time to be noticing flowers.’

Maintaining her smile and her bright disposition, she tilted her head sideways so that a sweep of hair blanketed her right shoulder.

‘It’s a question of keeping things in perspective. Flowers are like music; they soothe the nerves. That’s what I’m here to do. Think of me as a flower.’

‘What?’

The car swerved towards the central reservation earning a blaring horn and a two-fingered salute from white van man.

Showing no sign that she’d noticed, Honey carried on.

‘This I think is the way to proceed when we speak to Mrs Herbert. You act like a stone, steadfast as you ask Mrs Herbert a lot of questions. I’m the fragrant flower that calms her nerves.’

Doherty shook his head in disbelief. He also sniffed the air. French perfume. Honey smelled good and looked good. She was wearing a pink checked jacket, cream skirt and candy striped shoes. Good enough to eat.

‘So!’ Honey went on. ‘Are you going to arrest Mrs Herbert?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘But you’re not discounting it.’

‘That depends on the evidence and her answers to my questions.’

Doherty’s square chin turned squarer. She sensed his confusion, personal and professional colliding behind the resolute exterior.

‘I doubt that she did it, though she is a criminal – of sorts. She should be locked up just for her choice of clothes and make-up. Now that’s criminal!’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ said Doherty as he turned off the engine. ‘Right. Now there’s a few questions I’ve got for you, flower.’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘You said that her old man was manhandling a chest freezer out of the back gate when you first visited.’

‘That’s right. The council truck was waiting outside to take it to the recycling plant for degassing before it was crushed.’

There was a rasping sound as he stroked his chin. Three days stubble. ‘Are you sure about that?’

‘It’s an environmental thing they have to do.’

‘I wonder whether they’ve crushed it yet. I’ll get it checked.’

He made the call before they got out of the car, telling somebody to check it out.

The flowers in the hanging baskets were wilting slightly. Honey wondered whether Mervyn had been the one who looked after them. Not necessarily of course. It could be Cora but she was down in the dumps and had forgotten. Not surprising.

His expression was deadly serious as he rang the doorbell. Comprehension regarding Honey’s innuendos blinked into his eyes when Cora Herbert answered the door.

Her sense of style hadn’t altered one iota. She was wearing a cropped black top and chequered skirt with a ragged fringe around the hem. Her eyes were heavily outlined. A gold droplet dangled from her pierced belly button. Her flesh was white like dimpled bread dough. The gold droplet heaved in and out as though it were gasping for air.

Her black-rimmed eyes landed on Honey.

‘What? You again!’

‘It’s me,’ Honey said trusting her smile would override the hint of hostility in Cora’s voice. She needn’t have worried. Cora’s attention swerved to Steve Doherty. A deep intake of breath ballooned her bosoms.

If Doherty had been the cream and she’d been the cat, he would have been gobbled up by now.

She was straight to it, her eyes shining and her red lips smiling. ‘And you are?’

Doherty took a side-step. Partially shielded by Honey, he flashed his identity card.

‘Detective Sergeant Doherty. I need to speak to everyone who was in this house on the day he left.’

‘Me, me husband and me daughter.’ Cora gushed the information.

Doherty’s chin shot forward when he nodded. The stubble rippled as his mouth moved.

Honey watched it move. Funnily enough, it was exactly the same length as two days previously. It occurred to her that he trimmed it to just the right length in an effort to make exactly the right impression.

‘Just the three of you live here?’

‘And guests when we’ve got any. Mind you, I can always find room for a nice-looking bloke like you.’

A nerve ticked a muscle beneath Doherty’s right eye, but he kept his nerve.

‘I need to speak to you, your daughter and your husband.’

Thick with mascara, Cora’s eyelashes flickered like the wings of tiny bats.

‘Our Loretta’s up in her room. Merv isn’t here. In fact, you could say that I’m all by meself.’

Honey recalled Cora telling her where her husband usually enjoyed his quality time.

‘Perhaps if you could tell me which pub …’

The interruption was unwelcome. Cora glared and her tone turned frozen as a fish.

‘He’s not gone to the pub. He’s gone away. He’s allowed to go away isn’t he? God knows but we work hard enough, put up with enough …’

Aware that her attempts at flirtation had flopped, the belly she’d attempted to hold in relaxed into its natural pudding shape.

‘For goodness’ sake,’ she muttered, ‘it’s only a tourist gone on a mystery tour! That’s my opinion anyway.’

Steve Doherty’s face set like quick-drying cement.

‘Mrs Herbert, today a body was pulled from Pulteney Weir. We believe it to be the body of your former guest, a Mr Elmer Weinstock, also known as Maxted. We would like you – or your husband – to make a formal identification.’

The wind knocked out of her sails, Cora Herbert’s botoxed bottom lip hung puffy and quivering. Her eyes stretched prominently in the podgy, pallid face.

‘Can we come in and discuss what you know?’ asked Honey.

Cora nodded and retreated into the green and white hall.

Honey recalled the fug in the conservatory and prepared to take small shallow breaths. To her relief they were shown into the guests’ lounge instead. A ‘no smoking’ sign was prominently displayed on the mantelpiece. The room had a pleasanter smell than the conservatory by virtue of a can of air freshener. Lilies of the Valley by the whiff of it, Honey guessed.

Cora Herbert didn’t invite them to sit down, but they did anyway. Cora perched on the arm of a chair immediately opposite, like a vulture deciding whether to fly off or stay and pluck their eyes out.

Doherty got out his notebook and a smart-looking pen.

Honey eyed him sidelong. He seemed relaxed. He was making a list on the pad and ticking the items off, too slowly for her liking. An overwhelming urge to know
everything
and
at once
took hold of her. She found herself counting the seconds he was taking to ask the first, relevant question.

It was obvious that he was terrified of Cora Herbert. But for goodness sake, he was a policeman. Weren’t they brave, fearless and bold?

Apparently not. She jumped in herself.

‘Can you tell me who was here the last time you saw the man you knew as Mr Weinstock?’

Policemen were usually forceful – or at least they were on television. Doherty remained relaxed. Silent.

As is the way of some women of a certain age, Cora did not seem to welcome a dominant female. Her reply was aimed directly at Doherty. Her hands smoothed her skirt following the contours of her thighs. ‘First there’s Mervyn of course, then my daughter, Loretta.’

‘How old is she?’ Doherty asked.

‘Seventeen.’ Her smile was weak, but her simpering spilled out, unhindered by recent events. ‘I had her very young you see …’

The door to the lounge creaked open. The truth bounced into the room.

‘I’m nearly eighteen and my ma isn’t as young as she makes out!’

The correction came from the over-made-up girl poking her head around the door. Her blonde hair was streaked with three shades of copper. Her earrings were big enough to swing on and she wore six rings on her right hand alone and another in her nose.

Doherty nodded a greeting and turned back to Cora.

‘The man you knew as Mr Weinstock is dead. Did you have anything to do with him while he was staying here – you know – general stuff like saying hi in the morning and how’s the weather?’

Loretta’s earrings made a tinkling noise as she folded her arms beneath her pert breasts. Honey took note of those rings. Definitely six rings on three fingers of each hand and one on each thumb. None on her index fingers.

She was wearing a red sweater with a keyhole design over her cleavage that left nothing to the imagination. Like her mother, her belly button was pierced.

Loretta shook her head. ‘I didn’t have much to do with him meself. He chatted to Mervyn a lot. They used to booze a bit in the den.’

Cora smiled at Doherty. ‘I don’t think this nice policeman has got any more questions for you, Loretta.’ She turned back to the girl, her expression hardening just a teeny, weeny bit. ‘I’ll be along shortly to make yer lunch, love.’

Honey saw the contempt in Loretta’s eyes and knew beyond doubt that her mother’s affectionate tone wasn’t a regular occurrence.

Honey smiled at her. ‘Cool rings.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Be great if you could remember anything about the bloke. I know it’s kind of humdrum, but you know – anything at all?’

Doherty cottoned on to her game.

‘You might have spotted something that less observant folk might not. We’d appreciate your help.’

Honey was trying not to stare at Loretta’s skirt. If it had been much shorter, she would have seen her dinner.

‘Was your father friendly with the American guy?’ asked Doherty.

Loretta’s expression was petulant.

‘He’s not my father.’

‘My first marriage,’ Cora explained with a weak grin to them and a warning look to her daughter.

Loretta shrugged. ‘The other night when I heard him talking to Mr Weinstock was the last time I saw him – or more like, heard him. He was talking to Mervyn.’

There was something in the way she said her stepfather’s name and the careless way she shrugged that set the alarm bells ringing – at least for Honey. She glanced sidelong at Doherty. Did he have teenage children?

No. He did not. He hadn’t seen that telling slide of the eyeballs that was meant to show casual indifference but in fact meant something entirely different.

‘You overheard what was said?’

‘Yes. They were in the kitchen. Mr Weinstock had asked Mervyn for ice.’ A wicked grin crossed her face. ‘Mervyn hated having to get crushed ice. Not that it was any big deal, wrapping cubes in a tea towel and bashing them to smithereens. Is it true he’s dead? The American?’

Doherty nodded. ‘The man you knew as Mr Weinstock is dead, yes.’

Loretta’s eyes lit up. ‘Bludgeoned to death? Could it have been done with a rolling pin? Old Merv was a dab hand with that rolling pin. That’s what he used to crush the ice.’

‘You little bitch!’ Cora sprang to her feet. Fingers like claws reached for her daughter’s throat.

Honey got in between them. ‘Now calm down.’ She frowned at Doherty. ‘So how was he killed?’

‘We’re not sure yet,’ said Doherty. ‘Once we have the details of the post mortem, I can …’

Honey was losing patience. ‘Can we get to the point, please?’ Both the policeman and the teenager looked surprised. A cloud of perfume emanated from the trendy teenager when Honey addressed Loretta. ‘What were they talking about?’

A thunder-faced Cora butted in again, her lips quivering slightly. ‘She’s just told you. Mervyn was crushing some ice. That’s all.’

‘You said they were talking,’ said Honey, fixing her gaze on Loretta and refusing to take notice of the sour looks Doherty was throwing her way. ‘Now to my mind that means after the ice was crushed. Is it possible that the man you knew as Mr Weinstock had his own bottle of whisky? Quite a few Americans buy their own to save on bar prices. Could he have asked Mervyn to sit down and have a drink with him?’

Loretta began fiddling with a wispy strand of hair caught around her earring. ‘Yes. They were. I could tell they’d had a drop by their voices. It echoes a bit in the den anyway.’

Doherty jumped in. ‘The den? What den? I thought they were in the kitchen.’

Loretta studied her fingernails in a nonchalant, cocky kind of way. The polish looked black or at least dark purple. ‘They were in the kitchen first getting the ice, and then they went into the den. Mervyn was showing him his watch collection.’

‘He collects watches? Old pocket watches – things like that?’

Loretta nodded. ‘Yeah.’

‘Interesting.’

Honey could feel Doherty’s eyes on her.

She didn’t tell him that Casper, who had enrolled her for this job, collected clocks. Mervyn collected watches. Now what sort of coincidence was that?

Chapter Twelve

Mervyn opened his eyes but saw nothing. Everything was dark and his head ached. The dryness on his tongue was like iron filings and, for some daft reason, he could smell something that reminded him of Christmas.

With each breath the sack covering his head was sucked up into his nostrils, the sweet-smelling dust drawn up into his nasal passages. What with that and the gag in his mouth, it was difficult to breathe.

A sense of panic overwhelmed him. He was going to die. Not comfortably, perhaps not even quickly, but slowly suffocating, struggling for even the slightest morsel of air.

He tried to remember exactly what had happened, but all he could think of was Loretta. Everything began and finished with her. Even in this his worst nightmare, the thought of her nubile body assuaged his fear. Eventually his fear won the battle.

What was he doing here!

Mentally, he retraced his movements. Somehow he couldn’t move forward from Cora’s first husband giving him a beating. All he’d done was to give Loretta a lift home. He’d tried to explain that it was raining, but to no avail. The blows still fell hard and fast.

That was when he’d made the decision to leave. If that moron was walking free, then he was off. For good! First get some money together …

Something about that gelled in his brain. Money! Sometime after that he’d arranged to meet someone, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember the guy’s name or why he’d arranged to meet him.

He shivered. His clothes were chill and damp against his skin. He knew he’d sweated a lot. Now he was cold, terribly cold. One shiver came fast upon another. If he hadn’t been gagged his teeth would have chattered.

He tried moving his arms, flexing his fingers, squirming against the ropes that bound his wrists.

Suddenly he became aware that someone was there. The footsteps were muffled because of the sack over his head. He tried to lift his head, to roll away.

He never saw the hand that killed him. He saw only the wasted years of his life flashing before his eyes before even the memories drained away along with the blood and bits of brain.

The cellars were deep, one tier upon another. A thin scum of orange silt covered the cracked concrete and dented cobbles, a result of the times when the river was swollen, the lower levels flooded.

It was like that now, slippery and smelling of river mud and untreated effluent. Coke cans and plastic shopping bags bobbed around just below the ledge that dipped into the river. This was the very lowest cellar and slowly, with the passing of the years, the river was claiming it as its own.

The body had softened and was faintly marbled by virtue of resident bacteria. He’d covered the head with a small sack so he didn’t have to look at the staring eyes. The sacks were readily available. He used them frequently for other things, less gruesome things.

The rest of the body was wrapped in a length of polythene that crackled when he lifted it up. The man wasn’t light, but not too heavy either. Carefully so as not to slip, he carried Mervyn Herbert down the last flight of steps. There was a good flow on the river, a welcome result from the earlier rains. On the opposite bank he could see ranks of sodium streetlights winding through the darkness. Spots of reflected amber light danced on the racing river.

On his side there were no lights only the black square shadows thrown by the circling colonnade above. The night was his, as dark as his mind.

Gently, still holding on to his precious piece of polythene, which had once covered a mattress, he let the body slide into the water. It bobbed about a bit, clung to the bank as if unwilling to leave him.

Beneath his breath he cursed the strong flow and with the help of a torch searched behind him for something to poke the body away from the bank and into the main stream.

What had once been a door lay cobwebbed and rotting against the wall. Just as he’d done before, he tore a piece of rotten plank from it, green paint clinging in odd patches over its rough surface.

With the fingers of one hand, he gripped the crumbling door lintel overhead. In the other he held the wood. Still holding on to the flaking masonry, he reached out and poked at the body until it was safely carried into the current. Then, carelessly, no longer interested in the bloated flotsam he had consigned to the water, he flung the piece of wood after it.

Unafraid and uncaring, he watched it ebb into the black night and black water. What was it to him? What was anyone to him? Except with one notable exception, one person who he loved more than himself.

The rush of water and a slight bumping sound made him look back again.

The body had returned, the river current pinning it against the bank.

There was no option but to drag it back on to the slime-covered flagstones. It had to be got rid of, but where?

He sat down and thought about blame and throwing the police off the scent. Blame and guilt. He knew a lot about them and about loss and restitution, making things up to those you loved.

An idea came to him. Suspicion fell initially on close acquaintances in a murder case. So, if the body was found in the right place …?