A Taste To Die For - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) (20 page)

Chapter Thirty-one

The bar door was closed to the public and so was a good place to talk. The lights were off. It was cool and green and had a hollow emptiness about it when there were no paying guests. Staff wouldn’t come in until it was open and neither would her mother. Gloria Cross didn’t approve of drinking. Her third husband had – too much as it turned out.

Steve and a uniformed colleague were swift in movement, sweeping into the bar, declining to sit down and looking impatient to go.

Honey noticed he was having trouble meeting her eyes. His questioning was directed at her head chef.

‘We’re busying ourselves questioning suspects and witnesses. You’re one of them. Tell us all you know about Richard Carmelli. Where you met, what form the relationship took and whether you’d want to kill him.’

Smudger was unruffled. ‘He was a mate. Mates don’t kill each other.’

Honey held her breath.

‘Oh yes they do,’ he snapped. ‘Depends on whether one or both of them have got a bit of a temper.

Gone was the sexy Steve of the other evening. This was serious.

Honey felt her mouth growing dry. ‘He couldn’t have done it. He was here when it happened,’ she blurted.

‘When what happened?’

‘When everything happened.’

Steve’s serious expression stayed in situ, though his eyes twinkled when he looked at her. There were a few interesting observations in that look, and none of them had anything to do with crime. He turned back to Smudger. ‘We’ll need to take samples from your hands and beneath your fingernails. Do you know how to drive an excavator or any other item of heavy plant?’

‘I could learn,’ he said with a grin.

‘This isn’t a joke.’ Steve’s look hardened.

Honey noticed.

Smudger noticed too. His attitude shifted ninety degrees. ‘No. Never needed to. There’s not much of a call for driving heavy plant in a hotel kitchen.’ He frowned. ‘How did Richard die?’

Steve stated the facts without too much description of the gore. ‘Someone brought a half-ton bucket down on his head up at the old RAF place at Charmydown.’

Honey felt the blood drain from her face and pool somewhere around knee level.

The gathering fell silent, their faces bathed in reflected thoughts. Even Smudger’s country-boy cheeks paled to rice-pudding-white.

Each was picturing Richard Carmelli’s demise; legs sticking out from beneath an iron bucket, head smashed like an overripe strawberry.

The situation called for an inappropriate intrusion; someone to say or do something smart or funny, anything to break the stony silence.

Can anyone do cartwheels, Honey wondered. They were all on pause and needing to move on.

Suddenly there was a sound. Someone was mumbling. They all looked at each other.

‘I didn’t catch that,’ Steve said to her.

‘I didn’t say anything.’

She looked at Smudger. He shrugged. ‘Not me.’

‘The bum! The low-down, snake in the grass, rat-assed bum!’ The voice was slurred, but still recognisable.

Honey felt her face reddening and saw amusement widening Steve Doherty’s mouth.

Fingers thick with diamond rings appeared on the bar top – first one hand, then the other.

All eyes were on the bar except for Smudger who was still distracted, still in shock. He was shaking his head. ‘Whoever did it is a low-down …’

‘Bum!’

Steve gave a nod of acknowledgement. ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself.’

‘Roland Mead is a bum!’

Gloria Cross’s blurry vision travelled around the room. Recognising a captive audience when she saw it, she smiled.

Honey sensed a performance coming on, groaned, and hid her face in her hands.

Without looking at her, she knew that her mother’s face was lighting up; first there’d be a joke in the worst possible taste.

‘Bum!’ Gloria Cross’s reverberant voice rang around the dimly lit bar. ‘What do you call a dwarf or a butcher with short legs! A LOW-DOWN BUM!’

Honey peered through her fingers. Steve’s serious expression had fractured into a wide grin. ‘Your mother isn’t too hot on the politically correct front.’

Honey reeled off a number of totally rubbish excuses. ‘She doesn’t know the meaning of the term. She’s old! And she’s not usually in the bar. She doesn’t drink.’

His grin widened. ‘She does now.’

Her mother’s shoulders came into view, then her chest.

Oh, Christ!

The room went goggle-eyed. Steve Doherty’s jaw dropped. His uniformed colleague sniggered but was silenced with a warning glare from his boss.

Honey groaned. She’d discovered where Lindsey had put the brassiere. Her mother had found it down behind the bar – and tried it on. As for the alcohol …?

Her mother’s face was blearily happy, soft like kiddies’ modelling clay. ‘Mary Jane gave me a strong tonic.’ She hiccupped. ‘It was
very
strong, but it’s done me the power of good.’ Wobbling slightly, she looked down at her chest with a slightly surprised but accepting look. ‘My! I was always a 34B. Do you think the tonic did that?’ 

Chapter Thirty-two

It was two days later when Steve dropped in and brought her the result of his enquiries regarding Sylvester Pardoe.

‘He’s well covered with alibis,’ he said, resting his elbows on his knees as he ran his fingers through his hair.

Honey could feel his frustration.

‘But why did he call on Roland Mead?’

‘He said it was a while ago. He was looking for Stafford.’

She was about to ask him why Pardoe would ask Mead for the chef’s whereabouts, but Steve pre-empted her question.

‘He said he’d come down to look up old pals and it was Carmelli who pointed him in that direction.’

Honey frowned. ‘Friends? So that was just an amiable fisticuff in Eric’s pub?’ She shook her head. ‘No. Don’t believe it. Friends don’t try to punch each other’s lights out.’

Steve sighed and rubbed at the corners of his eyes with two fingers.

‘I’ve just told you, he’s got an alibi for each of the murder times. He was shocked at the last murder though.’

‘He would be. Richard Carmelli was his brother-in-law. Did anyone question Gina Carmelli?’

Steve sighed again, though deeper this time. ‘She confirmed her husband’s story – or stories.’ He lay back against the soft comfort of the creamy-coloured knoll settee – an expensive little number she’d picked up at auction and had recovered; even more expense. ‘Christ, I’m knackered,’ he muttered closing his eyes.

‘You could do with going to bed.’

One eye reopened and looked at her with expectant hope. ‘Are you offering?’

She slapped his shoulder. ‘I thought you were tired.’

‘I am. Could you pour me another coffee, please?’

She did so, at the same time suggesting he needed some time off.

He mumbled an agreement and yawned. It didn’t take him long to agree or come to an attractive suggestion.

‘How about dinner tomorrow night? My place.’ He smiled seductively, his eyes as heavy with innuendo as they were with tiredness.

She smiled right back. ‘That’s nice. It’ll be the first time.’ She said it meaningfully.

His eyebrows arched. ‘Really?’

She shook her head, smiling. ‘The first time I’ve been invited to your place, Steve. My God, you are tired.’

He drained the black coffee and offered his cup. ‘Another, please. I’ve got to keep going. I’m under too much pressure. I’ve got a Chief Constable giving me hassle.’

Honey pulled a face. ‘It could be worse. I’ve got a broken-hearted senior citizen being a continual pain in the backside.’

His expression would have been a mirror image of hers except for the smile hovering around his mouth.

‘Point taken. How is your mother?’

‘In purdah. She’s telling everyone that she’s had a virus and is out of circulation until she gets over it. Perhaps in a day or two she’ll make her golf morning, or her duties at Second Time Around. It’s a dress shop,’ she added in response to his questioning look.

He put down his empty coffee cup. ‘Tomato juice, egg yolk and plain flour.’

She got his drift. ‘Yes, if it was just a hangover. Useless if you’ve just been dumped.’

Steve twisted around so he could watch her retreat into the kitchen. When she came back in his chin was resting on his hands, his eyes following her all the way. His sexy eyes looked up at her in that certain way making her feel … well … sexy.

‘Your mother needs to get out and about to get over it.’

Honey sat herself down beside him, arm sprawled languorously along the back of the settee.

‘I suggested it. She nearly bit my head off. Told me not to tell her that there were plenty more fish in the sea ʼcos men close to her age were almost dead in the water.’

Steve held his hands up in mute surrender. ‘What do I know about women? What do I know about men for that matter?’

Honey poured them fresh coffee. ‘Too early for booze,’ she said in answer to his raised eyebrows.

‘Has Lothario tried to get in contact?’

She nodded. ‘She refused to take the call. Lindsey spoke to him. He told her he was in London.’

‘Just as well. It’s ended and that’s that.’

‘No. Not with my mother it isn’t. She tried to call him back.’

Sighing, he began searching in his right-hand pocket. ‘I’ve got the pathology report on Carmelli.’

Honey sipped and watched him closely as he unfolded a piece of paper torn from a notepad. The way he moved and did things had a masculine sureness about it. Positive. Full thrust on the throttle. Her complexion turned pink. The coffee had nothing to do with it.

Dark-fringed and true blue, his eyes flickered between her and the scrap of paper.

‘Not the official report of course. I just wrote down what was relevant.’

He smiled a little wearily, as though she’d teased him into being a little more upbeat.

She put the coffee cup down. ‘The coffee’s hot,’ she said wafting her hand in front of her face. ‘It needs to cool down.’

Liar!

That smile again.

Will you please stop that!

His eyes dropped to the paper. ‘I think massive contusion to the head is a bit of an understatement, and I won’t go into detail on that score. He hadn’t long eaten; a cooked meat and curry mixture mixed with mayonnaise in a sandwich. The bread was from half a loaf we found on site and the sandwich filling came from a sealed plastic container.

Honey frowned. ‘Coronation Chicken. A dish invented at the time of the Queen’s coronation. Quite standard.’

‘Not if the main ingredient is supposed to be chicken. Says here it contained a mixture of ground meat.’

‘Let me see that.’ She grabbed it, her face darkening the more she read. ‘Richard had quite a lot of this. He had some in the fridge at his flat and I was in the kitchen at the Beau Brummell when he was making a batch. He gave me some. All the plastic containers were labelled Coronation Chicken. Definitely.’

Steve looked thoughtful. At last he said, ‘What does it signify?’

Honey gave it some thought too. She shrugged and shook her head. ‘Nothing if you’re dead. But if that’s the case, then Roland Mead is breaking the Trades Description Act besides a host of hygiene and quality-control issues. And I’ve got the evidence sitting in my freezer.’

‘We need to test it.’

She nodded, understanding his implication. ‘You can have it.’

Shortly after Steve left, she phoned Mr Westlake, referring him to their previous conversation.

‘You were talking about the trade in ground meat coming into this country from Europe. Is it illegal?’

‘Most definitely! Firstly, there’s the Trades Description Act, then there’s falsification of country of origin – in some cases it’s a matter of throw everything from all over into one big mincer and grind it up. Not too dangerous if it’s all fresh, but the bulk of it is not. A lot of it is past its sell-by date, some fit only for pet food, some not even fit for that.’

‘Can I ask you if you’ve ever found any of this stuff in any Bath catering establishment?’

He gave a short cough. ‘Ahem! I would be breaching protocol if I told you that.’

‘In other words you’ve never found any suspect meat in Bath.’

‘No. Not so far.’ He paused. ‘Of course, should you ever have information that could help us prosecute, we would treat such information in the strictest confidence …’

‘I don’t think so. Not yet. But I’ll keep you informed.’

‘Uh … yes. By phone for preference. No need for me to come round.’

Honey smiled as she disconnected and couldn’t help feeling an overwhelming surge of affection for her mother, so overwhelming that she just had to snatch her from Mary Jane’s clutches and offer her tea and sympathy.

Romantic breakdowns are as torturous for friends and relatives as they are for the injured party. Honey was at breaking point herself. Her mother was flitting between periods of stony silence and outbursts of red-hot anger.

Lindsey, being young, was used to having friends of her own age sobbing on her shoulder. Having her grandmother doing the same was something different. She tried making useful suggestions – just as she did with her friends.

‘How about taking up a hobby?’

Her grandmother had fixed her with a jaundiced eye. ‘Like what?’

Lindsey had wracked her brains. Advising friends to take up paragliding or rock climbing was one thing. Advising her grandmother to do that was downright dangerous! Now what hobbies did older people go in for?

‘How about something artistic like silk painting or antique restoration?’

The jaundiced look turned swiftly into the evil eye.

‘Are you saying I’m too old for anything physical?’

The implications were obvious. Lindsey back-pedalled on a bicycle of excuses.

‘Of course not, Grandma …’

‘And don’t call me that. Call me Gloria. I want everyone to call me Gloria, not Grandma, not ever again,’ she snapped.

Everyone spent the rest of the day treading on eggshells each time they ran into her. A sigh of relief reverberated through the building once she’d departed for her own place.

‘I feel so guilty,’ Lindsey said later to her mother after she’d repeated the conversation. They were making the bed in room sixteen. The couple had been on honeymoon and overslept their check-out time. Well, that was what they said, though judging by the moans of delight she’d heard coming from beyond the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign, sleeping was not to blame.

Honey shook her head and buried a few punches into the pillow on her side of the bed.

‘No need. Just look at it this way, it could have been worse. You could have suggested she join the Darby and Joan club and taken up knitting.’

Lindsey stopped smoothing the sheet down on her side and looked tellingly at her mother.

Honey met her guilty expression with one of shock/horror. ‘You didn’t!’

‘No. I didn’t. I only thought about saying that.’

Honey adopted a saintly pose, hands together, eyes raised to the ceiling. ‘Thank Heaven for small mercies!’

It wouldn’t have been difficult not to mention Roland Mead or anything associated with him. Letting bygones be bygones would have worked, except for one thing: Gloria would not let sleeping dogs lie. Her dark periods brought her hot-foot from her flat to the hotel. For the fifth, tenth, twentieth time family, hotel guests, the dishwasher man, the greengrocer and the man who collected the laundry were treated to the details of what had happened and what she would say or do when she saw him again.

Roland Mead was strangely absent: not a phone call, a note or even a message delivered via one of his van drivers.

But he’ll be back, Honey’s intuition told her – depending on his motivation.

While she was listening to yet another rendition of what a rat he was, Lindsey came rushing into the conservatory where her mother, her grandmother and Mary Jane were trying to enjoy warm scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam.

‘It’s a message from him,’ she said breathlessly, her eyes shining with excitement. ‘He wants to speak to Grandmother – sorry, Gloria,’ she added quickly.

‘I take it you mean the beefy butcher,’ said Honey, sounding off-hand and feeling it was OK to be that way now the romance was over.

The crockery rattled as her mother leapt from her seat.

‘I’ll speak to him in the office. A girl has to have some privacy, you know.’

Her gaze swept swiftly over her daughter, granddaughter and Mary Jane.’

Mary Jane shook her head dolefully. ‘Some women never learn.’

It was some minutes before her mother came back. She was frowning.

Honey dared to ask if anything was wrong. It worried her that her mother was looking strangely calm – like that period before a storm.

‘Mother?’ Honey’s eyes met hers and saw something different about her expression.

‘That was that woman in the red dress. She told me to stop calling there, so I rang the other number, but I couldn’t get through. The line made a funny noise, you know, like it does when it’s been disconnected.’

Honey waited with baited breath, hardly daring to ask how her mother was feeling. Another try or fry his ass? Which?

‘Are you OK?’ asked a concerned Mary Jane. ‘If you fancy a little pick-me-up, I’ve got a little of my special tonic left in my room.’

Gloria took only a moment to think about it. ‘I’m OK and I do fancy a little something.’ A self-satisfied look appeared. ‘I’ll take you up on that. I need to pump a little lead into my pencil.’

Honey nearly fell off her chair. ‘Medicinal of course,’ she said a little lamely.

‘Stuff medicinal,’ said her mother. ‘This is a celebration. He’s toast and I’m single again. Just one thing, though,’ she said turning to her daughter. ‘Could you just try that number again? If he answers, pass it to me so I can give him a piece of my mind.’

Honey called up ‘Roland – London number’ on her mother’s mobile phone menu. She pressed the name and call selector, her mother standing watch over her shoulder. It was like having a vulture perched there.

‘I thought he was toast,’ Honey muttered through gritted teeth.

‘He is, but I want to tell him so.’

Honey wasn’t entirely sure that was the whole reason. Her mother was a tough old bird, but fragile emotions were at stake here. Complete forgiveness could be only a bouquet and a bottle of champagne away.

There was a click and the ringing tone was a hesitant buzz rather than the more familiar UK ring. Someone answered. She didn’t recognise the language.

‘Do you speak English?’

‘Yes. Who is this please?’

Honey thought on her feet. ‘Ministry of Food and Fisheries, London. Do you have a Mr Mead there?’

‘He has just left.’

‘Do you know where he has gone?’

‘London.’

She thanked whoever it was and terminated the connection.

‘Well?’ demanded her mother.

‘It wasn’t London.’

Her mother frowned. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t London?’

‘I’m sure. If that was a Cockney accent then I’m a Red Indian! Sounded eastern European to me. His London number must be forwarded to somewhere over there. An office?’

Her mother’s true feelings were seeping into her expression. She was crestfallen, she was livid, but she certainly wasn’t entirely finished with Roland Mead. Especially on one particular count.