A Taste To Die For - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) (15 page)

‘Where is he?’

Smudger grimaced. ‘At my place.’

‘I’ll follow you.’

After they’d parked their respective vehicles, she made her way to Smudger’s flat. He’d got there before her and had opened up, but was now looking disconsolate, standing in the doorway.

‘He’s gone.’

‘Are you lying?’

‘Scout’s honour.’ He made a cross sign on his chest.

She pushed past him, her jaw grimly set for action – or at least a bloody good argument. ‘I doubt whether you ever were a bloody scout.’

The living room was typically laddish. No pictures on the walls, no ornaments, and magazines stacked in handy heaps. A few beer cans formed a pyramid in front of the large bay window.

‘So where’s he gone? In the bedroom?’

She peeked into the bedroom. No one. Next the bathroom. No one there either.

When she got back into the living room, Smudger was standing in front of the window, hands in pockets. He was staring out at the road outside in that vague way that meant he was seeing nothing.

All of a sudden she was angry.

‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at?’

Throat tight with a whole dictionary of insults and expletives, she stood with fists tight on hips; a bit like Widow Twankey in Aladdin, though not so ugly, she hoped. And she wasn’t carrying quite so much weight on the hips. Couldn’t be exercise. Just the change in lifestyle? Maybe sleuthing burned calories.

‘He’s a mate. I had to help him out.’

Honey slumped into a chair. ‘Mark, he could well be a murderer.’

It wasn’t often she called him by his first name. It was usually either Smudger or Chef. But serious crimes called for serious measures.

Smudger stood looking his usual square-faced self; non-committal, convinced he was right.

‘Well?’ she said, once she’d pushed open a few more doors and found nothing more unnerving than a pile of dirty laundry and a hijacked road sign saying ‘Access Only’.

Smudger gave her one of his challenging looks, the sort he used when they were having a tussle over whether to use mangetout or French beans.

‘Fire me if you like!’

There it was; the first salvo in a battle of nerves.

Her blood ran cold. ‘Did I say I was going to fire you?’

She tried not to show just how much the comment unnerved her. There again, depending on what these two had been up to, she might lose her chef anyway. Nervous tension sucked in her stomach muscles. In consequence she felt half an inch of slack in her waistband. A good thing, but a fat waistline was preferable to losing a good chef.

It was no good. This was serious. A girl had to do what a girl had to do. ‘I have to tell Steve Doherty. You know that, don’t you?’

He shrugged and gestured with his hands. ‘Yeah.’

Feeling like a fink but telling herself she had no choice, she pulled out her phone.

Steve answered on the third ring. ‘Hi there, stranger!’

‘It’s me.’

‘I know. I saw your number.’

Of course he did. She explained about Richard Carmelli.

‘I know. It’s all to do with this competition they entered in France.’

‘Explain.’

‘Come into the station. I’ll explain then. And bring Smith with you. Our meeting’s a bit overdue.’

Chapter Twenty-one

‘Oliver Stafford deserved to die.’

Glancing at Smudger’s expression, Honey could see that he meant it. ‘I don’t think you should say that in the vicinity of Manvers Street Police Station.’

The rain was belting down. Even the thrashing backwards and forwards of the windscreen wipers failed to make much impact. Visibility was minimum and spasmodic. And she hadn’t brought a coat.

She made a face at the rain. ‘I’m not walking all the way from the car park.’

‘Your choice.’

Smudger offered up another of his ‘not bothered’ shrugs. She threw him a withering look. ‘We wouldn’t be here at all if you’d told the truth from the start.’

‘It’s a grown man’s prerogative.’

‘Well aren’t you fun company today? You’re right there! Thirty-six and going on ten years old.’

Fun he was not.

‘This is the police station car park,’ he said sounding surprised as the Volkswagen did a swift right and mounted the curb.

‘Clever boy.’

‘They won’t like you parking here. See?’ he pointed. ‘Patrol vehicles and staff cars only.’

‘I’m almost staff.’

Smudger looked bemused. He snorted. ‘In your dreams. That copper only tolerates you ʼcos he wants to get his leg over.’

‘Chef!’ She felt herself blushing. ‘That’s no way to talk to your boss!’

He grinned. Smudger knew he had her over a barrel. He was a good chef and he knew it. He was a loyal employee and knew how to play her. The last item was a little short of a problem. It could become that, but for now Honey found his mix of bluntness and insight incredibly refreshing.

She eased herself out of the car butt-first and proceeded to strip the seat cover from the driver’s seat.

Smudger looked bemused. ‘You don’t need to vandalise your own car. Leave it in a side street long enough and someone will do it for you.’

She ignored him. ‘This is an emergency. I paid good money for this hairdo.’

The seat cover was made of stretchy grey material trimmed with a red racing stripe. It wasn’t much protection against the rain, but the head rest bit fitted neatly over her head, the rest did a little to shield her shoulders.

The rain began trickling down her neck. Honey came to the obvious conclusion. A seat cover made in China, in an area where it doesn’t rain that often. By the time they were in out of the rain, her hair was flat and sticking to her skull.

‘I’ve just had this done,’ Honey muttered. ‘Now look!’

Her bouncy hairdo was plastered to her head like a shiny wimple. She tried dissecting it with her fingers, plumping it out so that it looked reasonably presentable.

Steve Doherty met them in the foyer. Sensibly, he was wearing a rain-proof jacket with a hood.

‘We’re going for coffee.’

‘We can’t. It’s raining. Look at my hair.’

She could see he was looking, but not really
seeing
it.

‘I thought the wet look was fashionable.’

‘Only if you’re a sea lion!’

Steve herded them out of the door and nodded at the desk sergeant on the way out. He grabbed Smudger’s shoulder.

‘What the hell are you playing at? Aiding and abetting a murder suspect?’

Honey leapt to his defence. ‘He didn’t do it.’

Smudger was adamant. ‘I didn’t do it.’

So was Steve. ‘You’ve been mucking me around.’

Smudger was taller and heavier, so Honey’s eyes boggled when Steve caught hold of his collar and spun him round so they were snarling into each other’s faces.

‘Only the evidence matters, not your bloody opinion. Now where is he?’

As Smudger shook his head, the look in his eyes hardened and his hands clenched into sizeable fists. Honey held her breath. She could feel the hostility sizzling between these two.

Recognising he was in a no-win situation, it was Smudger who gave in. His voice was surprisingly even when he answered. ‘I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.’

Something about his expression seemed to hit a chord with Steve. Perhaps it was threat, perhaps plain belief that her chef was telling the truth. His hands loosened.

‘OK. OK. I’ll believe you, but ring me if you hear from him. Clear?’

Smudger nodded. ‘Clear.’

Charmydown was deserted. No one disturbed the battered buildings or the weeds pushing through the concrete. Sometimes a heavy-plant firm parked unused earthmovers. Apart from them, the place had a neglected air, and yet the old buildings were visible from the main A46, stuck like a lighthouse at the top of an incline. The buildings had been built for the RAF back in the Second World War and as such were flat-roofed and uninteresting. Back then practical usage had been more important than aesthetics. There was a good view of the main road from one lot of windows and a good view of green fields falling away into the valley from the other side.

Richard Carmelli parked his car where it could not be seen from either the road or the fields, shielded by an old building on one side and a bulldozer on the other. He knew this place from the days when he’d come here camping with his stepfather. He knew how to light a fire without it being seen, how it felt to snuggle down inside a thick feather sleeping bag. Just like a boy scout, he’d come prepared. He was always prepared, always planning ahead for any eventuality.

He tipped the contents of his holdall onto the floor. Beans, beans and sausages, tinned soups, tinned meats; he could survive for days on this. He’d also brought Coronation Chicken. A lot of Coronation Chicken.

He got out his phone and selected a familiar name from the phonebook listing. A female voice answered.

‘It’s me,’ he said softly.

‘Where are you?’

He smiled. ‘I’m a fighter pilot.’

‘I see.’

Of course she did. Saying he was a fighter pilot to anyone else wouldn’t have made much sense at all, but it did to her. She knew this place as well as he did. They’d camped here when they were children and played amongst the tumbling ruins. That was in the days before the heavy-plant gear was left here. It had been all wild flowers and tall grass back then, a fun place for kids with a great view of the valley.

‘Don’t worry about me.’

‘Richard, you don’t need to do this. I’m fine. I’m happy.’

He paused. ‘Is Sylvester around?’

‘He’s in the kitchen. The police are going to ask him questions. You know that, don’t you?’

‘Yes. They’re bound to. But it’s not enough that Oliver’s dead. I want his name to be muck. I want people to know what he got involved in. Then I’ll give myself up.’

‘Richard, don’t do it for my sake. Please don’t.’

He grinned. ‘I’ve got to get it out of my system. I’m rattling a few cages, that’s for sure. Calling in favours too.’ He decided to terminate the call. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

She didn’t argue. He hadn’t explained all his reasons for doing what he was doing. It was too complicated and much too dangerous. He hadn’t even told Smudger Smith everything he should have.

He felt bad letting Smudger down, but he’d had no choice. He hoped Smudger would understand. He had to hide until things calmed down. No one ever came here. No one else would know he was here.

Chapter Twenty-two

Steve collared Mark for a second time at the Green River. Smudger swore and rolled his eyes when he heard the news.

‘What the f –?’

‘Chef!’

Honey’s tone brought him up sharp.

‘It has to be done. It won’t take long,’ she went on.

Without a word Zak, his commis chef, and Freda, his trainee, took over the chores he’d been doing, heads down, pretending they hadn’t heard.

Few and far between were the times when she’d seen Smudger looking worried, but he was now. Honey squeezed his arm affectionately.

‘Don’t worry. It’s just questions.’

Over coffee Honey and Steve listened and learned about what had happened to make Richard plot revenge.

A subdued Smudger warmed his hands around the coffee mug as he swigged at it.

‘It was three years ago in France at this competition – the Grande Epicure.’ He raised his eyes to Honey’s face. ‘Before I worked for you. Young Ricky had already won God knows how many ‘Young Chef of the Year’ competitions. But this was the big banana and he was tipped to win. Richard’s a great chef.’

‘Greater than you?’ Honey asked.

His expression darkened then lightened again. ‘He had great potential.’

Honey took that as a yes.

‘The competition consisted of three parts; starter, main course and dessert. Richard was good at all of it, but particularly at desserts. I won the starter course, Oliver was second. Oliver won the main course, Richard second. Richard was expected to win the dessert course but he didn’t. Someone substituted salt for sugar. We all knew who.’

‘So Oliver won?’

‘Yep! Trouble was Richard was such a sensitive lad. He took it to heart. Took to drugs after that, so I heard. I didn’t hear anything from him until he phoned me, just after Oliver got well and truly roasted.’

Honey frowned as she thought things through. ‘That’s a bit strange, isn’t it? I presume he hated Oliver, so why go to work with him at the Beau Brummell?’

A wicked grin lightened Smudger’s face. ‘To get his own back. Oliver hated practical jokes. They wound him right up.’

Steve had stepped into his ultra-serious mode. ‘But why involve Stella Broadbent? I presume your friend Richard was responsible for Francis Trent looking like something from Zulu?’

That grin again. ‘I don’t think that was anything to do with him, though it might have something to do with Sunday nights.’

Honey raised a single puzzled eyebrow.

Steve’s look was steadfast, almost unblinking, as though he was loath to miss anything.

‘This is what happened, right? Oliver and that Stella organised the weekly menus on Sunday nights and they always went up in the honeymoon suite to do it.’

A mental picture of Stella’s office flashed into Honey’s mind; large desk, thick carpet, comfortable chairs, ideal surroundings for office work. She couldn’t be sure, because she’d never been in the room, but no doubt the honeymoon suite held far more varied and intimate prospects.

‘They used to get in the bath together. Richard said he could hear the swishing about from outside.’

‘Menus tend to go soggy in the bath,’ said Honey. She shot a swift look at Steve. ‘Not that I’ve had experience of that.’

Smudger nodded. ‘Correct. Richard used to go outside for a smoke behind the veg shed. They didn’t know it, but he could hear them from there splashing about and all that.’

Steve had let his coffee go cold. Honey could tell by his grim expression that he wasn’t letting up on Smudger that easily. And she’d told Chef that everything in the garden would be lovely.

‘He didn’t confront them?’ Steve asked.

Smudger, who fortunately was far from being his volatile self, shook his head. ‘Nope. Richard had a quirky sense of humour.’

‘Hence the Masai warrior. It’s a well-known fact that Stella got drunk as a skunk when she let her hair down. She wouldn’t know whether she’d got married or flown to the moon as far as that goes.’

Smudger took on a bemused expression. ‘Correct about the booze. But the black bloke? No.’ He chuckled and shook his head emphatically.

Honey narrowed her eyes as a thought suddenly struck her. ‘And it would have cost money.’

Smudger grinned. ‘No offence intended, but chefs ain’t exactly overpaid – unless they end up with their own restaurant in the West End of London complete with their own TV show. Perhaps if I swore a lot more …’

She knew which TV chef he was referring to. ‘You swear plenty enough!’

She looked down at the floor and caught sight of the front cover of a porn magazine sticking out from beneath the sofa. She tried hard to avoid eye contact with the naked model. How could she smile so warmly when wearing so little – well – nothing actually.

She sensed Steve had seen that she’d seen it, a quick but all-consuming glance before his attention returned to her chef. Why did the thought of it make her blush so badly?

Steve put on his serious hat. ‘So where is he?’

Smudger was emphatic. ‘I’ve already told you, I don’t bloody know. He had a phone call and shot off, and before you ask, he didn’t tell me who it was and where he was going.’

Steve’s expression remained hard. ‘And Brian Brodie. What’s the connection?’

Smudger shrugged. ‘No idea. All I know is that he was at the Grande Epicure at the same time as the rest of us.’

They left chef and kitchen to each other.

Steve studied the floor as they walked back to reception.

‘Do you think Carmelli did it?’ she asked him.

‘I don’t know. He had a grievance and he had been playing silly devils. I can’t stand practical jokes. They can backfire badly. A friend of mine told all his family and friends that he’d won the lottery. His wife took him at his word and immediately claimed half of the winnings. Unfortunately it didn’t end there. She said that the moment the money came in she would take her half and shove off with his brother. Apparently they’d been having an affair for years.’

They reached Reception, both quiet, both thoughtful.

‘So where do we go from here?’

Steve sighed. ‘How about a walk?’

Things were quiet so she chanced it. They walked down Great Pulteney Street towards the bridge, the abbey and the heart of the city. A guy dressed as a clown was handing out flyers for a new restaurant. Despite the clown make-up, the spider’s cobweb tattoo and the nose rings gave Clint away.

She took one of his flyers. ‘Clint. Nice day.’

She sensed the white face turned whiter. ‘Crikey, Mrs Driver. I didn’t recognise you.’

She thought about saying that
he
was the one in the make-up and supposedly unrecognisable.

‘Clint, if you take on any more jobs the tax man’s going to have a field day.’

‘Don’t say things like that, Mrs Driver. I won’t be able to sleep at night.’

He spotted Steve Doherty. ‘Nice day, Mr Doherty, sir.’ Clint did a quick salute: two fingers at the side of the head – something between boy-scout and downright rude. Then he was gone.

Steve smiled and shook his head in pretend despair. ‘I reckon I could arrest that bloke on a whole portfolio of charges.’

‘That’s a big word,’ said Honey.

‘Doesn’t he ever go to bed?’

Honey shrugged. Clint was always working. She doubted he slept much. Perhaps he was just naturally hyperactive, or perhaps it was something else …

One of Roland Mead’s delivery vans drove past. Honey eyed it dispassionately.

It took her by surprise when Steve said, ‘That Mead’s vans are everywhere.’

‘He’s courting my mother.’

‘
Courting
? That’s an old-fashioned term.’

‘My mother’s an old-fashioned girl.’

They were like two tourists out for a stroll. She was enjoying this; the day was warm and a band across the road in Parade Gardens was playing everyone’s favourite bit from Dvorak’s New World Symphony. Never mind crime, never mind murder; something about designer stubble turned a girl on. She wondered whether the look was due to laziness or was intentional. Or did he have a weak chin? She sneaked a quick glance. No. Strong chin. Strong jaw. Both prerequisites for Honey, both present and correct in the man of the moment.

By the time they were strolling around Parade Gardens, their elbows were brushing. Funny how erotic that could be; just touching, just brushing.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said.

She popped the thoughts she’d been thinking and adopted a deadpan expression, the one that said ‘
I’m in professional mode; wouldn’t dream of being anything else. Where do we go next
?’

‘And?’

‘I’ve been wondering when we’re going to get round to going to bed together.’

The deadpan expression went down the toilet.

‘Um … well … I’ve been kind of busy … and you have too … so …’

Her voice trailed away. There was no way she was going to admit to the floorshow he’d slept through or tell him that he’d missed his chance. What if he had been awake? Wow, we could be an item by now. Now that was a Lindsey kind of statement. Her mother’s generation called it courting, her daughter’s called it an item. The world was going to hell in a handcart – or was it? She breathed in deeply: yes, he did smell nice, and that stubble would feel so … She drew back from going there. She hadn’t answered his question.

They were still walking along, Steve looking unperturbed, almost as though all he’d made was a comment about the weather.

‘It would have happened by now if we worked more regularly together. Why don’t you join the police force? You’d look good in a uniform.’

He sneaked the kind of smile conveying he was thinking of what lay beneath the uniform.

‘I don’t want to. I like what I’m doing. I like meeting people.’

A crocodile of American tourists trooped by, led by a fat woman holding a pink umbrella aloft. What was it about Americans and that colour? Mary Jane floated around in a permanent pink haze.

‘I meet people too,’ said Steve. ‘OK, I admit some of them are scum.’

Honey raised her eyebrows. ‘In Bath? Don’t let Casper hear you say that. He swears that this city is God’s little acre.’

Steve grimaced. ‘He’s biased. Anyway, never mind that, you still haven’t answered my question.’

She shook her head lazily. ‘Well … you have to ask yourself whether getting close might have a detrimental impact on our professional relationship.’

He looked at her. ‘Was that English?’

‘Of course it was.’

Emptying her mind of what was possible between them left room for other thoughts to creep in.

‘Stafford could have hired Francis. He’d have got the idea from Richard Carmelli. It was meant to embarrass Stella, to get her off his back.’

Steve raised his eyebrows. ‘I suppose it’s possible, though only Carmelli could confirm that.’

Honey nodded decisively. ‘I’m sure of it.’

Falling into silent thinking, they walked on. Steve was first to break the silence, returning to the former subject. Them!

‘I suppose it means that we should take a rain check.’

The word fell out of her mouth before she could stop it. ‘Yes.’

She wanted to kick herself. Her mouth was not voicing what she really wanted to say.
OK, I want to jump your bones. Let’s set a date.

It was too late. She couldn’t go back on it and say, ‘OK, let’s do it’. She had her pride.

Steve did a kind of hunching thing with his shoulders – something between a reluctant shrug and a stretch.

‘You’re right and I’m tired. No point in going off half cock is there?’

She smiled. No point at all.