A Taste To Die For - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) (23 page)

Carried away by thoughts of glory, Doherty slid up the safety bar that held the door closed.

Honey’s breath caught in her throat as the freezing chill hit her.

Steve’s face was flushed with excitement. ‘Look at this!’

He eased his fingertips beneath what looked like a lip running around the tank.

Even before he heaved it open, Honey guessed what they would see. Metal scraped against metal as he pushed open the lid.

Silence reigned.

Shivering now, Honey wrapped her arms around herself. ‘I take it that’s not self-raising flour.’

Doherty shook his head. ‘No. That stuff’s much more dangerous to your health.’

‘Don’t you have to taste it like they do on TV cop shows?’

He shook his head.

Something – perhaps a sound or purely a shiver that was due to more than cold – made Honey turn round. A pair of eyes looked back at her through the glass portion of the door.

‘Steve!’

He turned and saw them too.

‘Hey!’

He sprinted and barged shoulder first against the door. Just as he’d expected it didn’t budge. Wrinkles appeared at the sides of the eyes looking in from the other side. He guessed the guy was laughing.

‘Let us out,’ Steve shouted, beating his fists against the door.

Something appeared in front of the pair of eyes. Honey recognised what it was.

‘That’s a thermal switch. It alters temperature by remote control.’

The needle was presently pointing at the palest band of blue, but even as they watched, it began to move towards a deeper, more dangerous shade …

Chapter Thirty-five

‘We have to keep warm. Keep talking. Tell me about your job with the Probation Service.’

She looked at him. ‘While I’m jumping up and down?’

‘Keep jumping. You must keep jumping.’

The cold was intense. The fact that they were surrounded by frozen-solid sides of cows didn’t help.

‘So. Go on. Tell me.’

‘I worked in IT and I don’t mean computers. Perish the thought. I started in Probation typing our Social Enquiry Reports and then I got promoted to Senior Clerical Officer in Intermediate Treatment.’

Honey continued to jump up and down and flap her arms. Her breath was still white. Her fingers felt numb. ‘Well we used to take young offenders camping, rock climbing, orienteering, sailing – Duke of Edinburgh Award-type stuff, things to inspire the mind and divert them from their criminal ways.’

‘Sounds-more-like-days-out-on-jollies-to me,’ said Steve, his words expelled between vigorous arm waving and bouts of jumping.

‘It’s called therapy,’ said Honey, stopping to catch her breath.

Steve stopped too. Usually he’d have made some disbelieving comment. But not here. He shivered.

‘Scientists reckon that we lose more heat out of the top of our heads than anywhere else.’ He rubbed at his ears and did his best to pull his collar up higher. ‘Wish I had a hat. A balaclava would be nice. I hate having cold ears.’ He had a right to be worried – they were turning blue. He rubbed them again.

Honey thought it through. ‘Frostbite can stop the blood supply to extremities.’

‘Really.’ Steve didn’t sound convinced.

But she knew she was right. Her own ears were camouflaged by her hair. Steve’s hair was far shorter. He had no protection, and was it true that extremities were prone to gangrene?

She undid the zip of her big brown bag thinking she might have a headscarf. The unmistakable stitching of ‘Big Bertha’ barely moved at the touch of her fingers.

‘Madonna, eat your heart out,’ she muttered, grabbed the strap and pulled it out.

Steve was slapping his arms around himself. He stopped when he saw the mighty ‘J’ cups.

‘Are they human?’

‘Made for a very large woman. And now we’re going to wear them. Don’t worry,’ she said in response to the nervous look in his eyes. ‘You don’t have to take anything off. You can wear it on your head.’

He looked at her in horror. ‘Will I hell!’

‘Think of your ears, Steve.’

‘I’ll risk it.’

‘Look,’ she said, spreading the brassiere out so he could better understand the possibilities. ‘We’ll both use it. You have one cup on your head, I’ll have the other. And we can cuddle up together to keep warm. Even jump up and down a bit.’

The last bit seemed to sway him. He didn’t struggle when she placed one of the super-sized cups on his head and the other on hers. The side panels were left dangling over their ears. Steve had the hooked side, and she had the eyes. She thought about tying them together. Steve had the same thought. ‘That’s better,’ he said.

True. Like Siamese twins, they were closer than close, the bra cups fitting them like caps.

Honey glanced at their blurred reflection in the stainless steel. ‘We look like a couple of mushrooms.’

Steve made a shuddering sound with his lips. ‘Brrrr. We need to keep moving. How about we pretend that we haven’t got our clothes on?’

Honey shivered. ‘Are you kidding?’

‘I just mean jumping up and down – dancing would be better.’

‘OK. Hum something.’

Hugging cheek to cheek was a necessity thanks to ‘Big Bertha’.

Steve shivered. ‘This is close to some fantasies I’ve been having of late, except for the sub-zero temperatures.’

‘And the fact that we’ve got our clothes on?’

‘That too.’

‘I wanted to speak to your mother before she goes to bed.’

It was one o’clock in the morning and Lindsey had been clearing down when her grandmother phoned.

‘She’s not home.’

‘I was worried she was thinking about spending the night with that Doherty character, the cop who can’t afford the price of a razor. But I phoned her and she didn’t answer. And then I phoned the police station and asked them to phone that man, but they got no answer either. OK, I know they may have eventually got it together which explains your mother not answering her phone, but a cop would. I’m certain he would.’

It almost choked Lindsey to admit that her grandmother might be right, but she did have a point. Like a novice trapeze act, her mother and Doherty swung to and fro as though timing the right moment to jump. Up until now they hadn’t quite made it, but perhaps Gran was right. It could finally have happened, but Steve Doherty wouldn’t want to miss out on any police action.

Grandma went on to relate what had gone on earlier that evening before they’d dashed off. ‘Roland Mead is a scumbag. I think they’ve gone off to prove I’m right.’

‘Perhaps you’re right.’

‘Of course I’m right.’

Lindsey promised she would check and call her grandmother back. The first thing she did was to phone the police and ask for Steve Doherty.

‘He’s not here. Can you call back later?’

‘Do you happen to know where he is?’

The female voice hesitated as though in two minds as to whether she wanted to know where Doherty was. Good practice won over jealousy. ‘I’ll check.’

After a few muted mutterings she came back on the line. ‘No one’s seen him. We’ve been trying to get hold of him, but he’s not answering his home or personal phone.’

That said it all as far as Lindsey was concerned. As she replaced the phone, her eyes caught sight of something on her mother’s scribble pad. The
chicken
in Coronation was underlined. So was the word
pork
. Beside it were the initials RC. Her heart skipped a beat. Richard Carmelli. Chicken and pork. Her thoughts did cartwheels as her concern for her mother increased. Everyone had assumed the killing of these chefs was about rivalry and something that had happened three years before. But was it really about butchers and the Trade Description Act, or was she jumping the gun?

Then she picked up her phone and read a text from Warren Slade regarding details from Roland Mead’s computer system. She rang her grandmother and explained what was afoot.

‘There’s big money involved and the sums don’t add up. Have you any idea where my mother happens to be?’

Chapter Thirty-six

Gloria Cross insisted on accompanying her granddaughter to Avonmouth. Lindsey had tried getting the police to keep a look out for her mother’s car, but no one seemed that interested. Obviously Steve Doherty’s reputation had a lot to do with it. A shrinking wallflower he was not! And they certainly weren’t interested in checking Roland Mead’s cold store at Avonmouth. Why should they be?

‘Ask Roland Mead yourself,’ said the spokesperson at the other end of the phone.

They checked Doherty’s place before leaving. His car was gone and he’d left a table lamp on in the front room, easily seen when Lindsey had peered through a window.

Lindsey floored it to Avonmouth. Perhaps she would have parked next to the rubbish skips too if her grandmother hadn’t insisted on being navigator and directed her down the wrong turning.

Gloria narrowed her eyes as she peered into the darkness and commented that there were too many trees. ‘I don’t remember this many.’

Lindsey pulled into the curb. ‘So where is his place?’

Her grandmother pointed towards the trees. ‘On the other side of them, I think. There’s a lane through there, see?’

Lindsey did see. Normally she didn’t like walking down lanes at night, but Avonmouth was like a ghost town during darkness. Rapists and murderers were likely to be thin on the ground. The only criminals around would be more interested in pinching tyres or car parts from one of the many spares outlets lining the roads around.

Lindsey looked around as they crossed the road. There was no sign of her mother’s car, and surely there should be; unless of course it was hidden, either by her mother or someone else.

The night was warm, but the sudden profusion of worrying thoughts made her shiver. The trees rustled in a warm breeze as they found their way over the soft ground. The lane was a forgotten place, something left behind when the pre-fabricated warehouses had been built. It led to a mound of earth left by the contractors. Over time it had become covered in grass and foliage. At its summit was a concrete wall.

‘I’m going up here,’ said Lindsey, her feet slipping on the damp grass.

‘Wait for me. I’ve got my trainers on. They’re blue and silver. Designer of course. Do you like them?’

‘Not now, Gran.’

She clambered up the slope presuming her grandmother was incapable of following her. She was proved wrong. Red-painted talons grabbed the hem of her jersey and hung on to it.

‘Where are we?’ asked her grandmother, only a little breathless from her climb.

‘There,’ said Lindsey. She pointed upwards. Gloria looked up at a huge sign saying
Roland Mead, Meat Importers and Cold Storage
.

Gloria hissed through her teeth. ‘That man is far too big for his boots!’

The concrete wall in front of them proved to be just a parapet. Lindsey kept low, kneeling and showing just her head above the wall. She saw a door in the back of the building, but no security cameras. That didn’t mean there were none, just that they were hidden from view.

‘Should we be creeping around like this?’

Gloria stuck her head up over the parapet. ‘Yes.’

Lindsey placed a hand over her head and pressed her back down.

‘There could be cameras, though I can’t see any.’

Gloria was in no mood to be put off by cameras or criminals. She was worrying about her daughter. OK, so Hannah was approaching middle age, but she wasn’t a bad daughter, merely one who needed a good beauty treatment and the right sort of man to pander to her needs. Men and pandering to needs brought a thought to mind.

‘Are we one hundred per cent sure your mother’s in there?’

‘It seems that way, Gran.’

Her grandmother, who had reverted to allowing her to call her that, tutted. ‘I can’t believe Roland’s taken your mother prisoner. Why would he do that?’ She took a deep breath. ‘Oh my God! It’s like one of those Xcite books that sneaked into my Mills and Boon collection! Do you think it’s for consensual kinky sex?’

Lindsey threw her grandmother a look of pure, jaw-dropping shock. She could accept that due to their years, grandmothers should be worldly wise. But they shouldn’t shock the pants off the younger generation. And they certainly shouldn’t know anything about kinky sex!

‘What do you know about stuff like that?’

‘I’ve lived,’ Gloria replied with a contemptuous sniff.

Lindsey shook away the shock and concentrated on what she was here to do. She asked herself why she hadn’t gone round to the front door. Because of the evidence, she told herself. Something to do with meat and the mis-selling thereof. Mead wouldn’t want anyone snooping around, yet surely her mother had come here. Everything pointed to it. Her grandmother had more or less admitted to seeding their minds with suspicion and sending them here.

Taking big strides she began edging along the wall, searching for a way down to the rear door she could see. There had to be one, she reasoned. The builders had left a huge mound of earth up against the wall. Someone with good knees could jump down into the yard if they were very brave. She was not that brave and her grandmother’s knees might not take the strain.

There had to be another way. If there was a lane left through the trees and a mound of earth against the wall, it stood to reason …

The gap had been left at the very end where the back wall met that belonging to the property next door. Although only narrow she was sure she could get through.

‘Stay here,’ she hissed to her grandmother.

‘Like hell I will!’

Gloria eased through the wall after her, picking her way down over the tumbled hardcore and slick clay. Nails scratched on the side wall as they felt their way to the flat ground. Lindsey heard her grandmother cursing as a false fingernail popped off into the night.

The two women sprinted across to the door, Gloria remarking on how much she loved trainers and how she’d buy more now that she knew designer labels were available.

‘There’s bound to be an alarm,’ said Lindsey, grateful for her grandmother’s casual indifference to the danger they were in. Her heart raced but wasn’t quite playing leapfrog. Looking up over the pre-fabricated wall she saw a door. A door was exactly what she needed, but how to get in without being seen? The sudden sound of voices sent them scurrying behind two huge waste bins, one labelled
MEAT WASTE
, the other,
CARDBOARD/RECYCLABLE.

A man emerged, whistling as he lifted the lid of the bin marked meat waste. A hoard of angry bluebottles rose in a buzzing mass. The lid slammed down and then he was gone.

‘No alarm,’ whispered Lindsey, greatly relieved. If people were working inside then no alarm would be on.

She tried the door. It didn’t budge. Rattling it too much was not an option.

‘Locked. Now what?’

‘We use a key.’ Gloria whisper bubbled with excitement. She was obviously enjoying this.

Lindsey was taken by surprise as a whole bunch of keys appeared, as likely to rattle as the door. Lindsey grabbed them. ‘Where did you get these?’

‘I stole them,’ said her grandmother. ‘I was going to throw them in the river just to inconvenience him, but I figured they might come in handy. I was right too.’

Pulse racing and hands sweaty with fear, Lindsey studied each key. Some were of the Yale type, made for a slim round lock. The exterior light above the door picked out the most likely in the bunch. One by one she tried the longer, old-fashioned variety. There were four. The first turning would have been great. But lucky keys they were not. The fourth was the right one. It turned. Heart racing, Lindsey pulled the door slowly open, praying it wouldn’t rattle, or that some big galoot wasn’t standing on the inside waiting to grab them.

Inside it was dimly lit. Offices behind glass partitions clung to the grey walls. A blank wall ran along their left-hand side. Above them banks of compressors hummed in unison, working to keep the cold store down to temperature.

Lindsey was amazed when her grandmother pushed past her, keeping low and padding ahead like a preying panther in pink tracksuit and trainers.

‘Grandma! Stop,’ Lindsey rasped. This was foolhardy. If she went too far forward without checking, someone was bound to see her.

She stopped dead, turned and loped back. ‘You’re right. Softly, softly. It’s these shoes. They keep running away with me.’

Lindsey had been Miss Calm and Collected up until they’d entered the cold store. Her grandmother’s behaviour unsettled her. She tried a few deep breaths before continuing.

Lindsey grabbed her grandmother’s arm just in case she felt the urge to sprint across to the other side. She nudged her and put a finger to her lips indicating she should remain silent.

‘I didn’t say a word,’ hissed an indignant Gloria.

Lindsey didn’t remark that she just had. This was no time to be factious. Her attention was already drawn to the other side of the open space where twin circles of light fell on the squeaky clean floor. Like gold doubloons they held her interest. She could easily be tempted to head for them. The headstrong half of her character screamed at her to do so. The half of her that dealt with self-preservation bade her duck down behind a stainless steel wheelie bin.

Her grandmother opened her mouth to speak. Lindsey clapped a hand over her parted lips and pointed to a shadow emerging into the open space.

A man dressed in black T-shirt and jeans went straight to the source of the light pools. For a moment his head intercepted the source of the light. The ash-grey darkness meant that objects had vague shapes but no definite outlines.

He reached out and fiddled with some kind of dial to the side of a double door and said something, but although she strained to hear what it was, she couldn’t. Whatever he said ended in a chuckle; not a jolly chuckle, more a menacing one, the sort mad scientists sport as part of their stock-in-trade.

As he moved away, the pools of light fell out of the portholes in the double doors he’d been standing in front of. The man disappeared to their left, his lengthy shadow diminishing with each echoing step.

With the beating of her heart pounding in her ears, Lindsey counted the passing seconds. Thirty, sixty, ninety … He had to be gone by now?

‘They’ve got to be over there,’ whispered her grandmother.

Lindsey nodded and whispered a quick response.

Running fast and low, they gained the other side of the storage area and the big double doors.

Lindsey peered in through the porthole on her door. Her jaw dropped.

Her grandmother was shorter so had to stand on tiptoe. ‘Wish I’d worn heels,’ she muttered before her jaw dropped like an elevator to basement level. She’d spotted the headgear that was binding them together. ‘Is that some kind of duo fashion statement they’re wearing?’ She sounded intrigued rather than surprised.

‘It’s practical,’ said Lindsey. She didn’t go into detail. Her thoughts were elsewhere. This was a very special moment. She hadn’t told her mother, but she’d felt ashamed about getting involved with Oliver Stafford. She’d always prided herself on being a pretty good judge of character. Obviously she was not. It hurt, it embarrassed her, and it also gave her a great need for feeling good again. Rescuing her mother – and the occupant of the other half of the head-warming gear, would do that.

Using both hands, Lindsey struggled to heave up the lever locking the door. While doing so, her mind leapt to the next logical step. ‘Call for help, but do it outside in case someone hears you.’

‘Will do.’ Her grandmother grabbed the phone swinging from a chain around her neck and loped back the way they’d came.

Hearing footsteps again, she ducked back behind the waste bin. Her breathing sounded too loud even to her own ears. Could anyone else hear?

She heard the footsteps come towards her hiding place, pause then retreat in another direction. Closing her eyes, she counted the seconds again. Ten, twenty, thirty …

Emerging from behind the bin, she made her way back to the freezer door, peered in and waved. Two faces as pale as frosted icing looked back at her and managed to return a hesitant, chilly wave of their own.

Wrapping both hands around the lever, she pushed it upwards. The lever made a clunking sound. A sliver of escaping air sighed as the seal was broken. Honey and Doherty slid out right behind it, teeth chattering and arms flapping in an effort to get warm.

Lindsey jumped with them. She’d done it. Suddenly someone touched her shoulder. If there’d been a high jumping competition, she would have won it.

‘I did it,’ said her grandmother looking mighty pleased with herself.

‘I need to phone for back-up,’ said Doherty, his teeth chattering like castanets.

‘Already done,’ said Gloria.

‘Not that I doubt you, but if you don’t mind, a squad car will get here more quickly if I phone …’ Shivering, he took Gloria’s phone and went back inside the cold room so as not to be heard.

‘That’s a good idea,’ whispered Gloria, a telling look in her eyes. ‘The police should be informed.’

Honey noticed that look and it worried her. ‘Who did you ring, Mother?’

The whispering continued. ‘Someone good at sorting out crooked butchers.’

On coming out from the cold room, Steve said, ‘No signal in there – they must have known that when they didn’t search us for phones.’ Gloria showed him the way outside. When they came back he declared they had to lie low until they heard the wail of police sirens. ‘Once we know we’ve got back-up, you can break cover. But not until then, otherwise we might all end up hung on those meathooks.’

He ordered them to go back behind the wheelie bins.

Honey started to go with Lindsey and her mother, but Steve was off in the other direction. ‘What about you?’

‘I need to tackle them,’ he whispered back.

‘Alone?’ Her eyes widened at the thought. Her fear went rolling like barbed wire through her belly. ‘And you’re unarmed. Come with us.’

His eyes twinkled when he shook his head. ‘I’m going to start the ball rolling. I have to. And I do have a weapon – of sorts.’

He held up the brassiere; the ends were tied round his hands in garrotting mode. The centre stiffness between the cups – flexible steel by the feel of it, would fit neatly against a windpipe. Never mind pillows, those bra cups had smothering potential.