A Taste To Die For - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) (24 page)

Honey attached herself to his side. ‘I’m coming with you.’

‘No …’

‘Yes. I need the action. I need to get my circulation going.’

‘So do we,’ said Lindsey and her grandmother.

Honey saw the mix of emotions flash through his eyes. Steve Doherty, roughty-toughty police officer, knew when he was beaten. Criminals were one thing; three generations of insistent females were something else.

They crept along behind him making for where the security guard had disappeared. They found him and his cohorts in a small office at the end of the corridor. Three of them were sitting around a table drinking beer. The other one, identifiable as the driver of the truck, was sound asleep on a scruffy sofa, his snores resonating out into the corridor.

‘Do we wait?’ whispered Honey.

He was about to shake his head, but Honey’s mother had caught a fine long fingernail on the frame surrounding the window.

‘Drat! I paid good money for that!’

The men drinking heard and sprang to their feet. The snoring evaporated.

Doherty looked anxious. He swore under his breath. He had no option but to act.

Kicking open the door, he barged in, his female support crowding in behind him. ‘Halt! I’m a police officer.’

He fought to do things properly and get out his warrant card, his ‘weapon’ still in situ, wound around his fingers. The men stared. For a moment they were dumbstruck.

What would have happened then was anybody’s guess, except that the sirens started, screaming like banshees as they hurtled down St Andrews Road and took the route to Roland Mead’s cold storage facility.

The men at the table and the suddenly roused truck driver ran, but were pursued. In his haste to escape, the truck driver tripped over a roll of meat muslin and fell headlong into an empty waste drum. Honey and Lindsey took advantage of the situation and upended it trapping the man head down, his legs waving in the air.

Uniformed officers spilled through the door, grabbing the would-be escapees as Doherty directed.

‘Him,’ said Honey softly, her eyes alighting on the man in the black T-shirt and jeans. ‘He’s the one.’

‘Chester,’ said her mother. ‘He’s Roland’s chauffeur and does other stuff. Like Oddjob in that James Bond movie. He does everything for that dirty, stinking rat Roland. That Chester’s got a whole load of different uniforms.’

‘That figures.’ Honey dragged her mother to one side. ‘Leave it to Steve. This is his baby now. He’ll have Roland arrested.’

Her mother nodded. ‘Quite so. That’s why he rang the police.’

Lindsey was frowning and eyeing her grandmother suspiciously. ‘I thought you rang them.’

Her mother looked sheepish. ‘Not exactly. I was bursting to get Roland well and truly sorted.’

A nerve twitched beneath Honey’s left eye. She had the feeling she wasn’t going to like the answer, but the question had to be asked. ‘So who did you phone to sort out your ex?’

‘Won’t tell you. Not until you tell me who got into Roland’s computer system and found that secret file.’

Honey looked at each of them in turn, wondering what the hell they were talking about. Lindsey explained about the SAP system and hacking into Mead’s computer system. ‘Warren Slade, the guy that was indisposed in Room Twenty. He did it. He found the secret bills of lading for meat, and the fuel bills, and decided it didn’t add up. There were journeys not accounted for, and the sizes of the fuel tanks didn’t check out with the amount of fuel purchased. Warren has a highly developed mathematical mind. It’s all to do with probabilities and possibilities – at least, I think it is.’ She looked at her mother and shrugged. ‘You can’t blame him for wanting some fun and getting left indisposed. He’s a very intense sort of bloke, almost to the point of obsession.’

Her grandmother looked amused. ‘So’s the friend I rang to sort out Roland. He’s got a thing about bad butchers and crap meat.’

Lindsey looked puzzled.

Honey burst out laughing. ‘Haven’t you guessed?’ she said to her daughter.

Chapter Thirty-seven

Early that morning, Roland Mead heard the hammering at the front door, but did nothing about it.

Rozelia, she of the glorious black hair and swaying hips, stirred beside him, her naked thigh against his. ‘Do you hear that?’

Mead mumbled something incoherent and snuggled down against the cool cotton pillow. He’d only just turned the pillow over and loved the feel of its coldness on his face. He intended making the most of it.

‘Chester is off,’ said Rozelia, referring to Roland’s right-hand man. Chester could be butler, chauffeur and even paid companion when Roland wanted it so. The vain hope of getting him to go downstairs melted away. Rozelia swore in Italian. There was no other option but to slide her naked body into a silk kimono. Padding down the stairs, she pondered on her reasons for staying with Roland. He was rich, yes, but loutish and ignorant. Why hadn’t she found herself a titled man; perhaps a count or a lord? A banker would have been equally acceptable, his wealth making up for the lack of a title. She could have stayed in Palermo, she mused, then frowned. Not Palermo. Much too provincial. Perhaps Rome.

On the plus side, Roland was so conceited about his sexual prowess, his power over women, that he didn’t notice her penchant for young lovers; variety, in Rozelia’s opinion, was definitely the spice of life. But it suited her to be with him; at least for now.

The hammering continued. Rozelia’s face clouded. The corners of her pouting mouth turned downwards. Whoever was at the door was going to get a tongue-lashing. She glanced at her watch. It had to be Chester. He would normally be here by now, late perhaps because he’d been searching for his key. Convinced she was right, she released the security chain.

As Smudger swept in, both Rozelia and the door swung back and smacked against the wall. She was knocked to the ground. Smudger jerked her to her feet, his big hands holding her arms tightly.

‘Where is he?’

Her big eyes got bigger. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m me. Where’s the gaffer?’

Shocked to the core, she pointed in a vague way at the stairs.

Smudger grimaced. ‘I’ll find him.’

He took the stairs two at a time. There were many doors along the landing, but only one was partly open, about fifteen inches. Smudger burst the door fully open with as much finesse as he had the one downstairs.

‘
You
!’ he said.

If the man had been wearing pyjamas he would have grabbed his jacket collar and dragged him from the bed. As it was Mead was naked; not a pretty sight in Smudger’s opinion. Luckily, the man had a very hairy chest. Clutching great handfuls of chest hair, Smudger dragged Roland Mead from his bed, and literally threw him across the room. His toupée, the glue a little tacky from wearing it in bed, fell off and stuck to the carpet.

‘Get dressed,’ Smudger said menacingly. ‘The game’s up.’

Mead’s first reaction was to go on the offensive. ‘I’ve eaten little pricks like you for breakfast,’ he snarled, his hands tightening into fists. ‘Come on. Take a pop at me. Go on,’ he said, dancing around and grinning as though he were Muhammad Ali when in fact he looked like an overweight dancing bear.

Smudger narrowed his eyes and fixed his thoughts on those Mead had wanted dead. He had a problem doing that, though, his emotions turning to blubber when he thought of what had happened. He needed to focus on something less emotional, but still something he cared about. He thought of rubbish steaks; those with too much fat, those cut too thin, those with too little marbling. It worked. His fingers curled into his palms. His knuckles rose to the challenge. One left hook and it was all over.

The police didn’t question Roland Mead’s bruised jaw. Smudger told them that Mead had fallen down the stairs. They’d nodded in mute understanding having used the same excuse themselves on countless occasions.

‘She’s nothing to do with it,’ he added when they attempted to take Rozelia. ‘I’ll take care of her.’

He smiled at her.

Rozelia smiled right back. This was such fun! She liked the thought of a younger, more virile man taking care of her. OK, he wasn’t rich, and didn’t know that he was just one plaything amongst many. But things were coming to a head with Roland. She’d heard rumours.

She was under no illusion that she had a role to fill, firstly as a witness testifying against her former lover. She’d known of the comings and goings at all hours of the day and night. She could give times and details. And of course a large reward should be in the offing. A little money to please herself was exactly what she needed. Enough to buy a ticket to Rio, perhaps …

Chapter Thirty-eight

They had a party at the Green River to celebrate solving the case. Shattered from the ordeal in the freezer, Honey left Lindsey to make the arrangements. The list of guests pleased her; there they all were enjoying themselves in HER bar, eating and drinking and laughing together. Even Mr Westlake, the Environmental Health Officer, popped in.

‘I don’t really have the time,’ he said. ‘Though I am retired.’ His worried eyes swiftly surveyed the room. ‘Your mother’s not around, is she?’

In response to Honey’s ‘not yet’, he drank the last of his tonic water and bade a dignified though speedy retreat.

Before leaving to take some well-earned sleep, Steve Doherty laid out the whys and wherefores of what had happened and how. It turned out that Oliver Stafford had been getting a cut from the meat racket, but had stumbled on to Mead’s other business. He’d been getting his cut of that too but had been angling for more. Stella had been in on the cheap meat deal, but got stroppy when Oliver dropped her.

‘And Brodie?’ Honey asked Steve.

‘He was in financial difficulties, heard what was going on from a drunken Stella and tried to cut himself in. Stella was the loose link in the chain. She had a drink problem and couldn’t help sounding off. The meat scam could lead to the drug scam. The gang controlling the deal couldn’t chance a big bust. It was through Stella’s drinking that Richard Carmelli found out. Once the people Mead worked for heard the bad news, they were all dead meat. Mead had no choice. He was in deep with some very heavy dealers. Chester was one of them, a mover and shaker rather than an odd-job man. Mead was scared of him.’

‘And my mother?’

‘Two-pronged attack. Yes, I suppose he was after your meat order, but he knew of your position between the police and the Hotels Association. He had orders to keep tabs on things.’

Honey couldn’t resist stroking one of his tired-looking eyes. ‘Are you going to bed now?’

He smiled. ‘Are you?’

Lindsey chose that moment to interrupt. ‘What shall I do with this?’ She held up the unwanted item Honey had won at auction.

It was on Honey’s tongue to tell her to throw the thing away, but somehow she couldn’t do that. It had come in useful during the proceedings. Chucking it was like discarding a lucky charm.

‘Hide it away somewhere. I’ll think on it.’

Doherty made arrangements to see her the following night. There were a lot of things to catch up on that had nothing whatsoever to do with police work, but he needed to rest before expending more energy.

She’d never expected to get rid of the awful underwear, but the phone call from Andrea Andover came out of the blue.

‘I hear you’ve got something that I could make use of.’

Honey tried to think what on earth she had that the over-large stunt woman could possibly find a use for. Not a clue!

‘I’m doing a Valkyrie type of part for a Hollywood special – stunting for an actress who isn’t up to doing anything more energetic than waddling into McDonalds.’

Anyone seeing Honey’s expression would have described it as blank. She asked Andrea to elucidate.

Andrea did just that.

‘There’s a little item I believe you can help me with. I’m willing to pay. Alistair at Bonhams mentioned you bought it by mistake and in his opinion it’s exactly what I’m looking for.’

Realisation was like a strip of elastic going ping! in Honey’s brain. Did she mean the mountainous mammary controllers? She asked her.

Yep! Exactly that.

‘As I said,’ Andrea went on. ‘It’s a Valkyrie type of part. You know – a metal corset and boob defenders the size of pan lids. I could do with a bit of softness to protect my natural padding, if you get my drift.’

‘You can have the brazier – brassiere,’ she corrected herself.

A price was negotiated. Delivery details were arranged. Honey couldn’t help the self-satisfied smile as she ended the call.

‘You look pleased with yourself,’ said Lindsey, just back from running Grandma home. ‘Anything to do with me?’

‘I’ve got rid of something I really had no use for.’

Lindsey slid behind the reception desk and checked the computer over her mother’s shoulder. ‘You sound like one of my girlfriends referring to a ditched guy.’

Honey eyed her daughter’s face in the glow of the screen and felt suddenly guilty. ‘I’m sorry about my reaction to the Oliver Stafford thing. I must resolve not to make mountains out of molehills,’ she said turning back to the job in hand, stuffing the large bra into an equally large envelope.

‘You’re making a good start,’ said Lindsey, nodding casually at the envelope. ‘You were never going to grow into it.’

‘Thank goodness,’ said Honey.

‘Are you seeing Steve later after the party?’

Honey smiled. Her thoughts reverted to that slinky black dress with the buttons, her mother’s fishnet stockings and the high-heeled red shoes. They were exactly what was needed.

‘Tomorrow night. Once he’s had a chance to catch up on his sleep.’

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Something in the Blood:
The first in the Honey Driver Mystery series

Honey Driver runs a hotel in Bath. She also collects antique underwear. As boss, sheʼs in charge one day and washing dishes the next, resisting her motherʼs match-making attempts and managing multiple responsibilities – mundane, safe, and unexciting.
Then she lands the job of liaising with the police on behalf of Bath Hotels Association. No worries, she tells herself. Nothing will happen … until an American tourist goes missing and Honey is called in to help. Despite the on/off hostility of her police opposite number, DCI Steve Doherty, Honey sticks to the task and finds out that thereʼs more to work than washing dishes, and more to murder than malice aforethought.

ISBN   
9781909520202