Worthless Remains Read online

  Table of Contents

  A Selection of Titles by Peter Helton

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  A Selection of Titles by Peter Helton

  The Chris Honeysett Series

  HEADCASE

  SLIM CHANCE

  RAINSTONE FALL

  AN INCH OF TIME *

  WORTHLESS REMAINS *

  The Detective Inspector Liam McLusky Series

  FALLING MORE SLOWLY

  FOUR BELOW

  * available from Severn House

  WORTHLESS REMAINS

  A Chris Honeysett Mystery

  Peter Helton

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2013 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited.

  Copyright © 2013 by Peter Helton.

  The right of Peter Helton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  Helton, Peter.

  Worthless remains. – (A Chris Honeysett mystery ; 5)

  1. Honeysett, Chris (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

  2. Private investigators–Fiction. 3. Artists–Fiction.

  4. Bath (England)–Fiction. 5. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title II. Series

  823.9'2-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-434-8 (epub)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-047-8 (cased)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Thanks to Juliet Burton, to everyone at Severn House and to Clare Yates for making this book possible. Thanks also for fourteen series of Time Team and special thanks to Phil Harding for talking to me about the excavation in Bath. Naturally all mistakes are my own. No thanks to Asbo the cat for abducting my wireless mouse and waging cyber war from behind the sofa.

  He digs for all manner of things which are no manner of good to anybody.

  John Wyndham, The Secret People

  One need not be a chamber to be haunted,

  One need not be a house.

  Emily Dickenson, Time and Eternity

  ONE

  ‘He’s not going to like it; you should have warned him,’ said Annis.

  She was scraping paint from her palette straight on to the floor. We use the draughty old barn at the top of the meadow as a studio and half the floor is made up of dried paint, bottle tops and mouse droppings. The old sash windows we botched into the side of the barn are just big enough to keep the place in perpetual gloom. It’s hot in the summer, the patchwork roof leaks when it rains and in winter the pot-bellied stove keeps it just above freezing. Ah, the romance of being a painter.

  ‘If I had told him he’d have rejected it straight away. But presented with a fait accompli he’ll come around to it,’ I said. Though I was by no means sure. The private investigation side of my life had earlier in the year taken me to Greece where I had been seduced into abandoning abstract painting for figurative work. The ghost village in the mountains of Corfu where I had stayed had cried out to be painted. When I got back to Mill House in our valley just outside Bath I found that everything I looked at suddenly wanted to be painted – Mill House for a start; the overgrown three acres surrounding it; the dilapidated outbuildings; the willows by the mill pond.

  Simon Paris, our gallerist in Bath and London, was on his way up to select paintings for a two-week autumn show of my work. I hadn’t told him of my change of direction, which is why I was nervously tinkering in the studio this morning, staring at my new post-Corfu canvases, looking for flaws. Annis, safe in the knowledge that her painting got better year on year, was just clearing her palette before starting on a new canvas. Annis and I lived together, painted together and from time to time worked on private-eye business together, though Annis was much happier in the studio than sitting in cars watching lights go on and off in bedroom windows. Weren’t we all? But rambling old Mill House devoured money. My father had left it to me. Not out of kindness, as he made perfectly clear in the will he made before committing suicide in his favourite armchair, but in the hope that the exertion necessary to hang on to it would succeed in turning his feckless vagabond of a son into a responsible citizen. Here I was, ten years down the road, against expectations still hanging on to the albatross of Mill House, though I’m not sure there is general consensus on the responsible-citizen bit.

  I hadn’t heard Simon arrive; it’s a long way down to the yard and the purr of his five-litre Merc was lost on the breeze. The first thing I knew about his arrival was when he darkened the barn door behind me. His eyes blinked for a moment over his delicate gold-rimmed spectacles to adjust from glittering summer sun to Rembrantish gloom. Then he frowned. His frown deepened as he advanced towards me. Simon Paris stopped halfway across the barn, whipped his glasses off and lifted his face in supplication towards the rafters. ‘Please let my eyes be deceiving me. Please let this be some kind of mirage. Honeysett, have you gone completely mad?’

  Annis wiped her hands, freed her strawberry curls and shook them loose. ‘Morning, Simon. I’ll leave you both to your discussion,’ she said and made for the door. Deserter.

  ‘There won’t be much of a discussion,’ Simon said ominously. ‘But yes, sorry, good morning, Annis,’ he added softly. Then he turned his schoolmasterly eyes on me. ‘Figurative painting. You’ve gone figurative. What happened to your beautiful, lyrical, atmospheric abstract canvases?’

  ‘I needed a change. These are my beautiful, atmospheric, what was the other thing . . .?’

  ‘Lyrical.’

  ‘Lyrical landscapes.’

  Reluctantly Simon bent his face closer to the painting on my easel and put his glasses back on his nose. ‘This one’s got a sheep in it!’ he said with the same voice he might use if he found a slug in his salad.

  ‘It’s a black-faced sheep. I borrowed a couple from the farm up the road to keep the grass down.’

  ‘What next, cat paintings? My clients are expecting abstract paintings from Chris Honeysett. You’ll have collectors coming to see a certain type of work.’

  ‘They’ll see something different.’

  ‘I’m not sure you’ll take them with you,’ Simon said seriously. ‘I mean, this isn’t a bad painting, it�
�s just so . . . totally different.’

  ‘There you are then, just different.’

  ‘Yes, but quite apart from the change . . . you’re not ready.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I had very nearly spent every penny I had earned from my supermarket-sponsored Greek adventure and my bank account was very ready for this show. ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘It’s not coherent enough.’ He stepped back so he could take in four of the canvases that I had lined up against the wall opposite the windows. ‘They don’t look like they were painted by the same artist. You’re still feeling your way. That one over there is, well, it’s a good enough painting but in the canvas next to it you’ve moved on already. This doesn’t make a show, Chris. Not this autumn. Next spring, perhaps, if you keep hard at it.’

  I argued, but in my heart of hearts I knew he was right. ‘I’m broke though; I really need the money,’ I whined.

  We were standing outside the barn at the top of the meadow, looking down on the house, the cobbled yard and the dilapidated outbuildings. ‘You’ll have to do some PI work then, won’t you?’

  ‘Business is slow.’

  ‘Because you never pick up the phone. You do realize, of course, that you could sell this place and retire on the proceeds? It’s falling down but it’s still a massive property.’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘I wasn’t seriously suggesting it.’ He took a deep breath, sniffing at the country air he liked to pretend he loathed. ‘You and Annis. Everything all right there?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’ Did I think so? ‘Yes, definitely. We’re getting on like a hearse on fire. Why?’

  ‘Well . . .’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘It’s none of my business but . . . that Tim character, the computer chap who works for you sometimes?’

  Tim Bigwood is the third leg of the shaky tripod that keeps Aqua Investigations, my shambolic private-eye business, from collapsing. Tim also works as an IT consultant for Bath University. An ex-safe-breaker made good – or so he says, though how he affords the new Audi A4 on his uni pay is beyond me – he helps out with all things electronic, door-opening and closing and, of course, computing. ‘What about Tim?’

  ‘Well, it’s none of my business, but the other day I did see him and Annis together in town. And they seemed, you know . . . more than just friendly.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I mean they were kissing.’

  ‘Were they? How long have you been representing me and Annis now, Simon?’

  ‘Let me think, Annis about five years. You a bit longer than that.’

  ‘Five years, Simon, and you’ve only just noticed that Annis is going out with both me and Tim.’

  ‘You and Tim both? Five years? Seriously?’

  Actually it was about six years ago that Tim and I found out that we were sharing Annis’s favours. It was an indication of her persuasiveness that this odd triangle survived intact. Or perhaps a token of our lack of total commitment, depending on how uncharitable you are feeling.

  ‘Seriously,’ I said aloud.

  ‘And you three . . .?’

  ‘Nah, we’re not in a ménage together. You look shocked. Didn’t you tell me you’d led quite a bohemian life in your youth?’

  ‘I did, too,’ Simon said and walked towards his car. ‘But even in those days I could always afford a whole girl, Chris.’

  And there I was, standing in the yard with half a girl, waving Simon Paris and my autumn show goodbye just as the postman came down the potholed track to hand me a fresh fistful of bills and demands. I’m only telling you all this to explain how I got myself into the mess that was waiting for me around the corner.

  Since I couldn’t pay the bills there was little point in opening the envelopes. I left them on the hall table and went to find Annis, which was easy – I followed the smell of coffee into the kitchen.

  ‘You were right, of course.’

  ‘Sorry, hon. Have some coffee.’ She shoved the cafetière across the table. Strong coffee is Annis’s usual remedy in a crisis. I tend more towards the Pilsener Urquell myself. ‘Does that mean you’re looking for a new gallery?’

  I poured myself a mug. ‘Not quite. He said “perhaps in spring”.’

  ‘That’s not so bad then; he hasn’t completely rejected it.’

  ‘No, he just thought it commercially unwise and he said I needed more coherence.’

  ‘In other words, do more painting. I think you’re lucky; you have until the spring and with no pressure. I promised the Salthouse Gallery four canvases and I’m showing in Bath in November.’

  ‘And what are we going to do for money until spring? Remember last winter? We were burning the furniture to keep warm.’ A slight exaggeration; we burnt broken junk from the outbuildings, but still.

  ‘Something will turn up. Something always turns up.’ Far away in my attic office the phone rang. ‘There you go, right on cue. I bet it’s business.’

  I sprinted up the stairs in record time and snatched up the receiver on the seventh ring.

  On the other end was a familiar, pedantic voice. ‘Mr Honeysett, Giles Haarbottle of Griffins.’ The insurers. I had done work for them before. Griffins often come to me with the kind of things they can’t ask their own staff to handle or don’t want to become public knowledge. But most of the time it’s just our old friend insurance fraud.

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘A little matter we would like you to look into for us. Could we meet in town today?’

  I checked my watch; it said half past ten. ‘How about the Pump Rooms in one hour?’

  Haarbottle was delighted. ‘How civilized. The Pump Rooms it is.’

  TWO

  Naturally, as a private eye I’m supposed to walk around in moody black & white, drink cheap whisky and live off junk food, but this isn’t south London, it’s the city of Bath, and the chandeliered Pump Rooms of the Roman Baths with their aproned waiters and the fragrance of freshly brewed coffee are much more my style. I admit I spoiled it a little by arriving in clumpy boots, leather jacket and motorbike helmet. I hadn’t found a replacement yet for my beloved Citroën and was still running around on Annis’s ancient Norton. The lanky figure of Giles Haarbottle waved at me from a table near the stage; behind him the famous Pump Room Trio, which for some reason was comprised of four musicians, played Mozart. Some people like to do business via email, I’m not sure why.

  I ordered smoked salmon and poached egg on toasted soda bread with a pot of Earl Grey while Haarbottle made do with a Bath bun, cinnamon butter and a cafetière of coffee. Civilization having thus been reaffirmed on this sunny morning the sad business of business took over. Haarbottle fiddled with the combination lock on his faux leather briefcase and extracted a yellow file adorned with the Griffins logo. He pushed it across. I flicked it open. On top lay an A4 colour photograph of a man in his late thirties with a walrus moustache, wearing full motorcycle leathers and standing next to a red Ducati motorcycle. He carried his helmet under his arm like an astronaut and the whole thing was posed in front of a garage door.

  ‘Right down your street, that, I thought,’ Haarbottle said.

  ‘Not really. For a start I’m trying to get back on to four wheels. And a 1950s Norton can’t keep up with a shiny Italian job like that one.’

  ‘Doesn’t need to; he’s no longer riding it since someone knocked him off that very motorcycle. He’s also on four wheels now. Turn to the next picture.’

  I did. Same chap, shorter hair, but no longer smiling proudly below his big moustache. In a wheelchair. The picture was taken somewhere in Bath, probably the Circus. He was on his own, propelling himself along the uneven pavement. ‘Bad accident then.’

  ‘It was. Three years ago. Head injury, broken this, broken that. His name is Michael Dealey. He claims to be unable to walk as a result of his head injury. No sense of balance, no control over his leg movements.’

  ‘Hang on, he claims to? You don’t just claim these things, there must be d
octors involved. What’s the medical report say?’

  ‘It’s all in there. They’re saying much the same. But we’ve taken independent advice and he could still be faking it. It isn’t that his spine’s broken or anything.’

  ‘Right, and because he had the temerity not to break his spine you suspect him of faking it?’

  ‘No, because of an anonymous tip-off. Received by the police. Turn to the next photograph please.’

  The next picture was smaller, incredibly grainy and showed a man getting ready to cross a street. Somewhere. The bloke was wearing some kind of jacket, some kind of trousers and some kind of baseball cap. Judging by the quality of the picture it was taken on a twenty-quid mobile from outer space. ‘Is that supposed to be him?’ Haarbottle nodded. ‘That could be absolutely anybody with a big tash. It looks like one of those UFO or Loch Ness pictures; they’re always like this too. His own mother wouldn’t recognize him from that. Oh, I get it, and that’s what the police told you, too, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Pretty much,’ Haarbottle admitted. ‘But why would someone make it up? Turn the picture over.’

  On the other side, written in ink and capital letters, it said: MIKE DEALEY. IS HE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE IN A WHEELCHAIR?

  ‘“Supposed to be” sounds a bit harsh.’ I turned the photograph over again. ‘This is the original then,’ I said. ‘If they let you have it that means the police are definitely not interested.’

  ‘You’re right, they’re not. It could be malicious or a hoax. But if this is a hoax it’s a strange kind of hoax, isn’t it? It’s enough for us to investigate, anyway, even if the police can’t be bothered. To them it’s just work, but to us it’s money. A lot of money. I can offer you one per cent.’

  ‘What was the payout?’

  ‘Three-quarters of a million.’

  ‘Plus expenses.’

  ‘Naturally, but reasonable expenses – no need to check into the Queensberry.’

  ‘Only if Mr Dealey does. Where does he live?’