Dead Suited Read online

  DEAD SUITED

  Jean G Goodhind

  CHAPTER ONE

  There was something erotic about a man wearing tight britches and knee high riding boots.

  ‘He’s very fetching.’

  Honey Driver reined in her hormones before giving the highwayman another once over. His britches were made of burgundy coloured velvet, the antique type that looked as though it could be used to cover an armchair. His black leather riding boots were the old fashioned sort with extensions totally covering his knees. A white silk cravat fell in a frothy bow over the top of a gold brocade waistcoat. Topping it all off was a handsome frock coat of navy blue wool and a tri-corn hat.

  If that wasn’t enough to set a girl’s heart racing, he wore a mask over his eyes and a black kerchief over the lower part of his face.

  In Honey’s opinion he was every red blooded woman’s idea of a highwayman for whom one would willingly stand and deliver!

  Unfortunately he wasn’t real but part of a shop window display. The display was one of many entered for a competition set up by Bath Retail Traders Association. So far he was her favourite, which had little to do with artistic design but everything to do with sexual fantasy.

  Pistol in hand, he was standing against a backdrop of dark hills and black trees. With the help of strategically placed spotlights, a pale moon threw silvery patterns across an indigo sky. Bespoke tailored tweed sports jackets in autumn tones ranging from rust through mustard to dull red framed the scene cascading from the top of the window to the bottom like huge autumn leaves, their shadows playing on the moonlit backdrop.

  The highwayman’s shadow should have been centre stage against the backdrop but instead the shadow of a noose hung from an equally shadowy gallows.

  The scene sent a shiver down Honey’s spine, not out of fear but out of fascination. Up until this moment most of the shop window displays had been pretty, pleasant or highly artistic. The one at the toy-shop had been highly animated thanks to tooting train sets and bouncing balls. Audio had also figured in the display though the tinny singing of a brace of dolls, teddies and plastic animals did grate on the nerves after the first fifteen minutes. It might still have appealed if Spiderman hadn’t fallen over in such a way that he appeared to be looking up the dress of a plastic Lolita.

  There had also been clowns; Honey disliked clowns. She much preferred highwaymen!

  Thanks to the shadow of the gallows, this shop window display didn’t resemble any of the other displays. It was artistic, yes, but just ever so slightly scary.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she breathed, her eyes shining. ‘I’m glad I came.’

  She had had reservations when first asked by Bath Retailers’ Association – BRA for short, to judge Bath’s best window display.

  ‘I have to warn you I know nothing about what makes a good window display, at least not in a professional capacity,’ she’d told Lee Christie, one of the organisers. ‘I just know what I like, though I wouldn’t want to upset anyone who knows a lot more about it than I do.’

  It may have been her imagination but for a nanosecond she was sure she saw something furtive flick into his eyes before the usual blue blandness reasserted itself. He owned a shop himself, a place where you could buy saucy outfits. She’d never been there herself, not fancying dressing up as a French maid or an old style nurse wearing starch and black stockings.

  His nose quivered as he sucked in his breath.

  ‘You shop, don’t you?’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone?’

  Why did she feel guilty about that?

  ‘Of course you have. Ever window shopped and been drawn to a very compelling display?’

  Yes. That too. She nodded.

  His chest expanded when he took another deep breath. His nose quivered again as though it were all gristle and no bone.

  ‘Then you know what you like. That in itself qualifies you to tell us which one you like best.’

  She had to agree that he had a point. Shopping was something she HAD to do. It was also something she’d been doing for years.

  ‘Yes. I suppose you’re right. I’m very experienced on the shopping front.’

  Lee had gone on to outline the details. The prize was £5,000 plus coverage in the local paper, possibly radio and TV too. Free publicity in other words and the judges would bask in the outfall.

  So Lee Christie had sworn her in – so to speak – as one of three judges.

  The deal was that each judge would go round individually accompanied by Lee who was armed with a clipboard and pen. That’s what Honey was doing now. After perusing each window display entered he asked her to rate them from one to five on artistic merit, lighting and which had made the biggest impression on her.

  He had to do this three times with each judge gathering their impressions as he went. Honey’s fellow judges were unknown to her, a necessary precaution to prevent conferring and thus accusations of favouritism.

  ‘So why did you pick on me,’ she asked brightly. ‘I mean, it can’t solely be because I window shop; every woman I know does that.’

  She’d hoped the reason might be that she was known as a person of impeccable taste, a pillar of the community and a fashion icon whose views were well respected.

  Lee’s pronouncement surprised her.

  ‘Firstly, we thought a woman who liked shopping would be ideal. There were other candidates, but we decided it would be very useful having someone aboard with friends in the police force – just in case things get nasty. Some of our entrants are known to be bad losers, so if the police do have to be called to sort out a punch up, we thought you being involved might make them come more quickly.’

  ‘Oh!’

  So! Nothing to do professional status, but the capacity to elicit a quick response from the local nick if things got ugly; such were the advantages of being Crime Liaison Officer for Bath Hotels Association. It must also be known, she decided with a jolt of incredulity, that she had a sleeping partner (literally) namely Detective Inspector Steve Doherty. If she got caught up in something she couldn’t handle, he was the cop who rode to the rescue. It was not at all what she’d expected to hear.

  Lee took her along to each window display, avidly scrutinising her face as he awaited her comments. He never moved as he did that; like a mother hen waiting to see if her first egg is going to hatch. She’d already judged six entries. The highwayman was the seventh – lucky number seven! There was one more to go.

  Up until the highwayman she’d been sold on the display in The Chocolate Soldier, a shop specialising in up market chocolates – what else?

  The display had centred round a chocolate castle inhabited by chocolate people and guarded by chocolate soldiers; very apt considering the name of the shop. Lots of sparkly paper wrapping had been used to alleviate the varying shades of brown and the ivory tones of various white chocolate. The only flaw had been the little drawbridge going up and down worked by an electric motor. The place where the drawbridge was attached to the castle was beginning to melt thanks to the motor. Apart from that it was first class and was the only window display to make Honey’s mouth water. However, all that had changed since coming face to face with the highwayman.

  ‘I do like this one,’ she said to Lee.

  ‘Artistic merit from nought to five, nought being not artistic at all, going on up through to five. Pick a number.’

  Honey folded her arms as she considered, narrowing her eyes and focusing on each part of the scene, how dramatic it was, what it meant! Wasn’t that what those in the art world considered when they viewed a painting? What message is it sending me?

  ‘It’s such a dynamic contrast,’ she said out loud as she tried to think numbers. ‘I mean, tweed sports jackets are not that inspiring. Neither are the men w
ho wear them.’

  ‘I wear them,’ Lee said tersely.

  ‘I mean respectable, upright citizens,’ blurted Honey, in an effort to make amends. ‘As opposed to criminal which the highwayman obviously is despite his dramatically romantic image. I really think it’s sending some kind of message.’

  Lee seemed reassured, his ball point pen hovering about half way down the clipboard.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  She sneaked a sideways glance at him. His nose was sharp, his face bland and round as a pudding. She thought of all those sexy outfits, rubber and leather in his shop. Plus the dvds of course. And the books. Xcite, Black Lace. He had the lot.

  ‘So why didn’t you enter the competition?’

  His pudding jaw clenched in his pudding face.

  ‘Not family orientated,’ he said through clenched teeth.

  ‘Oh!’ It was all she could say. All anyone could say. Her mind boggled at the thought of what might have appeared in his shop window. At present it was blacked out, a lovely shiny sheen of black with swirls of gold around the edges. Nobody could peruse the goods by looking in. Must be difficult to look out too, she decided.

  ‘Right,’ she said, tugging her attention back to the job in hand. ‘Now what score shall I give it? It’s got to be a five – or is it a one? Sorry. I’ve forgotten which angle I’m coming from. Is one the highest and five the lowest?’

  ‘No. You’ve got it back to front. Five is the highest score you can give.’

  ‘Then I’ll give it five.’

  ‘Is that your honest opinion?’

  Suddenly she felt like the foreman of a jury.

  ‘Yes. It is. I mean, he really is the stuff of erotic fantasy...’

  Lee swallowed as though he were in pain. Oops! She’d said the wrong thing. Erotica was his speciality, or at least he thought so. Honey wasn’t so sure. Leather posing pouches and crotch less knickers didn’t do it for her.

  She took another look at the shadow of the gallows then at the eyes of the highwayman. Painted eyes. Brown and outlined in black.

  ‘Yes,’ she said with an air of finality. The highwayman was the stuff of fantasy alright. He’d certainly figure in her fantasies anyway.

  She nodded. ‘Yes. I think a five. It’s interesting. It has a message, you know, respectably smart against dramatically dissolute.’ She knew which she preferred but hey, what was the point in hurting Lee’s feelings?

  Lee circled the five on his clipboard with a deft sweep of his Biro. ‘If that’s what you think.’

  He didn’t sound impressed by her analysis of the designer sending the public some kind of message. She twigged he would have preferred a big breasted woman wearing a tight bodice – nothing else, just the bodice.

  Besides the ‘naughty’ shop, he owned that she recalled was named Leather Lovers, he also ran a gift shop with his mother, the sort of place where pale pink and blue predominate and painted cottages and fluffy teddy bears are the biggest sellers. If there was a message in that kind of thing, it was more likely to be love me, love my teddy. She didn’t even want to think about what message a sexy scene in the window of Leather Lovers was likely to send. Feel the thrill? Sado Masochism is a punishment in itself?

  She dragged her mind away from such thoughts. Concentrate! She needed to concentrate!

  Pauling and Tern whose window they were assessing were a gentleman’s outfitter of the old school; not for them the brash designer labels, sulky models in the windows and nerve tingling techno music. Founded sometime around the turn of the century – nineteenth to twentieth not the most recent turn – Pauling and Tern were bespoke tailors producing beautifully cut garments from quality fabrics sewn together by the ultimate in the tailoring trade. They numbered royalty among their clients. Not for them the Friday night millionaire with a job in computers and a set of wheels that shot from standstill to sixty miles an hour in ten seconds. Pauling and Tern was more vintage Bentley than hot rod.

  Waving a three fingered goodbye and wishing the highwayman would wave back, Honey followed Lee out of the alley.

  She glanced back at the broad bay window, thinking how little must have changed in two or three centuries – except for the shop fronts that is.

  In the past there had been more than one shop in Beaumont Alley graced by the elegant bay windows more usually seen on traditional Christmas cards and boxes of chocolates or in TV dramas based on the novels of Charles Dickens.

  The bowed window of Pauling and Tern was all that remained of a gentler time when ladies in long dresses and bonnets and men in britches had strolled arm in arm over the flagstones and cobbles.

  Few people frequented the alley nowadays preferring the new arcades and shops at the bottom of town.

  The tailoring shop clung on to its secluded address. She could understand that due to the nature of its clients, the gentleman’s outfitters preferred to be discreetly tucked away from the main thoroughfare. Their clients, people who valued their privacy, made appointments to choose fabrics or be measured up. Pauling and Tern didn’t need to be part of anything. So why, she wondered, had they entered the competition for the best window display in Bath? It seemed out of character.

  The next window display was a far trendier shop aimed at the young man not the portly gentleman. By the time they were twenty yards away she could hear the music blaring out and see the spotlights flashing on and off in the handsomely lit window. A crowd had gathered around it, ooing and ahhing at the glaringly bright and colourful display.

  Crowds of shoppers and tourists crowded the new shopping facility at the bottom of town where plate glass prevailed and piped music flooded onto the pavements.

  Lee threaded his way into the crowd, asking them politely if they would be so kind as to stand back as judging was about to commence. In doing so he pointed at the sign in the bottom right hand corner of the window which said, Bath Shop Window Display Competition.

  ‘Roadrunner Race Boys have been shortlisted,’ he announced loudly.

  Honey didn’t recall there having been a long list so couldn’t see how he could have been short listed. He was bragging. Not that anyone would know that.

  Despite the racing car in the window, she knew very well that Road Runner Racers dealt in extra audio accessories for cars, i.e. anything to make the rap in your car loud enough to make you deaf and available to all whether you were a fan of rap, garage or whatever, or not. Noise in general it should have been called.

  Lee having cleared her way, Honey stepped forward.

  Slap bang in the centre of the window was a Formula 1 racing car. It was bright red and surrounded by chequered flags and all the razzmatazz of the racing circuit. The lighting was in stark contrast to that at Pauling and Tern, lots of flashing lights and no shadows at all. No sexy figure either. The racing car presumably filled that roll.

  ‘Well, hello to you!’

  Even from twenty yards away, Honey could see the owner/shop manager rubbing his hands together and smiling smugly, as though he considered that winning was in the bag.

  As he saw her approach, he shoved aside the gawkers.

  ‘De...light...ed,’ he cooed in a voice as sweet and runny as treacle. His smile looked as though it were set in cement. His white teeth flashed like a great white shark about to eat breakfast.

  Honey glanced at her clipboard. Julian Cunningham. Number one poser, she thought to herself. He had the right shop, the right background – car racing, though only on a local scale. She didn’t need to know that he considered himself God’s gift to women or that he spent his holidays on the Costa Blanca; it was written all over him, his skin the colour of lightly scorched toast.

  He was wearing a linen shirt that was as white as his teeth, the cuffs rolled up to expose bronzed arms without a trace of hairiness, a feature owing more to waxing than nature. A thick gold bracelet flopped around his wrist.

  His jeans were yellow and hung low on his hips. His white blonde hair stood up in gelled spikes all over his head. Th
e white of his loafers was as glaringly white as his shirt and teeth. In her opinion they were probably made of Italian kid leather in which case they’d cost a fortune. Or they could have been designer knock offs and bought anywhere in Spain.

  His eyes raked over her. ‘Hey! Babe! Why don’t all the judges for this event look like you?’ The voice was designed to disarm her. Instead it made her cringe.

  ‘Perhaps you need new contact lenses,’ she said, smiling sweetly whilst at the same time automatically giving him nil points for subtlety.

  Others had tried to influence her decision offering coffee, a glass of wine, a small present and chocolate of course. The chocolate had almost swung her, but she’d resisted. Nobody had been as oily as Julian Cunningham.

  Honey stepped closer to the window.

  ‘Is it real?’

  Julian rolled his shoulders. His smile widened. ‘Every inch of me, darling.’ He leaned closer and whispered. ‘You can inspect if you like. I’d certainly like to inspect you.’

  ‘I meant the car. Is it a real racing car?’ snapped Honey.

  Despite Honey’s clipped tone Julian Cunningham was unperturbed.

  ‘It is indeed, sweetheart. Though there’s no engine in it. Just the chassis. A classic chassis I might add.’ He grinned at her and even attempted to tentatively place an arm around her waist. ‘I have a weakness for a classic chassis.’

  His inference was obvious, that she was getting on a bit but still in great shape. He might regard it as a compliment, but she did not. The anger travelled to her right foot which she lifted and stamped firmly on his truly gorgeous Italian – or Spanish – leather shoes.

  ‘Ouch!’ He began hopping about on one foot whilst staring at his smeared bootees with surprised dismay. ‘Jesus Christ! Look what you’ve done?’

  Honey glanced at the imprint of her black boot on one of his white loafers.

  ‘Take it as a warning, Mr Cunningham. The judges are not to be tampered with!’

  She went back to inspecting the window. In all honesty it was a very good display and the public certainly seemed to appreciate it. She reminded herself not to be influenced by the shop’s owner or manager. The owner had been unavailable at Tern and Pauling; not so at a number of other shops. However, she had not let either their absence or their presence influence her preference and she wasn’t about to start now.