Worthless Remains by Peter Helton Read Free Book Online

patted his face. And again a bit harder. His eyes remained shut but he at least made some kind of protest sound. ‘A large cafetière of coffee, I think, would be helpful,’ I suggested to the manager. She agreed and left.
    I noticed that Guy didn’t have a bald patch after all. I also noticed there was a bottle of complimentary mineral water standing untouched on a side table. I opened it and poured some of it over the man’s head. His eyes opened and swam around unfocussed. This was entertaining so I poured some more.
    â€˜Hey!’ Middleton tried to say something else but only said ‘hey’ a couple more times. Eventually his eyes found me.
    â€˜Right, time for a shower, Guy. You’re late.’ I managed to hoist him up and get him to his feet, then launched him in the right direction. He ghosted towards the bathroom, walking under his own steam now, like a very old man using very old steam. He didn’t utter a word. While he showered I called Cy. ‘He’s in the shower. I’ll deliver him in half an hour.’
    â€˜Arse!’ was Cy’s first reaction. ‘The pisshead’s done it again. He’d better hit the ground running when he gets here.’
    When Middleton emerged from the bathroom in a hotel bathrobe he didn’t look like a runner. A walker, perhaps. He walked straight past me. ‘I know what you’re thinking; you think I got paralytic last night. You’re wrong, Honeysett. Some bastard spiked my drink.’ He picked up a bottle of whisky from the little period table by the sofa and thrust it at me. Covering the normal label was a handmade one of the same size, cut from printer paper. A crudely drawn skull and crossbones sat above the hand-printed legend ‘POISON’.
    â€˜Explain?’
    Middleton spoke while he dressed himself as though his clothes were made from woven lead. ‘I did have a few last night. But I wasn’t being stupid with it. Well, no more stupid than normal, if I’m honest. When I got up here I wanted another drink. I had that bottle of single malt in my shoulder bag. Got it out and saw someone had stuck that
poison
thing on it.’
    I opened the bottle and sniffed it. A fine whisky smell. ‘And you drank from it?’
    â€˜I thought about it for a while first.’
    Oh, of course. ‘You get threatening letters, then someone sticks a “poison” label on your Scotch and you think about it and then decide to drink it anyway?’ Before I could tell him what I thought about it there was a knock at the door. I opened it and a waitress delivered a cafetière of coffee, two cups and some biscuits on a red tray. Cafetière, cups, tray and girl were all as beautiful and immaculate as you’d expect at just under £500 a night. I poured two cups and handed one to Middleton who was still
sans
trousers but making progress.
    â€˜Two thoughts came to me, and both made complete sense last night. A bit less this morning, naturally. The first was that if someone wanted to kill you they probably wouldn’t warn you about it with a sticker. You see, it could have been just Cy trying to send me a message about my drinking – he’s always on about it to me, the sanctimonious little git. One bottle of Becks and he needs to have a lie-down.’
    â€˜How would he have managed to get at the bottle? Are they all staying here?’
    â€˜Shit, no, the rest of the crew are staying in third-rate accommodation all over town. Unlike them I had top hotels written into my contract.’
    â€˜How, then?’
    â€˜Oh, we all met up at the Wagon and Horses near Avebury on the way here yesterday. Most of us, anyway, the archaeological team and some of the production team and myself. They do make good coffee here, is there any more?’ I poured him another cup and sat it on a side table while he pulled on his boots. I held out the plate of biscuits but he made a face as