The Ghost of Christmas Past: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 8)

by Jean G Goodhind

  If Anna had returned from her rest and Mary Jane hadn’t breezed into Reception Lindsey might have phoned her mother back to apologise, but Anna was nowhere to be seen, and Mary Jane was looking excited and in need of an ear to bend in her direction.

  ‘I thought I might hold a séance on Boxing Day. The ghost story session is fully booked. I thought some of the guys attending – well not just guys – girls as well, might like to come to a séance too. What do you think?’

  Lindsey thought about it. ‘Have you ever had anyone come through?’

  ‘Of course I have. There was this Hispanic woman whose husband was suspected of murdering her, and then there was this highwayman up in Lincolnshire who was hanged, and then, best of all I think, there was a Regency gent who shot himself after he lost everything at cards …’

  ‘How about more recent deaths.’

  Mary Jane looked at her quizzically. ‘I don’t see why not. Anyone in particular?’

  ‘My father.’

  At Cobblers Court, Doherty came down the stairs from where the murder had taken place with his hands in his pockets and his chin close to his chest.

  Honey detected a twitch of a smile when he saw her.

  ‘Office, first front,’ he said. ‘You can take a look when the boys in crackly suits have done their thing. The flat is on the top floor. I’ve taken a look. No cards. Not one. No parcel either.’

  She guessed by his grim expression that the method of despatching Clarence Scrimshaw had been particularly nasty and that he hadn’t told her everything.

  ‘And the ones in the office?’

  ‘Mostly from suppliers.’

  ‘Hmm,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Probably trying to keep on the right side of him in order to get their money.’

  ‘Probably.’

  They waited until someone came out to say that they’d finished with everything except for the actual crime scene in Clarence Scrimshaw’s office.

  Honey followed Doherty up the stairs.

  The walls of the room were of painted plaster. There were about four desks in the general office. Christmas cards were pinned onto the screens that divided one desk from another. A few sat on the mantelpiece of a white marble fireplace.

  ‘Are there no cards in Mr Scrimshaw’s office?’

  ‘Not one. That bloke Longborough said that Scrimshaw opened the cards himself then handed them into Sam Brown’s keeping. She was the one who placed them on here.’

  He picked one up that showed a fat robin sitting on a log. ‘It’s initialled, not signed.’

  Honey took a look. It said, ‘To Clarence.’ Underneath was the imprint of a pair of red lips and the initials FF.

  ‘We could get a DNA fix on those lips,’ said Doherty.

  Honey put the card back on the mantelpiece. ‘Don’t bother. I know who sent it. The love-sick Mrs Finchley. She was wearing that same shade of lipstick for the party the other night.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Of course she was. Not a suspect, I take it?’

  ‘Just a woman in love.’

  ‘Is she a big woman?’

  ‘Quite big. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Mr Scrimshaw was quite small. About five one.’

  ‘Odd bedfellows. Not that things went that far.’

  ‘Height doesn’t matter much when you’re lying down.’

  She continued looking through the cards whilst Doherty went off to liaise with the people in white suits. Most of the cards were from recognisable companies that would deal with a publishing house; printers, computer technical support, stationery suppliers. Their greetings were printed and overwritten with incomprehensible scrawl that may have been the signature of company director, though the post room boy was just as likely to have been employed to do it.

  It was exactly as they’d expected; Clarence Scrimshaw’s popularity certainly did not run to receiving Christmas cards from old friends and relatives – possibly because he never sent them himself – or just didn’t have anyone worth sending one to.

  There was no sign of any unopened or opened parcel. If Scrimshaw had received a present, then it hadn’t been left in the office.

  ‘It had to be someone he knew,’ Doherty said on his return. He scraped his fist over his chin stubble as he thought about it. ‘You say he was coming to you for lunch on Christmas Day?’

  ‘The whole workforce of Mallory and Scrimshaw, including the boss. Surprising to get them all here on Christmas Day, but it was a novel experience for them, Generosity was totally out of Scrimshaw’s character according to our friend Mr Longborough and his colleagues. Sam Brown said that he always booked into the Bay View Hotel in Ilfracombe.’

  ‘He did this year,’ said Doherty. ‘I’ve just had it confirmed.’

  Honey frowned. ‘Two hotels? That doesn’t make sense, though he didn’t book any rooms for Christmas Day. Perhaps the plan was to stay in Ilfracombe on Christmas Eve, drive up to us for lunch, and drive back again.’

  ‘He’d booked an all-inclusive deal. Apparently he did it year-on-year.’

  Honey frowned. The more they investigated the life of Clarence Scrimshaw, the more she wondered whether he’d instigated the booking in the first place.

  Doherty was obviously on the same wavelength. ‘Why would he book with you if he was already booked somewhere else? You’re sure it was Mr Scrimshaw who made the reservations?’

  Honey rubbed at her forehead as she tried to remember. ‘I’d never met him before, but his voice was quite memorable. A bit Laurence Olivier. All that concerned me was that his debit card checked out – and it did. How about his will? Who gets to inherit?’

  ‘Her Majesty’s Treasury. He didn’t have any close relatives left, and he never made a will, so it becomes the property of the crown. I presume he was too mean to die – or thought he never would.’

  ‘What a turnip! A very dead turnip,’ she added in a more muted tone.

  Doherty stroked the nape of her neck as he expressed his thoughts.

  ‘Being there on Christmas Day is going to be useful. I’ve got some questions to ask Longborough and the rest of them. They’ve already admitted that their boss wasn’t one for kicking his legs up and splashing out with his money. By the looks of this place, I believe them,’ he said, frowning at the dark oak panelling and the avenue of doors along a higgledy-piggledy corridor.

  ‘Still no sign of that present they mentioned. It has to be somewhere. Sam Brown was specific. It was such and such a size and heavy – like a book?’

  ‘Perhaps upstairs in his flat. Someone’s coming in with the key. We’ll take a look then. I don’t think Forensic will need to look around. It’s pretty obvious that the victim was killed here.’

  He looked tired. She promised him some rest on Christmas Day.

  ‘You’ll still be working, but you’ll be well fed, and you snooze in front of the TV as long as you don’t snore during the Queen’s speech. It’s not respectful.’

  ‘HM won’t know if I doze off.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘No. And I’ll get out the best brandy.’

  ‘I’m all yours.’

  ‘And then you’ll have the joy of attending Mary Jane’s ghost story session. Come on,’ she said in response to the face he pulled. ‘Everyone enjoys a good ghost story at this time of year.’

  ‘How could I resist?’

  His smile held the promise of good things to come, but she wasn’t fooled. Once a case bit him, Doherty was like a dog with a bone; he kept with it, rarely getting more than a few hours’ sleep per night. She’d slept with him, literally. She knew he’d be there on Christmas Day – albeit for the employees of Mallory and Scrimshaw as much as for her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Honey was just leaving Doherty and Cobblers Yard when she spotted a sign. Bee in the Bonnet – Under New Management.

  A fat bumble bee appeared to be shooting from a black and yellow arrow. The arrow pointed up a narrow staircase.

  She could barely contain her excitement. A
Christmas wish had come true; she’d come across a fairly new and well hidden hairdresser. A place called Bee In The Bonnet couldn’t be anything else. Her heart didn’t exactly miss a beat, but her hair seemed to bristle with excitement.

  After she’d explained the problem, a girl with sleek black hair confirmed they could fit her in. ‘You’re in luck. Ariadne will be doing you.’

  Ariadne had hard eyes and beaded blonde tendrils rattling around her shoulders.

  ‘Problem?’ she asked without bothering to say hello.

  Honey whisked off her hat.

  ‘I’ve had an accident. Can you do something with this?’

  Ariadne eyed her hair disparagingly and asked the million-dollar most embarrassing question.

  ‘Who did this colour?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘Did she do the colour test first?’

  Ruining her hair was stretching friendship to the limit, but Honey wasn’t going to admit too much.

  ‘I think it was past its sell-by date. I’d really like it sorted. It’s just not my colour.’

  ‘I quite agree. Neon orange only suits orangutans, though even they might need to reach for their sunglasses.’ Her voice was devoid of emotion. If Ariadne did get excited, it never showed in her voice.

  ‘It shouldn’t have been this colour, and I wouldn’t have let her do it if I’d had more time and could have got an appointment – somewhere.’

  ‘Excuses, excuses, excuses! You have to be careful with colour. Older women especially. But, yes. It’s not impossible, but we are busy. I don’t usually do colours myself. I’m a stylist. But I’ll sort you out as long as you promise never to do anything so stupid again.’

  Honey gulped. Had she heard right? If she had then Ariadne would have been better named Jo Blunt.

  Honey felt obliged to point out the error of Ariadne’s ways.

  ‘Excuse me, but aren’t you supposed to make me feel at ease by asking if I’m doing anything special for Christmas? Failing that, you could ask me whether or not I’m going to brave airport chaos or the possibility of striking traffic controllers in Spain. The truth might be that I’m having a stay at home Christmas and inviting Aunt Mabel for lunch – not that I have an Aunt Mabel – but you could at least give me the benefit of the doubt.’

  Unfazed by her obvious sarcasm, Ariadne picked at Honey’s orange locks.

  ‘I could do if you like mindless drivel. Personally, I couldn’t care less what people are doing over the holiday as long as I’ve got some time off, but if you insist, what are you doing for Christmas?’

  ‘Working.’

  ‘Well that’s something I don’t want to know about!’

  ‘This is a very busy time in the hotel trade. I’ve got a lot still to prepare and I can’t sit here all day talking rubbish. I would appreciate it if you could get a move on.’

  ‘Suits me.’

  Wearing dye-stained rubber gloves, Ariadne’s brush strokes and folding of tin foil did not cease. Her fingers flew with as much dexterity as when Smudger was stuffing a turkey. Although the tin foil was cut into little squares for her hair, but still the turkey kept popping into her mind. Even now her chef would be preparing the Christmas bird, soaking it in butter, covering its bulging breast with tin foil. The whole exercise got her wondering how Ariadne was at making stuffing balls or foil-wrapping anchovies.

  ‘Done!’ exclaimed Ariadne.

  Honey eyed her reflection and decided that she vaguely resembled a pile of foil-wrapped sandwiches. Her head looked twice the size it actually was.

  At last Ariadne threw a steel tailed comb and the brush she’d been using into a plastic bowl.

  ‘There! The colour should take OK, though anything’s got to be better than looking like an exploding bunch of carrots. Now if you’d like to come over here.’

  Being compared to carrots was beginning to wear thin. Never mind carrots exploding; she was pretty close to exploding herself.

  Calm down. Think how great it will look.

  As though she were blind and had to be protected from objects and other people, she was guided to where a chair had been placed immediately in front of a special drier. She’d come across this contraption before. It had three adjustable oblong heaters fixed to a head height pole. The chair had been turned so that she could look out of the window. The three-piece dryer folded around her head left roughly four inches between drying her hair and turning her scalp to toast.

  The heat on her head was pleasant. She settled herself down, comfortable beneath the nylon cape protecting her shoulders.

  The view through the window was of the building opposite – the one occupied by Mallory and Scrimshaw.

  She could see Doherty and the people in white suits. They looked like snowmen; very white against the dark walls as they recorded and bagged evidence, even down to the desk top which four burly assistants were attempting to take out of the door.

  The brusque Ariadne was forgotten and the warmth from the dryer was making her doze. Her eyelids began to droop. This murder was a terrible thing, but she had to think positive. What if the outcome of the case did affect her hotel bookings? Could she really help that? One man’s meat was another man’s poison – or in this case one man’s letter opener was another man’s lethal weapon. She wasn’t really being mercenary, just practical.

  She made herself a promise to visit a hair stylist more often, though not necessarily this place. Ariadne was bearable only in small doses. But there were other hair stylists in Bath – very good ones – discounting, she reminded herself, her mother’s hairdresser Antoine of the snake hips and slender hands.

  All the same, there was considerable thinking time to be gained when sitting in a chair, head warm and nothing else to do.

  Getting her hair done was a weight off her mind and sitting down took the weight off her feet.

  She narrowed her eyes at the view opposite. There were four windows on the same floor where Scrimshaw had been murdered. The room to the far right was bright with light. She could just about see the last of the forensic team working there. The one next to that was less busy but looked interesting. The one immediately opposite her was Mr Scrimshaw’s office with its dark panelling and masculine furniture.

  Suddenly someone switched the light off. The effect was instantaneous, as though the curtain had come down on a stage, as though nothing over there was real but just a drama.

  Ariadne came over to check that her new colour was drying evenly. She peeled back one strip of tinfoil.

  ‘Ah! A professional finish.’

  ‘I suppose this is going to cost me a fortune.’

  ‘Your own fault. You should have sought professional help in the first place.’

  The inference that her own efforts – or rather those of Mary Jane – were amateur was obvious. But she wasn’t going to take this lying down.

  ‘I couldn’t find a decent hairdresser – not one that was recommended anyway.’

  She saw Ariadne’s lips curl up in a snarl, the woman bristling at the inference that she hadn’t come recommended.

  ‘Never mind. Shall we go back to small talk? Let’s see. Where shall I start? I know, how about I ask you if you’ve been admiring the view?’

  Honey turned up her nose. ‘You don’t have much of a view. Just offices.’

  ‘Not just offices at the moment, though. A drama has been unfolding. There’s been a little old murder,’ said Ariadne with an air of outright smugness. ‘The police are still over there investigating. Right load of clodhoppers. Should scare the mice out from the woodwork if nothing else.’

  Doherty was over there. She felt obliged to defend him.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. One or two of them are quite cute.’

  ‘Can’t say I’ve noticed,’ sniffed Ariadne. ‘I only notice really attractive men.’

  ‘So do I, but I’m lucky. I have twenty/twenty vision.’

  Ariadne pursed her pale pink lips as though swallowing whatever she’d been about to
say.

  ‘Have they been over here to ask you questions?’ Honey asked.

  ‘Stupid questions. As if any of us saw anything. Too busy. Hairdressing is a busy trade at this time of year, besides being very skilled. It’s imperative that a stylist concentrates on what he or she is doing.’

  ‘Then I should be grateful that you managed to fit me in, but then you’re pretty new here aren’t you and kind of tucked out of the way. It can’t be easy for a newcomer to build up a clientele.’

  She knew the moment she saw Ariadne’s turned-up nose turn up that bit more that the tone would turn icy.

  ‘We’ve done very well since we opened, thank you very much! I only managed to fit you in because of a no-show.’

  Honey grimaced as a sliver of tin foil was peeled roughly from her hair, the colour examined between Ariadne’s sharp eyes before she was rewrapped.

  ‘Am I done?’

  ‘You are as far as I’m concerned.’ The tone was abrupt. ‘I’ll allocate a junior to sort you out.’

  The wheels on the chair and heaters squealed in protest as she was pushed closer to the window.

  Was she being over sensitive in thinking that she may have been placed with her back to the salon on purpose – like a naughty schoolgirl being forced to stand in the corner?

  Calm down. Concentrate on the job in hand.

  Ariadne was a bit of a shock to the system. Hairdressers, like hoteliers, adopted a courteous persona when dealing with clients. All was sweetness and light, worn like a well-padded ski outfit when dealing with the public, if not when in the bosom of family and friends. In Ariadne’s case she hadn’t adopted the ski suit in the first place. Her attitude seemed to be: take me as I am, like it or lump it!

  Honey stared across at the brightly lit windows of the building opposite. The bay window she was sitting at, jutted out from the main wall of the building, like a little turret, separate but still remaining part of the whole.