Chapter Thirty-five
Honey was as tense as a squashed bed spring.
Doherty filled her in on what he’d been told about what he’d received from the FBI.
‘Crispin Mallory is like Doctor Fu Manchu, a man of many faces. Killed Truebody, killed his prison buddy, and killed Scrimshaw.’
‘They had no idea who they were dealing with,’ he said. His tone was grim. ‘He’s a conman. The best there is. He’s also totally without scruples. They didn’t stand a chance.’
‘Your tone of voice tells me there’s more to this.’
‘I don’t want to worry you.’
‘I’m worried already.’
‘Shame the immigration authorities didn’t question the passport.’
Honey tossed her head. ‘A friend of my mother’s boarded a plane on her dog’s passport.’
‘Nobody noticed?’
‘Nobody notices old ladies, and those guys at the airport deal with thousands of passports per day.’
‘So what’s your point?’
‘A little tweaking of the features, a little dyeing of the hair, and you could be anyone. Passport photos are uncomplimentary. They’re not even accurate. And remember what you said about this guy who calls himself Truebody resembling a TV professor – a cliché.’
Ahead of them was a diversion sign.
The taxi driver shouted over his shoulder. ‘I’ll have to take a detour. It could take a little longer.’
‘No way!’ Honey poked the taxi driver in the shoulder with her finger. ‘Get me there. Fast!’
‘Are you going to shoot me?’ He was wide-eyed, but his voice was cool.
‘ It’s my index finger and it’s not loaded. Just go warp speed.’
‘Hey, missus! This is a taxi, not the Starship Enterprise.’
Doherty grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back into her seat.
‘It’s best we wait until the units are on their way.’
‘No way.’
There was determination and then there was determination; a mother out to protect her cub had ten times the determination of any normal human being. If she could beam down there in the middle of Cobblers Court, she most definitely would.
‘Are you a policeman?’ asked the cab driver.
‘Yes.’
‘Have you found out who’s been gluing red noses onto reindeers?’
‘’Fraid not.’
‘That’s good. I’m not into this artistic stuff, and my kid – he’s five – just loves the red noses. It’s like being invaded by a whole herd of red-nosed Rudolphs. More than enough to pull Santa’s sleigh. That’ll be twelve quid.’
Doherty told the cab driver to put the bill on police account.
‘Hey!’
It was a disbelieving pronouncement of the word ‘hey’. Pound to a penny, the cab driver didn’t believe them.
They ran into the alley.
Cobblers Court was deserted. There was no one around; no lights in the buildings. The gas light hanging from the wall flickered through the falling mist and did precious little to lift the gloom.
Doherty was ready to heave into the door with his shoulder, but when he touched the handle, it creaked open.
Inside was how she remembered it from her first visit; the emergency lighting signal was flashing on the wall. The cold was intense. She guessed there was no provision in place to turn on the heating in freezing weather.
Doherty retrieved an LED torch from his pocket. Guided by its chill blue light they headed for the stairs.
He stretched out his arm, an action meant to prevent her from following him.
‘Stay here,’ he whispered.
‘Right,’ she whispered back.
He set off up the stairs. Honey was right behind him. Doherty sighed and muttered something under his breath.
‘The stairs can be a bit …’
A stair squeaked beneath Doherty’s foot.
‘Squeaky,’ she whispered.
He carried on, more slowly now, placing his foot gingerly on each stair tread.
Only one more stair squeaked, and that one was only three treads down from the landing.
They paused; listened; took a breath. Nobody came. Nobody had heard them.
It struck Honey that they would know if someone was there. On her last visit, she’d heard Patricia Pontefract quite clearly. Her heart sank. There was nobody here.
Doherty spoke to her over his shoulder. ‘You check the office and I’ll check the apartment.’
‘Right.’
She followed him up the next flight of stairs to the apartment.
He stopped on the top landing, turned and said, ‘am I speaking in Chinese? Is there an impediment in your ear that’s restructuring my instructions? Or just a good reason for ignoring me?’
‘Lindsey,’ she said.
He sighed. ‘Right.’
The door to the apartment was slightly ajar. Doherty pushed it open, keeping his hand on it so it didn’t happen too quickly.
Once it was fully open, he flattened himself against the wall. Honey did the same. Her heart was in her mouth. She wanted to look into the first room of the apartment, but was afraid to.
Doherty entered, flashing his torch over the prim, plain furniture, the bookshelves, the worn Turkish rug that lay between the sofa and the fireplace.
The bookshelves were almost empty, most of the contents scattered in heaps over the floor. Drawers and closet doors had been wrenched open.
Doherty switched on the light. ‘Someone’s given this a right going over.’
Whilst Honey stood there, trying to keep calm, Doherty searched the rooms.
‘There’s nobody here.’
For a moment they stood there, drinking in the silence, their breath steaming on the cold air.
A sudden thud made them start.
The office.
Doherty took the stairs two at a time and got there before Honey did.
‘The door’s locked. Someone’s been here. It wasn’t locked before. Only the outside door was locked, none of the internal ones.’
Yet again Doherty laid his shoulder into a door. Honey was thinking it must hurt, but comforted herself that he had the muscles for it. He had the attitude too. When something needed doing, he barged straight in.
The flashlight picked up the underside of a chair that had fallen onto its side. A pair of feet was visible tied to the legs, plus a hand tied to the chair arm. Honey turned on the main light. To say she almost had a heart attack was putting it mildly.
Honey bundled her close. ‘Save it. Keep warm.’
Lindsey’s teeth clicked together like a pair of castanets.
‘He told me his real name was Crispin Mallory.’
‘We know,’ said Doherty. ‘Somebody saw you together and recognised him as being a dead ringer for his father.’
She rejected the idea of an ambulance despite her clothes not being anywhere in sight and Honey’s old padded jacket barely skimming her thighs.
As Honey did the motherly thing, rubbing her daughter’s extremities to get the blood flowing, Doherty asked the questions.
‘Where is he?’
‘Gone. There was someone else with him. I couldn’t see who. How did you find me?’
‘The cab driver saw you with Crispin. He remembered you from when he picked up the pantomime horse the other day.’
Lindsey managed a shivery chuckle. ‘Great stuff. I was wishing for an angel. A cab driver is as good as it gets.’
‘You didn’t hear them discuss where they were going?’
‘He was looking for a Bible. He’d given up on it being here, I think.’
Doherty took in what had gone on here. The place was a shambles. Desk drawers pulled open, boxes of stationery upturned.
‘He didn’t find it here. So where would you hide a valuable book of any description?’
‘Along with other religious books?’
There was a clumping of heavy feet running up the stairs
. ‘My units,’ said Doherty.
He spoke too soon. The door swung open.
‘Hey,’ said the cab driver. ‘Are you straight about where to send the bill?’
‘Of course I am. Now take her back to the hotel,’ Doherty barked. He turned to Honey. ‘We’ll get a squad car to take us along the London Road.’
Lindsey intervened. ‘No. I want you to arrest that man. You can’t afford to wait.’
There would have been an argument.
‘I see a pink Caddy,’ said Honey. The cavalry, in the form of her mother and Mary Jane ploughed through the packed snow and slewed to a halt.
‘Get him,’ shouted Lindsey as Mary Jane floored the old car.
Doherty opened the door of the cab wide, then narrowed it again.
‘You don’t have to go there. You’ve got Lindsey back and it’s Christmas.’
Honey stuck out her chin. ‘I want to face that son of a bitch! I want to tell him exactly what I think of him.’
Chapter Thirty-six
Crispin Mallory and his partner-in-crime had not expected any problems at Clarence’s place on Beaufort East, but had met it head on.
The Crommer family had been playing charades and generally enjoying their after-dinner entertainment when Crispin had arrived.
The most unfortunate thing was that he didn’t have a key for any of the doors. First he’d smashed open the outer door, then the inner one, behind which sat a stack of old Bibles.
The noise had reverberated around the whole house, and Mr Crommer, a man who enjoyed his Christmases in the bosom of his family, was not amused. On top of disturbing his and his family’s fun, the noise had awoken the youngest Crommer, who was nine months old and teething.
Mr Crommer was a big man and had friends staying. The three of them, all men with arms the size of Crispin’s thighs, came out with fists clenched and shoulders squared.
Crispin Mallory was taken by surprise.
The sound of a screaming baby sounded from inside the house. Heads were popping out from upstairs windows demanding to know what all the fuss was about.
Honey and Doherty arrived just as the furore was spilling out onto the pavement.
Fists were flying and Crispin Mallory had been caught off his guard.
‘Spoil our Christmas, would you!’ shouted Neville Crommer.
If Crispin Mallory had been a Bathonian, he would have known he was messing with a prop forward from their top-notch rugby team. He would have recognised the other two men as Crommer’s teammates and made a decision to come back another day. But he didn’t know that, had charged forward, and thought he’d collided with a barn door.
‘Look, I’m sorry, folks …’ His voice was as slick as an oil spill and just as unwelcome. The blows kept coming from Crommer and his two team mates, all big men with fists the size of shovels.
A police car pulled up behind Doherty and Honey.
Mallory had no chance to make a dash for it. The family whose Christmas he’d upset were determined to give him what for. He’d upset their holiday and they weren’t well pleased.
A man dressed in crisp white shirt, blue cravat, and neatly pressed chinos, noticed the police car. He automatically took it that Doherty and Honey were part of the cavalry come to assist them.
Mr Crommer looked very pleased. ‘Full marks for coming so quickly, chaps. We’ve only just phoned.’
‘We happened to be in the area,’ said Doherty, after which he ordered the uniformed bods to take Mallory down town.
‘Pleased to be of service,’ he added.
‘One down and two more to go,’ said the man who introduced himself as Frederick Selkirk-Jones. ‘The two women are still up there, fighting like cats and dogs.’
Honey and Doherty exchanged a swift look and dashed for the stairs.
The door to Scrimshaw’s home was wide open. The place was a mess and Mrs Withers was in the thick of it, the terms of abuse coming thick and fast. She was holding a sweeping brush aloft.
She turned round as they came in. ‘So you two are here again, are you?’
‘What are you doing here, Mrs Withers,’ asked Honey.
‘Mr Crommer phoned me and told me somebody was smashing the doors down, but that he would hold the fort until I got here. I came right away. I only live on the end of the row and good job too! Look at the mess they’ve bloody made. Old Scrimshaw will be turning in his grave. Uppity sorts coming in here and getting it upside down …’
It was noticeable that Mrs Withers didn’t blame the members of Bath’s rugby team. She was probably a staunch supporter.
‘The other one’s still inside,’ explained Mrs Withers.
Honey and Doherty headed for the library.
Mrs Withers, who was clinging to a sweeping brush, followed on.
‘She won’t come out.’
She?
Mrs Withers waggled the sweeping brush. ‘She tried to hit me with her handbag. Well I wasn’t having none of that, thank you very much!’
Honey made an instant judgement. Handbag against sweeping brush. No contest.
‘Do you know the woman?’ Honey asked Mrs Withers.
‘I know ’er,’ said Mrs Withers, sucking in her lips in disapproval. ‘She was always harassing the old chap, especially of late. Used to come ’ere when she was younger, too, with ’er old man.’
‘Her husband?’
Honey smelled the beginnings of story here – almost a ghost story.
‘Used to be in partnership with Mr Scrimshaw. They fell out for some reason. But ’er, she kept coming back.’
‘Crispin Mallory’s mother! She’s not dead.’
Doherty banged on the door. ‘Come on out, Mrs Mallory. This is the police.’
Slowly, the door opened.
Honey’s jaw dropped. Mrs Mallory. Patricia Pontefract.
‘I’m in shock,’ said Honey.
Patricia Pontefract sniffed imperiously. ‘Must have been that bump on the head I gave you. I was visiting my son – just so you don’t get the wrong idea.’
Honey sniffed. The perfume worn by Crispin Mallory’s mother was unmistakable. The huge necklace she wore would have done a smaller woman as a breastplate. As she stood there, the light caught it, heightening its brightness. Nobody could fail to notice it – even on a foggy night.
Tallulah!
The woman was smiling as though she were thinking of something very special.
‘I could write a book about all this, you know. It’ll probably be a best-seller. That bastard Scrimshaw told me my son was dead. That he’d died in the fire with his father. That was just to keep me close at hand. Not that there was anything physical in the later years. But he should have told me. My son found me. That’s his thing; genealogy. He’s good at making up histories and finding things out.’
Honey felt some sympathy for the woman. For someone to part a mother from her child was unforgiveable.
‘You sound proud of him.’
‘Of course I am. You’re a mother. Wouldn’t you be?’
Honey grimaced. ‘To a point. Your son killed Clarence Scrimshaw.’
Patricia puffed out her substantial breasts. ‘No, he did not. I did. I did it for my boy. All these years of being apart. It wasn’t fair, but then, Clarence was never fair. I thought the police would have gone after the stone-huggers and moon-worshippers.’
‘Because of the way he was killed?’
‘That’s right. The number three was sacred to the pagans. I didn’t go into overkill leaving lots of leads for you to follow. Just enough to confuse.’ She turned to Doherty. ‘If you’re wondering where the knife is, I sold it. It raised enough for a good lawyer.’
Chapter Thirty-seven
Patricia Pontefract and her son, Crispin Mallory aka Professor Jake Truebody and sometimes Wes Patterson, both spent Christmas Day banged up at Her Majesty’s pleasure.
Patricia Pontefract would be charged with murder, her son as an accessory, before being extradited to the USA for the m
urder of the two prisoners who had been unfortunate enough to try to burgle his home.
Honey was determined that New Year’s Eve was going to make up in every way for the chaotic Christmas they’d endured. Not that anyone had complained. Indeed, the view was that it had been far more exciting than it usually was. There had been definite advantages to dashing around after villains; for a start Honey had not had chance to overindulge. A box of chocolate-covered marzipan was still sitting in the top drawer of the reception desk. That white silk kimono Doherty had bought her would still fit. And she could help him into the boxer shorts she’d bought him – or help him out of them if he preferred.
Yes, she thought, New Year is going to be wonderful. The whole family was here, the staff had opted to stay over and enjoy the party. In order that work was kept to a minimum, Smudger the chef had laid out a cold buffet.
Lindsey had learned that the internet could not be relied on to tell the truth about anyone. Her mother had learned not to give too much information away.
‘I’ve got it. Less is more,’ she said. ‘Just like underwear.’
The comparison was lost on Honey, but at least her mother had deleted details relating to her and Lindsey.
Crispin Mallory had set up a phoney site to field sightings of his alter ego, Jake Truebody. There never was a sister; only him.
On the one hand it was quite a sensible approach; he’d kept track of presumed sightings at the same time as erecting a smokescreen to cover his exit from the USA and the charge of murdering the two prisoners. On the other hand, it was also something of an ego trip; Crispin thought he was too clever for anyone to catch. The fake message had been something of a challenge. Unfortunately, it was Lindsey who answered it.
Honey couldn’t help giving her daughter a big hug each time they came into contact. Lindsey was OK with that for a while, but eventually the incessant squeezing got to her.
‘Marry him if you like.’
‘We’re having second thoughts. After all, what’s the point? We don’t intend starting a family. Not at our age.’
The Ghost of Christmas Past: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 8) Page 24
