Deadly Lampshades (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 5)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  So there it was. The same words he’d heard uttered in every film where hypnotism was taking place.

  The room was a little warm and he found his attention waning. The swinging watch didn’t help. Neither did the monotonous tone of Mary Jane’s reed-like voice.

  ‘So what happened exactly …?’

  Herr Hoffner was sitting in an armchair, hands clasped tightly together. His eyes, brimming with affection, were fixed on his wife. Doherty presumed he hadn’t been a good subject for hypnotism. Mrs Hoffner appeared to be exactly the opposite.

  Bits of information filtered through, though nothing that he hadn’t heard before. Every so often Mary Jane referred to Frau Hoffner’s knitting. With each referral the knitting needles slowed their unrelenting rattle.

  Doherty didn’t get what that was all about, so he paid no mind to it. Shit, what was he hoping for anyway? Everyone knew Mary Jane was a sandwich short of a picnic. As for Mrs Hoffner, he didn’t know her well enough to pass judgement, though he couldn’t help thinking that her continual knitting must get on Herr Hoffner’s nerves.

  Mary Jane’s voice droned on like a short-tempered bluebottle. One key, one tone, one goal, interspersed only with Frau Hoffner’s responses. The sound of the knitting needles was not quite so resonant nor so persistent.

  ‘So what else do you recall? Was there anything specific you noticed when the police came to your rescue?’

  Doherty yawned. That they were surrounded by broken bits of crockery, probably. Some of the stuff had got broken. A painting had fallen over and landed on Herr Hoffner’s head. His head had gone straight through and out the other side. The restorers would have a field day with that one!

  ‘Knots! I remember thinking how professional the knots were. As good as any round-the-world yachtsman might manage.’

  Mary Jane accepted what she said, then began to trail back into the thing about the knitting.

  Doherty was no longer listening. He was remembering Honey telling him about a display of knots and how athletic its owner was, plus having a secret service background – if that was to be believed of course. Old people could be a little over-imaginative.

  He shook his head in disbelief. His suspicion was too crazy to be true, but he had to check it out now. Right now!

  ‘Something wrong?’ asked Smudger.

  ‘I need to go.’

  ‘There’s one in there.’

  Smudger pointed to Mary Jane’s private bathroom.

  Doherty ignored him. He didn’t need the bathroom, but he did need to ask a few questions of the one person who might help with the crazy suspicion that was hurtling through his mind like an express train.

  Chapter Forty-five

  Gloria Cross, Honey’s mother, eyed the man in front of her with undisguised wariness. He was good-looking, in a rough diamond kind of way, and although with hand on heart she couldn’t really say she’d never fallen for a rough diamond in her time, she’d usually saved herself with a bit of common sense. Men like him inflamed the passions, but when it came to domestic bliss a steady Eddie won the day. There were a few other provisos – like a decent sum in the bank, preferably one in Switzerland or the Cayman Islands – but a little dalliance never hurt anyone.

  That’s why she’d never protested too loudly about her daughter’s friendship with Steve Doherty, a mere police officer. She’d told herself he was a passing fancy, one that her daughter Hannah would pass by if Gloria had her way.

  The fact that he was standing here on her doorstep looking very scruffy, handsome and intense was a surprise. The fact that he wished to ask her a question filled her with fear. A marriage proposal.

  ‘What sort of question?’ she asked him, narrowing the gap in the open door just in case he might force himself in.

  ‘It’s about your friend, Cybil Camper-Young.’

  ‘Oh!’

  Gloria felt relief flood over her like an incoming tide. He hadn’t come to ask for her daughter’s hand in marriage. He’d come to ask about her old friend Cybil.

  Her smile was broad enough to span the Grand Canyon.

  ‘Why didn’t you say so, Officer? I’m always willing to help the police in whatever way I can.’

  She showed him into her lounge, a place of cut crystal, gilt-edged occasional tables, and an off-white carpet.

  She indicated that he be seated. ‘So what is this about?’

  Noting that the sofa had cushions piped with gold silk and that the tassels on each corner were carefully and identically positioned to sweep to the right, he perched nervously on the edge, knees tightly together.

  ‘I’d like you to tell me all you know about her. I understand she served in undercover ops in the war.’

  ‘If you mean World War Two, then certainly not! She’s not that old,’ she said indignantly. ‘Neither am I, for that matter!’

  ‘I thought she was something to do with intelligence, spying and all that.’

  ‘Yes. Basically she was a spy. She used to tell us that Ian Fleming based some of his books on her, using her stories as Bond plots years after she actually did the deeds. I’m not sure if she was telling the truth. Imagine, a friend of mine with a licence to kill.’

  ‘Imagine,’ said Doherty, smiling weakly. ‘But she was younger then.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said wistfully. ‘We all were. About twenty-six I think.’

  Doherty added the years in his head. ‘Are you telling me she’s close to eighty years old? Is that what you’re telling me?’

  He couldn’t help looking and sounding intense. Surely she had to be mistaken.

  ‘Of course not,’ Gloria said adamantly. ‘She’s about the same age as me, perhaps a year or so older. I’m better preserved than her,’ she added primly, patting her hair and obviously seeking a compliment.

  ‘Enlighten me. Exactly what war was she involved in?’

  Gloria looked at him as though he were stupid. ‘The Cold War, of course! She was stationed in Russia. It was all very hush-hush. She never used to talk much about it, but of late she did let a few things slip. She wasn’t supposed to of course, but her mind is going.’ She frowned. ‘She’s got dementia. It’s linked to a brain tumour. It’s purely a matter of time.’ She shook her head. ‘Her mind’s not what it was.’

  Doherty decided that he didn’t need to ask anything else. He needed to speak to the old lady out at Lobelia Cottage. All through this case he’d dealt confidently with the procession of suspects. They’d all thought themselves cleverer and harder than him. Who would have thought that an old lady in her late seventies really was cleverer and harder, but also slightly mad?

  He took his leave of Honey’s mother and headed back to the Green River Hotel to see if Honey had returned. She had not.

  ‘She’s probably bumped into an old friend and is having coffee with them,’ Lindsey declared brightly.

  The city streets were getting busier by virtue of the approaching Easter holiday. He pulled in on Queen’s Square with the intention of giving himself a minute to think, congratulating himself on being so lucky as to find a gap. How should he handle the old girl, he asked himself. He couldn’t barge in there and accuse her of anything really, except for tying up the Hoffners, and it was hardly as though she was likely to do a runner. She was old, for goodness sake!

  A figure came into focus in his rear-view mirror. A traffic warden with menace in her eyes. That’s when he realized he was parked on double yellow lines. He promptly pulled out again.

  Finding another space around the other side of the square, he pulled in again. Immobility helped him concentrate. Could it really be that Miss Camper-Young had killed all those people? It might work in fiction, but surely not in real life?

  It was a few minutes before he spotted the traffic warden again. Having seen him pull into another space on double yellow lines, the minx had trotted all round the square, pen poised and ready to write out a parking ticket.

  He grinned, started the engine and pulled out again, leaving her stand
ing there with a look of utter dismay on her face.

  Feeling sunnier and decisive, he headed along the A4 towards the turnoff to St Margaret’s Valley.

  By the time he pulled into the space outside the old cottage, he was feeling more than confident enough to handle Bath’s resident Mata Hari.

  The door was ajar, but he knocked anyway. A slight breeze pushed it open a bit further. He looked down expecting the cats that Honey had mentioned to come sliding out around it, their tails upright like the mast of a yacht.

  No cats came out. No old lady either.

  Unlike Honey, he decided that even old ladies who have worked for the secret service don’t venture out much in the chilly spring weather. He took the view that she’d accidentally left it open.

  Being a courteous sort of chap, he called out to her. ‘Anybody there?’

  Nobody answered.

  The cottage echoed with emptiness from its stone-flagged floors to its low, bumpy ceilings. It should have echoed with silence too, but Doherty was aware of a low sound, like a humming in the ear yet not a hum. It occurred to him that the sound could be coming from the upstairs room housing the security monitors.

  Not being a man slow to come forward, he bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He no longer cared whether the house was empty or not, though he was certain nobody was at home. He focused his mind on the job in hand, going into the room, studying the screens.

  Out of pure curiosity, he reviewed the history of the few hours before he’d arrived. The pictures mostly covered the comings and goings across the road at the hotel. Tiring of watching plumbers, builders and the flamboyant Keith Richardson Smythe arrive, he fast forwarded – and there she was – Honey Driver marching up the garden path.

  He did the same thing to the other machines. Honey was walking around the back of the house. At first she was all alone. And then she wasn’t. He started at the image of Miss Camper-Young. She was tall, athletic, and of a no-nonsense disposition. She was also jabbing the barrel of a gun into the small of Honey’s back.

  Leaving the screen frozen on that image, he raced out of the room and around to the back of the house.

  On the screen he had seen that Honey was being taken to a small wooden door surrounded by ancient stone. There were steps leading down to it and a small window to one side full of cobwebs.

  Bounding around the back of the cottage, he found the door. It was locked. He also heard the faint noise he’d heard upstairs and realized now that he was hearing the cats.

  He hammered on the door. ‘Honey?’

  Houdini had nothing on Honey Driver, Bath’s Crime Liaison Officer. She’d tied herself up in knots in her efforts to get to Miss Camper-Young and the keys. Nothing had worked. Her host was dead and the cats were yowling for their dinner.

  The sound of scuffling in the dark corners had temporarily redirected her own efforts to escape towards helping the cats escape. Mice were not her favourite creatures but no doubt the cats would quite like them. At least they wouldn’t be feeling hungry. However, nothing worked.

  ‘We’re all going to die here,’ she said out loud.

  The cats looked at her expectantly from within their carrying baskets.

  ‘Sorry, pussies.’

  How should I prepare myself to die, she wondered.

  The old voice of common sense and reality told her not to be so stupid. Easter was coming. Menus had to be prepared, rooms made spick and span for the avalanche of visitors. She couldn’t afford to die. She had too much to do.

  And yet …

  Her attempt at high spirits faded away. Unless someone came looking for her or called by chance, she was as good as dead. Here she would lie with an old lady and three cats.

  How long would it be before she began hearing voices, she wondered. That was what happened when you got hungry. You became delirious, or so she’d heard.

  ‘Honey? Are you in there?’

  ‘Of course I am!’ A real voice! A real Doherty!

  ‘Can you unlock the door?’

  ‘Do you think I’d stay in here if I could?’

  The door shuddered. In Hollywood films a man only had to shove his shoulder hard against a door to smash it into smithereens. But this was English oak. It didn’t fall to bits on being hit by a masculine shoulder. Only boxwood did that.

  Doherty hammered on the door again.

  ‘I’ll get help.’

  She presumed he’d go and get the special coppers who smashed through doors with a ramming device.

  Suddenly he was back again.

  ‘How far are you from the door?’

  She wasn’t good at judging distance and had failed her driving test first time because of it. You needed to be able to judge distances if you were trying to park between two other cars. She’d misjudged and scratched the pair of them. But she made the effort to gauge the distance.

  ‘About fifteen metres.’

  ‘Is there anything you can hide behind?’

  What the hell was he doing?

  She was propped up beside a large oak barrel.

  ‘Yes,’ she shouted back.

  ‘Make yourself as small as you can and wait there until I say you can move.’

  She did as he said, then paused. The cats were beyond the barrel.

  ‘What about the cats? Are they likely to get hurt if you do what you’re doing to do?’

  ‘Don’t worry. They’ll be fine.’

  She wasn’t sure whether to believe him. But after all, human life – especially her own – was far more precious than that of a cat.

  Outside Doherty had phoned for assistance, but in the meantime he was trying to recall his knowledge of basic chemistry. So far he’d rounded up the equipment he thought he needed. This consisted of a growbag, an old stocking, a small amount of diesel, and a light bulb. If the special unit with the ram didn’t get here within the next fifteen minutes, he would go ahead and blow the door off its hinges – hopefully!

  On the other side of the door, Honey was reading his mind. ‘Doherty!’

  ‘Yes,’ came the muffled reply.

  ‘You’re not doing what I think you’re doing?’

  ‘I’m just amusing myself until help comes. By the way, did you see what direction Miss Camper-Young took off in?’

  ‘She didn’t. She’s in here with me.’

  He couldn’t quite work that out. He’d definitely seen the old girl poking Honey in the back with something wicked and lethal. Perhaps he was barking up the wrong tree after all.

  ‘Is she OK?’

  ‘No. She’s dead.’

  Had Honey killed her? No. Of course not. The surprise he felt at thinking such a thing slowed down his making of an explosive with which to blow up the door. Luckily the special unit and the ram arrived before he finished it.

  There was a lot of dust as the door went down and the policemen strode over it making their grand entrance.

  It would have been nice if Doherty had swept her up into his arms and kissed her passionately, but he didn’t do things like that. Instead he stood there with his fists resting on his hips, grinning like a Cheshire Cat.

  Honey glared back up at him. ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘I think I’ve got you exactly where I want you.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes. It is.’

  Chapter Forty-six

  It was always going to be a bit unbelievable that a little old lady had gone off her rocker and run around killing people. On checking the forensic evidence it turned out to be true.

  Like a lot of other people, Honey still had reservations about Ivan Sarkov, the new owner of St Margaret’s Court Hotel.

  ‘I always thought the Russians were all gangsters. Except for that woman shot-putter some years ago. She wasn’t even a woman. It was all down to steroids. I wonder if that was why Cybil looked like she did, you know, MI5 having given her steroids to make her strong.’

  Doherty wasn’t really listening. Like her he’d been surpris
ed at the outcome of this case, but hey, it was finished now.

  OK, the Russian couldn’t be as squeaky-clean as all that. According to some members of staff, he was too free and easy smacking his women around.

  In her book that was criminal. It was pretty much exactly that in the UK justice system as long as the victim was willing to press charges. If Honey was biased, she was certainly biased on the right side. Sarkov deserved to be in jail, therefore he deserved to be termed a criminal in her book. But the only way to find out for sure was to appear as innocent guests and then go snooping around in the middle of the night.

  ‘That’s it! It’s what we have to do.’

  Doherty looked at her askance. She really had not been listening. He knew deep down that he had to come clean and explain that the plans he had were nothing to do with crime. A sticky situation.

  Honey was full of exuberance. She almost danced. Her eyes certainly did.

  This was not at all what Doherty had had in mind. The type of undercover work he was interested in took place under the bedcovers …

  ‘I just thought that if we booked in as guests, chances are none of the staff would recognize us. Once we were washed and brushed up that is.’

  ‘I think it’s a brilliant idea,’ Honey enthused, her eyes sparkling. ‘How about Saturday night?’

  Doherty told himself that he wasn’t really taking advantage of her exuberance, but hey, a guy had to make the most of things.

  ‘How about tonight? A romantic meal followed by …’

  ‘Why not?’ She whooped with joy. ‘What a fluke that you won that raffle. They can hardly refuse us entry, can they?’

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  If Honey noticed he was a bit subdued about all this, she didn’t say so. Spending a night at St Margaret’s Court had been planned as a red-letter day. He’d been looking forward to it. Now he was kind of fifty-fifty about the whole thing.

  He consoled himself with the hope that it might not all be work. They might fit in some fun.

  ‘So we’re finally here.’

  Honey pretended to be interested in the décor. The ceiling was a mass of what could only be termed plaster-cast stalactites dripping downwards. Each one was crowned – or perhaps bottomed might be the right word – with a beautifully crafted example of a Tudor Rose, the amalgamation of the Houses of York and Lancaster, symbol of the Tudor dynasty that had ended with Elizabeth I.