Something in the Blood (A Honey Driver Murder Mystery)

by Goodhind, Jean G

‘That wasn’t what I was going to ask you.’ He sounded disappointed.

  ‘I suppose if you were looking for a body, you’d dig the garden up first, wouldn’t you?’

  Steve Doherty prided himself on being a bit of a ladies man. No woman could fail to fall for his suave looks, his rough, masculine charm. So why wasn’t she listening to him? He was about to tell her to forget it when an idea occurred to him. Humour her. Make her think this really was going to be a serious case.

  ‘I’ve had second thoughts about this case and a few possible theories. Can we meet for dinner and talk about it, you know, away from interruptions?’

  ‘You do think he was murdered!’

  Doherty felt himself being drawn in by her enthusiasm. It wouldn’t be in his interest to contradict her, so he didn’t.

  He smiled in that secretive way he’d practised in front of the mirror, the sort of smile Bogart used to use. Left-hand corner of mouth lifted, right-hand corner turned downwards. He’d throw it at her in the flesh once they were alone together.

  ‘Let’s just say I have a hunch.’

  Honey was all ears. This was just what she wanted to hear. Getting involved in murder beat washing dishes hands down.

  Slumped back in his green leather office chair, Steve Doherty kicked at his desk which sent him spinning in the chair. She was putty in his hands.

  ‘Great. Where and what time?’

  ‘Sometime after midnight, say about 12.30? The Zodiac?’’

  Doherty covered the mouthpiece and swore. Wanting to get her alone had backfired. The Zodiac was a restaurant beneath North Parade. A set of narrow steps led down to a barrel-roofed cellar that swept out beneath the road. At the other end to the entrance a glass-covered archway looked out over NorthParadeGardens. Laid out in the eighteenth century, the gardens were below the level of the road.

  It was a lovely spot, the green lawns plastered with tourists by day sitting on the benches, rubbing their bare feet and swearing not to go on any more ghost walks, Austen Walks, and tours of the Roman Baths.

  Trouble was the Zodiac didn’t open until nine o’clock at night, and didn’t shut until three in the morning. Hence the city’s hoteliers and publicans, their only free time being between midnight and dawn, frequented it. Like vampires, thought Steve Doherty, they only come out at night.

  Doherty visualised his duty roster. On duty until ten tonight, and on again at six tomorrow …

  ‘OK,’ he said, cursing himself for being so easily led. ‘I’ll be there.’ He pulled his face out of shape as a thought occurred to him. Sian Williams would be on duty with him tonight and a bird in the hand …

  Honey made things easy for him. ‘But not tonight. Not this week in fact. How about Friday week?’

  His whole body relaxed. That was when the roster changed. At least he’d get a lie in the following morning. And Sian Williams would be on a different shift. Best to keep women divided. It kept them interested.

  ‘Suits me fine.’

  There was no one hanging around in reception except for Mrs Spear pushing the vacuum cleaner. She was singing along to whatever she was listening to on an iPod.

  Honey gave her a wave. She didn’t notice.

  A totally frameless conservatory, an extravagance she’d never regretted, led off the reception area. Through its unsullied glass she could see the abbey, the mansard roofs, the tall chimneys framing the green hills circling the city like giant arms.

  This was the view that tourists came to see; so why had Elmer Maxted stayed at a cheap guest house frequented by those on a very tight budget? His luggage was expensive and although private detectives were portrayed as dirt poor in TV programmes, it wasn’t necessarily true and certainly not in his case.

  Her thoughts were interrupted.

  ‘Honey! Honey, darling!’

  She recognised the voice of Mary Jane Jefferies, who’d been a regular visitor to the Green River for years.

  Wearing a pink caftan over equally pink trousers, the tall woman floated towards her waving a copy of the BathCity bus timetable.

  ‘I have a problem,’ she said. Five amazingly long fingers dug into Honey’s shoulder. Firmly gripped, she was steered into the sitting room.

  ‘Or rather, I think you have a problem,’ said Mary Jane, her voice dropping to not much more than a whisper. ‘Take a seat.’

  Mary Jane was a doctor of parapsychology a ghost goddess as she’d explained to Honey when they’d first met.

  ‘Which is why I keep coming back here, Honey. You have a resident ghost.’

  That little morsel of wisdom had been exclaimed in one of Mary Jane’s earlier visits.

  Honey had accepted the fact without argument. Yes, she knew the place was old and it creaked and groaned through the night, but then, didn’t all old buildings do that? And yes, it was old, but not old when compared with Stonehenge or the Roman Baths. The outside was imposing but promised comfort; the large, oblong windows glowed amber with inner light at night and by day sparkled in sunlight. The décor was fresh and fitting for the age of the house. Honey had no trouble sleeping between its aching walls. What was two hundred years in the great scheme of things?

  As Mary Jane chattered on, talking about her relative that just happened to live in the same room she was currently staying in, a retired university professor from Connecticut strolled past the window, her mother walking beside him.

  The sound of her mother’s voice drifted through the window. ‘Families used to stick together in the past and marriage was for life …’

  And this coming from a thrice-married woman. Honey almost choked.

  Her mother loved meeting hotel guests and did her bit to help out. She regarded herself as the official social secretary of the Green River Hotel, a bit like those she’d met on cruise ships.

  At least it kept her out of the kitchen. Gloria had learned first-hand that Smudger was likely to reach for the meat cleaver if she interfered in his domain. Honey had backed him up. Good chefs were hard to come by. Interfering mothers were two a penny.

  Mary Jane broke into her thoughts.

  ‘I told her she was mistaken. He doesn’t come from that side of the house. He always comes out of number five and walks along the landing. Mrs Goulding is trying to say that he’s coming out of the closet and that he chases her around the room. Well! It’s nonsense. All wishful thinking and a figment of her imagination I think!’

  Honey eyed the tall, gaunt woman sitting beside her. Where exactly was this conversation going?

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m not quite getting this. You’re saying that Mrs Goulding reported a man chasing her around the room?’

  ‘Sir Cedric! She reckons he’s coming out of her closet, when both you and I know very well that he lives – or rather – materialises from the closet in room twelve.’

  ‘You mean our resident ghost!’

  It sounded wacky, but Honey had got used to it. Mary Jane was in her seventies and claimed she knew all there was to know about the afterlife and the spirits residing there. That’s why she kept coming back to the Green River Hotel, which, according to her, was much favoured by the spirits of the departed. She particularly liked the eighteenth-century gentleman who resided in the closet in room twelve – the room Mary Jane always booked in advance. Sir Cedric was her particular favourite, mainly because she was certain they were related.

  Honey listened patiently. ‘Have you seen Sir Cedric lately?’

  Mary Jane looked hurt. ‘Well, no. But that doesn’t mean he’s deserted me. After all, I am his great, great, great, great, grand niece.’

  She patted Mary Jane’s liver-spotted hand. ‘I’m sure she’s just imagining things. And as you point out yourself, Sir Cedric wouldn’t desert you in order to take up with a perfect stranger, now, would he.’

  Mary Jane’s crumpled face unfolded. ‘No! Of course not. There’s the family honour at stake! I told her that, but she dared question whether Sir Cedric really was one of my ancestors. I told her straight tha
t I’d traced the family tree myself.’

  Honey’s ears pricked up at the mention of tracing family trees.

  ‘Of course you have. How very interesting. Tell me,’ she began. ‘Is it true that a person needs birth certificates and all that stuff if they’re tracing their family tree?’

  ‘Someone serious about tracing his or her ancestors accumulates as much paperwork as possible. It’s imperative. The fact is that if you’ve got gaps in your knowledge there’s always specialists willing to give you a hand.’

  ‘There are? I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Of course. A little information – some bits of family gossip and hearsay can go a long way.’

  ‘Where’s the best place to start tracing a family tree if you happen to be an American?’

  Mary Jane’s twinkling blue eyes twinkled a bit more. ‘It varies. But I can tell you where I started. Are you going to do yours?’

  Honey shook her head, one ear cocked to the sound of her mother’s voice and footsteps pattering past in reception. ‘I’d rather not know,’ she said, pulling a face and shaking her head.

  ’Parish registers are good. So is the local registrar of births, marriages and deaths. The first thing I would do is speak to the relatives.’

  ‘Could you do that for me? I could give you some basic information. The name’s Maxted.’ She frowned. ‘It doesn’t sound very Bathonian or even North Somerset.’ She shrugged. ‘But it’s all I have. What I’d really like to know is if an American named Elmer Maxted has contacted anyone about tracing his family in the last few weeks.’

  Face bright with enthusiasm, Mary Jane nodded. ‘I’ll get on to it right away. Now,’ she said, fumbling for a pen in her purse, ‘in your case the best thing I can do is to interview your mother …’

  ‘No. You misunderstand. I told you. It’s not for me.’

  Mary Jane looked surprised then disappointed.

  Honey dropped her voice to a whisper and leaned close. ‘This Mr Elmer Weinstock I mentioned, alias Maxted, has gone missing. He was researching his family tree.’

  ‘You don’t say!’

  ‘Do you think you could help?’

  Mary Jane’s response was diametrically opposed to the Philip Marlowe low-key approach. She looked like a fizzing firecracker about to explode.

  ‘Ye–sss,’ she hissed, the word elongated because she was trying so hard to suppress her excitement. ‘I know just what he would do. First, he would speak to Bob the Job.’

  ‘Bob the Job?’ Odd name, thought Honey, for someone specialising in research of any kind.

  Mary Jane explained. ‘He’s the first port of call in this city if you’re looking to trace your pedigree.’

  ‘Well, well.’

  It never failed to amaze Honey what went on in Bath. There were worlds within worlds and experts on everything from Jane Austen to sex toys for the over-sixties.

  The sound of clattering kitten heels sounded as though they were coming her way. Honey decided it was time to split.

  ‘I have to go now, but I’d appreciate you making enquiries.’

  Mary Jane was scribbling Elmer’s name on the back of the bus timetable. ‘If he’s a serious player, Bob will know all about the guy.’

  ‘I’m sure my daughter would love to hear about your research on the Pilgrims’ Trail.’

  As her mother’s voice came closer, Honey began her dash for the French doors.

  ‘Well, I really don’t think I’ve got the time just now …’

  A male voice. The professor was stalling – thank God!

  ‘Leave this with me,’ Mary Jane was saying as Honey backed out through the doors and through a herbaceous border.

  The pages of magazines on a table near the door fluttered on the incoming draught.

  Mary got up and shut it. She said something Honey couldn’t hear. She guessed from the movement and shape of her mouth that she was telling her to have a nice day.

  ‘I will,’ she called back, waved and ran.

  It might have been something to do with the fresh air, but suddenly she was hit by an intelligent thought.

  Somewhere in the city was a taxicab that had ferried Elmer Maxted around the city before he’d disappeared.

  Cora had told of a black Ford with the name, ‘Busy Bee Taxi Cab Company’, emblazoned in red on its side. That, she decided, was as good a place as any to start.

  Chapter Seven

  Devotees of Jane Austen and all things Regency thronged through Bath’s elegant crescents and leafy squares. Some narrowed their eyes in an effort to blank out the traffic and pretend that Mr Darcy was striding the pavement, resplendent in tails and tight trousers.

  Keener on cameras than books, the Japanese snapped pictures of each other leaning on lampposts or posing outside McDonalds.

  The Australians made for a decent brew in a reasonably priced café or a pub. The Americans did the tours at lightning speed, determined to get as much value as possible from their transatlantic flight.

  This morning those looking over the parapet towards Pulteney Bridge were very subdued. Something had happened that attracted everyone’s curiosity, something that certainly wasn’t on the tourist trail.

  Uniformed police were filtering people around the blue and white ‘incident’ tape fluttering around the steps leading from the road and down on to the towpath.

  The river thundered over the weir throwing up clouds of foam and filling the air with spray – a sight by itself that was worth a look. But there was more than that going on today. Much more.

  Doherty narrowed his eyes at the span of Pulteney Bridge, its stone piecrust gold. The rain had cleared. Licked by the early morning sun, the crescents, parades and avenues of Bath tiered upwards like steaming slabs of honey to the crisp blue of the sky. What a spot! All blue and gold on postcards sent home to Mom in Illinois or Auntie Meg in Alice Springs.

  He was down on the towpath examining the body. Above him, the curious watched in hushed silence until an incident tent hid the bloated body.

  Flanders the Scene of Crime Officer, a man with pale eyes and even paler skin, gave him the low down.

  ‘Been dead a while. Look at him. Reminds you of a …’

  ‘Stilton cheese,’ Doherty interrupted. ‘Blood congealing in the veins.’

  Flanders pallid features took on a dejected look. He so loved flaunting his knowledge, especially if it meant he could make someone sick with the details. It was easier to make young constables sick. More difficult with seasoned detectives, especially this one.

  Doherty had burst his bubble on the first count, but he wouldn’t on the second; Flanders was pretty sure of that.

  The man had been found fully clothed with a sack covering his head. Flanders carefully removed the sack. The side of the man’s head was caved in.

  ‘Blunt instrument,’ he said flatly, as though he’d seen thousands in his life. He had and had long ago giving up counting.

  He picked up a transparent evidence bag.

  ‘See this piece of wood?’

  Doherty narrowed his eyes. The piece of wood was old and weathered.

  ‘Part of a door,’ said Flanders, warming to his subject. ‘It had a number on it at one time. One of them little brass ones, or even plastic. See?’ He pointed to the faint indentation on the wood. ‘A nine or perhaps a six. It was lodged beneath his armpit.’

  Doherty’s attention strayed to a group of office girls, leggy, lovely things and young enough to be his daughters.

  Doherty smiled at the office girls before barking out orders to the assembled team. ‘Come on lads. We’ve got work to do. Let’s be having you. I want it swept with a toothbrush if need be. No skimping and no moans about bad backs and cups of tea.’

  One of the forensic boys chose that moment to lean over the wall and spray the towpath with a shower of whatever he’d had for breakfast that morning. The office girls groaned and began to disperse.

  Flanders kept on about the piece of wood.

  Dohe
rty refused to be impressed. ‘So what? The river’s high. There’s always flotsam and jetsam floating about.’

  ‘Do you want me to throw it back in?’

  Flanders was being sarcastic. Doherty had no time for that and it showed in his attitude.

  He snatched the wood. ‘The second word’s off!’

  Flanders bowed to his job, his white plastic siren suit crackling as he carried out the last rites as far as a cop is concerned – going through the deceased’s pockets.

  ‘No money on him, no watch, just a white mark where it used to be. A dead cert mugging.’ His probing fingers hesitated. ‘Hello, hello! What have we here.

  Flanders held up the Amex credit card so he could more easily read the name. ‘Elmer John Maxted.’

  Doherty watched with narrowed eyes as it was slid into yet another transparent evidence bag then escorted Flanders back up to the road.

  ‘Give you a full report later!’ Flanders puffed once he’d reached the top of the towpath steps and was only a few steps and a few more puffs from his dark green Citroen.

  Nearby a traffic warden checked her watch, pursed her lips and clenched her jaw. This morning her routine and her tally were sharply curtailed and she looked pig sick about it.

  Once Flanders was swinging the Citroen away from the kerb, Doherty took out his phone and scrolled down the numbers until he got to hers.

  She answered after the fourth ring. It sounded as though she were in a hurry.

  ‘Hannah – Mrs Driver? This is Detective Sergeant Doherty.’

  ‘I’ll ring you back.’

  He frowned at the phone. It wasn’t the response he’d been banking on. He’d been about to eat humble pie. Well sod the bloody woman. He’d tell her in his own good time.

  Chapter Eight

  A row of taxicabs waited on the rank alongside Bath Abbey. A few of them were of the old-fashioned London black cab variety, like a row of black beetles queuing for a meal. The others were smart and shiny saloons. Only Busy Bee Cabs proclaimed their trade, in red lettering along their sides.

  After making enquiries, she was directed to a man named Ivor Webber, a stocky Welshman of West Indian descent.