Something in the Blood (A Honey Driver Murder Mystery)

by Goodhind, Jean G

  The body had softened and was faintly marbled by virtue of resident bacteria. He’d covered the head with a small sack so he didn’t have to look at the staring eyes. The sacks were readily available. He used them frequently for other things, less gruesome things.

  The rest of the body was wrapped in a length of polythene that crackled when he lifted it up. The man wasn’t light, but not too heavy either. Carefully so as not to slip, he carried Mervyn Herbert down the last flight of steps. There was a good flow on the river, a welcome result from the earlier rains. On the opposite bank he could see ranks of sodium streetlights winding through the darkness. Spots of reflected amber light danced on the racing river.

  On his side there were no lights only the black square shadows thrown by the circling colonnade above. The night was his, as dark as his mind.

  Gently, still holding on to his precious piece of polythene, which had once covered a mattress, he let the body slide into the water. It bobbed about a bit, clung to the bank as if unwilling to leave him.

  Beneath his breath he cursed the strong flow and with the help of a torch searched behind him for something to poke the body away from the bank and into the main stream.

  What had once been a door lay cobwebbed and rotting against the wall. Just as he’d done before, he tore a piece of rotten plank from it, green paint clinging in odd patches over its rough surface.

  With the fingers of one hand, he gripped the crumbling door lintel overhead. In the other he held the wood. Still holding on to the flaking masonry, he reached out and poked at the body until it was safely carried into the current. Then, carelessly, no longer interested in the bloated flotsam he had consigned to the water, he flung the piece of wood after it.

  Unafraid and uncaring, he watched it ebb into the black night and black water. What was it to him? What was anyone to him? Except with one notable exception, one person who he loved more than himself.

  The rush of water and a slight bumping sound made him look back again.

  The body had returned, the river current pinning it against the bank.

  There was no option but to drag it back on to the slime-covered flagstones. It had to be got rid of, but where?

  He sat down and thought about blame and throwing the police off the scent. Blame and guilt. He knew a lot about them and about loss and restitution, making things up to those you loved.

  An idea came to him. Suspicion fell initially on close acquaintances in a murder case. So, if the body was found in the right place …?

  Chapter Thirteen

  One-thirty. Smudger the chef was complaining about the butcher again.

  ‘I swear to you, it’s rubbish. Trust me. Let me tell him that if he don’t up his standards, I’m for chopping out his liver!’

  Honey rolled her eyes. How was a woman to cope? A batty chef and a mad mother.

  Her mother was rabbiting on about a very upright and uptight type she wanted her to meet. ‘You must meet him, Hannah, darling. I’m sure you’ll get on like a house on fire.’

  ‘Mother, I can arrange my own dates.’

  Her mother shrugged. ‘Well it doesn’t seem that way to me.’ Digging her painted nails into Honey’s shoulders, she flipped her round to face her.

  ‘Tell me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Do you have a man friend?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes?’ Her mother sounded incredulous. She clapped her hands and looked extraordinarily happy. ‘You do? Who is he?’

  ‘Just a guy.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Jeremy.’

  Her mother frowned. ‘I don’t know him. Do I?’

  ‘Right. You don’t know him.’

  First, deal with the chef.

  ‘Smudger? You will not threaten the man. If he fails to deliver decent meat, then he doesn’t get his bread. Savvy?’

  Smudger’s sandy-coloured hair curled out from beneath his tall, chef’s hat. His eyes glittered. ‘Great! I can’t wait to see his face when I tell him to stick it.’

  ‘No!’ Honey wagged a finger at him. ‘That isn’t what I said. Just insist that he keeps his standards up, or else …’

  ‘Or else I chop him!’

  A gleaming meat cleaver was waved with gleeful anticipation.

  ‘Smudger, hurting comes in many forms. A light bank account hurts more than a wound!’

  Smudger looked disappointed, but accepted her judgement.

  ‘And for my next trick,’ she muttered to herself.

  She wheeled her mother away from Smudger’s realm and into the conservatory.

  ‘Doesn’t the garden look lovely?’ she said, a calming measure in anyone’s book.

  Her mother glared up at her as they marched the width of the conservatory until their noses were almost flat against the glass.

  Her mother eyed her accusingly. ‘You haven’t got a boyfriend, have you? You were lying.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well I’ve got one for you.’

  ‘I don’t want one.’

  The conservatory looked out over an enclosed garden. The trees had grown high and wide obliterating the view of other buildings. If you lay flat in the grass and stared directly upwards, you could almost forget you were in the heart of the city. But there was no grass. Just paving slabs.

  Her mother looked puzzled, her lips parted as though there was something she wanted to say, but she wasn’t quite sure how to phrase it.

  ‘So you’ve met someone you think suits me. Where did you meet him?’

  ‘At the dentist. He’s a widower.’

  The vision of the gorgeous guy she’d seen standing beside her mother at the beginning of the week flashed into her mind. Somehow she hadn’t envisaged him as being a widower.

  Giving herself time to digest this, Honey banged on the window at Mary Jane and waved. Mary was practising her tai chi out on the flagstones and managed to include a slow wave amongst her movements.

  Accompanied by her mother’s list of reasons why she should meet this man, Honey continued to watch Mary Jane’s sinuous arms rolling and wafting outwards, one leg slowly raised, one little twist of her spine.

  ‘OK, he’s a bit of a steady Eddie, but I’m sure he’s the right man for you.

  This last sentence sunk in. ‘I’m really surprised. He didn’t strike me that way,’ said Honey.

  ‘But you haven’t met him yet.’

  The vision of the cool dude in casuals was shattered.

  Her mother smoothed her corn-coloured tunic as she settled gracefully into a chair.

  ‘You haven’t met him, dear.’

  ‘But he was here the other day. You said he was a bookseller. His name was John Rees.’

  ‘Not him. I meant Edgar Paget. He’s my dentist. And a very good one,’ she added, as though that in some way recommended him as a potential suitor.

  ‘Mother, I don’t think I can take to a guy who makes a living from peering into people’s mouths.’

  ‘He’s not just any dentist! Private patients only.’

  Honey turned her back on Mary Jane who had just entered into the final movements of her daily routine.

  Folding her arms across her chest, she eyed her mother with a mix of disbelief and total confusion. Was this woman really her mother? And what was she trying to do? Get her to notch up the same number of marriages she’d gone through herself?

  But first things first:

  ‘So this bookseller. What was he here for?’

  ‘To organise a book fair. He wanted to make a booking. I just got talking to him. He seemed very pleasant.’

  Honey’s jaw dropped. ‘A booking.’

  Her mother nodded. ‘Yes, dear.’

  ‘So why didn’t you pass him to reception?’

  ‘Because he asked to see you.’

  Honey sighed. ‘I’ll have to phone him.’

  ‘So what about my dentist – Mr Paget?’

  ‘No!’

  Her mother rarely frowned. It causes
wrinkles, dear. Her indignation showed in the way her heart-shaped face became elongated as her chin dropped. The wrinkles came anyway and would have looked good on a bloodhound.

  ‘Well, that’s a change of attitude, I must say.’

  Honey’s thoughts were on the gorgeous guy who’d called in earlier in the week.

  Mary Jane caught her just as she was rushing from the conservatory and into reception.

  ‘I’ll speak to you later,’ Honey called over her shoulder.

  ‘There’s no need to panic. He said he’d call back,’ said her mother, yet again scurrying along beside her.

  Honey refused to listen, rummaging among the bits of paper in a basket marked ‘file’. Everything that didn’t have a home – which included the calling cards of salesmen selling disposables – went into the ‘file’.

  ‘Have we had a booking for a book fair?’ she asked Deehta, who came in to cover on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

  Deehta shook her dark head vehemently. When it came to efficiency, Deehta was top of the pops. Honey had no choice but to believe her.

  There was no sign of a business card marked ‘bookshop’.

  ‘Never mind,’ Honey said once she was satisfied that her filing tray was its usual, uninteresting, self.

  Mary Jane, who let nothing interrupt her tai chi session, called out to her.

  ‘We need to talk,’ she said quickly in a hushed voice, as though secrecy and speed were paramount.

  ‘I know where he went,’ hissed Mary Jane. ‘That guy who went missing; I know who he was asking about and where he went.’

  Honey took hold of Mary Jane’s bony elbow, hauled her into her private office and shut the door. ‘Tell me!’

  ‘He enquired about a family called Charlborough.’

  ‘Do you mean the Charlborough family? Landowners, plantation owners, and allegedly members of the Hellfire Club?’

  Mary Jane’s face shaped itself into a question mark. ‘You mean they were members back in the eighteenth century?’

  ‘Allegedly. They live at Charlborough Grange out at Limpley Stoke.’

  Mary Jane’s face brightened. ‘That’s the place. That’s where he went.’

  It added up. Ivor the taxi driver had taken Elmer to the church at Limpley Stoke, though he hadn’t mentioned Charlborough Grange.

  ‘And Elmer was related to Charlborough?’

  Mary Jane shook her head. ‘Oh, he couldn’t say. He wasn’t specific according to Bob.’

  Honey entertained some pretty fast-moving thoughts.

  ‘Am I right in thinking our missing tourist would have learned a lot from a parish register?’

  ‘He sure would,’ said Mary Jane. ‘That’s one thing you can say about the church, they certainly kept tight tabs on everybody.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  The hotel had been busy, she’d gone for a mid-evening doze and the alarm woke her just after eleven p.m. A quick shower, fresh make-up and hair dried; a search through her clothes; jeans, a black T-shirt and pearl earrings. Casual but classy, she thought, after a brief glance in the mirror.

  On the way to meet Detective Sergeant Doherty, she looked for Ivor’s taxi but couldn’t see him. If she had she would have asked more about Elmer’s visit to Limpley Stoke. Mary Jane’s report was clear enough, but it wouldn’t have hurt to confirm it.

  The night air was still and cool. The lights of the city obliterated the blackness of the river. The river was running high and fast and didn’t look its normal friendly self. Possibly there’d been heavy rain upstream.

  Doherty awaited her.

  As she descended the steps down to the solid oak door of the Zodiac Club, she considered whether she should tell him what Mary Jane had told her about Elmer having been in touch with a man named Bob the Job. Crazy name, but there, people hoping to find fame or notoriety in their background were a bit crazy; devastated when they realised their ancestry contained nothing more than generation after generation of farm labourers, housemaids and itinerant drunkards.

  Should she tell him where she’d thought Elmer had gone, or should she check out this oddly named guy, Bob the Job?

  The Zodiac was a private club. On ringing the bell, a small slot opened. A pair of eyes looked out and a muffled voice asked for her name and whether she was a member.

  ‘It’s me.’

  The eyes opened wide in recognition and the door opened.

  ‘Good evening, madam!’

  ‘Good evening, Clint. I think that’s the first time you’ve ever called me madam.’ She looked him up and down. ‘Nice suit.’

  Clint, her part-time washer-up, grinned from ear to ear. Despite the spider’s web etched into his skull and the gold earring, Clint looked both presentable and slightly menacing, in fact ideal for the job.

  ‘I got it at Oxfam,’ he said, running sausage thick fingers over the silky lapels. ‘Not bad is it.’

  ‘No. Not bad at all. Should last you a while as long as you don’t go washing up in it.’

  ‘I won’t be doing that. Serving in me mate’s shop is my daytime job, washing up is early evening, and this is my night-time job.’

  ‘So when do you sleep?’

  There was a whole load of innuendo in the wink he gave her.

  ‘When I can. Got to have a social life, ain’t I?’

  ‘You certainly do.’

  And all for cash, thought a bemused Honey. It occurred to her that he could be making more money than she was, and enjoying a better social life.

  ‘Look,’ she said. ‘I’m expecting a guest. His name’s Steve …’

  ‘Doherty. Yeah.’ His grin collapsed into a stiff grimace. ‘The dude’s already here.’

  There was no point asking him how come he knew a member of the local constabulary. She could guess, but Clint (Rodney Eastwood to give him his full name) was Clint and his business was his own.

  Threading her way through the room brought to mind old black-and-white movies; night clubs where shady characters clustered in dingy alcoves. The ceiling was barrel-vaulted and the walls bare stone. Down-lighters picked out swirls of blue smoke drifting from the sizzling steaks being grilled al fresco in the restaurant. Apart from them the lighting was minimal.

  Steve was propped up in the corner of the bar. A space had opened up around him; news of his profession had no doubt travelled.

  Isolation didn’t seem to worry him. His eyes were everywhere but stalled once they landed on her.

  ‘Drink?’ Shifting his stance he dug into the pocket of his black leather jacket.

  ‘Vodka and tonic. With ice and lemon.’

  He took the money from his pocket. No wallet, she noticed. A cautious man. She wondered where he kept his credit cards.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked her suddenly.

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve eaten.’

  She eyed the clientele, noting who was playing after hours. Hotel and pub managers mostly, plus those who owned, ran and worked bloody hard in their own hotels.

  ‘Cheers.’

  He clinked glasses with her while they studied each other, a meeting of eyes, a furtive appraisal of each others attributes.

  For his part Steve admired her clear skin, a handsome rather than pretty face. Her hair was dark, her eyes brown and her legs went up to her shoulders – or at least, that was the way it seemed.

  Honey glimpsed the glint of a gold bracelet on his right wrist. His hair was cut short. It suited him.

  ‘So,’ she said after taking a generous sip of vodka and tonic. ‘Have you informed the relatives?’

  ‘It seems our American friend doesn’t have any. Apparently there was a sister, but she died a few months ago.’

  ‘So he went travelling to get away?’

  Doherty shrugged. ‘I suppose so. Who knows? They reckoned he was well into doing research. Tracing ancestors was the latest thing. Before that it was haemophilia.’

  ‘The bleeding disease.’

  ‘That’s the one. Someone in the family die
d of it.’

  She finished her drink. He insisted on buying her another.

  Do I deserve another?

  She answered her own question. You bet!

  Weekends were hard in the hospitality trade. The world and his wife came away on weekend breaks, and from Friday night to Sunday lunchtime the locals were out wining and dining. Add that to the huge influx of tourists at this time of year, and you’ve got a punishing schedule.

  It came to her suddenly that they were in competition with each other. He wanted all the glory in cracking this, and so did she. She hadn’t thought she had before, not when the job had first been foisted on her. But now? Something was stirring.

  Unfortunately for ‘good ole’ Steve, it wasn’t passion that had coloured her decision to meet him, but curiosity, a driving need to find out exactly what was going on. That was the reason, she told herself, but still her eyes kept sliding sidelong.

  She shook the thoughts from her head.

  ‘Bubbles,’ she explained on seeing Doherty’s quizzical expression. She cleared her throat. ‘Are there any clues?’

  ‘Minor things. A piece of wood jammed into the side of the deceased. The river’s full of debris following heavy rain. But it was interesting. There was an indentation on it where a number used to be. Could have been a nine. Could have been a six.’

  ‘Depending on whether you’re Australian.’

  She smiled as she said it. The vodka had gone to her head.

  Doherty had a blond moment. He didn’t have a clue – or perhaps just no sense of humour.

  She took it slowly. ‘Upside down. A six if you’re upright and living in the northern hemisphere, and a nine if you’re upside down, i.e. Australian.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  He gave a weak laugh, though his expression remained serious.

  No sense of humour, she decided, but then it wasn’t a very good joke.

  Doherty went straight into the facts. ‘He had a sack over his head. Not a big sack. A small one. It had a smell. Not a nasty smell. A nice smell.’ He said it as though only he knew its significance.

  Honey nodded appreciatively as though she somehow knew the significance of such a thing. But why should she? A sack, was a sack, was a sack. And the smell? Hemp surely?