Something in the Blood (A Honey Driver Murder Mystery)

by Goodhind, Jean G

  ‘I hope you get it sorted soon,’ said Honey politely. ‘Let me help you with the tea.’

  ‘That is very kind.’

  There was a clear view between the trees to the parapet at the rear of the yard and the river.

  ‘I wish I had a view like this.’

  Mrs Patel smiled.

  ‘It is a joy. I see all life from here even though I find difficulty getting around nowadays. There is little I miss.’

  She suddenly looked worried and the smile dropped from her face.

  ‘No one has complained about me being a nosey parker, have they?’

  ‘No, Mrs Patel. In fact, because of your habit – and your pain, you might be of some help in solving a murder.’

  ‘A murder!’ Her face brightened. ‘A real one? This is a real case, not just for television?’

  Honey thought of poor Elmer Maxted and Mervyn Herbert. ‘I’m afraid this is for real.’

  Mrs Patel clapped her hands. ‘All the years of watching murder mysteries and now I might actually be a witness in a real-life murder.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘So,’ said Mrs Patel, her face beaming. ‘How can I help you?’

  Leaning forward, Honey rested her elbows on her knees and clasped her hands together in front of her.

  ‘I understand that Mr Spiteri next door has just come back from abroad. Is that right?’

  Fearing she might frighten the old girl, she spoke softly, but clearly.

  ‘Is he a suspect? What did he do? How did he do it?’

  Mrs Patel, despite her obvious age, didn’t appear to be frightened at the possibility that a murderer lived next door. On the contrary, she seemed to relish the prospect.

  Honey had to disappoint her.

  ‘I actually think that his guilt or innocence rather depends on what you’ve got to say.’

  Mrs Patel’s mouth dropped open. Her brown eyes glowed with excitement.

  ‘Do go on, do go on!’

  Mrs Patel was the witness a good policeman dreamed of; clear-headed and committed to giving a good account of all she knew.

  ‘Was Mr Spiteri away for some time?’

  Mentally, Honey had her fingers crossed. The correct answer would win Spiteri his freedom and Doherty a big slap of mud on his face.

  There was no baited breath about it; Mrs Patel came straight out with the answer.

  ‘He came back about two weeks ago on a Thursday at about five in the morning. I don’t sleep that well, you see. That’s the trouble with getting old.’

  ‘And how long was he away?’

  Her heart thudded against her ribs. Everything depended on the answer. If Spiteri had been away at the same time as the murders were committed, then he was in the clear. Doherty was not.

  ‘He was away for about two months visiting his relatives on some island in the Mediterranean. It’s near Sicily I believe.’

  A map of the Med surfed through Honey’s mind. ‘Malta?’

  Mrs Patel nodded. ‘I think that is the name of it. He did tell me this but I was never very good at geography.’

  ‘Fantastic!’ Honey clapped her hands. She couldn’t wait to slap the details around Doherty’s dumb face.

  Mrs Patel smiled. ‘I am so glad I was able to help. Although he looked a little intimidating, he was really quite a nice man. So friendly. Not like the other man who used to stay in the basement flat. You would never think that they worked together for the titled gentleman.’

  Mrs Patel’s nosiness was reaping rewards beyond belief. Honey’s feet had been itching to be up and away, confronting Doherty with the fact that Spiteri could not have murdered the two men. But this other man. A sneaking suspicion invaded her mind.

  ‘What other man was that, Mrs Patel? Do you know his name?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I cannot remember.’

  ‘Would you recognise him again?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You definitely saw him arrive next door?’

  ‘Most definitely.’

  Honey got to her feet. ‘I have to tell the policeman next door. Will you come with me to confirm this, or shall I get them to come in and take a statement?’

  For someone with a dodgy hip, Mrs Patel got to her feet in double quick time. Her enthusiasm had more effect than the discomfort.

  ‘I am right with you! I will put up with my hip.’

  ‘I’ll take these into the kitchen for you,’ said Honey reaching for the tray.

  ‘No! No!’ Mrs Patel pushed the tray back on to the table. ‘Never mind that. This is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me in years. Come on. We must hurry.’

  Honey paused. ‘Mrs Patel, I can’t thank you enough.’

  The dark eyes sparkled impishly. ‘I used to be a journalist, you know. I used to gather and write factual features on a freelance basis. That is why I am so sure about times and dates and the comings and the goings. Besides, I keep a diary.’

  Champagne bottles popped and sherbet fizzed; or at least that was the way it felt. Things couldn’t get much better than this.

  ‘A diary?’

  Mrs Patel smiled and her eyes sparkled like the teenager – and possibly rebel, Honey thought – that she’d once been.

  ‘I like to write down what I have seen. Sometimes I write a line or two of poetry about the night scene – you know – the lights and everything, people hurrying by, lovers strolling, the river – anything that catches my eye.’

  ‘May I see it?’ Honey asked. ‘If you don’t mind that is.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ laughed Mrs Patel. ‘My diary does not contain the personal secrets it once did. There,’ she said, opening a drawer and bringing it out.

  It was bound in pink plastic. Red plastic lips stood proud of the cover.

  Mrs Patel placed it on a brass-topped table, the sort that’s no more than a big plaque on turned legs.

  ‘If you don’t mind getting that for me,’ said Mrs Patel.

  Honey took it with both hands, placed it on her knees and opened it up to the first page.

  The fluidity of the writing was far more beautiful than what she had to say. Her entry for each date read almost like a shopping list.

  There were times of the comings and goings of her son, her daughter-in-law, the postman and even the traffic warden and what colour cars he’d booked. The entry for Trevor Spiteri coming home was there.

  Just as she had stated, there were a few lines of poetry added which reflected what she had seen that day.

  Green leaves, black road, grey river swirling swiftly by.

  People walking, people talking, green, green grass and crisp blue sky.

  Mrs Patel followed her down the stairs. At the bottom Honey turned to make sure she was all right.

  ‘I am fine,’ said Mrs Patel, her face glowing. ‘Just wait until I lock my door. I am right behind you.’

  Having been at the back of the house, it came as something of a surprise to see that the police presence next door had diminished.

  Honey addressed a remaining constable. ‘Where is everyone?’

  ‘Gone back to the station with the accused.’

  Honey swore under her breath. Doherty and everyone of importance had flown the nest.

  After finding that her phone battery was flat, Honey sighed and turned to Mrs Patel. ‘I’m sorry but we’ll have to go to the station and report this.’

  ‘No worries,’ Mrs Patel said brightly.

  ‘Can I keep the diary?’

  ‘Of course you can.’

  Honey’s gaze slid between the two front doors, the number six of next door, and the number seven of Mrs Patel. She frowned. After that, the numbers leapt from seven to nine. Number nine had a For Sale notice outside. The frontage of seven was wider than each of the properties to either side of it.

  ‘Where’s number eight?’ she asked.

  ‘We are six, seven and eight,’ answered Mrs Patel.

  The door of number six was still open to allow the comi
ngs and goings of the forensic people.

  ‘I would dearly love to look inside that basement flat,’ said Honey, eyeing the stone steps leading downwards.

  ‘I have the keys.’

  Mrs Patel began rummaging in the tan leather handbag she had insisted on bringing with her.

  ‘You do?’

  Though of short acquaintance, nothing about Mrs Patel should have surprised her, but the old girl was still capable of springing the unexpected.

  ‘My other son owns next door. I keep the spare keys.’

  Three cheers for Mrs Patel. D minus for my bloody phone, thought Honey. If it had been working Doherty would have had to eat humble pie. She’d make him regret not including her in the real action.

  After deliberating about whether they should impede the legitimate key holder, a remaining police officer, left to guard the house where Trevor had threatened to throw himself out of the window, watched as they descended the steps.

  ‘The basement flat has its own private entrance,’ said Mrs Patel. She winked. ‘Very discreet.’

  The basement flat consisted of two bedrooms, a bathroom, a kitchen and a ground-floor living room. A pair of French doors opened on to a tiled patio at the back.

  Even after modernisation and damp proofing, some basements retained a mouldy smell. Not this one. Painted white and lit by recessed spotlights, the flat was crisp and clean. Perhaps too crisp, too austere. There were no books, no magazines, no television set or the slightest evidence that anyone sometimes lived here. And yet Mrs Patel had assured her that someone did.

  A familiar smell was also prevalent – not greasy bacon or chemical cleaners like you find in old bed-sits – perfume, very expensive perfume hung in the air.

  Mrs Patel smelled it too. ‘Quality perfume. Not a cheap tart,’ she said with a saucy wink.

  Honey laughed.

  ‘I have remembered the name of the man who rented this flat. Conway. Mr Conway.’

  ‘Conway!’

  Honey recalled the polite young man who’d brought the tea.

  ‘Did you ever see the woman he came here with?’

  Mrs Patel rolled her eyes suggestively. ‘Oh, yes. Very blonde and trimmed with gold. Expensive, though slightly less than tasteful. Not a cheap tart. An expensive one.’

  ‘I couldn’t have described her better myself.’

  Lady Pamela Charlborough. It couldn’t be anyone else.

  ‘So! It was a love nest.’

  ‘Indeed. He wasn’t here all the time.’ A concerned frown crossed Mrs Patel’s cheery face. ‘Just the one woman of course. It is not a knocking shop, as you call it.’

  Honey shook her head and controlled the grin. ‘No, of course not, Mrs Patel.’

  ‘He did not always come with her. Sometimes he came alone.’

  ‘What did he do there – when he came by himself?’

  ‘Mostly he used the workshop. Through there.’

  She pointed to a door beneath the stairs. ‘It leads to the cellars. He makes heads from plastic and clay down there. He told my son this when he began renting the flat. My son said he could not do such things here in the flat itself, so he must use the cellar.’

  ‘I should think not,’ said Honey approvingly. Their surroundings were pristine. It made sense to keep them that way.

  ‘Anyway I do not like dolls,’ said Mrs Patel.

  ‘Neither do I,’ said Honey recalling the heads in the greenhouse. ‘How come you managed to get a look at them?’

  ‘He wanted something to cover them with. He asked my son if he could save him the small sacks the spices come in. My son did this and asked me to give them to him.’

  Sacks! So whoever made the latex heads for the war games, used spice sacks to keep them clean. And got them from Mrs Patel’s son.

  Honey mentally slapped herself around the head. She’d been barking up the wrong tree thinking the sacks might have come from Jeremiah’s market stall. And they hadn’t come from the pile outside the greenhouses either. They’d come from Mrs Patel’s son and were used to cover latex heads. Perhaps the murderer had got so used to covering latex heads with the sacks, that he’d not been able to resist doing the same with his victims.

  Finding out the truth about something as perplexing – and stupidly simple – as those sacks, was like breathing frosty air. It wasn’t just refreshing, it invigorated.

  ‘So,’ she said, trying hard to control her racing heart, ‘when’s he expected back?’

  ‘He’s not. As you can see, my son is selling both this house and number nine. Mr Spiteri had agreed to move out at the end of the week. He’s been offered accommodation with his employer who I believe is moving abroad. In the meantime my son offered Mr Conway the basement of number nine in which to keep his heads. I did not see him move his things there, but I presume he did.’

  She phoned Doherty from Mrs Patel’s phone before leaving but was told he was interviewing a suspect.

  ‘Tell him he’s got the wrong man.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dare,’ said the female voice on the other end.

  ‘Well I will. I’m on my way over.’

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Doherty was being stubborn. They wouldn’t let her in, so she phoned him from the reception line in the Green River Hotel.

  He listened, grunting in places as though he really was taking it on board.

  ‘You need a search warrant for number nine.’

  ‘No I don’t. I’ve got our man.’

  ‘No you haven’t. He was abroad at the time.’

  ‘He’ll have to prove it.’

  ‘There are witnesses.’

  There was silence.

  ‘What’s that? I can hear something mechanical rattling into place. Must be your brain. Use it before it goes rusty.’

  She hoped the sound of the phone being slammed down burst Doherty’s eardrum. Stubborn cuss!

  For the rest of that day, she played the same game, refusing to take his calls, pretending she was out, doing anything rather than speaking to him. At the same time she was considering what she could do herself to sidetrack him and get the right man arrested.

  Lindsey caught her cleaning the glass in the front door.

  ‘You don’t have to do that.’

  ‘It’s surprisingly therapeutic.’

  ‘You’re taking long enough.’

  ‘You bet I am.’

  Three times she’d sprayed the glass, and three times she’d pushed the polishing duster around.

  ‘How’s Sam?’ she said lightly, though in all honesty all she wanted to do was stop Lindsey from interrupting her thought process.

  ‘Coming on nicely. By the way, I told Grandma you were practically engaged.’

  The polishing stalled. ‘Why?’

  ‘She wouldn’t stop asking me questions about the other night when I slept at Sam’s.’

  ‘So I was thrown to the lion.’

  Lindsey looked contrite. ‘Sorry. I needed to do that. She wouldn’t let go.’

  Honey smoothed Lindsey’s hair back from her forehead. ‘Poor darling. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. It’s not you giving me hassle. It’s her. Grandma would have been great in the days when young girls were presented at court as debutantes.’

  ‘I think she would have been better as a wife of Henry the Eighth.’

  ‘He cut off three of his wife’s heads.’

  ‘Yes. One of those.

  Honey’s gaze went through the glass to the white trainers standing on the other side of the street.

  There was a flash of white as whoever was wearing them did his best to hide behind a green wheelie bin.

  ‘Does he look familiar to you?’ she asked Lindsey.

  Lindsey took a bite of the cold toast she’d snitched from kitchen leftovers and shook her head.

  ‘What’s he doing?’

  ‘Following me. I think.’

  Lindsey frowned. ‘Perhaps he’s a hotel inspector from th
e tourist board or something.’

  Honey blew a mental raspberry. ‘Hotel inspectors don’t wear Lee Cooper jeans and white trainers.’

  Lindsey peered out of the window. ‘How do you know they’re Lee Cooper? Have you seen his butt?’

  ‘They just look that kind of quality, and no, I haven’t seen his butt.’

  ‘By the way, Doherty’s just called again.’

  ‘Was he apologetic?’

  ‘He asked you to phone him. He’s brought Sir Andrew in for questioning and is now looking for Mark Conway.’

  ‘Ah!’ Honey tapped her smiling lips. My, but it was good to be right. She became aware that Lindsey was giving her the incisive, what have you been up to, mother, type of look. Honey knew it well. She often used it to stump her own mother.

  ‘He wanted to solve this case all on his own,’ said Honey.

  ‘But he didn’t.’

  ‘No. His call means that he’s been out to Charlborough Grange, but Mark Conway wasn’t there. Mark Conway is the murderer, not Trevor Spiteri, the man he hauled in for the murders of Elmer Maxted and Mervyn Herbert.’

  ‘Right. And you know where he is. Yes?’

  ‘I’m working on it.’

  In her mind she was the Lone Ranger hunting down the baddy alongside a bumbling lawman. The truth was that crime wasn’t like that at all. Leave it to the professionals, said a small voice in her mind, you know it makes sense.

  The trouble was that there were two small voices. The other one was feeding her ego, telling her, sure, babe, of course you can do it. You’re cleverer than him!

  ‘What are you doing now?’ asked Lindsey. Not for the first time in her life, she sounded nervous about her mother’s intentions. The way her chin was jutting reminded her of the time they’d lived in a brand new house in a village. The locals had opposed the development. They’d also insisted that a footpath still ran through the backyard of the house they’d bought. One day Honey had caught their ringleader relieving himself against a bush she’d just planted.

  He did it three days on the trot, insisting he was entitled.

  On the fourth day her mother had been ready with a piece of brown paper smeared with thick, dark molasses.

  Taking him unawares, she’d slapped the brown paper onto his exposed loins. The stuff was a devil to remove without help. His wife would have to help him. Likely as not, he’d also had to explain how molasses had got tangled in his pubic hair.