Blood and Broomsticks: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 9)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Was the diner likely to sue? Was his blood seeping into the very decent carpet?

  ‘Where’s the diner with the bloody nose?’

  ‘Gone, Mrs Driver.’

  ‘In an ambulance?’

  ‘No Mrs Driver. He didn’t want to go to hospital.’ He nodded in welcome to Doherty. ‘Neither did he wish for the police to be involved.’

  Honey turned on her heel. ‘I’m going to sack that chef.’

  ‘Actually, Mrs Driver, it wasn’t the chef’s fault.’

  Honey stopped.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The gentleman complained about every course. I think he was trying to impress his companion who was, shall we say, quite a lot younger than he. September and May – if you get my meaning. The gentleman, having imbibed rather a large quantity of vintage port, then decided he was going to beard the lion in his den – a most unfortunate mistake. I did try and persuade him that it wouldn’t be a good idea. But he was drunk and trying to impress the young lady. He marched into the kitchen to confront the chef. Chef responded accordingly. The gentleman admitted it was all his fault when we offered to contact the police and then to give him a lift home – and was there anyone we could phone. I had taken his business card and it does have his home address on it.’ Clive took the a plain white card from his diner records and waved it. ‘He was quite adamant that he didn’t want us to ring anyone and to put an end to the matter.’

  ‘Did he leave a good tip?’

  ‘A very good, Mrs Driver. Enough to wipe out the memory of ever having seen him in here.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Honey said to Doherty. ‘Regardless of the circumstances, I have to deal with chef.’

  He took hold of her shoulders. For a moment she held her breath, thinking he was going to kiss her; kiss and makeup.

  He didn’t.

  ‘Shoulders back, girl. Tell him I’ll griddle his meat and two veg if he ever hits anyone again.’

  Bereft of a kiss, she eyed his back as he headed for the door where he paused, turned, and asked if she could present herself at Manvers Street round about eleven o’clock. She agreed of course.

  The kitchen smelled and sounded busy, pans simmering, meat spitting and pans clattering.

  Smudger was whistling as he slid pans of sauce around the flat top, turned steaks on the grill, and checked the contents of his oven.

  The casual wave he gave her said that he was unnerved by her stiff stance, her folded arms, her heavy frown.

  ‘Smudger! You’re still here only by the skin of your teeth.’

  He grinned, his face pink from the heat of hot pans. ‘He was an arsehole. He deserved it.’

  ‘He’s a customer, though probably not a returning one. You didn’t have to punch him on the nose.’

  Smudger smiled. ‘Stay cool. Stay cool. I didn’t punch him.’

  ‘So the bloody nose was an illusion?’

  ‘No. I was just filling in the detail. I didn’t use my fist. I used a frying pan.’

  Blue sky and fluffy clouds were reflected in the windows overlooking Pulteney Weir and a flurry of fallen leaves were dancing in circles over the pavements.

  Honey was walking along wondering why she had ever become a hotelier in the first place. The guests could be aggravating, the staff, notably chefs, aggressive.

  How about a career change? Was it a feasible proposition when a woman was on the plus side of forty?

  And what career?

  Brain surgeon and rocket scientist were out of the question; she wasn’t qualified and she didn’t fancy studying alongside people half her age. Doing that was ageing in itself.

  She aimed the odd kick at those leaves that weren’t dancing around.

  Do I, don’t I?

  The question of John Rees weighed temptingly rather than heavily. A new restaurant had just opened. Both the wine and food were Portuguese, courtesy of the owner having been a recent resident of Mozambique. John had been invited for a preview evening. John in turn had invited her.

  ‘It’ll be great. If you’re free, that is.’

  Was she free? She had nothing on that evening, but did dining out with a man you possibly fancied equate to infidelity?

  She pulled a face as she groaned which invited the attention of a few passers-by.

  ‘Never mind, luv. Might never happen.’

  The comment failed to raise a smile.

  ‘You look as though you’ve found a fiver but lost a fifty, hen.’

  The second voice was instantly familiar.

  ‘Alistair!’

  Honey smiled at the man she had to thank for many of her best auction purchases. He was looking down at her from his superior height. She thought he was smiling, but it was difficult to tell seeing as his flame-coloured beard was as thick as a blackthorn hedge and didn’t seem to leave much space for a mouth.

  ‘I heard about the double murder out at Miss Porter’s old place,’ he said to her.

  Honey confirmed that he was right.

  ‘My, but old Miss Porter would have a fit if she knew that. She was there for thirty years, you know. It was her who applied for and got all the planning permission and suchlike to turn it into a guest house in the first place. Went through swimmingly it did. Faster than anyone had ever known. Mind you, it might have been something to do with the liaison she was having with one of the councillors.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘Not at all. Did you not know that, hen?’

  Honey admitted that she had not known that. ‘The most recent owners were shoved out of the third-storey windows and landed in two giant urns placed either side of the door.’

  ‘Aye. They would do. Those urns are far too big for the place of course. I recall the day Miss Porter bought them. The old girl committed a double whammy. She was after a smaller pair of urns. Not only did she leave a bid on the wrong ones, she wrote ‘last bid’ in the price column. That meant she had to pay whatever they fetched. They weren’t even genuine. Plastic replicas.’

  ‘Ugly things. Was that very long before she sold the place?’

  ‘A few months. She had intended to resell them, but I suppose she couldn’t be bothered and once the old place was on the market, well, it was up to the new owners to get rid or keep the things.’

  ‘I can understand that. I expect once she’d made up her mind to retire, she didn’t care what happened to them.’

  ‘She might have gone on a bit longer I suppose, but when them two that got killed came along and offered her a good price, off she went. I recall her telling me that some other bods were after it for turning into flats. She told me she didn’t like that idea, but if they paid enough … and then along came the cash offer from the two that are now deceased.’

  ‘Cash! Goodness. Lucky them.’

  ‘And lucky Miss Porter. She almost took their arms off.’

  ‘I take it she met them at the viewing. Any idea what she thought of them?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. Not the kind of question I would have asked at the time. If it’s of any help, I could give her a ring and ask her.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Alistair. I would much appreciate that.’

  Honey patted down the coat collar that she’d pulled up around her neck – not because it was cold, but purely because hiding behind a coat collar was like a barrier behind which her thoughts could flow freely.

  ‘I think she said they were colonials,’ said Alistair, his breath writhing like a white mist around his red beard.

  ‘What did she mean by that?’

  He shrugged shoulders that were broad enough and strong enough to toss a caber – or anyone who’d upset him should he be so inclined.

  ‘Well obviously they came from somewhere else before landing here. Not another planet – well – not in the accepted sense. Somewhere abroad in one of the old Commonwealth dominions – Africa perhaps. Kenya, South Africa. She didn’t tell me much else at the time except that Mrs Hicks, her old friend from across the way, would
keep her informed of goings on. They were both members of some women’s association.’

  ‘The Women’s Institute?’

  Alistair scratched the back of his neck as he considered the question. ‘Could be.’

  Manvers Street police station, twentieth-century architecture at its worst, had the solid look of a multi-layered slab cake stuck together side on.

  Inside was warmer than out, though hardly jovial. This place had been built when standing out rather than blending in was what it was all about.

  Honey wrinkled her nose. She was very sensitive to smells. She looked around her, her nose twitching.

  The source of the smell appeared to be a huge lump of dark tweed coat and dreadlocks. He was heaped in a chair in the waiting area, podgy fingers knitted nervously together.

  The duty desk sergeant shook his head when she explained that Doherty had asked her to come in.

  ‘He’s not in.’

  ‘Out at the murder scene?’

  He hissed through his teeth and shook his head. ‘I’m not supposed to tell you that. His whereabouts is police business.’

  ‘But you’re not denying it either.’

  ‘Just a minute, Mrs Driver,’ he said with an air of authority. ‘We’re the ones who’re supposed to ask the questions, not you.’

  She smiled and shook her head in acceptance that he was only joking.

  Suddenly the musty, unwashed smell suddenly swept over her, accompanied by a shuffling sound from behind her.

  ‘So are you going to pay me or what?’ demanded a loud, masculine voice.

  Even before she turned round, Honey knew that the huge lump of grey tweed and matted hair had sprouted legs. His size and the colour of his clothes reminded her of a hippopotamus.

  Apologising for gripping her shoulders he pushed her aside so he could better get at the desk sergeant.

  Sergeant Lynch, a long serving member of the constabulary noticeably held his breath.

  ‘Rhino. I said somebody would be with you as soon as there was somebody to spare.’

  Honey congratulated herself. Hippo. Rhino. She hadn’t been far wrong. His face was nut brown and should have been shiny, but it wasn’t. Even a dark pigment could fight the greyness that most street dwellers seemed to acquire. His eyes were an odd grey colour and quite small – tiny compared to the rest of him.

  A thick fist thudded down on the desk. ‘This is important. I know stuff that could shed light on a serious crime. Ain’t nobody here interested?’

  ‘I didn’t say that, Rhino, it’s just that …’

  ‘You want the information for free! Yeah! That’s it! You want the information for free,’ the street dweller shouted waving one beefy arm. ‘Well a man’s gotta live, and I ain’t giving it for free. And that’s final!’

  Not only did Rhino own a huge body and wear a huge grey tweed coat, he also wore a scarf that looked capable of stretching the length of Milsom Street. At one time it must have been multicoloured, but the colours were now muted by dirt as though it had been buried in rubble for years.

  The end of the scarf twirled around him like some kind of street-based helix.

  Honey jerked her head back from the rancid smell as the coat, the big man, and the flying scarf strode for the exit, all the while the man muttering curses and expletives.

  The door opened and slammed behind him.

  ‘Phew,’ muttered the sergeant as he whisked an aerosol spray around the waiting room.

  Before leaving she left a message for Doherty to phone her. Could they liaise on a few points and arrange to meet? Please ring to confirm.

  Outside the man mountain Rhino was sitting on the steps looking not so much like a doorstop as a steel door.

  He was muttering to himself, describing the local nick with a series of expletives that cast aspersions on the paternity of the boys in blue and their abilities in the undercover sector.

  ‘I knew those crooks. I worked for them for Chrissakes …’

  Honey was two steps closer to the pavement than Rhino, but mention of crooks made her pause.

  Did he really mean crooks? Or did he mean Crooks?

  She turned round and asked him.

  ‘Did you know Boris and Doris, the people who were murdered?’

  The muttering ceased. The small eyes looked up at her from either side of a broad, flat nose – flat that is until it reached the end which was crowned – or disfigured, depending on your point of view, with a giant wart. No wonder he was named Rhino.

  ‘So. Somebody is listening!’ He looked her up and down. ‘You don’t look like fuzz. You got a bit of style. Might even be intelligent.’

  ‘Thank you for your kind comment. So you did know Boris and Doris.’

  He eyed her suspiciously. ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘I’d be really interested in …’

  ‘I bet you would.’

  ‘Not many people seem to know much about them …’

  ‘How much?’

  She knew what he was asking. How much was she going to pay him for the information. Out and about in Bath, she only had thirty pounds in her purse, one debit card, and a credit card.

  ‘How about thirty pounds?’

  She winced as a large globule of snot was drawn into his throat and spit out of his mouth onto the pavement. She had her answer.

  ‘Thirty pounds on account.’

  He turned his head to look at her again. ‘On account of what?’

  Honey wondered what Doherty offered on these occasions and decided he would back her up.

  ‘A considerable bit more, though I have to pass it with my superior officer first,’ she responded, two fingers crossed behind her back.

  Doherty would back her up. Wouldn’t he?

  ‘Make me an offer.’

  Rhino was nothing if not determined. Well named.

  ‘Say one hundred pounds – if the information is any good.’

  Again that piggy eyed look, the sort his namesake animal is rumoured to give before dropping their head and charging.

  Luckily she was wearing her running shoes – running as in around the hotel, in and out of the kitchen, and shopping for sausages in Green Street. Whether she could outrun a charging Rhino was another matter.

  ‘OK.’ He gave a curt nod and rubbed his nose.

  Honey dived into her purse. Three ten pound notes disappeared into Rhino’s chubby hand. From thence they disappeared into an inside pocket in the copious coat.

  He sniffed. ‘Came to check my haul on a regular basis.’

  ‘Haul?’ She frowned, not understanding. ‘What sort of haul was that?’

  ‘Don’t mess me about, lady. I don’t like people who mess me about.’

  ‘I wasn’t. I just wanted to know what sort of haul. It must have been quite interesting.’

  It crossed her mind that he might be violent and most definitely criminal. In what regard? Rhino lived rough on the streets, but he didn’t look like a mugger. Too big and too old to be swift on his feet. A mugger needs to make a swift getaway.

  ‘My haul. I collect stuff and he was interested in the stuff I collected.’ He pointed. ‘That’s my wagon.’

  Rhino pointed at the lop-sided supermarket trolley waiting for him at the bottom of the steps. It looked as though it had lost a wheel and was propped up against a municipal rubbish bin.

  ‘Got some real good stuff in there. Real good!’

  Honey assessed his haul. Newspapers, cardboard and plastic carrier bags jostled for space. If that was good stuff – valuable stuff – then she was missing something.

  She caught him looking at her.

  ‘I note your disbelief, sister. But I’m telling you, I’ve got good stuff on my wagon. Stuff the likes of the dude from Northend paid me good for. Real good.’

  Real good. Right. But who in their right mind paid good money for old newspapers?

  ‘I’ll show you.’ Rhino struggled up from on his fat behind onto his fat legs and began waddling down the steps.
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  Honey followed.

  First he rearranged a laminated piece of cardboard that was holding everything in. It had writing on it; ‘Members Only.’

  Pushing the newspapers to one side, Rhino delved into one of the carrier bags eventually bringing out a few till receipts and screwed up letters – and bills.

  ‘These ain’t just any old bits of paper. I range only the best areas. That’s what the dude liked about my stuff. “Get me the good stuff from the good addresses,” he said to me.’

  Despite her distaste for handling the grimy receipts, Honey forced herself. They were indeed till receipts and screwed up bills – utility bills. Some of the till receipts were from supermarkets. Some were ATM receipts. Some crumpled, but basically information intact.

  ‘The man from Northend paid you for these?’

  Rhino nodded. ‘Sure he did. My gear is from tidy addresses, upmarket addresses. No crap. He said he liked collecting them too.’

  ‘And paid you pretty well.’

  ‘You bet.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw them?’

  The heavy brows overhanging his piggy eyes frowned deeply.

  ‘Blew in paying me for stuff, then blew out again. Short and sweet it was. Bastard! Said he had a better business on the go.’

  ‘The guest house?’

  Rhino shrugged. ‘I don’t know what business it was, but ’e only bought from me for a week or so. Might have been doing a deal with Edna. I said I passed some of my stuff to ’er. We was partners at times.’

  Honey took a deep breath. So Boris Crook had paid Rhino for information – information that led in one direction and one alone. Identity theft. But only for a week or so? It didn’t make sense.

  ‘So where do I find this Edna?’

  ‘Here and there. Here and there.’

  ‘It must get cold living outdoors all the time. Do you ever live indoors?’

  For a moment his face was like stone. The small eyes, as sharp and angry as the animal he was named after, blinked. Suddenly his whole attitude changed.

  ‘Sometimes, but only in the city,’ he snapped. ‘Only in the city, mark you!’

  Rhino got to his feet and shambled off down the steps. The moment his hands were on the trolley, he was off at a lick. Only once did he glance at her over his shoulder. That one action made Honey think he was not telling the truth.