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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘But there were …’

  ‘I saw no ghosts,’ said Maurice. His fine mane of tawny hair showed flecks of grey when he shook his head. ‘Two extra guests that didn’t exist. The police want this case closed and they’ll place the blame anywhere they can in order to get it wrapped up pronto.’

  Honey didn’t like Maurice’s brusque tone, nor the way he took up position between her and Alison. If she had direct access to Alison, face to face, she was sure her friend would understand.

  She tried anyway.

  ‘Look, I’m truly sorry about this, but there were two guests who turned up late but never joined us – not properly. They appeared at the door but were never seen again.’

  Alison’s face turned white. ‘Are you saying they were the murderers?’

  Honey pushed her hair back behind one ear, a sure sign that she was getting serious.

  ‘It’s very likely. That’s why the police are re-questioning everybody. So far it seems as though I was the only one to see them.’

  ‘This is awful,’ cried Alison, burying her face in her beautifully soft hands, nails perfectly shaped, perfectly varnished, and embellished with twinkly little stones.

  Since becoming Crime Liaison Officer for the Hotels Association, Honey had never divulged any information imparted to her. On this occasion she decided to make an exception; after all, Alison was one of her oldest friends.

  ‘Look. How about we sit and talk about this over a cup of coffee?’

  ‘A brandy! I’ll have a brandy.’

  Maurice looked to be taking no prisoners. Still, the brandy might help him relax.

  After ordering the drinks, she took them into the conservatory. A watery sun infiltrated the glass, fooling the indoor plants into thinking spring was on the way. Poor plants, thought Honey. They had to get through Christmas first.

  Over coffee and brandy she told them a little of what they’d found out so far.

  ‘It seems Mr and Mrs Crook were likely guilty of fraud. They bought the guest house with a chunk of capital they embezzled from a company of which Mr Crook was a director.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but what’s that got to do with us? The guests at the party were friends and acquaintances – like yourself. It was my darling Alison’s birthday and I wanted her to have fun,’ said Maurice.

  Honey wondered which slot she occupied, friend or acquaintance.

  Her eyes followed the massive hand stroking Alison’s arm with the back of his hand. A physical man. A strong man who shunned working in an office. Outside. Mining she thought Alison had said. In South Africa.

  ‘My darling poppet,’ he cooed.

  There were terms of endearment and terms of endearment; being called ‘poppet’ was right up there with ‘sweetie pie’ and in cutesy-tootsy puking territory.

  On reflection it suited Alison’s Barbie doll dimensions in body and mind. She was that type. She liked being pampered. In another life she might have been a Persian cat or a handbag dog.

  ‘It also appears they may have been involved in identity theft.’

  She awaited their reaction.

  Alison tensed, hands clasped tightly over her teeny-weeny leather bag – no more really than a purse on a rope.

  ‘You mean they stole credit cards? Oh, Maurice!’ she said, turning to the man at her side and laying her perfectly painted fingernails on his sleeve. ‘They didn’t take your card details, did they? After all, my gorgeous guy, you did pay a deposit for my lovely lush party.’

  Honey began to wonder why Alison had ever been her best friend. Once a blonde bimbo, always a blonde bimbo. Still, there was no sense in prolonging the agony; there was only so much vomit-producing dialogue a girl could take. She had to explain as much as she could.

  ‘I won’t go into detail, but it didn’t quite work like that. And the two extra guests may have had something to do with it, hence the questions.’

  Alison looked relieved. ‘So it’s not really anything to do with us? None of my guests had anything to do with killing them?’

  Maurice patted her hand. ‘It seems your fears were groundless, my darling delicious doll.’

  He was a big man, no doubt a man’s man, used to working in rough conditions. His clothes were well-cut and smart; a russet-coloured jacket, dark beige trousers, a cashmere sweater. Everything about him was smooth and dependable – except for his terminology. Whatever possessed him to call a woman coochie coo, darling doll and other sick inducing terms?

  Still. Alison’s choice, not hers.

  Rhino poked his nose out of the door and sniffed the air like a dog.

  ‘Nice night,’ he muttered before backing into the plastic boot that was now his home.

  The boot had once graced the play area of a pub down by the river. The pub had become a bistro, so no room for kids or a play house made in the shape of an old boot.

  Rhino’s new home was sited in the corner of a field where folk of the gypsy kind stored anything they didn’t have a use or punter for at the present time. The field was full of junk; old car chassis, defunct boilers, caravans without windows and dodgem cars from fun fairs and slot machines in need of paint and refurbishment.

  The plastic boot – just big enough for Rhino to squeeze into and sleep warmly, was thrust behind a metal contraption of burst bulbs that had once graced a fairground carousel. For the moment it was forgotten and unloved – except by Rhino. He’d wanted a place to hide away from the city streets where everyone knew him. Nobody knew him here because there was nobody around and the weather wasn’t right. Even the travelling folk didn’t bother with frosty fields when they had a warm caravan and a flat screen TV to watch. Spring was the time for fields.

  Rhino settled down to eat the tin of beans he’d just opened. He’d eat them cold tonight, though that wasn’t always the case. There was a caravan just a few yards away that was occupied in warmer months and it had a single gas ring and a long tube leading to a red canister. There was just enough in it to warm up things he didn’t want to eat cold. He’d brought plenty of tins with him and there were a few in the caravan. He’d survive for a time up here out of sight with a nice view of the city and a few pounds for emergencies. He’d made enough money and didn’t regret handing over his business to Edna, that business being in the form of his Tesco supermarket trolley and all its contents. He was finished with that – at least for now.

  Unrolling his bedroll, he tucked it about his lower limbs and pulled his coat around him. The tin opener grated its way around the can of beans to the halfway mark. Halfway was enough. Taking hold of the spoon he’d taken from an inside pocket of his copious coat, he shoved it into the beans and drew out a mouthful.

  He pulled a face. The beans weren’t just beans; they had sausages in with them; small skinless ones that tasted like wet slugs when they were cold. From experience, he knew they’d taste fine warmed up. There was nothing for it but to use the gas ring that he knew was in the caravan opposite.

  Shoving the spoon into the tin, he pushed at the yellow plastic door and looked out. Nothing moved and the only sound was of two owls hooting to each other across the fields and the sound of the odd car down the hill where the houses started and the fields finished.

  If the boot had been a bottle and Rhino a cork, there would have been a popping sound as he pushed himself out of the tiny door on all fours.

  Once out in the fresh air, he stayed on all fours, his hands and knees in contact with the frosty grass. He hadn’t survived this long on the streets by being careless.

  Satisfied that nobody was in sight, he got to his feet, reached back into the boot, and felt for the tin of sausages and beans.

  The door to the caravan might once have had a proper lock, but didn’t now. The padlock that was supposed to keep it secure opened easily. It merely looked like a padlock; it didn’t actually lock anything.

  The moon was the only light he needed to cook by and the gas ring was immediately to his right and just inside the door. The bloke who own
ed the caravan – a swarthy scruff named Frank – had conveniently left a box of matches behind.

  Rhino turned on the gas and lit a match. He didn’t bother with a pan but placed the tin directly onto the gas ring, giving the contents a minimal stir with his spoon.

  ‘First rate! First bloody rate,’ he muttered and licked his lips.

  He peered up at the moon thinking it had got brighter suddenly. It hadn’t done any such thing; in fact a shard of cloud covered it like a ripped shawl, thin with age.

  The sudden light were due to car headlights. Somebody had turned into the dirt track that led from the lane. The track stopped at the gate to the field.

  Rhino uttered a string of serious expletives, leapt out of the caravan, and headed for the boot. It wasn’t until he was safely cocooned in its claustrophobic comfort that he remembered the beans.

  Another string of expletives ensued. What should he do? Show himself or remain hidden?

  That, he decided, all depended on who was coming up the track. Surely it had to be Frank.

  ‘Bloody Frank!’ he muttered.

  But Frank never came up here at night. Frank only surveyed his collection of clutter in daylight. Made sense. He couldn’t see bugger all at night.

  The door to the boot had never locked from the inside, but Rhino had rigged up a piece of string that looped over a nail. It was enough to hold the door shut when you didn’t want visitors. Not that many people came knocking at the door of the plastic boot.

  He waited, his breathing heavy, listening with his ear held flat against the narrow gap. The sound of the engine came closer.

  Greasy sweat trickled down his grimy face mixing with the snot from his nose. As whatever it was turned into the field, the beam from the headlights raked across the tumbled bits of junk outside. Rusted cars. Rusted refrigerators. Builders’ rubble. Sheets of corrugated iron.

  The car was coming closer.

  Rhino slunk back as far as he could in the confined space. It was dark inside the boot, but the beam of headlights flashed in through the kiddie size window landing on the dark red holdall behind him.

  He lay himself protectively over it, patting it with his meaty hands. What a hoot to be handed it – on a plate so to speak. What a turn up! What friends. What a … well, there were disadvantages, i.e. the money wasn’t his, but hell, he’d do his damndest to hold onto it. A windfall. That’s what it was. A bloody windfall!

  Once the difficulties were over and he was safe, he wouldn’t be living in a moulded house masquerading as a boot, though he did appreciate it. Once all this was over he had a good mind to get it renovated so kids could play in it again like they used to.

  He would move on. He’d buy himself a caravan, a better one than the old rustbucket across the way that Frank occasionally used. He’d probably opt for one of those motor home types and he’d live in it all the time and learn to drive so that he could go anywhere. At some point he might even buy himself a field like this where he could collect any stuff he fancied.

  The moon shone bright again. The two men in the 4x4 climbed out, their shadows falling long and black across the cold ground. One of them dipped the headlights before leaving the vehicle.

  Rhino held his breath. The dreams of better times were all in the future; first he had to avoid the two heavies out to take his windfall. One of them nodded in the direction of the open door of the caravan.

  Shit!

  The gas ring was still lit, the can of beans glowing red. Numpty! He should have turned it off.

  The heavies swore at the patches of broken ice beneath their feet. Where there was no ice, there was mud. The men were not amused. They didn’t like fields. They liked nice pavements and solid roads. Their surroundings turned their mood foul.

  One of them took a tyre iron from beneath the seat, weighing it in his right hand in an effort to get his grip just right for a hefty swing to the head of the man they were looking for.

  They’d asked the right questions about Rhino, knew he was big, knew he could take care of himself if need be. They also knew that he had what they wanted. Edna, the dirty old bag woman, had told them he’d come into money. A lot of money.

  ‘Some people out at Northend gave it to him and they’re dead so it’s his now. So he gave me his wagon,’ she’d told them. ‘For nothing.’

  She’d turned wary when they’d began asking her his whereabouts, his usual haunts, his friends – if he had any.

  The wariness had turned to fear when Blind Bob had started shaking her.

  Blind Bob wasn’t blind in the physical sense; he was blind to people’s pain and deaf to their pleas for mercy. Edna had annoyed him because she’d been prattling on like his mother used to prattle, sidestepping the issue, never quite getting to the point.

  He’d used the tyre iron to shut her up. He’d never liked his mother anyway. Edna had gone the same way.

  Claude had shook his head at Bob’s impatience, but said nothing. That was why they got on so well together; Claude didn’t prattle. Claude was a man of few words.

  ‘I smell sausages,’ murmured Blind Bob. ‘Somebody’s cooking supper. Reckon they got enough for uninvited guests?’

  Claude grunted. Blind Bob did like his little joke. He himself had never had much of a sense of humour. It went with his silence. Why speak or laugh when you didn’t need to? A grunt was as good as a word.

  ‘Looks as though he saw us coming. Ran off or hiding? Now which was it?’

  Claude didn’t bother to grunt a response. Like two wolves hunting down their prey, instinct and reason combined. They divided, each of the opinion that the man they were looking for couldn’t have gone far – not with supper on the gas.

  Rhino watched as they squelched their way across the crusted ground. One of them swore when a puddle of thin ice cracked beneath his shoe into the slop beneath.

  One went round one side of the caravan, one the other. Claude dropped down to look beneath the scruffy van; Blind Bob drew up an aluminium beer barrel, one of several left to fester in the grass. He stepped up on it and peered along the roof.

  Intent on their search, neither noticed the beans exploding from their tin and extinguishing the blue flame. The gas kept coming. Neither of them heard it hissing from among the smoking beans. Beans can be highly flammable; and unburned gas can be explosive.

  Used to working as a team, their attention switched from the outside of the caravan to the inside. It was the only place he could be.

  They came together at the door in mute agreement. They were going inside to open every cupboard, upend every couch to find him.

  Blind Bob went first. ‘Coming, ready or not,’ he called into the darkened van.

  Claude followed him silently. Only when Blind Bob took out his phone and turned on the light did Claude see the mish-mash of smoking beans and sausages and the match box suddenly bursting into flame. And the sound. The hissing of unlit propane.

  ‘Get –’

  Claude, the man of few words, had spoken his last one. The caravan exploded with such violence that the paintwork of the 4x4 was scarred down one side. A huge yellow flame leapt skywards. Bits of metal flew up into the air then rained down, clanging and clattering on the fridges, rusting cars, and acetylene bottles.

  Rhino’s temporary home was blown onto its side, its red roof seared black and smoking. The door was blasted off its hinges.

  Rhino was knocked unconscious. He didn’t hear the ambulance. He didn’t hear the fire engine. His arms were still wrapped around the red bag and the money.

  Chapter Nineteen

  John Rees had arrived unexpectedly.

  ‘You didn’t phone, so I figured you were busy and thought I’d pop round. You’re not rushing off anywhere, are you?’

  Honey shook her head. ‘Nothing at all.’

  Here was her opportunity to make amends; Doherty was hovering in the background, but was still rather huffy. She had no doubt he would come round, but in the meantime John was here. What was that ol
d saying? A bird in the hand …? A man in the hand counted the same. Though she assured herself they were only friends. Doherty was still her fiancé.

  ‘How about we …?’

  She’d been just about to suggest they sneak out and have lunch somewhere intimate, when her phone burbled like a strangulated parrot. It was Doherty …

  ‘Excuse me for a moment.’

  She felt her face reddening as she turned sideways on to take the call.

  ‘There was an old woman who lived in a shoe …’

  It was hardly what she was expecting him to say.

  ‘Is this some kind of riddle?’

  ‘Don’t you remember your nursery rhymes?’

  ‘That wasn’t one of my favourites. Is there some significance?’

  ‘We’ve found Rhino. He was hiding out where you wouldn’t expect to find him. In a shoe – boot – however you want to describe it, the kind provided for kiddies in pub gardens when their parents want some drinking time.’

  ‘What’s he got to say for himself?’

  ‘Nothing much. He’s injured.’

  ‘Badly?’

  ‘Not so badly as the other guys. A caravan explosion. Gas according to our experts. Baked beans and sausages according to Rhino. It’s proving difficult to separate the body parts from the sausages.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘No. Not really. They were only small sausages. As for Rhino, real name Henry Lester Landemore, he’s in hospital. Not serious but he’s saying nothing, not to us anyway. I need you to prompt him. He told you about the Crooks, but won’t say a word to us. There’s no guarantee he’ll open up to you, but it’s worth a try. I’ll pick you up in five minutes.’

  ‘That’s cutting it fine. It’ll take you longer than that to get here.’

  ‘I’m parked outside. You’ve got five minutes. By the way, he had company in the shoe – two million in fact.’

  The phone disconnected.

  Honey felt her neck getting warm; then her face. She turned to John.