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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘Unless he found that two million amongst Rhino’s stuff, which we know he didn’t.

  So the money came from somewhere else. But where?’

  ‘How about the identity of the victims of the exploding beans?’

  ‘We’re doing dental and DNA checks, so hope to have something shortly. Thing is the goons were only the tools; somebody was behind them pulling the strings. They were paid to get rid of the Crooks; paid to find the money. They knew Rhino had it. One of the Crooks had told them. But they didn’t know where Rhino was. So they made enquiries of the street people and came across Edna. She knew about the money and some of the places where Rhino was likely to be. They went round a few before going to the field and finding Rhino doing his nursery rhyme bit.’

  Honey turned the glass round and round on the bar top as she thought it through. A little alcohol oiled the brain cells; too much would deaden them. At present her intake was just about right.

  ‘The two thugs were working for somebody else. I wonder who?’

  ‘We’ll know more when we know who the baked bean baddies were.’

  ‘I wonder where Rhino is now.’

  ‘Gone to ground.’

  ‘Do you think he’s safe?’

  Doherty regarded his drink with stoical reticence. ‘He’s streetwise. He knows places the rest of us don’t know. Whether anyone is searching for him …’ He shrugged. ‘The media reported the caravan fire and the destroyed 4x4. The registration of the 4x4 was false – of course. But we never released details about the money we found.’

  ‘In that case let’s hope Rhino’s found a safe refuge. But I was wondering …’

  His eyebrows arched beautifully above deep set eyes. ‘Whether I was still good in bed …?’

  ‘No, but it was up there on my list of questions to ask of national and personal importance. I was wondering why they let Rhino stay in the attic at Moss End?’

  Doherty shook his head. ‘I don’t think he was staying there. I think they were keeping him there. They wanted to get away. The idea was to keep him there until they’d made a clean getaway. It was Rhino who had given them the key …’ He rubbed at his chin, the sound of whiskers rasping against his fingers.

  Honey twirled the glass and set the ice cubes clinking.

  ‘And Rhino wouldn’t have minded being kept there. Besides three meals and an en suite bathroom, it had a television set.’

  ‘It was still on when Scene of Crimes went in. I’ve had somebody give those urns a going over. We managed to get them transported to Manvers Street. We found two holes that weren’t holes; set into one of the dancing figures. You wouldn’t have noticed them. They looked like eyes. And guess what?’

  ‘A secret compartment. The money was hidden in there. So where did it come from?’

  ‘Dishonest sources. My thinking is that Rhino mentioned the key when he was doing his deals with Crook. Crook listened to Rhino’s story of how he came across it. At the same time he was interested in a newspaper Rhino gave him. Do you remember?’

  Honey nodded. ‘So?’

  ‘Something in that newspaper triggered off something about the key. Plus the auction catalogue. A nice shiny picture of the urns inside it. I reckon Boris Crook had seen those urns before. I reckon he put two and two together. He was a colonial.’

  Honey nodded. ‘So I understand.’

  ‘From South Africa. He did something with conveyor belts. Travelled all over.’

  Honey pouted. Selling conveyor belts all over Africa sounded a pretty boring pastime. But then, Boris Crook hadn’t looked the sort to climb Kilimanjaro or paddle his own canoe up the Zambesi – or was it down the Zambesi?

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  Doherty looked down into his drink and shook his head. ‘I don’t know. That’s the bloody trouble. I just don’t know.’

  ‘We should have quizzed Rhino more at the hospital. He might have given us a lead without even knowing it.’

  Doherty eyed her accusingly. ‘Well if you hadn’t been hogging him with all that quiz stuff. The man was obsessed with general knowledge.’

  ‘Which means he can read and write and what’s more, retain information. His trolley was full of old newspapers and magazines that day I met him outside Manvers Street. He told me himself that he was a mine of information and read a lot of what he toted around. Even I referred to it as a wandering library and he agreed with me. What if he’d read something and mentioned reading it to the Crooks?’

  ‘So what was it?’

  Honey sucked in her lips as she thought about it. ‘Do you still have the supermarket trolley Rhino handed over to Edna?’

  ‘It was hardly priority on our victims’ effects list, but I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘He might be lying about them telling him to take the bag and meet them at the station.’

  ‘Probably not. I know I’m a cop and we tend to believe the worst of people, but Rhino strikes me as relatively honest.’

  ‘That’s big of you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I think we’re agreed that their night time visitors would go after Rhino – once they’d told them he had the money. Two million pounds is nothing compared to two lives – even if it means running a guest house for the rest of your days.’

  ‘But they were wrong. They were both killed and …’

  ‘Thrown off the roof and bull’s eye – straight into those hideous Greek style urns.’

  ‘Back to the urns again.’

  ‘It’s always back to the urns. Can we change the subject?’

  ‘OK.’ Honey told him about Rhoda and the missing husband.

  ‘Are you going to claim the five thousand pounds?’

  Honey shook her head. ‘And neither is my mother. She’s suddenly finding it all very romantic. The Italian warden at Overton House has got a lot to do with that. He’s got white hair, brown eyes, and a Mediterranean complexion. Heads turn when he passes and he knows how to charm a woman.’

  ‘Has he charmed you?’

  ‘I’m not into smooth men. I like them a bit rough around the edges.’

  ‘Is that what I am? Rough around the edges?’

  ‘Would you prefer to be Prince Charming and have women falling at your feet?’

  ‘No. I’d prefer you falling into my bed.’

  That night she made an excuse not to go home and slept at Doherty’s. In the middle of the night she sat bolt upright after a dream, staring into the darkness of the room as though there was something to see.

  ‘What’s up? You OK?’

  Doherty sounded groggy but concerned.

  ‘I had a dream.’

  ‘A nightmare?’

  ‘No. Just a dream. It was about the urns.’

  ‘Shit!’

  Doherty crashed back upon his pillow, one arm across his face.

  ‘I suppose you want to tell me about it,’ he said, forcing himself to push his grogginess aside.

  ‘I saw Boris and Doris upside down in those urns but they weren’t dead. They were alive and looking for something.’

  ‘What? Worms? Daffodil bulbs?’

  He stopped making fun and sat up.

  ‘Money?’

  When she looked at him there was just enough light coming in from the street outside to see the expression on his face.

  ‘If we’re to find out where the money came from, we need to find out more about those urns.’

  ‘Bonhams are checking. How about I start with Alistair and then on to Miss Porter. Mrs Hicks will have a forwarding address.’

  She lay back down, Doherty’s arm behind her neck.

  ‘Did you see the naughty figures parading around those urns?’

  Honey smiled into the darkness. ‘Yes. I didn’t know you did.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought some of those positions were possible.’

  ‘Well, you know what they say. You don’t know until you try.’

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Miss Ginny Porter w
as an energetic soul with iron grey hair and a soul-searching face in that she had a very direct way of looking at you. She looked the sort who had never blushed in her life and never balked from asking an awkward question.

  She was wearing jeans and a navy blue jersey sporting an RNLI motif on the left breast. A green and blue neckerchief was clasped at the throat with a scarf clasp that sparkled as though it were set with diamonds and emeralds, though in reality it had to be made of paste.

  ‘It’s a lovely bungalow,’ said Honey admiring the patch of well-kept garden outside the window. ‘And you’re on a bus route.’

  ‘Beats being in town,’ said Miss Porter as they followed her into the kitchen. ‘I wouldn’t have a garden in town. I’d have to live in one of those bloody awful retirement flats along with a lot of old crocks. Not for me. Shared enough billets when I was in the Navy.’

  ‘You were a WREN?’ asked Honey, referring to the women’s branch of the Royal Navy.’

  ‘Oh yes. Then when the old-style Navy gave way to the new, I resigned. Luckily my father had left me quite a packet. The title went to my brother. He’s an earl. I’m plain old Miss Porter, but you can call me Ginny. No point in standing on ceremony on this ship.’

  The kitchen she led them into was modern and bright with a southerly aspect over fields and the weir on the River Avon at Saltford. It smelled of home cooking in a gentle way; fresh produce and carefully prepared meals for one. The cupboard doors were white, the worktops black marble. A utensils rack hung over the central island.

  A collection of herbs growing in pots were ranged along the kitchen window ledge. One of the pots held a pair of hyacinths, their leaves piercing the earth by about three inches.

  Doherty pulled out one of the high stools ranged beneath the black marble work surface for Honey to sit on before pulling one out for himself.

  Doherty outlined the investigation and told her about the part her plastic Greek urns had played.

  ‘I suppose you think I have no taste buying such monstrosities!’ She laughed and it was obvious she wouldn’t have been offended if they’d agreed with her.

  Miss Porter continued to talk, her hands stilled in the process of slicing the carrots each time she wished to make a specific point about her leaving Moss End Guest House and moving into a bungalow in what was essentially a suburb rather than city or country.

  Honey asked her about the urns. ‘I wouldn’t have thought they were quite your thing.’

  ‘You’re quite right. They were not my thing at all. My own fault really. I should have checked that I’d bid for the right ones, and then to enter “last bid” – well – I really did get egg on my face.’ She laughed and shook her head at her own stupidity.

  ‘Was there much interest in the urns from other bidders?’ Honey asked.

  Miss Porter offered her a piece of fluted carrot which she accepted and munched on contentedly. It was sweet and fresh; probably grown in Miss Porter’s own garden.

  ‘Not really. Apparently they were a late addition to the auction. Somebody did come along some months later and ask if I would be interested in selling them, but I told them I couldn’t possibly do that. You see, I’d already signed and exchanged contracts for the sale of Moss End and the urns were listed on the inventory. I couldn’t possibly break a legal contract – even for the money they offered me.’

  ‘Who was it offered you the money?’

  Carrots finished, Miss Porter began shredding cabbage. ‘I never saw them,’ she said as she sliced the cabbage head with a heavy, sharp blade. ‘Somebody phoned me and said they were willing to buy them. They offered me a few thousand. I told them I very much appreciated their offer, but couldn’t possibly oblige. Moss End was sold and the urns were sold with it. If they wished to approach the new buyers, they were welcome to do so.’

  Honey voiced the number one question as they hurtled back along the main A4 into Bath.

  ‘Who was it offered to buy them?’

  ‘And why?’ added Doherty.

  ‘Perhaps you need a psychic on the case,’ Honey suggested.

  ‘And of course you’ve got just the person in mind. The answer is no. This is straightforward police work. Besides, the more your American friend is kept off the road, the less likely she is to be arrested for dangerous driving. It’s safer for all concerned, including the residents of Bath.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘I’m sure Casper would agree with me.’

  There was hidden meaning in Doherty’s last remark. Honey sat silently letting the grey looking fields flash past without a glance. There was nothing to see.

  Honey gave it one last try. ‘She did get it right about the plastic gnomes and Bert Watchpole.’

  ‘No. My final word. No Mary Jane. No otherworldly mumbo-jumbo.’

  She could read all the signs; the clenched jaw, the hard look in the eyes. Doherty was adamant. The police would not be requesting the skills of a mumbo-jumbo practitioner. But, hey, that didn’t mean she couldn’t give it a go.

  It was five o’clock, the night had settled in dark, damp, and drizzling with rain.

  The whole thing ended up a bit like a family outing; Lindsey wanted to come, Honey’s mother wanted to come, and Mary Jane was as restless as a cat about to have kittens. Yes, of course she would do it, and wasn’t it mighty fine that her vibes regarding Bert Watchpole had been correct.

  Lindsey was bubbling with laughter. ‘I can’t believe that none of you claimed the reward for finding Mr Watchpole. Five thousand pounds. That would have bought a cruise in the sun, Grandma … sorry … Gloria.’

  ‘True romance is worth more than five thousand pounds,’ snapped Gloria, who was sitting in the front passenger seat beside Mary Jane. Not out of choice, but purely because Honey and Lindsey had leapt into the rear seat like a couple of kangaroos being chased by a pack of dingoes.

  On arrival Mary Jane stood outside the metal gate with her eyes closed and her arms held wide. This was her method of picking up whatever vibes there were around the place. It was basically akin to going into a trance, but deep trances were something she tried to avoid. She was getting older and not so good at bouncing back out of them.

  ‘Gloomy old place,’ said Gloria, who was not a great one for old places though she made exceptions for Buckingham Palace, Windsor Castle, and Balmoral. If they were good enough for Her Majesty the Queen, they were good enough for her.

  Lindsey gave a so-so shake of her head. ‘I’m not one for early Georgian myself, but it’s not that bad.’

  ‘I feel a door,’ said Mary Jane.

  Jerked out of their conversation, everyone else looked around them searching for the door Mary Jane had a feeling about.

  Honey’s mother pulled her pure wool coat around her slim shoulders. ‘Well there’s a gate in front of us. Might as well go in.’

  The gate squealed when she pushed it open.

  Mary Jane was still standing with her eyes closed.

  Honey caught hold of her arm. ‘We’re going in, Mary Jane.’

  ‘I’m OK with that.’

  The eyes opened and the long arms came down. She halted halfway to the front door and tilted her head back.

  ‘They came down there. Like kids on a slide.’ Her head jerked back to normal. ‘And ended up in there.’ She nodded at each of the urns in turn.

  ‘My,’ exclaimed Honey’s mother. ‘Isn’t she brilliant. She knows exactly what happened here.’

  Lindsey grinned. ‘Don’t we all? It was in all the newspapers and on TV.’

  Gloria readjusted her handbag and scraped some mud from off the heel of her shoe. ‘I don’t read newspapers and I avoid watching the news on TV. I don’t want to know what’s going on in the world.’

  Mary Jane remained transfixed. She was eyeing the urns.

  ‘Pretty ugly,’ said Lindsey. ‘I mean, who in their right mind would have these?’

  Honey pointed out that Miss Porter had bought them by mistake.

  ‘In my humble op
inion, the owner who put them up for sale should have burned them. They’re hardly decorative.’

  ‘They came from a nightclub. Naked dancers used to jump out of them – or something. I don’t know the exact details.’

  There were moments in Honey’s life when sudden inspirations of genius flashed on in her mind like a chain of fairy lights. This was one of them.

  ‘That’s it. We don’t have the exact details.’

  Keen to see Mary Jane do her stuff, the others weren’t really listening to what Honey was saying. What was a brilliant take on a murder case compared to a dotty dame from La Jolla?

  Gloria peered at the figures on the urns and decided she wasn’t seeing enough detail so undid her handbag. A rare thing was about to happen. Gloria Cross was about to be seen in public wearing spectacles.

  ‘These figures are doing lewd things,’ she said, more with wonder than condemnation.

  Lindsey peered closer too. ‘They’re certainly not authentic, but then they wouldn’t be.’ She tapped the side of the urn with her knuckle. ‘Plastic. Part of a stage set.’

  ‘In a nightclub,’ Honey added. ‘We know that much, but not which nightclub, but there are ways …’

  She sidled off over the rough flagstones of a patio shaped like a half moon. Doherty was on voicemail which meant he was either interviewing somebody, in conference with a senior officer, or having forty winks.

  She left a message. ‘These urns; where did they come from? Alistair at Bonhams would know this, and do you recall his cousin, the freelance bouncer, mentioning he’d seen them before at a nightclub? Which nightclub? Who owned it? And does it tie in with any piece of news hanging around in Rhino’s old trolley, the one he passed to Edna?’

  When she came off the phone, Lindsey was peering up into Mary Jane’s face.

  ‘She’s in a trance.’

  ‘That’s what she does,’ whispered her grandmother. ‘Now don’t go waking her up. It’s dangerous to wake her up before she’s ready.’