Brotherly Blood

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘Can I come with you?’

  ‘You’re not a member of the police force.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. To the station. Caspar is keen on getting this sorted as quickly as possible and he’d like to know who it really was out there. I take it you’re going to be briefed on the details.’

  He shook his head. ‘The incident occurred in Bradford on Avon. That’s in Wiltshire in case you didn’t know and outside the jurisdiction of Avon and Somerset.’

  Honey slammed her palm hard on her forehead. ‘Damn!’ Police authorities jealously guarded their given territory.

  ‘Can’t put my big boot in there.’

  Honey sucked in her breath. ‘That’s a shame. Caspar was pretty shocked when I took the piece round to him.’

  Doherty grinned. ‘I bet he was.’

  ‘It’s not funny.’

  The serious expression returned but the laughter was still in his eyes.

  ‘Of course it’s not.’ A smile continued to hover around his lips.

  ‘I would fall apart if I read I was reported dead,’ she said testily.

  ‘So Caspar’s ordered you to look into it, though it’s odd him wanting to get involved seeing as it didn’t happen in Bath.’

  She nodded. ‘Well not exactly ordered…’

  Doherty pulled a disbelieving expression. ‘I suppose his view was altered a tad when he saw his name in the headlines.’

  She put oodles of pleading into her expression. ‘Can you help?’

  He blew a low whistle and shook his head. ‘They won’t like it. I would be treading on toes. It’s not my territory.’

  ‘OK,’ she said nodding her head slowly. ‘I see where you’re coming from. It wouldn’t be professional for you to make enquiries, but surely you know somebody in Wiltshire constabulary who might be able to help? Somebody I could talk to?’

  He closed one eye, a habit when he was thinking deeply or suspecting that Honey was demanding favours he might not be able to fulfill.

  ‘Sefton Goudge. He’s the man who might be able to help you – as a favour to me. He used to be based in Bath, but retired from active service in Bath to take a desk job in Wiltshire – one of the back room boys.’

  Honey beamed, kissed him and nipped her hands around his waistline, not so much as a pleasure to him but to herself. His body was so damned hard!

  Doherty murmured his appreciation, then added. ‘I like your powers of persuasion and with a view to experiencing a repeat performance, I will make a few preliminary enquiries.’

  Honey leaned close and kissed him. ‘Your help would definitely merit a repeat performance, perhaps on a more intimate level.’

  Doherty smiled. ‘That’s exactly what I hoped to hear. In the meantime go poke your nose in where you can.’

  ‘I’ve no problem with that. It’s a nice day,’ she said, looking round her at people in short sleeved tops, some in shorts. ‘I think I might take a drive and then a walk along the river.’

  Doherty nodded. ‘Ahuh. In Bradford on Avon.’

  ‘Seems like a good idea. Sorry you can’t come.’ She genuinely wished he could.

  ‘Take care,’ he said, taking hold of her shoulders and kissing her forehead. ‘And don’t get in anyone’s way.’

  He whistled as he stalked off, jacket still flung over his shoulder. How could a guy look so deliciously tempting even when strolling along the pavement? Still, there was no point in dreaming. A city pavement was just too public for what she had in mind.

  In the meantime it really was a nice day and it would be interesting to see where the body was found. There was bound to be some action still going on there. Odd about false identity though; why Caspar? Yes, it was funny, but also intriguing.

  Honey parked her bright yellow Citroen in the car park adjacent to the river walk and convenient for the public toilets. She guessed that the body had been found some way down river from the famous medieval bridge spanning the flowing water in the centre of the pretty town. She recalled the meadows sloping gently down from the tree line, the weavers’ cottages, the narrow track climbing upwards into denser vegetation and the pedestrian access over the railway line. Scary really having a railway line so open to public access.

  The parkland area where people strolled and walked their dogs petered out into rougher terrain just beyond the place where the path climbed upwards towards the railway line. That’s where the blue tape fluttered, stretched across the path and preventing anyone from walking further. Following recent wet weather and the cutting back of denser foliage, a lot of mud had shifted.

  Two uniformed constables were on duty, both arguing with a particularly irate dog walker who expressed the sentiment that her dogs got very upset if they didn’t keep to a strict routine and they went walkies along this track every single day. No matter how the policemen tried to impress on her that something very bad had taken place on the railway track, the routine habits of her dogs outweighed anything so mundane as a human death – or at least to her they did.

  ‘There’s been an incident, madam…’

  ‘That was days ago. And anyway, you’ve just allowed a car to roll down here. What about that? It disturbs more ground than me and my dog, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’m sorry….’

  ‘People commit suicide on railway lines all the time. It’s not as though it was a murder now, was it?’

  ‘Madam, we cannot possibly comment…’

  Hearing their indecision, Honey’s thoughts went back to the newspaper headline. Suspicious circumstances. Why suspicious? If, as the dog-walking lady said, it was indeed a suicide, then it wasn’t suspicious. The truth wouldn’t be revealed until a full pathology examination had been carried out.

  Honey felt a surge of instant curiosity. How things could change from one minute to the next. This wasn’t just about finding out why Caspar’s name had been affixed to the corpse.

  Whilst the dog lady continued to berate the police and their gross insensitivity to her and her dogs, Honey ducked underneath the tape. The shrubs thereabouts grew thickly at the side of the path all the way up the slope.

  There was only one white incident van still there, its rear doors open to facilitate the used siren suits and bulging incident cases being thrown into the back. By virtue of the warm weather and the sticky suits, two people were mopping their brows and stretching their arms before climbing into the van and driving off.

  One vehicle remained – a shiny black Mercedes with tinted windows and alloy wheels.

  It crossed her mind as being quite an upmarket car for a policeman. It had to be a policeman. Nobody else would have been allowed to park adjacent to the fluttering incident tape. Not that he seemed to be in evidence at present. The scene was now bereft of people, the gleaming rails running in each direction and no sight or sound of a train.

  Taking a quick look round to make sure nobody was watching, she stealthily approached the place on the railway line. Bending down she scrutinised the place where chalk marks and a spray can of white paint outlined where the body had been found, though by virtue of the terrain, only scrappily. Apart from the markings all that remained were dark bits of gravel between the rails plus a few stains on the wooden sleepers.

  It came as something of a surprise to see that she was not the first civilian visitor to the site. A stunning bouquet of orange, blue and purple flowers had been left at the scene. Closer examination revealed no note, no tender words hastily scribbled on a simple card that might have told her the name of either the victim or the person who had left the flowers.

  She leaned closer, smelled the blooms but saw nothing more – except a card tucked down the back of the flowers. At first she thought it was a playing card, but then saw it was a Tarot – the hanging man, one foot tied from a tree.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  A shadow fell over her. The new arrival’s footsteps had been so soft she hadn’t heard a thing.

  Startled she hastily tucked the playing card into her
bra. There wasn’t that much room in her bra but just enough.

  She spun round expecting to see some overbearing police officer wearing an officious expression and about to tell her to sod off!

  He was no more than a silhouette, the sun behind him forming a halo around his head. His features remained indistinct until he sidestepped onto more level ground and out of the sunlight behind him.

  Honey drank in the details. He was tall and well dressed; his hair silvery blonde, flat and glossy over his skull and flicking around his collar.

  She was instantly reminded of a medieval knight, gleaming hair, chiselled expression, china blue eyes. He didn’t look the sort of copper who’d ever graced a police uniform and done traffic duty, though other uniforms were distinctly possible.

  Smiling disarmingly though businesslike she held out her hand. ‘How do you do. I’m Crime Liaison Officer for Bath Hotels’ Association. My name’s Honey Driver. I usually liaise with Detective Inspector Steve Doherty at Manvers Street in Bath on serious crime matters that might affect Bath’s international tourist trade. I realise that this man died in Wiltshire, but I’m working on a case of mistaken identity. A newspaper wrongly reported the identity of the victim, in fact naming a friend of mine. He was quite upset.’

  The hand that shook hers was firm. Warm. Lingering. His smile was enticing enough to make her knees shake. ‘Do I call you Honey?’

  She smiled. Defenceless. Smitten. ‘Please do.’

  ‘So, you’re interested in this case?’

  Holding his head to one side he looked her up and down as though he could measure her height, breadth and width with nothing more than a quick glance. It crossed her mind that he might also be able to surmise the colour of her underwear. Just the thought of it made her blush.

  ‘My name’s Dominic Christiansen. Do call me Dominic. Pleased to meet you. So, your friend’s name was mentioned in a newspaper article?’

  His accent was cut glass, his eyes unblinking and he oozed the confidence of a man born into money and privilege, the product of somewhere like Eton or Harrow.

  Honey gathered her own confidence up together. ‘Yes. He was very upset. How it happened, we don’t really know. Possibly just a newspaper journalist jumping the gun.’

  ‘Possibly. Poor chap. Nobody wants to read about their own death. Almost as bad as suffering it!’

  So laid back. Her hormones did a belly dance.

  ‘Yes. I read it and thought it referred to my friend. The name was the same. I went round to see him and there he was as large as life. It’s very strange.’

  ‘And your friend’s name?’

  ‘Caspar St John Gervais. He’s chairman of Bath Hotels Association. After reading that little snippet I shot off to check if it was true. He has a hotel in Bath. It was a bit of a shock to see him sitting in his office drinking coffee, I can tell you.’

  It was sudden and could have been imagined, but she perceived a sudden flash in the man’s eyes, as though he’d heard Caspar’s name before.

  ‘Have you met him?’

  ‘He shook his head. ‘I can’t say I have.’

  ‘Well I do hope we can clear this up.’

  ‘So do I.’ She decided the sudden flash might well have been imagined. His smile was mouth watering.

  ‘I’ll be handling the investigation. Here’s my card. It’s my mobile number. I don’t give it out to just anyone, so keep it to yourself or I’ll have every Tom, Dick and PC Smartass phoning me!’

  He laughed at his own joke. Honey laughed too and did her best to stop visualising him in other capacities. My, but this man was gorgeous. She barely looked at the card though she had been half inclined to shove it down into her bra but had no wish to give the wrong impression. Besides, one card in her bra was quite enough for one day.

  Not that she wished to impress him merely because he was good looking. Oh no, that would be far too shallow. However she couldn’t help weighing him up. Judging by his height he would stretch full length on a bed without an inch to spare!

  He said nothing.

  She said nothing.

  They just stood there looking each other up and down, no secret to either of them what was going through their minds. This was like standing on the edge of the cliff, hypnotised by the view and wanting to jump into it. Only the vision of Doherty with his jacket thrown over his shoulder stopped her from falling off the edge. In the meantime she would make small talk, another word for getting information she might not normally be party to.

  ‘So! Is there anything you can tell me? I mean, do you know the true identity of the dead man?’

  For a moment he just looked at her with what she could only describe as a steely gaze – the sort hot-blooded heroes adopted in her mother’s romantic novels. Was he going to tell her anything or not?

  Suddenly he glanced over her head as though he were considering his options.

  At last he turned back to face her. ‘Very well. Seeing as your friend was wrongly identified…in the strictest confidence of course.’

  She nodded. ‘Of course.’

  His gaze held hers. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Was it suicide, an accident or murder?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that just yet. He was dead. That will have to suffice for now. We’re making enquiries as to his true identity and assessing the details of his death. Sorry your friend got involved. I can’t imagine who gave the newspaper his name.’

  ‘He’ll get over it. I’m not sure the newspaper editor will though. Caspar doesn’t easily forgive anyone who takes his name in vain – that includes mentioning him on front page headlines.’

  ‘This friend of yours sounds quite a character. I’d like to meet him – just in case he might shed some light on the victim.’

  ‘Oh I doubt there was any chance that he knew the victim,’ said Honey shaking her head.

  His face clouded. ‘Perhaps you’re not quite as close a friend as you thought.’

  ‘He doesn’t do Devizes,’ she blurted.

  Christiansen frowned. ‘Devizes?’

  ‘Wiltshire police headquarters; I understand it’s in Devizes.’

  ‘Ah yes! Of course!’ He gave an affirmative nod of his head, but she couldn’t help thinking he hadn’t known what she was talking about. If he was employed by Wiltshire police he would know Devizes was police headquarters for the county.

  However, he offered her a crumb of solace. ‘He wouldn’t need to go to Devizes. I can come to him.’

  ‘That’s very good of you.’

  ‘No problem at all.’

  ‘Look. If you need to contact me…’

  It wasn’t often she gave out her business cards. Usually they remained in her desk gathering dust or curling at the corners in her pocket or purse. Still she carried them just in case a special occasion presented itself. Dominic Christiansen was that special occasion.

  For a moment he eyed her thoughtfully and she eyed him right back. This was a dynamite moment and she couldn’t easily walk away.

  ‘Have you got time for a coffee?’

  His invitation took her by surprise. ‘We…ll. Ye…ss.’

  OK, her response was stammered but wasn’t long coming. He’d taken her off guard. She was putty in his hands.

  ‘Get in the car. The Swan looks a good place and there’s room to park my car at the rear.’

  ‘There are other places…’

  ‘With car parks?’

  ‘Well some you’d have to park in a public car park or out on the road…’

  ‘My car is never parked at the side of the road. Come on. Get in.’

  She didn’t argue. He just wasn’t the kind of man you argued with. Dominic Christiansen was Alpha male in all his glory.

  The interior of the car smelled of expensive aftershave and warm leather. She glanced at his profile as they drove the brief journey to the Swan car park.

  What started off as coffee turned into lunch and a brief sojourn became two hours when he told her th
at the dead man was scruffy and was possibly homeless.

  It was the only time during their lunch that her thoughts flipped back to the circumstances.

  ‘Goodness! Why would anyone think it was Caspar? I mean, he’s exactly the opposite of scruffy. Fastidious in fact.’

  ‘Perhaps I got the details wrong. I’ll check,’ he said. ‘He had been buried in mud so his clothes would have suffered. But we’ll look into it.’

  His smile obliterated her need to know.

  Ten minutes after taking leave of him she was still reeling. Snippets of what they’d talked about were remembered, though dominated by his presence, his good looks, the smoothness of his hair and the deepness of his voice. He’d asked her a lot about herself, her business, her family and her reasons for accepting the job of Crime Liaison Officer.

  They took leave of each other outside the Green River Hotel, Honey feeling as though she was walking on air. She skipped into reception whistling As Time Goes By – corny and old time romantic, but that was the mood she was in.

  ‘Who was that?’

  A pair of brown eyes watched her intently. Her daughter Lindsey was the crutch upon which she leaned. She was also abnormally observant for one so young and, if Honey cared to admit it, ran the Green River Hotel better than she did.

  Honey threw her folded arms onto the reception counter top. ‘He’s a policeman. Wasn’t he gorgeous!’

  ‘Very fetching – from what I could see of him. Fabulous car too. Where did you find him?’

  ‘Bradford on Avon.’ Honey sighed.

  ‘And he gave you a lift back?’

  She threw back her head, eyes closed in rapture at the memory of his closeness, his smell and the dancing seductiveness of his eyes. ‘Yes, yes, YES!’

  ‘So where’s your car?’

  One short sentence and Honey’s bubble was well and truly burst. She groaned.

  ‘Damn.’

  The truth was most definitely out there as they used to say in The X files. She was here in the Green River Hotel. The car was still in Bradford on Avon.

  ‘Honey! I haven’t seen you all day and now that I am seeing you, there’s an aura about you that’s turning from gold, to pink and on to scarlet. Some karma, wish-list related, got hold of you?’