Brotherly Blood

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Mary Jane, long term resident of the Green River Hotel and professor of the paranormal, was wearing what seemed to be a cotton trouser suit spewing Hawaiian palm trees all over it. She leaned on the reception desk, towering over both of them, bright blue eyes dancing from mother to daughter.

  ‘Not so much karma as car. Thanks to the sudden appearance of a handsome prince, Mum’s left her car at Bradford on Avon.’ Lindsey was grinning more widely than the Cheshire Cat in Alice and Wonderland.

  Honey grimaced. There were times for including Mary Jane in a conversation, and there were times when it was best to walk on by. This was definitely a walk on by scenario.

  ‘No problem,’ Honey said brightly, keen that Mary Jane did not offer her a lift. ‘I can get a bus and collect it.’

  Too late!

  Mary Jane was all gushing assistance. ‘No problem. I can drive you to Bradford on Avon.’ Her voice boomed around reception. Any lingering guest would think what a kind offer it was. Their opinion would be based on ignorance. They couldn’t know anything about Mary Jane’s driving.

  ‘Grandmother told me to say that she and Stewart will be arriving at nine. You can get back by then,’ added a smiling Lindsey, her eyes dancing with wickedness.

  ‘In double quick time,’ stated Mary Jane.

  ‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ muttered Honey.

  Dominic Christiansen congratulated himself. Honey Driver had walked straight into a trap, though she couldn’t possibly know that. Actually, neither had he at first, not until the message had come through and confirmed their worst suspicions. The Tarot Man was in the country and the intelligence services wanted him badly.

  Honey Driver would never have heard of him of course despite the fact that her family and his had a history, a bloody, cruel history that had been passed on from father to son.

  They, the intelligence services, were pretty sure the Tarot Man was here for revenge. They already had his modus operandi, his liking for killing young girls, cutting their hair and burying them alive. Murdering was a hobby to him, but revenge on those responsible for his father’s death was an obsession.

  Catching him was a big problem. They couldn’t stop him murdering young girls because they never knew who he would pounce on next. But they did know who he had in his sights as regards his professional vendetta. The opportunity to come to England had arisen and he had taken it. Now they waited for him to strike. The man at the side of the railway line had been a dummy run, the man the bait in the trap. They’d been too slow catching him this time so they had to try again.

  That’s where Honey Driver came in. She didn’t know it of course. She would not be told. Their task would be far easier that way. Everyone was now agreed on that. She was the bait and the trap had been set. Now all they had to do was wait for the Tarot Man to walk into it.

  Chapter Three

  Honey had always wanted a bright yellow car so when her old Citroen bit the dust, she immediately bought a new one. Yellow. Still a Citroen, but more jazzy than the old model.

  She loved that car. She’d love it even more once she was ensconced safely behind the steering wheel.

  The journey from Bath to Bradford on Avon went by in a whirl of speed, dodgy gear changing and even dodgier braking, all accompanied by the squealing of tyres.

  ‘Do you want me to hang around and see if it starts okay?’ Mary Jane oozed sincerity. She really didn’t have a clue about the affect her driving had on people.

  Clinging to the body of the Caddy until her wobbly legs were under control, Honey declined the offer. ‘It’s a new car. It’ll be fine.’

  Even if the car failed to start, she would clamber onto a bus, or even walk rather than endure another ride in Mary Jane’s pink Cadillac coupe. She’d learned from Mary Jane that the word Cadillac and indeed the word Pontiac, had been the names of Indian chiefs.

  ‘Real wild guys,’ Mary Jane had told her. ‘Wish I could have met them. How do you think they’d like cars being named after them?’

  Honey had taken the considered opinion that the two brave Indian chiefs would have been fine with that. The possibility of sharing Mary Jane’s driving was another matter entirely and might well have turned them into nervous wrecks.

  The first thing she did on sliding into the driver’s seat was to close her eyes, take a deep breath then reopen them. It wasn’t wise to open one’s eyes when Mary Jane was driving.

  Once her car was safely retrieved and returned to its parking space in the multi storey, she felt a great sense of relief which was immediately followed by feeling duty bound to call in on Caspar and see how he was getting on now they all knew for sure that he wasn’t dead.

  She found him sitting behind his desk in a handsome winged armchair in a soft shade of cornflower blue. He looked decidedly peaky, almost as though he had a seen a ghost.

  ‘I’ve been out to Bradford on Avon and thought I would pop in to see how you were. Would you prefer me to come back later?’

  He shook his head. Without waiting for an invitation, she sat down.

  Taking a deep breath, he appeared to regain his self control, his shrewd eyes fixing her so intently, she felt in the grip of a pair of steel pincers.

  ‘What did you find out?’

  She instantly gathered her thoughts.

  ‘I went out to where the man was found. It’s that stretch of railway line that runs almost parallel to the river where there’s no fencing and no gated crossing. Everyone just kind of pops over. Except the man who was found dead didn’t get the chance to pop over. He was buried there. I don’t know when he was laid in the ground, but we’ve had a lot of rain recently, plus the foliage had been cut back so there was a mud slide. He came with the mud slide from what I can gather.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear your boyfriend was so helpful.’

  Honey felt her face go red. She wasn’t about to declare that it wasn’t Doherty’s old friend who had filled her in on the matter. Dominic had been very forthcoming over lunch at The Swan.

  ‘I don’t know and although it’s terribly selfish of me to say so, Honey, but it’s such a relief to know it’s not me lying dead. I phoned a few other friends to assure them that the news of my death was greatly exaggerated. All of them reacted in varying degrees of astonishment.

  There were a few friends I couldn’t get hold of; Simon, an old flame with connections in Fleet Street is off on assignment in Berlin. He did finally get in touch and asked if there was anything he could do – like advice as to my rights of libel. He also said that it happened all the time and not to worry. But then he would. He wasn’t the one reported dead.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Though I am over it now. One has to get on with one’s life, doesn’t one?’

  Honey agreed that one did. She attempted to get her thoughts in order. There was a mystery here and both she and Caspar had got involved. A man was dead, but it wasn’t him that kept popping into her mind; that particular space was dominated by Dominic Christiansen.

  Caspar dragged her back to reality.

  ‘How successful have you been, my dear girl? Is there any description of this man?’

  Honey shook her head. ‘It’s been suggested he was a homeless person.’

  Caspar’s eyebrows rose. ‘Homeless? You mean less than pleasantly dressed?’

  He looked appalled at the prospect of being identified as an itinerant down and out. Caspar was always well turned out.

  ‘The man I spoke to did say that, but when I questioned how such a mistake could have been made, he thought he might have the facts wrong. Anyway, enquiries are continuing. It won’t be long. Have the police put in an appearance?’

  He nodded. ‘I had a phone call from someone suggesting I might be interviewed at some point. That was all.’

  Honey chewed over the facts which was much easier to do once she’d placed Dominic Christiansen on the back burner.

  ‘Someone left flowers. There was a card with it, but unsigned.’


  Something flickered in Caspar’s eyes. ‘How very touching.’

  ‘Yes, and a funny thing –it was a Tarot card, you know one of those fortune-telling cards. The Tarot Man.’

  ‘I know what a Tarot card is, thank you!’ His snappiness was out of character and very sudden.

  Although Caspar sounded indignant Honey also perceived a nervous flicker. Never in all the years of their acquaintance had she seen Caspar display any sign of nervousness.

  ‘The policeman who phoned. Did he give you a name?

  Caspar’s long fingers stroked his forehead as he thought about it.

  Honey gave him a prompt. ‘Was it a man named Dominic Christiensen.’

  ‘I think it was.’

  Honey frowned. ‘I’m going to ask Doherty if he’s ever heard of him. He knows quite a few people in the Wiltshire Constabulary. I mean, he did give me his card…’ She got it out from her bag and immediately spotted something odd. His name was on it but no status – no inspector, detective, nothing.

  ‘Funny. It doesn’t give his rank. Did he happen to mention it to you?’

  Caspar shook his head and looked away as though the man’s rank – or lack of it – didn’t count for anything.

  Honey pushed her hair back behind one ear. Getting hold of Doherty was top priority before he left for the Brecon Beacons and his team building exercise.

  ‘I think I have to run this past Steve again,’ she finally declared.

  Caspar paused and frowned. ‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I think that would be a very good idea.’

  Doherty had not yet left for his ten days away in the misty dampness of central Wales.

  She opened the door of the coach house she shared with her daughter to find him filling the gap in the doorway between the hall and the living room, an elbow resting on one side of the door surround. His look was nonchalant, a half smile on his face.

  ‘Are you ready for me?’

  She cocked her head to one side matching his sauciness with a large dose of her own.

  ‘That depends on your demands.’

  ‘I come bringing gifts – well one gift anyway. Wiltshire is being a bit difficult over releasing details of the man out at Bradford on Avon. I had to go above their heads. We should have the details in the morning.’

  She didn’t know why she shivered, but couldn’t help thinking of that old saying about somebody walking over her grave. But it wasn’t my grave, she told herself. It’s not me that’s dead. The need to reassure herself that she was still alive had something to do with her suggesting to Doherty that he stay awhile. She had supper on the go and enough to share.

  ‘Plus a decent bottle of New Zealand white wine.’

  ‘Sounds good.’ Steve asked her if there was anything for dessert.

  ‘We could liaise,’ she said, seductively.

  Doherty was not a man to turn down both a cooked supper and Honey Driver for dessert. Supper plus wine led to bed.

  As usual Detective Inspector Steve Doherty was on form. He wasn’t exactly a sexual athlete, but he certainly knew which buttons to press.

  ‘Steve,’ she moaned, as he snuggled into her back, his lips nuzzling her neck, his voice loaded with suggestions of what they might do next. ‘Do you know an officer in the Wiltshire police named Dominic Christiensen?’

  His body jiggled when he laughed. ‘Dominic what?’ He sounded disbelieving.

  She lifted her head and rested her chin on his shoulder. ‘Why do you laugh?’

  His laughter gradually gurgled into subsidence. ‘No self-respecting policeman would carry that particular monocle! It’s too public schoolboy. We prefer to have names like Dave, Mike, Sid and even George. But not Dominic. Definitely not Dominic. Where did you hear that name?’

  She managed to control her blush. ‘Out at Bradford on Avon. He was on duty there, plus two uniforms.’

  There was no real need to mention the uniforms, but she felt she had to, just in case Doherty put two and two together and came up with the correct answer.

  ‘What can you tell me about him?’

  ‘He had a very smart car. A black BMW. And you are right. He was terribly public schoolboy. Very upper crust.’

  Doherty stopped caressing her body. His expression turned grim. ‘I don’t think you should get involved.’

  ‘I didn’t say I was getting involved.’

  ‘You’re lying. I know you too well. You’re curious and once you get the bit between your teeth, there’s no stopping you.

  Honey sucked in her bottom lip. She wasn’t in the habit of lying to him. They’d always been up front and personal – very personal – with each other.

  ‘Honey, are you listening?’

  ‘Steve, you have to understand. I was so shocked when I read about that man and thought it was Caspar. Caspar was pretty upset too.’

  Steve gripped her shoulders. The look in his eyes was sharp enough to cut liver.

  ‘It’s over, Honey. It wasn’t Caspar and there’s no reason for you to investigate.’

  ‘But Caspar insisted. He’s so keen to find out…’

  ‘Honey. Didn’t you hear what I’m saying? Caspar has no real reason to continue with this. I don’t understand where he’s coming from. It’s cleared up and there’s no reason for it. Do you get me?’

  Honey had to concede that he was right. There was no need for Caspar to maintain his interest in the dead man. Unless there was something Caspar wasn’t telling her, though she couldn’t think what that might be.

  Doherty brought the full intensity of his startling gaze to bear on her.

  ‘Will you promise to drop this?’

  She promised him that she would let it go, but that night she dreamed of Dominic Christiansen. Something about him was egging her on.

  Chapter Four

  Dominic Christiansen regarded the body lying on the mortuary slab as though he was seeing the man for the first time. At first glance once would think that the true cause of death was still visible in respect of a vivid line around his neck. But the rope was for display purposes only, to coincide with one of the cards in the Tarot deck, Orlov’s calling card.

  The man had been buried alive after first being rendered immobile by the prick of a needle. He would have known everything that was happening to him, just like the girls that Orlov killed as a hobby. Killing old adversaries of his father was part of his professional makeup. Killing girls was a hobby. He didn’t care who the girls were which was why he was proving so difficult to catch. But the killings they believed he had planned were a different matter.

  He looked at the body. They should have been able to save this man but had lost him. The only consolation for his family was that he’d given his life in the service of his country.

  ‘Satisfied?’

  He nodded and said that he was.

  A plain clothes police officer was waiting out in the foyer to ask questions. He’d get answers of course, though nothing that would lead to any verdict, in other words, inconclusive. That’s what they were being told to believe and that was the order they were required to follow.

  He responded to all their questions and couldn’t help smiling at the deference in their faces in response to his dominating presence and the sound of his voice. It was the voice of course, straight out of a public school that had educated quite a few British prime ministers, the sons of titled lords, military men and many of the shakers and movers in the banking industry.

  ‘Something funny, Mr Christiansen?’ It was the police officer that had followed him out.

  Dominic shook his head causing his silky hair to fall forward and caress his chin. He pushed it back, a little foppishly than he would normally do, but the police so love to catalogue people. Hearing his refined voice and his effeminate gestures, they would mark him down as homosexual – which of course he was not. Far from it in fact.

  He wondered if the dead man would have found this whole charade amusing. From what he knew of him, he most certainly would. The deed
was done. His death would be written down as inconclusive and nobody would be any the wiser.

  Between leaving the double doors of the morgue behind him and gaining his car, he received a message from Devizes Police Headquarters via a relay point in Cheltenham. A detective from Bath had been asking if they had a police officer named Dominic Christiansen working there. It was the Cheltenham operative’s job to say that indeed they did, and if he would like Mr Christiansen to call him back…?

  Detective Inspector Steve Doherty had left his number. Dominic called it but didn’t give the policeman chance to say anything.

  ‘Christiansen here. I believe you were trying to get in touch with me regarding a death that occurred outside your jurisdiction.’

  There was a pause before Detective Inspector Doherty answered. The thoughtful type, thought Dominic. Watch out. A man who thinks can be dangerous.

  ‘Sorry to intrude, sir, I have a vested interest. An old friend asked for more details. Somebody thought it was my friend on the railway line. I would be interested to know more detail.’

  Having Honey Driver asking questions was one thing. They’d considered her policeman boyfriend might show an interest, though hoped he could be easily warned off. Perhaps he could not.

  ‘People have accidents all the time. The pressures of modern living and all that. I understand the vibration from a passing train was responsible for the mud slide, plus the errant weather of course.’

  Again that thoughtful pause. When Doherty spoke again Dominic heard a trace of humour. He could cope with that. Unfortunately he also detected disbelief.

  ‘Nothing’s run on that line for two days. There was a signal failure.’

  ‘You must be mistaken.’

  ‘No. I don’t think so. I think you’re spinning a tale. So, what’s the score? What really happened? Who was that man and how come he was wrongly identified?’

  Now it was Dominic’s turn to pause. There was no way he could tell the truth, so he’d have to pull rank.