Blood and Broomsticks

by Jean G. Goodhind

  When nothing came, she found something to say herself.

  ‘I think the main question with Boris and Doris was not so much where they were going, but why?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, glancing down at the paperwork again. ‘They were definitely going somewhere. Every sign of it. But no tickets. No online reservations. Nothing. We’ve checked.’

  ‘And your considered opinion?’

  ‘A sudden danger? A sudden threat?’

  ‘Wherever it was, they were going away for a long time. Nobody runs their stocks down like that unless they’re off for quite a while. It couldn’t have been a holiday.’

  ‘Sounds as though it was planned.’

  Honey agreed. ‘I’ll ask around. Maybe they told somebody where they were going – somebody who works for them or friends.’ Not that they were likely to have any friends in this short a time. Or employees, but she’d check anyway.

  He grunted something unintelligible and began shuffling papers. She waited for him to look up again and seeing it was late, offer to take her home.

  But he didn’t.

  Double whammy, she thought to herself as she left the building. First I dent his pride and joy and then he finds out I’ve been in the company of John Rees. No wonder he’s not too forthcoming on this case.

  It was getting dark when she left Manvers Street police station. Irregular shapes of light blinked from tiers of buildings rising up the slopes surrounding the city. Streaks of white and red streamed from passing traffic; despite the hour, the city of Bath still hummed with life. The smell of old buildings mingled with traffic fumes.

  Dodging between the traffic flow, she headed for Henrietta Street. The noise of grumbling engines was behind her. There was room to breathe and to move along pavements broad though rumpled with age.

  A tall, lean figure stepped out from the shadows where a battalion of conifers hung over a garden fence.

  ‘Christ! You made me jump.’

  John Rees placed one arm around her shoulders and gave her a hug.

  ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. I spoke to your daughter. She said you’d been called in to give a statement. I gave mine earlier; must have left just before you arrived. I wasn’t sure whether your policeman boyfriend would be escorting you home.’

  ‘Oh well. You know how it is. Two bodies and not a shred of evidence – well nothing special. So he’s kind of tied up at the moment.’

  ‘Great! For me that is. Hope you’re not too disappointed that we have to walk back; no swanky police car with sirens flashing.’

  ‘John, I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have walk me home,’ she said, slipping her arm through his.

  If he’d really wanted to, Doherty would have taken her home. He would have done if he was ready to forgive her. But he hadn’t. Deep down she was hurt, but damn it all, she would bloody well get over it! Being escorted home by John Rees was a bloody good start.

  Doherty heaped up his files and got up from his desk. He just about had time to shove the lot into his filing cabinet under lock and key. Security was lately the order of the day direct from on high. The Chief Constable had sent round a missive instructing all personnel to lock paperwork away when the office was empty. This also applied to the woman who organised the sub-contracted cleaners. Even a cleaning schedule was deemed a security risk.

  He’d had every intention of forgiving Honey for smashing up his car, but the wound ran deep. Anyway, he quite enjoyed making her stew. Now he was the one who was squirming, though he’d tried not to show it.

  The thing was, he had to forgive her or he might lose her for good. It had come as something of a shock to see her in the company of John Rees on the night of the murder. OK, he believed her that their meeting up had been pure chance, but still. Seeing her dressed in black and looking so damned sexy had made his mind up to kiss and make up. Intense kissing, of course, the sort that led to intimacy and a nice warm bed.

  If he was quick, he’d catch up with her and give her that lift home she’d been angling for. Of course he would. It was just that he was taking his time with this making up. It would happen, but in his own good time.

  He checked out with the desk sergeant before collecting his jacket from the back of the office door then swung out for home.

  The sound of a vacuum cleaner droned from one of the offices he passed on his way out through the tradesmen’s entrance – cop talk for ‘cops and criminals – only’.

  The police car he was using for work purposes was already warmed up and running round the side of the building, courtesy of his new sergeant.

  ‘All done, sir.’

  Watkins’ face looked pink and pinched. The temperature was taking a dive.

  ‘Well timed, Watkins.’

  It was indeed. Doherty figured that by the time he drove round the front, Honey would have negotiated the corridors and reception area. He reckoned that by now she would be at the beginning of Henrietta Street, the most obvious route between Manvers Street and The Green River Hotel.

  And she was.

  His self-congratulation died a death when he recognised John Rees and saw them close up, walking off down the street without seeing him. He slipped the replacement car into gear, debating whether to follow them down Henrietta Street or carry straight on home.

  ‘Damn it!’ There was no way he was going to offer both of them a lift. Bloody John Rees. Why did he have to show up now, when things between him and Honey were strained?

  Refusing to rein in his pride, he floored the car and headed back to the office. Throwing himself into work would help him through this; that’s what he told himself.

  Chapter Seven

  Gloria Cross – unexpected, unannounced, and looking like the star lead in Guys and Dolls – swept into the reception area of the Green River Hotel as though she were the Queen doing an on-the-spot inspection.

  She was wearing a silver grey light wool dress with pink flecks, a chiffon scarf in solid pink that trailed behind her like a cloud at sunset, and shoes with three-inch heels and a rose on each toe. The rose was of the same shade as the scarf. Her bag was quilted. Designer. Real designer, none of this pseudo stuff made in the Far East and sold in street markets.

  Unlike some women of her age, Gloria still bounced on her heels and she always wore heels. Never flatties or those ballerina styles that hinted the wearer was related to Cinderella and was down on her luck – and thus her heels. Gloria would never countenance either situation. ‘Ignore the years and they’ll ignore you,’ she was fond of proclaiming, while wallowing in the flattery that usually followed such a comment.

  Honey was looking less than glamorous. She hadn’t started off that way but due to an overactive little boy from Amsterdam who was staying in the hotel with his parents, the crisp white shirt and navy blue skirt she’d donned this morning was ruined.

  Little Peter, or little pest as she’d mentally christened him, got bored waiting for his parents to plan their day. To while away the time he’d taken to whizzing round Reception like Schumacher around Silverstone, though without the wheels. His little legs went like pistons, up and down, racing around.

  Unfortunately he was one of those kids who ate on the hoof. His favourite food was chocolate. He never seemed to be without a bar, clutched tightly in his hot little hand. The more he raced around, the hotter his hand became. Inevitably, the chocolate melted.

  Honey had been hurrying to answer the phone and Peter had been hurrying to get to the winning post – or whatever. Collision was unavoidable. The melted chocolate around his mouth and in his hands were transferred onto her crisp white blouse – not so crisp right now.

  ‘Chocolates will be banned from this hotel in future,’ she muttered as she sponged off what she could in the relative privacy of the small office behind Reception.

  Her mother took in the situation in one fell swoop.

  ‘You’ve had that shirt for years. Ditch it. Buy a new one. Something more glamorous.’

  ‘There
’s plenty of wear left in this one.’

  ‘It does nothing for you. How can you expect to be a bride again if you don’t look glamorous? Haven’t you heard of eye candy?’

  ‘I’m in working mode, not seduction mode.’

  ‘OK. Well, you want to look good for your guests, don’t you?’

  ‘Not when they’re armed with chocolate.’

  Seeing as her daughter was dwelling on the mishap, Gloria turned the conversation away from work and hotels in which she had no interest whatsoever, to the reason why she was there.

  ‘Now. Everything is arranged. I phoned Antonio – a man I fully admit makes my heart pitter-patter, to let Rhoda know we are coming. She’s looking forward to meeting you, so tidy yourself up and we’ll be away.’

  ‘Is that so,’ grunted Honey, sucking on a chip of chocolate that had adhered to one of her buttons.

  ‘It is indeed. Mary Jane is bringing the car around to the front as we speak so you’ll have to hurry. We don’t want her to get a parking ticket now do we?’

  Honey was unimpressed and unmoved. Grunting was mixed in equal measure with grumbling.

  ‘Why not? I thought she was collecting them for a montage. Should give Damien Hirst a run for his money in the Turner Prize.’

  The inference that she was going somewhere she hadn’t been informed about, suddenly clicked in.

  ‘Am I going somewhere?’

  ‘Yes. Back to Overton House. Mary Jane has offered to “read” the Watchpoles’ room. We’re hoping she can pick up a few vibes that might tell us where he is and what he’s doing.’

  ‘Mother, he’s gone to find himself,’ she said firmly. ‘That’s what it said in his note. People do funny things at a certain age. It’s the bucket list mentality.’

  Her mother looked at her askance, arched eyebrows flying almost up to her hairline.

  ‘Funny things? Bucket list? What are you talking about?’

  Honey attempted to explain about the things you really want to do before kicking the bucket, but she’d misunderstood; it wasn’t that her mother was taking umbrage to.

  ‘I do not do “funny things”. Neither do my friends do funny things. They’re perfectly logical things. It’s just that the younger generation hasn’t reached our level of wisdom so cannot recognise it as such. Now come on. No more of this nonsense. I haven’t got all day.’

  Honey was about to counter that with the fact that she didn’t have that much time to spare either. Owning and running a hotel was not a lazy afternoon by the pool. After all, she was still working. Her mother had avoided working for most of her life. Her social life, however, was another matter. Her days – and nights – were an unending tide of social commitments.

  The door to the office opened and Lindsey’s head appeared.

  ‘There’s a traffic warden outside about to give Mary Jane a ticket. I told him she was waiting for Gloria Cross,’ said Lindsey addressing her grandmother.

  ‘Fat lot of good that did,’ said Honey

  ‘On the contrary; he said he’d be glad to make your acquaintance again. He told me to tell you, love from Les,’ said Lindsey, grinning from ear to ear. ‘An old flame perhaps?’

  ‘Les? Do you mean Les Sutton?’

  Lindsey pulled a face. ‘Could be. About six feet with silver hair. Navy blue uniform.’

  ‘Oh my,’ breathed Gloria. ‘I never could resist a man in uniform.’

  A swift tidying job in the mirror, a squirt of perfume, and she set forth like a square rigger going into battle; beautiful but deadly.

  Honey kissed her daughter on the cheek. ‘Won’t be long. Hold the fort, and should Doherty ring …’

  ‘I know. You’ll ring him back.’

  ‘Are you sure he hasn’t …?’

  Lindsey shook her head. ‘He hasn’t phoned. I would have told you if he had.’

  Chapter Eight

  The drive to Overton House, a building containing purpose-built flats for the over sixties, passed in a blur of trumpeting taxis, braking buses, and cussing car drivers.

  Honey didn’t hear a thing. She’d made the last-minute decision to borrow Lindsey’s iPod. Music masked the hazards of Mary Jane’s driving: the screeching of brakes and cuss words, the screams of terrified pedestrians, the octogenarians suddenly obliged to leap for their lives.

  She also closed her eyes; she could hear nothing, she could see nothing. Cutting herself off from Mary Jane’s driving helped keep her stomach from turning over, shouting ‘I’m out of here’, and leaving her body for good. No more chocolate for her!

  Nobody had ever pointed out to Mary Jane that her driving was abysmal and hey, hadn’t she noticed that the British drive on the left hand side of the road?

  The thing was that Mary Jane was a good-hearted soul, always willing to help anybody out – especially on the psychic front.

  A professor of the paranormal, seventy-plus years of age, and as tall and thin as a poplar, Mary Jane had arrived at the Green River from California some years ago, suggested that a ghost lived in her room, and promptly stayed there on every visit. Eventually, unable to bear her ancestor being in residence all alone, she decided to move in permanently.

  ‘Blood’s thicker than water,’ she’d pronounced. ‘Sir Cedric is a much-respected ancestor of mine.’

  Nobody pointed out to her that he was doubtless all dried out of blood by now. Nobody declared that there were no such things as ghosts and that she was deluding herself. The fact was nothing substantial could be proved, though it was rumoured that the hotel, when still a house back in Regency times, had indeed been the home of Sir Cedric Strath-Parkinson. ‘He was a knight of the realm,’ she fondly said with misted eyes, one hand held over her meagre breast as though mortally wounded. ‘He loved ladies. He loved his country …’

  Lindsey had muttered to her mother that Sir Cedric had been a lusty old roué who’d died of the pox. Nobody put the full facts in front of Mary Jane. She believed in the paranormal, so they let her get on with it. She was a nice person, just a wee bit eccentric, looking like a refugee from a witches’ tea party with her liking for pistachio green trousers teamed with a salmon pink tabard.

  Once she’d installed herself at the Green River Hotel, Mary Jane arranged for her car to join her. Said vehicle was a 1961 Cadillac Coupe in a delicate shade of pink. The fact that she’d not yet been banned from driving was put down to sheer luck, though Mary Jane insisted it was Sir Cedric and others who had passed into the hereafter guiding her wheels.

  Mary Jane hadn’t yet crashed or killed anyone. It didn’t matter whether it was through luck or judgement. Arriving safely at their destination and not having a nervous breakdown during the trip was all that mattered.

  Feeling the car come to a standstill, Honey opened her eyes, took out the earphones, and popped them into her big brown bag – the one she carried everywhere which served as a travelling office, beauty factory, and lunch receptacle.

  Rhoda Watchpole took some time getting to the door. When she finally did appear she was wearing frog green sweats that fitted snugly over her rotund frame though loosely around her bandy knees. She looked like a toad.

  ‘Sorry. I had to get up from the floor,’ she puffed, her cheeks pumping like bellows. ‘Exercises.’

  One glance at Rhoda’s overblown figure proved that exercise didn’t cure everything, at least in the short-term.

  Gloria was first with the advice. ‘Take my word. Lie down in a dark room and consult your inner goddess. Address your mental and physical problems. The answers and the advice will come. I guarantee it.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ Rhoda said brightly. ‘It won’t clash with my Church of England beliefs, will it?’

  Gloria swung her bag into a chair and proceeded to introduce the resident psychic.

  ‘This is Mary Jane. She’s here to help.’

  Rhoda looked at her expectantly. ‘Are you one of those personal trainers?’

  Unfazed by the conversation, Mary Jane was looking around
the room from her great height. ‘No. No,’ she repeated in a faraway voice. I’m a psychic. Gloria tells me your husband left and you want to find him again.’

  Springs squealed in protest as Rhoda flopped into a chair. ‘I do. We’ve been together for fifty years. Fancy wanting to find yourself at his age.’ She shook her head and reached for a box of tissues. Half a dozen chocolates – Quality Street judging by the wrappers, fell out. ‘I just don’t understand it. Fancy leaving me all alone at my time of life. I was always good to him – or at least I thought I was. I never had headaches when he wanted sex – not that we’d done it for a few years now; not since my body went glandular.’

  It was on Honey’s tongue to say that Rhoda was not suffering from a glandular matter. She ate too much. She was fat.

  Honey looked for the tell-tale carriers with the M&S Food logo on the side. There were none, though not seeing them didn’t mean they were not on the premises.

  She thought about mentioning the bucket list to her as she had to her mother: climbing the Himalayas, swimming with whales – though at a certain age swimming with swans in the Avon made more sense. Cold water, but shallow, so less chance of drowning.

  ‘Excuse me, but do you mind if I use the bathroom?’ she asked.

  Rhoda gave her directions. Her mother waved her off dismissively.

  Honey heaved a big sigh. The room she’d just left was overheated and stuffy and she hadn’t wanted to stay there. It wasn’t that she didn’t sympathise with Rhoda, but she’d seen Mary Jane go into one of her trances before. It hadn’t so much scared her as made her feel uncomfortable.

  She went as directed along the small hallway and took a left at the end.

  Bijou was a good description for the Overton House apartments. Shoeboxes might have been better.

  Squeezing around the door that opened into Rhoda’s bathroom, she vowed never to put her name down for one of these pokey overpriced apartments – ever!

  A pixie would be the ideal resident; somebody slight and small. It might also be best if they didn’t own any fluffy towels. There simply wasn’t room for anything big and fluffy in that bathroom.