Blood and Broomsticks

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Honey never meant to snoop; after all this wasn’t a crime scene as such, but things just passed under her hand and there it was – open sesame!

  There were enough pills in the medicine cabinet to tranquilise a hippo. Even before checking the prescription notice, she knew they belonged to Rhoda. Besides pills there were the usual things: shampoo, conditioner, deodorant, tablets for soaking dentures, a little face cream, plus some over the counter medicines. Nothing dramatic.

  She closed the door feeling somewhat disappointed. What had she expected to see? A knife dripping with Bert’s blood? His decapitated head squashed between the denture soak and a jar of Vaseline?

  She reminded herself that Bert had only gone walkabout, as the Australians would say. On reflection he would wholeheartedly approve of what was happening out in the living room – a little otherworldly wisdom to reach out and feel his vibes.

  Thinking of feeling vibes and other things made her think of Doherty. She rang him, clenching her stomach muscles at the thought of hearing his voice. Her stomach muscles always cinched in at the sound of his voice. The same thing happened when she was about to tuck into a slice of chocolate cheesecake. Anticipation of something delicious; that was all she could put it down to.

  ‘Nothing much to tell you except that they were dead before ending up in the urns. Their skulls were already caved in. Somebody smashed them both on the bonce with a very blunt instrument before shoving them out.’

  ‘And the blunt instrument?’

  ‘Difficult. It’s been suggested that they were both rammed into something solid and hard. Like a wall.’

  ‘The walls up in the attic were paper-thin – old fashioned lath and plaster. Their heads would have gone straight through if anyone had rammed them into those walls.’

  ‘That was pointed out to us, but there is something else in those rooms. Did you notice the boxes up there? There was one in each room.’

  Honey recalled seeing the wooden chests. ‘They looked like linen chests; roughly made and painted a ghastly shade of green. Are those the ones you mean?’

  ‘That’s right, only they weren’t linen chests. The wood enclosed the old slate water storage tanks – long replaced of course, but the supply was kept and connected to a hanging basket sprinkler system running around the building. You get the picture? Lift the lid, hold your victim’s head under water, then wham – smash the lid down onto their head. Oh, yes. I forgot to say. There was water in their lungs. No water in the urns. No potting compost either.’

  It was halfway through the afternoon when she was back where she should be – on Reception informing an elderly Russian lady of places to visit that had no stairs – that her phone rang.

  ‘If you could just give me a few seconds, I’ll be right with you.’

  Her heart was leaping and her stomach preparing to cinch in. She hadn’t had time to check the caller, but she presumed it was Doherty.

  It turned out to be John Rees and he had a question for her.

  ‘Get back to me as soon as you can.’

  She promised she would once she’d checked the hotel was covered.

  He’d asked her to dinner tomorrow night. ‘A mix of business and pleasure. I’ve invited someone who knows a thing or two about Spiderman to have a drink in the bar with us beforehand.’

  Chapter Nine

  It wasn’t often they got time, but tonight Honey and Lindsey were dining together, a real mother and daughter thing that made Honey feel all warm and mumsy.

  ‘Is the chicken OK?’

  Honey nodded. ‘Delicious.’

  ‘The carrots?’

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘Actually they’re not really carrots. They’re arsenic roots, but bleach them long enough in peroxide and I’m told they’re quite harmless. And delicious.’

  ‘Lovely,’ Honey repeated.

  ‘And you can’t really taste any difference at all between chicken chasseur and caramelised rat, can you?’

  ‘It’s nice, lovely …’

  Finally realising she hadn’t been listening properly, Honey set down her fork and dabbed at her lips with her napkin. ‘I’m sorry, love, but I just can’t seem to concentrate.’ She paused. ‘It is chicken chasseur – isn’t it?’

  ‘So go on. Tell me what’s on your mind.’

  Honey took a swig of wine.

  ‘John Rees has asked me to go to dinner with him tomorrow night.’

  Lindsey hunched her shoulders and spread her hands. ‘So?’

  ‘Should I go?’

  ‘Is there anything else scheduled for tomorrow night?’

  ‘No, it’s pretty quiet tomorrow night …’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. The hotel can take care of itself. You have a fine staff and I’m here. What I am asking, Mother dear, is, is Doherty still on the main menu?’

  Now it was Honey who shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He hasn’t phoned.’

  ‘Have you asked him why?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That is a very sniffy “no.”’

  ‘I’m feeling sniffy.’

  ‘Why don’t you phone him and ask him out?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Is that pride I detect, or guilt?’

  ‘I have nothing to be guilty about!’

  ‘You smashed up his car.’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault. It was your grandmother and that bloody apron. Did you see the boobs on that nude? The man in the other car was severely traumatised, being recently separated and all. Besides, there’s something else. He’s invited someone along to have a drink with us beforehand. He hasn’t said who this person is, except that he knows Spiderman – Jim Tetman – one of the people the police have been questioning. I mean, should I meet this person without the police knowing about it? He’s a witness – whoever he is.’

  ‘That’s not it, is it?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You’re thinking that meeting up with John Rees – even if there is a line of enquiry into a murder – may dash your chances of a reconciliation with Doherty.’

  Honey opened her mouth to say something. The denial refused to voice itself. She wanted to solve the crime; she wanted to make up with Doherty. The trouble was that she also fancied John Rees.

  ‘Give me your phone.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m going to phone Doherty.’

  ‘No. You can’t have it.’

  ‘OK. I’ll use mine.’

  ‘You can’t!’

  ‘Go on. You want me to.’

  Again Honey’s mouth dropped open without a single sound coming out. She was cornered. Why was it that a twenty-something daughter could read her so accurately? Of course she wanted her to ask Doherty why he hadn’t called, but what would she do if he offered a plausible excuse and she had to backtrack on her budding association with John Rees? And she knew she should tell him about this person with a knowledge of Spiderman – Jim Tetman.

  She considered what his response might be. ‘Love me, love my car’ was a great truism; ‘hurt my car and you hurt me’ was right up there with it.

  ‘Hi, Steve. It’s me. Lindsey.’

  Honey closed her eyes and shook her head. Unbearable as it was, her ears were tuned in. She listened to what Lindsey was saying. She also assessed the length of pauses.

  ‘Look, I know you’re busy, but my mother and you – well – I hate seeing a gap as wide as the Avon Gorge opening up between you. Is your relationship as damaged as your car?’

  Another pause.

  ‘Oh! I see.’

  Lindsey nodded into the cell phone.

  ‘I see where you’re coming from. Getting emotional about your car was a knee-jerk reaction. Best forgotten, soonest mended. It’s a very old cliché but a very true one.’

  Doherty was saying something again.

  ‘Well I don’t think that’s true, Steve. John Rees just happened to be going to the same party – that’s all. There’s nothing serious going on – honestly.’


  Honey sat bolt upright and mouthed, ‘There might be.’

  Lindsey waved at her to butt out.

  ‘By the way, my mother does have a meeting tomorrow night with John Rees and somebody who knows a bit about this Jim Tetman, the man who was dressed as Spiderman. It might be a good idea if you’re there too. I understand they’re meeting in the Garrick’s Head. You’re invited.’

  Honey’s jaw dropped. ‘No!’ she hissed, shaking her head.

  The butt out wave again.

  ‘Yes, I think that’s a good idea too. You two are made for each other. You know that, don’t you?’

  Again a pause on Lindsey’s part as Doherty answered. Then she smiled.

  ‘I thought so. But if all that’s true, Steve, how come you haven’t phoned?’

  An answer.

  The smile dropped from Lindsey’s face. Her jaw stiffened.

  Honey immediately that she wouldn’t like the answer.

  ‘Oh. Two days ago and you left a message with my grandmother.’

  Honey sprang to her feet and grabbed the phone.

  ‘Steve! I didn’t get the message.’

  There was only silence.

  Honey looked at the phone then gave it a shake.

  ‘Steve?’

  Lindsey was wearing a guilty expression.

  ‘Um. It’s run out of credit.’

  ‘I’ll ring him back on mine.’

  ‘Mum! Don’t.’

  Honey stared uncomprehending. The penny dropped.

  ‘You weren’t speaking to Doherty?’

  Lindsey shook her head. ‘Not the whole time. I really did run out of credit though. I figured it was the best way to tell you that I caught Gran fielding a call from him. He did ring you, it was just that Gran didn’t pass the message on. I picked it up from the call log. I tape some calls. Gran asked to phone one of her friends from Reception. I left her to it. It was only this morning that I checked the call log. I always play a few messages back. There was a call from Doherty to the reception phone.’

  ‘Why didn’t he phone me on my cell phone?’ Honey screeched.

  ‘In case you were with alternative male company. He could only be certain of having you to himself on the hotel phone. Makes sense.’

  ‘Right,’ said Honey. ‘Pushing the chair back and springing to her feet. She grabbed the heavy skillet from the cooker hot plate.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m about to practise matricide and this isn’t a skillet. It’s a blunt instrument.’

  To her credit, Lindsey had a very mature attitude and was able to persuade her mother not to murder her grandmother. The skillet was buried in the dishwasher and, furnished with another glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, Honey obeyed the order to sit down and calm down.

  This was hardly the first time that her mother had interfered with her love life. Gloria Cross considered herself more capable of finding her daughter a new man than Honey was. Suitable, as far as she was concerned, meant somebody with a regular job, regular salary, and healthy bank account. Someone who was more of a useful appendage than a red-blooded lover – like a handbag.

  Her mother didn’t so much hate Detective Chief Inspector Steve Doherty as view him with outright alarm. OK, he had a regular job, regular salary, and his bank account wasn’t that bad. It was the rest of him. For a start he was no handbag: not smooth, clean, and content to hang over Honey’s arm.

  He was leathery; gritty, hard-edged, streetwise, able to take care of himself, and keener to have Honey hang over the bed than him hang over her arm. Like John Rees he wore tight denims like a second skin, had a strong jaw, a shock of untidy hair, and muscles that bulged through his T-shirt. He also had a way of looking at her that was an invite to bed – 24/7.

  Lindsey was looking sheepish.

  ‘OK,’ said Honey. ‘When it comes to picking up vibes, I’m almost as good as Mary Jane. What’s the reason for that look on your face?’

  ‘Doherty will be in the bar of the Garrick’s tomorrow night. I got the first part through to him before my credit ran out.’

  Honey groaned. After thinking it through, she shook her head. ‘It won’t be easy.’

  Lindsey served up a lemon soufflé. ‘Eat that. Lemon soufflé concentrates the mind. The petit fours I’m serving with the coffee will calm you down.’

  Honey slipped the first mouthful onto her tongue. The soufflé was light, moist, and tangy. She nodded. ‘This is lovely.’

  Lindsey was also right about the petit fours; eating each one carefully, melting it on the tongue before swallowing, was amazingly therapeutic.

  ‘The Mayans swore that chocolate was a magic medicine,’ said Lindsey.

  ‘They also practised human sacrifice,’ Honey responded.

  ‘Now,’ said Lindsey, acting like a carer who was used to dotty people of mature years and so-so love lives, ‘tell me about Mary Jane’s findings regarding Bert the wrinkly hippy.’

  Honey hadn’t stayed in the room when Mary Jane was doing her thing, but she’d heard all about it afterwards on the drive back.

  ‘Apparently the letter M was pretty prominent. Mary Jane asked if Rhoda knew anyone with a name beginning with M. She said she knew quite a few.’

  ‘I suppose that was something.’

  ‘Not really. Mary Jane then declared that the letter S was coming through. The initials of something or someone was M and S.’

  ‘Did that narrow it down a bit?’

  ‘You bet it did. M and S. Although recently enrolled on a get fit course for the over-sixties, it seems that Rhoda has been sinning big time. We found a box of M&S cream cakes under the sofa. That’s where she hid them when we knocked at the door.’

  The Garrick’s Head was only moderately busy. The Green Room, where actors and members of the gay community had rubbed shoulders, had been turned into a restaurant. The main bar was virtually unchanged, a place of pre-dinner drinks where theatre goers could also order drinks for the interval.

  A guest had complained of a blockage in the lavatory. Armed with a plunger and toilet brush, Honey had gone up there to do battle. The culprit turned out to be a collection of chocolate wrappers made into a ball and shoved down the loo.

  Chocolate-loving Peter and his family had been the previous occupants of the room. The culprit was a foregone conclusion; the job of unblocking the loo was an unpopular one.

  John Rees was already at the bar. So was Doherty. So too was Ahmed Clifford. He was the one with information about Jim Tetman? Honey was surprised.

  Taking a deep breath, Honey breezed in.

  ‘Sorry I’m late.’

  All three of them looked round.

  John bought her a drink. Ahmed was drinking orange juice. So was Doherty.

  ‘I’m on duty,’ he said to her unspoken question.

  They found themselves a snug corner at a point furthest from the bar door.

  The bar was filling up with the theatre crowd; a host of standing figures all talking culture while swigging back their pre-performance drinks.

  ‘I expect you’re surprised to see me,’ said Ahmed, his white teeth flashing in his glossy face.

  ‘I’ve never seen you not covered in oil.’

  ‘Professional hazard. How do you like the outfit?’

  He looked as though he’d stepped straight from a fashion catalogue; well-cut jacket in a pale shade of yellow; pale green trousers; crisp white shirt. It was simple but amazing. His hair was black and glossy. Better still, he smelled of something that didn’t come from the bottom of an engine sump.

  John Rees indicated that Doherty lead the questioning. ‘I’m only a bystander,’ he added.

  Doherty sat with his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together.

  ‘So. What is it you’ve got to tell us about Jim Tetman, Mr Clifford?’

  Ahmed drained his glass. ‘Lovely. Orange juice is good for the vocal cords,’ he said, his face beaming. ‘Jim brought his wife’s car in for a service. He never brings his ow
n in, not his Jag. Takes that to the main dealers. But his wife’s car’s a cheap effort; a Fiat. A “get me about town” type of car. Well, it was like this. He was there with this car wanting me to give it a service when them two that got murdered came breezing past. They’d been shopping. Pushing a supermarket trolley along. Well they saw Jim and Jim saw them. Sparks flew. He called them all the names under the sun. Said they’d bought Moss End from under his nose at a vastly inflated price. And what was it all about? Why do that?

  ‘They rushed past him as though they didn’t want to know. Broke into a run still pushing this trolley. Piled up with shopping it was. I thought it was strange. I mean, when people leave Sainsbury’s, they don’t usually take the shopping trolley with them, do they? Seemed a bit stupid to me.’

  Doherty nodded. ‘So Jim Tetman was pretty peeved with Mr and Mrs Crook. Did he elaborate?’

  Ahmed shook his head. ‘Only to say that he was going to get even with them one way or the other.’

  Doherty made arrangements for Ahmed to come along to the station to give a statement.

  Honey was frowning. ‘What if there was something other than shopping in that trolley? What if it was too heavy to carry?’

  Perhaps she would have gone on to have dinner with John Rees. Or she might have stayed put, hedging her bets between him and Doherty. As it was, an emergency had arisen at the Green River Hotel. A restaurant diner was suffering from a severe nose bleed and Smudger the chef was responsible.

  Chapter Ten

  Smudger had always been volatile and although it wound her up and there’d been more than one occasion when she’d considered sacking him, good chefs were hard to come by.

  Doherty gave her a lift back to the hotel after she’d promised John Rees that she’d be in touch.

  She could tell by his sad smile that he didn’t believe her. There was nothing she could do about that. Sorting out the problem at the Green River Hotel was top priority.

  On arrival, Honey headed for the restaurant where Clive, the head waiter, was ticking names off his reservation list.

  Was the diner likely to sue? Was his blood seeping into the very decent carpet?

  ‘Where’s the diner with the bloody nose?’