Walking with Ghosts - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘Shame,’ she said. ‘I could use some excitement in my life.’

  The midday traffic was heavy. Gary Sullivan nicked his toe beneath the clutch pedal and changed down. This was the third time he’d gone round Queen Square. He’d seen Mrs Honey Driver saunter into Bonhams, the famous auction house in King Street. If he wasn’t careful he’d miss her coming out, depending on which direction she took. Anything on wheels had to come back out into Queen Square. Pedestrians had the option of cutting down into Quiet Street or even through Jollys, the city’s only department store.

  Jaw clenched, he drove slowly towards the traffic lights fronting the King Street section of Queen Square. Once he was through those and there was no sign of his prey, he accelerated until he was facing King Street again. Four times he did this. Four times and there was no sign of her. On the fifth he saw her coming towards him. He held back, slowing the bike by dragging one foot behind him.

  He couldn’t tell if she saw him. He hoped not. He’d changed his mind about dealing with her just yet. His stomach was in a knot at the thought of what he was supposed to do – what he must do.

  Chapter Eleven

  Steve Doherty looked up at the skylight some twelve feet above his head. Normally the skylight would have shed light upon the narrow old stairwell, but something was covering it He’d presumed that any broken glass up there had been replaced with a sheet of plyboard. A constable he’d sent up to investigate came back to say that the culprit was a piece of waterproof tarpaulin.

  ‘Who found her?’

  ‘I did.’

  The small man with a wizened face and henna-dyed hair had stood silently and absolutely still up until now. His voice shook in time with his body.

  ‘Mr Jim Porter. Builder and decorator,’ explained Karen Sinclair. Karen was Steve Doherty’s new assistant. She was young, keen, and he’d admired her before her promotion when she’d still been in uniform. Now she was plain clothes. Jeans and black sweater weren’t exactly the stuff of fantasy, not like the uniform, but she could still fill a wet dream or two …

  ‘I only came to give an estimate for some work,’ blurted out Jim Porter.

  Steve Doherty could see that poor old Jim’s blood pressure was at steaming point, the colour of his cheeks almost matching his hair. ‘I didn’t know her,’ he added shakily, though no one had questioned whether he had.

  ‘You had a key?’ Doherty asked.

  ‘Yeah. They told me to let meself in and take me time.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘The owners. Wallace and Gates.’

  ‘You came through the front door?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was it locked?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jim Porter looked away as the body of the woman was laid carefully in a body bag.

  ‘Didn’t expect to see this,’ he murmured. ‘I was only ’ere to quote for a bit of glass in the back window and a lick of paint down in the shop.’

  The sound of the zip being pulled made him jump.

  ‘How about the skylight?’ asked Doherty. ‘Was it leaking?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You had no reason to cover it with tarpaulin?’

  ‘No, I didn’t, and whoever did it done it only recent. It weren’t there two days ago when I came to fix the sink.’

  Steve Doherty jerked his chin in understanding. Already his mind was placing square pins into square holes and round into round. The skylight had been covered purposely. The woman had been lured here and everything had been prepared in advance. But why?

  Jim Porter asked if he could go.

  ‘Leave your name and address. You’re more than likely to be called as a witness.’

  ‘Most definitely dead,’ said the medical examiner before closing his smart black bag. ‘But what else would she be after being strangled with a length of wire. Simple but clever. She put her head in a noose as she walked up the stairs. Our boy pulled it tight from up there.’ He pointed at the length of wire looped over a roof truss.

  Sample bags were filled, body temperature taken, the fine toothcomb scenario carefully carried out.

  Doherty held up a bag containing the murder ‘weapon’ – what looked like a length of brown electrical cable.

  He inhaled a pleasant hint of perfume. Karen was standing behind him.

  ‘So, what do you think?’

  ‘I think it’s Conex.’

  She looked at him blankly.

  This was his chance to impress. ‘Conex is used on computers and more especially on television and satellite boxes. It’s a communications cable rather than electrical.’

  ‘My, you’re so knowledgeable.’

  She had a sugary tongue. He looked away. Hell’s bells, she was too young for him!

  ‘Experience,’ he replied tartly. ‘No one saw or heard anything?’

  Karen shook her head. ‘No.’ Her hair was blonde and fitted her head tightly like a rubber swimming cap. ‘We’ve enquired of the residents in the building opposite. It’s divided into student lets. Not all of them are back from the Easter break. We tried the shop next door, but there’s no reply. It’s a lock-up like this one with no living accommodation. They’re mostly let to antique dealers and other arty-farty types.’

  Doherty grunted and unzipped the body bag for one last look. Great effort was needed to keep his eyes fixed on the body. His nose was out of control, twitching in response to Karen’s perfume.

  ‘That perfume you’re wearing …’

  Karen’s fresh-faced complexion blossomed into a deeper shade of pink. She was so polished, so self-assured. ‘It’s French.’

  ‘Don’t wear it again.’

  ‘Oh …’

  ‘Strong scents are likely to contaminate the crime scene.’

  He sensed her mouth clamping shut and could imagine the disappointment in her eyes. Bending down, he uncovered the dead woman a little more. He didn’t know what he was looking for, only that he wished to be occupied so that Karen could not draw his attention.

  ‘Sir, I can’t come jogging this evening. I’ve got a date.’

  ‘Fine. It wasn’t working anyway.’

  ‘It was for me.’

  He glared at her. ‘That is not a professional comment, Karen. I was referring to Warren Price. The idea was that he’s after me and anyone close to me. I was hoping he’d be watching more closely. We didn’t draw him out.’

  She looked crestfallen. ‘No, sir.’ Clearly she was hoping he’d had some ulterior motive for those jogging sessions. As it happened she wasn’t far wrong – but the truth would make her even less happy …

  The dead woman had dyed hair and a lined face. Sixty at least, he thought, possibly older. Her clothes were good quality. She was wearing a green cape and a high-necked sweater. There was something white stuck to the soft angora of the cape. He could see it was a label curling on the woman’s chest. Someone had overlooked it.

  ‘Gloves,’ he ordered.

  Karen provided them.

  He set his jaw. This was serious stuff. Murder was as serious as it gets.

  Carefully and without allowing the sticky backing to come away or adhere more strongly, he peered at the writing on the label.

  ‘Ah! Looks as though we have a name.’ Holding her lapel between finger and thumb, he turned his head sideways so he could see better. ‘Lady Templeton-Jones. Well, that’s something to circulate. Some old family must be missing her. It should be fairly easy to learn about her last movements.’

  Basically, he was lying. In Steve Doherty’s experience, nothing was ever easy in police work. He didn’t expect it to be so now, but there are always exceptions to the rule.

  He stared at the soft, round face, the hair, the clothes … especially the clothes. There was something about them that did not ring true.

  ‘Karen. You’re a woman. What is it about these clothes?’

  Karen’s slim shadow fell over him. He could hear her b
reathing and felt her eyes boring into the back of his head before falling on the woman.

  She shrugged. ‘They’re very good quality, sir.’

  He grunted. ‘I may be out of touch, but to my mind titled county ladies of this age tend to wear tweeds and brogues.’ He indicated the label that had curled up again. ‘I can’t help thinking …’ He didn’t finish his sentence. ‘Never mind. It’s just my age. Call it Jane Marple syndrome.’

  Karen frowned. ‘Who is she?’

  He shook his head. ‘You never read Agatha Christie books in bed?’

  She smiled. ‘No. I’m usually doing other things.’

  Chapter Twelve

  The area outside the building had been cordoned off along with each end of the alley. Armies of interested tourists, shoppers, and tradesmen pausing for a quiet smoke, had gathered to gawp. An army of necks were craned in a crush at corners overlooking the site. They stared at him and he stared right back then took a left. The cobbles were uneven and still slippery after the rain. The moss growth surprised him considering the amount of footsteps that trod over it each day.

  He walked slowly, his eyes flicking from side to side though he didn’t expect to see anything. Items of any interest had already been bagged and tagged. He made his way back up the slope.

  On reaching the crowd of onlookers, he paused on the periphery, listening to their comments.

  ‘Someone hung themselves.’

  ‘I hear it was murder.’

  ‘No. Not in God’s little acre. Things like that don’t ’appen ’ere.’

  Doherty smiled to himself. Once a Bathonian, always a Bathonian, and no matter what part of the city you were from, there was no city like it in the whole world.

  A slight movement made him look behind him. A man was coming out of one of the lock-ups. The shop advertised old maritime memorabilia; a subsection of antique collection, though a curious one for a city more than twenty miles from the sea.

  Still, he thought, Bristol wasn’t that far away, and hadn’t the Matthew sailed from there just three years after Columbus got to the West Indies? And at least the Matthew had reached mainland America.

  On the spur of the moment he took it in his head to stroll over and look in the old bow-fronted shop window. Three brass lanterns hung in the centre of the window. He took it that the middle one carried a white masthead light. The ones on either side would carry the red of port and the green of starboard. On the right of the window a very intricate sextant perched half-in half-out of a mahogany box. The price tag said ‘German, 1940, £675’.

  Three plain-looking plates sat on a ledge on the left-hand side of the window. They were each priced at three thousand pounds. Doherty leaned closer and narrowed his eyes so that he could see better. Three thousand pounds seemed a lot for a very plain plate – until he saw the logo printed in the middle: RMS Titanic. A note underneath said ‘not verified.’

  He blew a low whistle through his teeth. The value of articles from a sunken ship was amazing, yet somehow, in the case of the Titanic, the cost seemed justified. Such a terrible tragedy. A tremendous loss of life. And everyone knew about it. If they were genuine, he thought, they were probably worth even more.

  A brass candleholder sat forward of the lanterns, similar to the one in the window of the empty shop. It had no price tag and didn’t look as though it were worth much. Still, who knows? The most rubbishy-looking stuff went for a fortune to the right bidder – someone like Honey Driver, he thought with a smile, though she collected antique underwear.

  Setting aside vivid daydreams, he stepped back and looked up at the blank windows above the shop. He tried the door. It was locked and a black and white closed sign stared him in the face.

  He looked around in an effort to see the man who had come out of the shop selling marine artefacts. He’d only caught a glimpse of burgundy anorak and a dark-coloured holdall. Probably long gone. To his surprise he found it was not so. The same anorak was standing on the edge of the onlookers peering at the crime scene from a distance.

  ‘You,’ he said, as he elbowed aside a senior citizen who immediately elbowed him back.

  ‘Back of the queue, sonny! I was here first.’

  Doherty flashed his warrant card. ‘I think I have priority, madam.’

  She made a little sucking sound, surprise etched all over her powdered face. ‘Well, of course, officer! Of course!’

  Doherty flashed his card at the man in burgundy. ‘Can I have a word?’

  The colour drained from the man’s face, or perhaps he was already pale. ‘Why?’

  ‘Just routine.’

  The woman he’d elbowed nudged herself and a friend much closer. Their eyes were piggy in pink faces and their red lips were slightly parted. One woman nudged the other.

  ‘He’s asking this man questions.’

  The man appeared more alarmed by the two women than he was by Doherty.

  ‘A private word I think,’ said Doherty taking the man’s elbow and moving away.

  The two women looked peeved. The man looked relieved. He was tall, mid-fifties or so, and wearing spectacles. The lenses of the spectacles were as thick as bottle bottoms and made his eye colour indistinguishable. Poor soul, though Doherty. He must have trouble seeing his own feet without them – or for that matter seeing anything of interest in between. His clothes were casual but work-oriented; downmarket as far as antiques went, though the prices in the shop were hardly bargain basement.

  Saved from the curious onlookers, the man turned peevish. ‘Can we make it quick? I do have another job to go to.’

  ‘The shop isn’t yours?’

  The man shook his head. ‘No. I had to do a repair for the owner. The sink in the back was leaking.’

  ‘Seems both these properties need work doing on them. Is the owner around?’

  The man almost choked with derisive laughter. ‘Good God, no. The owner rents the shop out. Nobody lives there and the bloke who rents it isn’t there today. In fact I think he’s out of the country on a buying trip.’

  ‘Hmm. So no one would have been in there last night?’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so.’

  ‘Shame. I was hoping someone might have seen something.’

  ‘’Fraid not.’

  ‘And your name is …?’

  ‘Coulthard,’ said the man. ‘Reginald Coulthard.’

  Doherty thanked him for his time, took one last glance at the crowd, then headed back to Manvers Street.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Steve Doherty was swinging through the corridor leading from the car park at the rear of the station. He got as far as the locker room, meaning to pick up an old pair of trainers he’d left there. He sniffed. His top lip curled upwards. Scruffy he could cope with. Smelly he could not.

  ‘The things I do for the force,’ he said to himself.

  Three nights on the trot he’d been doing this, and thankfully after dark. He didn’t want to be seen slamming the pavements with his size tens, especially by some smart alec from uniform. Not to mention that Warren bloody Price was still hanging around somewhere. Doherty mentally cursed whoever it was who had judged a violent man fit to serve out his time in an open prison. The prisoner had escaped and was somewhere in Bath – and only because Doherty was here. Doherty was his target.

  The locker room saw most activity at shift-changing times. He’d timed himself to be exactly halfway between shift changeovers. He hoped the locker room would be empty. No one would see him take the trainers from his locker and out to the boot of his car. All things being equal he should escape comments about ‘middle-age spread’ or ‘pounding the beat with Kinky Karen’ as the boys in blue called her.

  One foot on a bench, the other on the ground, Sergeant Packer was the only one there. He was clipping on a pair of bicycle clips. What was left of his hair flopped grey and thin over his eyes. He looked up and grinned. ‘Hello, hello, hello. If it isn’t DI Doherty. What’s this I ’ear about you taking up jogging?’

&n
bsp; ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Guy Fawkes and Beau Bridges.’

  The two men he referred to were actually called Guy Ford and Tony Bridges, but their sort of names had led to them earning suitable nicknames; Guy for the conspirator who’d tried to blow up Parliament, and Tony after the American actor.

  Steve opened his locker door and hid behind it. ‘I need to get fit,’ he said simply.

  Sergeant Packer made no comment about exercise. Instead he said, ‘Your girlfriend’s been in.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Steve, unwilling to go through another ribbing about getting free hotel rooms and someone to warm the other half of the bed.

  ‘She brought in a bag that some woman left at the Garrick’s. Sounds like a batty old titled type going a bit absent-minded.’

  It was the titled bit that grabbed Steve Doherty’s attention. He paused in mid effort of lifting the trainers from the locker, mildly aware that they exuded a smell similar to a piece of overripe Stilton. ‘What time was that?’

  ‘This morning,’ said Packer, a lascivious grin splitting his shiny, spotty face. ‘Now there’s an excuse for you.’ Packer winked.

  It irritated. The bloody sod was reading his mind.

  Trainers tucked under his arm, he quickstepped it past his own office and into the area behind the receiving sergeant’s desk.

  It was four thirty in the afternoon, and things hadn’t yet heated up to fever pitch – a level of activity that didn’t occur until between eleven and midnight.

  A woman sergeant was on duty. He peered over her shoulder, his eyes quickly glancing at that morning’s entries.

  His eyes scanned down the page and suddenly jolted to a halt. Lady Templeton-Jones. There she was.

  The desk sergeant turned her head and eyed him with a withering stare. ‘Are you looking down my cleavage, DI Doherty?’

  ‘No,’ he said, taking his phone from his pocket, his eyes still fixed on the details entered in the log. ‘Something much more interesting than that.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Doherty had phoned. He was on his way round.

  ‘You’ll have to be quick. My mother’s threatened to come over for coffee in the morning, but she may surprise me and arrive for tea.’