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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Honey stopped outside the imposing facade of the Garrick’s Head and took a deep breath. This part of Bath hadn’t changed much since it was built back in the eighteenth century. She looked up at the gleaming windows. If it wasn’t for the traffic she could easily imagine herself back then. As it was, she looked for signs of past residents. They said that the Grey Lady could sometimes be seen at an upstairs window or even peering over the parapet. At present the windows reflected nothing except sky and other buildings, the stuff she expected to see. She’d never spied anything else, much as she might want to – or not.

  Mary Jane had once told her that ghosts and spirits are only seen when the mind least expects it. At present her mind was too full of other things.

  ‘In there,’ said the police constable, standing to one side of the steps leading in. The smell of something cooking smothered those of traffic, dust, and everything else Bathonian. There were lots of restaurants around here; lots of kitchens in the basements of lofty houses.

  Honey took a sniff. Her stomach rumbled. Steak and kidney pie? Shepherd’s pie? Whatever it was, the smell was good.

  The chest of the policeman expanded and contracted. It was accompanied by a hefty sigh. ‘My favourite. Steak and kidney.’

  Honey shook her head. ‘No. Close. But it’s shepherd’s pie.’

  He looked affronted. ‘I know steak and kidney when I smell it. Bet you a fiver.’

  ‘OK.’

  He got out a fiver. Honey snatched it. ‘Shepherd’s pie,’ she said, pointing to a chalkboard leaning against the wall in the vestibule behind him.

  He muttered something inaudible.

  Honey made her way into what had been termed ‘The Green Room,’ where actors and the gay community had once gathered. Tables were neatly arranged and covered with tablecloths ready for lunch.

  Two more constables stood just inside and parted to let her through.

  Doherty was sitting at a table down at the far end of the room. The cloth had been removed, the cutlery replaced by notepads, witness statements, and pens.

  Doherty looked up when she entered. ‘Good morning.’ His eyes held hers for a moment. ‘Take a seat. Would you like a coffee?’

  ‘No. I’ve had one.’

  She sat down opposite him, surprised that the nervousness was still with her.

  Steve noticed her unease. ‘Just here,’ he said, patting the space beside him.

  After moving around the table, she swung her bag from her shoulder and tucked it between her feet.

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a coffee? You can have a tot of something in it to steady your nerves.’

  She shook her head. ‘My mother would curse me. Can we begin? As long as you treat me gently. I’m feeling fragile.’

  ‘That’s a promise. Anything you want to ask me before we start?’ He smiled. Fine lines radiated from the corners of his eyes. ‘You look as though you got ready in a hurry. No make-up.’

  He may not have meant it to, but it stung. She retaliated.

  ‘I take it today was a non-shaving day. You look like a tramp.’

  He grinned, his fingertips making a rasping sound as they ran over his stubble.

  ‘Designer stubble. It’s hip in Hollywood. Touch it.’ His chin jutted forward.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  They got down to business. She repeated the events of the fateful night once again, including the moment Lady Templeton-Jones had vanished.

  ‘And you said you saw someone.’

  She squirmed as she nodded. ‘I was tying my lace when he passed by. He wasn’t one of our group.’

  ‘The one you thought might be a ghost.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘OK.’ Steve smiled. ‘Could he have been part of the other group you bumped into at the end?’

  She made a sharp guffaw. ‘Are you kidding? Pop Idol meets Phantom of the Opera?’

  ‘Phantom, eh?’

  ‘I’ve already told you. He wasn’t a phantom.’

  ‘Are you reassuring me or reassuring yourself?’

  She went over the details in her mind. At some point she had regarded the dark stranger as some kind of phantom. He’d appeared from nowhere. Had vanished into nothing.

  ‘Anything else you remember?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Could he have been stalking her?’

  Honey thought about it. She hadn’t heard footsteps following them, but that didn’t mean there were none. The sound of hammering-down rain and water gushing through pipes could have easily drowned out the sound of footsteps. She put this to him. He agreed.

  ‘If he was stalking her, he has to be our prime suspect. But who was he? And why was she murdered?’

  She nodded. ‘Evening dress. It had to be evening dress.’

  In the cold light of day logic replaced fantasy; dark clothes and patent shoes pointed to someone coming home from a dinner party, an official function or theatre. Yes, that was it.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Mr and Mrs Hamilton George the Fourth were first in. They were middle-aged, wore affable smiles and sported red tartan trousers and thick Aran sweaters. Their trainers were big as buckets and they both carried tartan backpacks too. Mr George also wore red earmuffs that were presently slipped just behind his ears. The wire from an iPod trailed over his broad chest. He was smaller than his wife. Nothing trailed over her chest because there was no room for anything else but bosom.

  On this occasion Steve had opted to interview each couple together. If their stories seemed suspect, he’d interview them separately down at the station.

  The Georges hailed from San Diego, which was why Mary Jane had floated off during the walk, catching up on news from home. Mary Jane came from La Jolla, just south of there.

  After name and address came profession.

  ‘Retired,’ explained Mr George. ‘I’m over here on vacation.’

  ‘My husband used to be very big at IBM,’ gushed his wife, who was pretty big herself – in body, that is. ‘He held a very important position. He was well thought of.’

  ‘And well-paid,’ her husband reminded her with a sideways smile.

  Mrs George seemed barely to notice his intervention. ‘But he keeps himself busy. And we travel. We’ve always wanted to travel. And now we do. We’ve been all over the world, haven’t we, Hamilton?’

  Her husband’s mouth opened as though to answer, but he didn’t get the chance. Mrs George was in full flow.

  ‘We’ve been to Japan, Hawaii, China, France, Switzerland …’ She went on counting out the countries they had visited on her fingers. It wasn’t long before she ran out of fingers.

  Out of sight of the devoted couple, Honey tapped her own finger against Steve’s thigh. Steve reciprocated, acknowledging they were sharing the same thoughts when eye contact was impossible. Mrs George was the sort of woman that once she opened her mouth, she couldn’t stop.

  ‘It’s amazing what he can do with a computer. Why, I think he’s probably one of the best people with a computer that’s ever been. Not that I would know. I never worked in computers. I know how to turn it on and that’s about all, but he’s a real whiz, though of course I keep out of his domain because I might hit a button by mistake, and then all his work would be …’

  Honey couldn’t help staring. She was fascinated that Mrs George’s mouth was the only moving part of her face.

  She wasn’t hearing what was being said. It was a bit like a lavatory flush, a job was being done that you didn’t want to know about. That was the interest factor of Mrs George’s diatribe.

  It was Steve who plunged in head first to plug the flow. ‘So when did you last see Wanda Carpenter – the woman who introduced herself as Lady Templeton-Jones?’

  Husband was quick off the mark. ‘I first noticed her when she was introduced by the guide. I was outside the pub with my wife.’ He fetched Mrs George a sideways look that was less than convivial. ‘My wife doesn’t drink …’

  Hi
s wife interrupted. ‘Only swiftly and vaguely, Hamilton. We only saw her swiftly and vaguely,’ she said, slapping her thighs in unison. ‘After that we were so swathed in raincoats, hoods, and umbrellas, that it was difficult to see anyone or anything. We kept close to our guide so we could hear what was being said, though we did peek at some interesting spots and feel cold air and all that, but Lady Templeton-Jones did get left behind. She walked with a stick, you know, so it couldn’t have been easy for her.’

  Easy enough, thought Honey. The deceased couldn’t have held her own with a racehorse, but a three-legged pony? No question.

  ‘Did you see anyone else when you got to the Assembly Rooms?’ Steve asked.

  ‘Well, I certainly didn’t,’ said Mrs George, without time for a single thought to flash through her head. ‘And I’m sure Hamilton didn’t either, did you, Hamilton?’

  Mr George had retreated into temporary silence, his earmuffs pulled forward over his ears. A tinny music sound drifted around the fluffy wool. Mrs George tugged at an earmuff and shouted the question.

  ‘Did you see anyone when we got to the Assembly Rooms?’

  ‘Someone in evening dress,’ Honey added hopefully.

  Mrs George repeated this to her husband. He shook his head. Mrs George shook hers.

  Taking full advantage of the short burst of calm, Steve plunged in again. ‘That’s all, Mrs George, Mr George.’

  Mrs George looked surprised at being shut up so abruptly, her expression blank.

  ‘So what do you think,’ Steve asked Honey once they’d gone.

  ‘I think Mr George suffers from a permanent headache.’

  ‘That aside, can you remember where they were when our friend Lady Templeton-Jones disappeared?’

  Narrowing her eyes, Honey tried desperately to resurrect the sight of that group glimpsed through the downpour. She shook her head. ‘No. It was hard to see anything.’

  ‘Could anyone have wandered off without the others noticing?’

  ‘I did.’

  Tami Burns and Dwight Denman were next to sit in the hot seat. They held hands, knees close together. They were younger than the other American couple, came from Washington, and explained they were on a ‘trial marriage vacation’.

  ‘We’ve both been married before – three times each, in fact – so this time we wanted to be sure, and vacations are when couples are thrown together and quarrel. We wanted to see if we could survive that …’ They exchanged a sugary smile. ‘And we have. It’s been a whole week.’

  Honey resisted the urge to poke her fingers down her throat and throw up.

  Steve appeared unmoved and straight to the point. ‘Did you see anyone besides the ghost-walk group that night?’

  Honey threw him an are-you-really-that-dumb look. The answer was obvious. Of course they hadn’t seen anyone else. They only had eyes for each other.

  The German couple – Herr Klaus and Frau Lotte Loewtz – got straight to the point. ‘We were soaked through but soldiered on. We saw nothing. Nothing at all.’

  ‘Including ghosts?’ asked Steve.

  Frau Loewtz, who spoke with a deeper voice than her husband, fixed him with a toe-curling glare. ‘Of course not! You will let us go now.’

  Steve didn’t argue. She was bigger than him. Her husband, Klaus, trundled off behind her.

  ‘I wasn’t entirely sure he agreed with her,’ said Honey.

  ‘But wouldn’t dare argue. Never mind. I’ll make a note to speak to him alone, though I’ll have to move fast. They’re only staying another week.’

  The last couple were the Karviks, who they discovered were from Norway, not Sweden. Arne differed from the usual golden image by being dark-eyed and dark-haired. His wife had legs up to her shoulders and white blonde hair that reach her waist. She fitted the Nordic image admirably.

  ‘It was so atmospheric,’ breathed his wife, an ample cleavage peeping above three pearl buttons. ‘It made me tingle all over.’ She accompanied her dulcet tone with a jiggling motion. Her boobs wobbled like jellies. The words ‘my cup overfloweth’ came to Honey’s mind. Or, in this case, cups. Steve looked willing to apply the ‘waste not, want not’ principle and lap up the overflow.

  She butted in.

  ‘Did you see anything – anyone at all?’

  Mrs Karvik gave her husband’s leg a quick squeeze. ‘We lost ourselves in the atmosphere, did we not, Arne? We are so sensitive to atmosphere,’ she said, facing forwards again, her words slow and voice throaty. ‘We felt sure we were in the presence of spirits. It turned so cold at times that I tingled all over.’

  Honey did not voice her opinion that this was probably due to the fact that the wind had been freezing cold and it had been peeing it down.

  Once Steve had regained control of his jaw he said they could go, but must leave their address while here in the UK and that of their home in Norway.

  ‘You let them off lightly,’ said Honey.

  Steve did a series of shifty movements and studied the doodles on his notepad as though they had hidden meaning. Most of them were balloons with large nipple-like dots in the middle.

  Honey tutted. Steve took umbrage.

  ‘I only said you could attend, not take over,’ he warned while they awaited their next appointment. ‘Anyway, your judgement was impaired as far as the Karviks were concerned. Your green-eyed monster was showing.’

  ‘And you, Sherlock, were on Planet Testosterone!’

  Of course he was, but being a man he was in denial. ‘I was just being attentive.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. And she was just being friendly. If that cleavage had been any deeper you could have dived in, never to be seen again.’

  ‘What a way to go!’

  Jan Kowalski walked in minus his rain cape. Green shirt, camouflage trousers, and a black leather jacket. His hair was cut short. He read his introduction from a sheet of paper folded into four. He held it at arm’s-length. ‘I am from Gdańsk. I am a student of Internet communications. I am looking for work.’ He passed the piece of paper across to them. ‘My details.’

  It was on the tip of Honey’s tongue to ask what sort of work he was expecting to get on a ghost walk. Was the spirit world hiring IT whiz-kids at the moment? She imagined names for the Internet search engines and websites. Surfing for Spooks? Internet Intangibles? World Wide Weirdos? The last one was probably already taken, she decided. There were plenty of weirdos already out there.

  Steve asked him how long he was staying in the country. Jan confirmed that if he didn’t get work within the next two weeks, he would be returning home.

  Honey asked him why he went on a ghost walk.

  ‘Someone sent me a text message. Said they would meet me there and discuss work they could offer me.’

  ‘And they didn’t turn up?’

  ‘No.’

  He confirmed that he was looking for any kind of work. He seemed a likeable, presentable young man. Honey took his name and address. According to the sheet of paper he was staying at a youth hostel. Honey considered. At present she was fully staffed, but twenty-four hours was a long time in the catering industry.

  ‘Keep in touch,’ she said, handing him her card at the same time as explaining the situation.

  His face lit up with pleasure as he took and pocketed her card.

  ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’

  He prepared to leave.

  ‘Just a moment,’ said Steve. ‘I need you to make a statement. No need for you to write it. I’ll write it, read it out, and you can sign it.’

  For the briefest of moments, Honey perceived fear flash into the dark brown eyes. It was very quick, so fast that she half thought it was purely imagination. There again, sometimes immigrants were always wary of officialdom. They were in a foreign land seeking work, and the local police made them nervous.

  Steve Doherty gave no sign of having noticed.

  Jan lowered himself back on to the chair.

  Steve asked the same questions he’d asked of
everyone else.

  ‘Did you see anyone else besides those people on the walk?’

  Jan Kowalski shook his head. ‘Not ghosts. Only person.’

  Steve had been looking down at the statement sheet in front of him. His eyes flicked upwards. ‘You saw people? A person?’

  He nodded. ‘A man. Yes, I saw a man.’

  The tension was tangible. If tangible was edible, then Steve Doherty could be devoured whole. She sensed the stiffening of his body and saw his eyes narrowing.

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  Jan nodded. ‘We had reached the top of an alley that took us back to the main road. He came out from a side street – a narrow side street. We were waiting at the top. Our guide had gone to … pee.’

  ‘An alley?’

  Jan shrugged and gave a questioning flip of his hands. ‘It was only a short moment.’

  Steve asked him if he would recognise the man again. He was like a hunter after the scent, his body tense with anticipation.

  ‘How was he dressed?’

  ‘Black. In black. He wore a hat and a long coat.’

  ‘Could it have been a cloak?’

  Jan shrugged. ‘It might have been.’

  ‘Anything else you remember about him?’

  ‘He had no smell.’

  This was new. People normally reported what they saw with their eyes not what they sniffed with their nose.

  ‘Not even of rain,’ Jan went on. ‘I could have been mistaken, but I do not think so. I have a sensitive nose. Those around me had smells. The women smelled mostly of perfume and deodorant. The men of aftershave, brandy, or a silent …’ He looked up at the ceiling in his search for the right word.

  ‘I get the picture,’ said Doherty.

  ‘No one else saw him.’

  Doherty met his eyes.

  Honey stiffened.

  ‘Nobody?’ said Doherty.

  ‘No. They did not seem to.’

  He seemed glad to leave.

  ‘See! I told you I saw a guy in a dark suit, and now this guy saw him too,’ said Honey. She didn’t remark on the fact that no one else had seen him. It was enough that she wasn’t the only one.

  ‘Great. Bloke in dark suit. That narrows it down a bit.’