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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  After that, proceedings were nearly over. The tour guide, Pamela Windsor, was the most cooperative, and had already written everything down, basically duplicating everything on her statement and a bit more besides. Surprised, Doherty thanked her, and after perusing the details could only thank her for her cooperation.

  The last interview was with the two Australian women. They came in to the room wreathed in smiles. Betty Smith and Sally Weston were middle-aged, single, and out to enjoy themselves. They were overweight, dressed in tracksuits and trainers, and looked to be having a good time at being quizzed by a real-life cop.

  ‘Fire away,’ said Betty, the chair legs creaking as they took her weight. Sally’s chair did much the same. Not that she noticed. Her eyes were busy giving Steve a top to toe once-over.

  ‘You single?’ she asked.

  Steve Doherty sidestepped that one and cut to the chase. Had they seen anyone?

  ‘Only ducks,’ said Betty, which brought tears of laughter to both their eyes.

  Their laughter was infectious and brought smiles to both Honey and Doherty . It fell to Doherty to remind them that they were there for a very serious reason. A woman had been murdered.

  They both coughed behind plump fists and apologised.

  No. They hadn’t seen anyone else, though in that weather it was impossible to be sure.

  Doherty didn’t attempt to take up any more of their time.

  ‘You can go, ladies, and enjoy your sightseeing.’

  The women’s plump faces resumed their former joviality, the pair of them giggling like a couple of schoolgirls. Betty winked. ‘We don’t just sightsee, Detective Inspector. You might say we like to try out local delicacies – if you know what I mean.’

  Sally blew him a kiss on the way out and Betty shook her buttocks in an impromptu hula dance before the door was closed behind them.

  Steve’s expression was a mix of puzzlement and embarrassment. The two uniformed police swaying on either side of the door fought to hide their smirks.

  Doherty looked to Honey. ‘What did I say?’

  Honey did nothing to stop her grin from spreading. ‘Not what you said. What they said, about trying local delicacies.’

  He shrugged. The light wasn’t on.

  ‘Wake up, Steve.’ She poked a rose-tinted fingernail at his midriff.

  ‘Damn. I hate snide remarks.’ He sounded churlish. He wasn’t good at picking up innuendo and hated not getting the joke. ‘What am I if I’m not awake?

  Honey rested an elbow on the table and rested her chin on her hand, eyeing him sidelong and very, very salaciously. ‘What are you? A local delicacy. That’s what you are!’

  Chapter Twenty

  Hamilton George took big strides to put space between himself and his wife. He’d pulled his earmuffs down over his ears and his woollen hat more tightly down onto his head. His face was beetroot-red, and his teeth ached because he was clenching his jaw so tightly.

  He felt her hand grasping the sleeve of his jacket. Her short, fat legs were going nineteen to the dozen in her effort to keep up with him. He glanced at the piggy nose he’d thought so cute when she was young and slim. It was just as porcine as the rest of her now.

  ‘What have I done wrong, Hamilton?’

  He couldn’t hear her too well, but then he didn’t need to. He could see her mouth moving. He knew the words well, knew she was once again apologising for doing something wrong. Meredith was always doing things wrong. Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!

  ‘You opened your big mouth!’

  He shrugged her hand off and kept walking. She did her best to keep up with him, but he knew she was finding it difficult. By the time they got back to their hotel room she’d have her inhaler out and be fighting for breath, her breasts heaving up and down like sacks of oatmeal. Well, so be it! She deserved to suffer for what she’d done. And at least when she was fighting for breath she couldn’t talk. That was Meredith’s trouble. She talked too much. He hoped she was fighting for breath for a long while. At least then he’d have some peace.

  The guy behind hotel reception handed him the room key at the exact moment Meredith came panting and puffing through the revolving door. Hamilton marched towards the elevator, his wife padding along some distance behind him, her face bright red, her shoulders sloping forward as though she were in two minds whether to crawl.

  The doors closed before she got there. Her husband made no move to stop it. He went up. She waited at the bottom. At the exact same moment, a young man that the receptionist did not recognise bounded up the stairs to the right of the elevator shaft. The receptionist told the manager. The manager moved towards the stairs.

  Meredith George chose that moment to collapse, landing belly-up at the manager’s feet.

  ‘Get a doctor,’ he shouted. ‘Inform her husband. Room 471. Quickly!’

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The bedroom recently occupied by Lady Templeton-Jones at La Reine Rouge was very French. The walls were covered in yellow striped wallpaper. Noble silhouettes in gilt ovals were arranged in groups of four. Larger groupings were gathered around a central portrait of a soft bosomed lady in stiff lace. Judging by the delicately pink cheeks and heart-shaped face, the portrait dated from the eighteenth or early nineteenth century. A light oak French sleigh bed of enormous proportions occupied the centre of the room.

  As with every room at Casper St John Gervais’ very upmarket hotel, antique furniture of a certain age and of the highest quality had been exquisitely arranged. To Casper staging a room came naturally and never failed to impress. As impressed as anyone, Honey stopped at the door and took off her shoes.

  Steve didn’t look as though he had any intention of following her example. ‘It’s not a mosque,’ he snapped.

  ‘Come on,’ she urged, jerking her chin at the pale gold carpet. ‘We can’t clump street dirt over something that clean.’

  ‘Your consideration is noted,’ said a still miffed Casper, who hadn’t quite forgiven her for what he termed ‘poaching’.

  She’d insisted that she hadn’t, that the suggestion had come from the lady herself, but he was still hurt.

  A few more considerate comments and he’d be fine.

  Doherty was a different matter. He wasn’t exactly a rough diamond, but he didn’t stand on ceremony for anybody or any thing. Unimpressed by the luxurious surroundings, he kept his shoes on.

  He waded straight in. ‘So when did you last see the lady?’

  Casper regarded Doherty’s shoes with glaring distaste. He sniffed indignantly. ‘Inspector! I do not keep tabs on my guests. I employ people to do that. You should ask Neville.’

  Steve whirled round swiftly taking Casper by surprise. ‘I will be asking him. But for now I’m asking you!’

  ‘I don’t bloody know,’ Casper hissed with glassy-eyed distaste. ‘I own the bloody place, I don’t work in it!’

  Casper using bad language? Honey had never known it before. The chairman of the Hotels Association was usually cucumber-cool, running rings around lesser mortals. That Noel Coward facade had been kicked firmly into touch!

  Doherty thrust his face within kissing distance to that of Casper. ‘Answer the question!’

  The atmosphere was electric. Neither man would back down, yet someone had to.

  Casper held himself stiff for what seemed like minutes. It didn’t last. Doherty gained the upper hand.

  ‘I only saw her once to speak to. We talked about the weather.’

  Without a trace of triumph on his face, Steve wandered over to the window. He looked down on the street scene. ‘How long had she been staying here?’ His voice was low. Cool.

  ‘Three days, so I understand.’

  Steve frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  As Honey listened, her fingers sneaked across the dross sitting on the bedside cabinet. There was the usual rubbish that some people keep to remind them of their trip; bus, train and museum entrance tickets, money-off vouchers, and l
eaflets for local attractions. There was also an auction catalogue for a sale two weeks hence. Being a girl addicted to things second-hand and interestingly valuable, she swooped on it.

  The cover read Marine and Other Collectables. She leafed through it, recalling the items Alistair had mentioned; everything for sale at this particular auction had a marine connection. There were a number of listings for the blue and white china he’d mentioned. According to the blurb it had been carried by a Dutch ship that had sunk following a storm. Apart from merchandise carried by ships, there were bits of ships: wooden tillers and wheels, their wood worn smooth by years of handling by rough-palmed men. There were listings for lanterns, clocks, navigation lights, navigation equipment, and an inordinate amount of telescopes. Some lot numbers were blanks, ‘awaiting details’ noted in the margin. Someone, most likely Wanda, had taken a pen and bracketed these unused page numbers together.

  Alistair had hinted at very expensive and world famous items. She wondered what he’d meant.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Steve Doherty, interrupting his questioning to take a glance over Honey’s shoulder.

  ‘An auction catalogue.’

  ‘Interesting?’

  She made a so-so kind of face. ‘I don’t know. Why make a notation beside unlisted items?’

  He looked perplexed so she showed him the bracketing of four numbers. ‘See? It’s usual to make notes beside items that you’re interested in bidding for. She’s noted numbers with nothing listed beside them. Odd, huh?’

  Their conversation caused a stirring in Casper’s direction.

  ‘Unless you’re selling,’ he said, ‘unused lot numbers are reserved just in case. Some people are not terribly organised.’ Casper didn’t fit into that category. Casper was totally organised, totally in control.

  Honey, on the other hand, was sometimes organised. It wasn’t that she was disorganised, really; it was just that when the pressure was on things could – and did – go awry. But on this occasion her thinking was clear. Alistair, the fountain of information at the auction house, would know if Lady Templeton-Jones had been enquiring about putting items up for auction.

  She was about to mention that knowledge was power and that a very large Scotsman with a red beard was very powerful and very knowledgeable, when someone knocked at the door. Neville, Casper’s manager and the lynchpin of good service at La Reine Rouge, stuck his head round the door. His voice was soft – and awestruck.

  ‘Casper, Sir Ashwell Bridgewater is here.’

  Casper grew straighter and taller, like a palace guard who’s been told the queen was due to arrive. ‘Have you made him Lapsang Souchong?’

  ‘No!’ Neville threw one of his forbearing looks, rolling his eyes until his gaze rested on Steve Doherty. ‘He’s come to collect Lady Templeton-Jones’s things – his cousin – if you’ve finished, Mr Policeman.’ Neville sounded contemptuous. Nothing new there. He always came over as hostile when Steve was around. Honey guessed it was due to some past brush with the law that he’d never quite got over, but like Steve she gave it no regard. The fact that Wanda – Lady Templeton-Jones – had a cousin living in England came as something of a surprise.

  Steve shook his head. ‘What is it with these people? Why do they want to be called Lord this or Lady that?’

  ‘Prestige,’ said Honey. ‘I think you can get a bigger overdraft at the bank.’

  Steve nodded as though the idea appealed to him. But like her, he was intrigued.

  ‘Me first,’ he said, pinning Casper to the wall with an outstretched arm. ‘No one mentioned a cousin.’

  Honey followed him out. Like Batman and Robin, they swept along a landing bordered by chinoiserie cabinets. Persian carpets sucked at the soles of their shoes. From there they descended a staircase bounded by a deep red mahogany banister.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The middle-aged man waiting for them in reception was plump and pink-faced. Supposedly in an effort to look hip, he wore gold-rimmed dark glasses, a stud in one ear, and a large floppy beret. The rest of his clothes were just as naff; Mister Cool Dude was trying to be something he was not.

  His voice didn’t fit his appearance.

  ‘I came straight from work,’ he said, displaying the sort of smile favoured by funeral directors. His voice was smarmy, as sweet and thick as treacle poured straight from the tin.

  Her Ladyship had hailed from Ohio, so Honey was surprised that her cousin lacked an American accent. It was plummy and smacked of elocution lessons. An add-on to go with the title? Extra charge of course.

  That by itself shouldn’t have grieved her. But there was something about his tone that put her back up; it was conciliatory, almost condescending, and his smile was so fixed and polished. She told herself that titles did that to people, and wondered how much his had cost.

  Doherty asked him for personal details.

  ‘I live in Northend. You know it, Inspector?’

  ‘Yes, I know it. I didn’t know Her Ladyship had an English cousin.’

  ‘We shared the same great-grandfather. Her grandfather was my great-uncle; he emigrated to America at the turn of the century. The last century, that is. 1900.’ His smile never wavered.‘Is it all right to take her things?’ he asked, addressing Doherty directly.

  Honey was again reminded of a funeral director; polite, oily voiced and smiling, smiling, smiling all the time. She half expected him to secrete himself in the corner and start wringing his hands like Dickens’ Uriah Heep in the Old Curiosity Shop: ‘I’m ever so ’umble.’ . Not lordly or knightly at all.

  ‘Not yet, and even then I’ll need proof of identity,’ said Steve.

  ‘Here. I came prepared.’ Sir Ashwell Bridgewater dipped his hand into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and brought out his driving license. Steve scanned it fleetingly before handing it back. ‘I also took the opportunity to contact her sister’s son by email. I believe he’s already been in touch with the local police department, who will also confirm my status.’

  The voice pitch stayed the same. It wasn’t natural. No emotion. No overflowing tear ducts or the faintest tremble of his shiny, round chin. Honey decided she didn’t like him.

  Steve ran his eyes over the other paperwork Bridgewater had brought with him. Honey could tell by his expression that everything was in order.

  ‘I can’t release her things just yet, I’m afraid. Not until I’ve finished my investigation and am satisfied the items have no relevance to the case.’

  ‘That’s perfectly fine by me, Inspector. I know you’re doing everything possible to apprehend Wanda’s murderer. I’ll keep in touch, if you don’t mind.’

  For no reason she could fathom – except perhaps that she didn’t like his hat – Honey felt her toes curling up. The tone of voice was strangely familiar and irritated her. She forced herself to be positive and ask a question instead.

  ‘Why was your cousin staying at a hotel in town? I thought long-lost cousins would stay together.’

  His neck jerked and he was facing her. ‘Are you with the police?’ he asked. His smile was unwavering, but his eyes were wary.

  ‘Well, actually …’

  Steve saved her bacon. ‘She’s attached to my division.’

  Casper rolled his eyes. ‘Sir Ashwell, I do apologise for this intrusion. But you understand how distressed we all are. I’m sure you’re as keen as we are to apprehend whoever killed your cousin. And in Bath! Jane Austen’s fair city!’

  There was no perceptible variation in Bridgewater’s smile, no hint of being even a little bit upset.

  ‘I quite understand,’ he said to Casper, then turned to Honey. ‘In answer to your question, she did stay with me at first.’

  ‘This is a fine hotel, Mr Bridgewater, but why did she move out on you and move here?’

  ‘Distance and convenience. She’d been staying with me for a while, but she decided that Northend was too far out for sightseeing. She thought it made more sense to move into the city centre.’<
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  Honey frowned.

  ‘Can I take any of her things now?’ He addressed Steve.

  Steve looked thoughtful. ‘Once we’re satisfied that her luggage holds no clues, you can have it. Bear in mind that I may want to speak to you further about this.’

  Bridgewater’s smile was undiminished, though his cheeks were deepening from pink to rose.

  ‘Feel free, Inspector. You can get me at home. Here’s my card. Or you can get me at work. We aim to please.’

  The royal we?

  Honey was having trouble dealing with Bridgewater. He made her tingle all over and desire – or even outright lust – had nothing to do with it. Neither was she impressed by his title. She’d prove Lindsey wrong about that. A third question blurted out.

  ‘Where do you work, Mr Bridgewater?’

  His mouth seemed to spasm in different directions because she’d addressed him as ‘Mister’. He managed to answer. ‘APW Marketing. I lead a sales team in telephone marketing.’

  Cold-calling! That was it! The tingling horror at the base of her spine! This man was partly responsible for the teeth-grinding telephone calls she received, offering goods and services she didn’t need. And they all sounded the same, asking her to take part in surveys, to buy double glazing, kitchens, and gadgets for clearing blocked drains. How many soaks in the bath had been interrupted by him and his team? Irritation bubbled up like superheated magma.

  Steve was not a mind-reader, but he must have known what she was thinking. She felt his warm palm resting on her arm. She got the message: we can’t hold his job against him.

  She couldn’t resist one last question. ‘Just one thing before you go, Mr Bridgewater. How come that both you and your cousin have titles – though different ones, I notice.’

  ‘It opens doors,’ he said in that trained, even voice that annoyed a thousand or so households every day. ‘I suggested it to her. She bought hers. I bought mine. That’s why we’ve got different names from two different sources. But it doesn’t matter. That’s hardly the point. The point is that it’s amazing what a little name-dropping can do.’