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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  She fancied that Steve hid a grin. Knowing he had fallen into a trap, Casper turned bright red. Taking advantage of their momentary lack of attention, she slipped the auction catalogue behind her back and into her bag.

  ‘Why was she checking out?’ she said once they were outside.

  Steve shrugged. ‘Price?’

  ‘Possibly.’ Honey ground her teeth. La Reine Rouge was the most ostentatious hotel in town – a terry-towelling robe was given away with every room. His and her basins in the bathrooms. A personal attendant allocated to every four rooms. How could anyone compete with that?

  But Steve was right. The price may well have been an issue.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The man who called himself Sir Ashwell Bridgewater marched smartly away from the centre of Bath, baggy corduroy trousers flapping around his legs. Everything would turn out fine as long as he kept his head. If his stupid cousin hadn’t come along there wouldn’t have been a problem. Only the gutless let problems stand in their way. His scowl turned to a smile. All’s well that ends well. He’d had the guts to carry on and that was all that mattered.

  Eventually he was walking along the towpath that would take him to Widcombe Basin. The day was fine, clouds scooting across the sky, a light breeze. Women with babies in strollers were sitting on benches or leaning over the railings throwing bread to the waterfowl.

  In a clear space between family groups, he spotted a tall young man. The man’s shoulders were hunched. He was leaning on the railings, staring at the water.

  ‘Heinz?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The young man continued to stare at the water, his flyaway blond hair hiding the details of his face.

  Unlike most people, Ashwell didn’t mind not seeing the face of his contact. He was used to dealing with faceless people.

  ‘So! Do you have it?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Ashwell replied with an air of confidence. ‘But I will shortly. I’m the only relative to hand, so to speak.’

  The young German nodded. ‘That is good. You will give me what I want and I will pay you.’

  Ashwell beamed. ‘Ten thousand. Pounds that is.’

  ‘Ten thousand pounds. As agreed.’ Heinz straightened. ‘Phone me when you have it. You have my number.’

  He walked off without a backward glance. Ashwell watched him go. He knew very well what he had to get to be paid his ten thousand pounds, but he wasn’t sure why Heinz coveted an old reel of film. He’d asked, but Heinz had not elaborated, except to say it was all about history. Ashwell presumed it must have something to do with the Nazi era in Germany and the Second World War.

  He smiled to himself. What did he care as long as he got his money? Ten thousand. He could have a jolly good time with ten thousand pounds. On the other hand, he could make amends to his employer for the funds he’d purloined in pursuit of his passion. But not if he didn’t have to. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it. For now he would relish the thought of what was to come. He’d decide on the finer details once the money was his.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Steve Doherty gave her a pat at around shoulder blade height before leaving. ‘I can’t believe you’ve let him get to you. Come on. Lighten up.’

  ‘I can’t help it. Did you notice he smiled all the time? I mean all the time? His cousin’s been murdered, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘You need to relax. When the fog clears I’ll abduct you away from all this. How does that sound?’

  ‘I’ve been abducted once already this month.’

  ‘You have?’

  She didn’t really want to go into details about getting astride a complete stranger’s motorcycle. With hindsight it was a totally stupid thing to do. Anything could have happened.

  ‘Well. Nearly.’

  There was a disquieting intensity about the look he gave her. She couldn’t help but spill the beans. Out it came.

  ‘I saw you out jogging with the blonde with the biceps and didn’t want you to see me.’

  Doherty listened in silence as she outlined the lurking biker and her taxi trip. A little more silence afterwards as he digested the details. His thoughtful frown made her think there was something else.

  ‘She was a policewoman. We were on duty.’

  ‘I wasn’t asking who she was.’

  ‘You didn’t need to. You’re a woman. You’re naturally curious.’

  She decided not to bite. The case was getting interesting. In time he’d tell her the circumstances of why he and the blonde were out jogging at that hour.

  Keep cool. Keep focused.

  ‘Where’s your car?’

  Doherty was about to respond, when a motorcycle swerved towards them, then zoomed away in a cloud of blue smoke.

  Honey recognised the black motorcycle. ‘It’s him!’

  Doherty looked shocked. ‘What?’

  ‘Him. The guy who tried to abscond with me as a pillion prisoner. He’s always cruising around. Showing off like blokes on bikes do. It’s the macho thing; I’ve got a bigger one than you. Bike, I mean.’

  Now his expression made her feel uncomfortable. What button had she pushed?

  ‘Did you see his registration number?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘And you’re sure he’s the one who abducted you?’

  ‘Absolutely sure.’

  ‘Have you seen him anywhere else?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. Here and there. Mostly when I’m about to step out into the road. Come to think of it, I’ve seen him hanging around the hotel.’ She frowned suddenly. Lindsey must have seen him too. Funny that she hadn’t mentioned it.

  Doherty closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. ‘Christ!’ When he reopened his eyes, he had that look, the one that looked everywhere except at her. ‘I’m taking you home.’

  ‘But I thought we were going for a meal, or a drink, or even …’ She took a deep breath. ‘Your place for supper?’

  She attempted to put her arm through his. He pushed it away. At the same time he glanced nervously around him, his eyes seeking something … perhaps nothing.

  ‘Don’t let him see that we’re close.’ His eyes were still everywhere but on her.

  ‘Well, if that’s the way things are …’

  ‘Don’t be angry.’

  His next words made her ears burn.

  ‘I’ve got something to tell you, but it’ll have to wait until we get into the car.’

  Over takeaway coffee, he told her how it was.

  ‘There’s a guy I put away. His name’s Warren Price. Well, he’s escaped from prison, and he wants revenge. He told a cell-mate that he was into emotional hurt. He lost his latest sweetheart while he was inside, she ran off with another bloke, and he blamed me. So maybe, to his twisted mind, it would only be fair for me to lose whatever woman was close to me. Don’t ask me to explain his logic. Warren Price is not logical.’

  ‘He sounds like a cul-de-sac,’ Honey said, and managed a nervous laugh.

  Steve’s face remained grim. ‘This isn’t funny. If it was funny I wouldn’t have opened up this distance between us.’

  There was something else he wasn’t telling her. She could see it in his eyes.

  ‘Has something happened?’

  He thought about it before nodding. ‘That officer I was out jogging with is in hospital. He caught her out jogging by herself yesterday. Luckily he was interrupted. She’ll live.’

  ‘Oh God, that’s terrible.’ Then realisation dawned. ‘He’s stalking me? You think he may be the guy on the motorbike?’

  He nodded. ‘It’s possible.’ He turned his attention to the traffic cruising around Queen Square. ‘Did you see his face at all?’

  Stunned, Honey shook her head.

  Steve blew on to the steaming coffee while warming his hands on the cup. ‘Next time you see him, try and get the registration number – but carefully. If it is Warren Price, he’s dangerous. Really dangerous.’

  Chapter Twenty-five


  Honey’s aversion to Ashwell Bridgewater simmered like stewing bones. Her teeth were still on edge by the time she got to the auction rooms. Alistair was just locking things up and was bending over one his many filing cabinets. When he heard her come in, he looked round.

  ‘Hen! Can I assist you, lass?’

  ‘Have you ever considered being a laird, Alistair?’

  The big, red-haired Scotsman stopped what he was doing and eyed her over his shoulder.

  ‘Now what would I want with doing a thing like that?’

  ‘Some people quite like the idea. They reckon it gives them kudos.’

  ‘All it would give me is a pain in the posterior and the undying disgust of my socialist relatives.’

  Honey smiled and rebuked herself for bothering to ask. Alistair was totally devoid of airs and graces.

  ‘I’m taking part in a murder inquiry,’ she began.

  After closing the filing cabinet, he turned and slammed his big hands down on the counter. It was a habit of his and no matter how gently he seemed to perform the action, he always managed to make her jump.

  ‘Aye, lass. The woman dumped up by Satchwell’s. Poor soul, though some have gained by her demise – Joe Satchwell for a start. There’s been sightseers galore trooping by his shop window. Joe took full advantage and plastered a banner across the window advertising a half-price sale.’

  Joe Satchwell would, she thought to herself. His lock-up shop was directly opposite the place where Wanda Carpenter had been found. Joe was the Greek-Cypriot equivalent of Casper St John Gervais and also ran a small café with checked tablecloths and an assortment of willow-patterned crockery.

  When opportunity knocked, he flung the door wide. Satchwell was his mother’s maiden name. His father’s was Kiracoulis. But Joe knew his market. People touring England, and Bath especially, wanted quintessentially English, not vaguely Greek.

  ‘Her name was Lady Templeton-Jones. I found this in her possession.’ She brought out the auction catalogue and pointed to the bracketing. ‘Could you check for her name on the sellers list for this auction? Please,’ she entreated, anxiously aware that the poor man was off home after a hard day flogging oak commodes and mahogany whatnots.

  ‘Hmmmm … arghhhh.’

  She recognised Alistair’s grumbling sound. He always did this when he was trying to pretend he wasn’t going to help her. But he would. Alistair was a big Scottish pussycat – most of the time.

  ‘What was the name again?’

  She gave him both. Honey wrote them down beneath the date of the auction.

  Alistair was secretive about the red file he got out. Giving her a shifty glance, he ran his finger down the list it contained and finally made a sucking-in sound. He shook his head. ‘No to each of the ladies.’

  ‘They’re … it’s only one lady.’

  ‘A dead lady. Yes. No. No one of that name.’

  Honey frowned. ‘So why bracket those numbers?’

  Alistair made a jerking motion with his head, nodding it from side to side as though he were deciding on the reason. ‘Perhaps she had a mind to list a few items but then changed her mind.’

  Perhaps. It was the best explanation and yet she’d wanted more. She asked herself what she’d wanted.

  Treasure. Something of great value.

  A brief glanced at the catalogue and she knew she wasn’t going to get it: marine items, instruments etc.

  Sighing, she folded up the catalogue and put it in her pocket. Steve had suggested meeting later. ‘Though not until about ten o’clock, and I need to be home by twelve,’ he’d told her.

  ‘Or you turn into a pumpkin?’

  He hadn’t laughed. She guessed the ongoing case with the dastardly Warren Price had something to do with it.

  ‘OK. A salad at my place.’

  He’d smiled. ‘I don’t mind a salad if you don’t.’

  ‘Tuna OK?’

  He’d grimaced. ‘I don’t really like fish …’

  ‘I’ll find you something else.’

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The best laid plans and all that …

  The evening had been worth looking forward to. Another little jaunt spliced into the life of a Bath hotelier. Then Bedlam struck.

  First Steve phoned to say he’d been called back to the station. Then a guest at the Green River Hotel had pierced a shower tray with a stiletto heel.

  ‘It must have been weak,’ said the big South African woman. ‘I shall be asking for compensation if you’re not careful.’

  Honey opened the shower door and looked inside. The stiletto shoe was still in situ.

  The woman had followed her into the bathroom. Her husband, a scrawny bloke with a concave chest and a forest of hair sticking out from his ears, stayed sitting on the bed. He looked downcast, his eyes fixed on the floor.

  Honey addressed the woman: Mrs Van der Witt.

  ‘You were wearing stiletto heels in the shower?’

  At this moment in time Mrs Van der Witt was wearing bright red Bermudas and matching sports shoes. Honey guessed she’d made a quick change.

  ‘I was checking the heat of the water.’

  ‘A hand is usually enough.’

  ‘I couldn’t reach that far. See?’

  She bent over as she reached past Honey. Looking down on her broad backside was like viewing a particularly red sunset. Imposing. Big. And filling up one helluva lot of sky.

  Honey reached in and brought the shoe out and passed it to its owner. She held a rictus smile in place as she did it.

  ‘I’m quite broad minded, Mrs Van der Witt. I’ll have someone come in to inspect the damage and put it on your bill, OK?’

  Mrs Van der Witt’s expression went from irate to floppy. A look passed between husband and wife. Wife blushed. Husband went back to studying the floor. Neither said another word.

  Honey went down to reception to see Lindsey. Running a hotel meant that friends and relatives had be fitted in to any available spaces in the day. But she had a question for her daughter. Her daughter got there first.

  ‘Grandma said that she and Margaret and the others are talking things through and she’ll be around when they’ve decided what to do.’

  Honey eyed her daughter blankly. ‘Have you any idea what she’s talking about?’

  Lindsey shook her head. ‘None at all. But then you know Grandma.’

  She certainly did! But first things first. ‘Lindsey, have you by any chance seen a motorcyclist hanging around the place?’

  Lindsey was suddenly doing something on the computer. It looked complicated, though Honey wouldn’t know for sure. Lindsey shrugged and looked quite diffident. ‘I might have done.’

  A wave of motherly protectiveness gushed into Honey’s voice. ‘Promise me you won’t approach him. He’s an escaped prisoner and is very, very dangerous.’

  Laughter bubbled from Lindsey’s throat.

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Honey, leaning close, her voice low and warning. ‘He’s a murderer and it may be that he’s stalking me. Lindsey was sceptical.

  ‘I think you’re over tired; it’s what comes of doing two jobs at once.’

  ‘I take both jobs very seriously.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’

  ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’

  ‘I’m a grown girl now, Mother. I’m allowed to have secrets.’

  Lindsey carried on with what she was doing. One colourful Internet page scrolled down into another. On seeing the subject matter, Honey immediately forgot about the creepy motorcyclist. ‘Is that a dukedom I see before me?’

  ‘Correct. There’s a whole host of places where you can buy yourself a title,’ said Lindsey, seemingly engrossed in the site content. ‘And these guys certainly know how to charge.’

  Honey frowned. ‘I wonder whether our victim was fully satisfied with their service.’

  ‘You’re thinking she might have been about to spill the beans about
a scam?’

  ‘There are scams, I take it.’

  ‘Of course there are. The Web is a scammer’s dream. But there are bona fide offers too.’

  Honey rested her chin in her hands. Had Her Ladyship bought a bum title and having found out, went in search of the vendor? It was a strong possibility.

  Honey raised her eyes to the ceiling and thought about it. ‘People can get very obsessive about something they think puts them a cut above everyone else. And there’s the money of course. Did you say some titles are sold for thirty thousand or more?

  ‘Sometimes. The real ones are the exception, though, not the norm. There’s a surprising amount for sale at good money on the net. Too many to be authentic.’

  Honey sat down beside her daughter and fixed her gaze on the screen. Brass rubbings of medieval lords and ladies seemed to be the favourite decoration on these sites. The introductions were pretty similar too.

  Be Lord or Lady of a small slice of Merry Old England.

  ‘This is for romantics not living in the real world.’

  Lindsey shrugged.

  Honey shook her head. ‘I can’t imagine it being that much.’ She thought about it. ‘So the victim found out that her title wasn’t authentic and threatened to expose the site she bought it from. They had to silence her. How does that sound?’

  ‘Feasible.’ Lindsey’s fingers scrolled and tapped to change the screen or scroll down. ‘Some people get quite obsessive about their online business even when it’s a dud, and there are bound to be duds. Some just do it for kicks.’

  To Honey’s mind running any business was a drag if it wasn’t doing well. What was the point of working for nothing but kicks? ‘I’d kick it into touch myself and run away to sea.’

  Lindsey cocked an eyebrow. ‘Most sensible people would. But not everyone is sensible.’

  Honey brushed a smudge from the toe of her fancy shoe and said thoughtfully, ‘Strikes me they’re slightly touched. Or bordering on insane.’

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Lindsey waited outside the door of the Catnip Club. She smiled on seeing the black motorcycle pull into the parking specifically reserved for the likes of him. She saw him raise his visor before removing his helmet.