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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘So Her Ladyship was out to stick it to whoever might have sold her a duff budgie?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Do we know who she bought it from?’

  ‘Not yet, though we know where. On the Internet – where else? We’re getting it checked out.’

  Trowbridge had a no-nonsense, red-brick Victorian look. Railway, canal, and weaving sheds had given work to the hard-pressed in years gone by. Now it was a dormitory town to Bath, an overspill for those who couldn’t afford swanky Georgian townhouses, but could happily rise to a small Victorian terraced.

  A number of trading estates had been built around the town, catering for smaller industries that didn’t require lots of space for raw materials or production lines; they were ideal for the service sector.

  A big sign at the entrance to the estate showed a long road leading to the very end lot, where Associated Security Shredding was housed in a building slightly larger than the others. All the buildings were colour-coded on the plan. ASS was lilac.

  ‘Wimpish kind of colour,’ Honey remarked.

  Steve grinned. ‘It’s the kind of colour your mother would choose.’

  ‘Floaty and ultra-feminine.’ She cast her gaze over the prefabricated building – huge compared to a garden shed, but just as mundane. ‘Hardly the stuff dreams are made of. Not a turret in sight. What the hell was Her Ladyship doing here?’

  ‘It’s a start.’ He’d switched the engine off on his low-slung MR2. His fingers drummed on the steering wheel.

  ‘Something up?’ she queried.

  ‘Notice the name is in full.’

  ‘Initials like that can only dent their image.’

  ‘That guy Wallace, did he hit on you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Disappointed?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘He’s got false teeth.’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘Yes way. And we caught him with his pants down.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘That PA of his was being very personal in her assistance.’

  Honey grinned. She had a sudden urge to make a return visit to Wallace and Gates Holdings, if only to smirk knowingly at that stuck-up bitch manning reception.

  Doherty’s grin rivalled that of Cameron Wallace – though the teeth were real, not porcelain-enhanced. Wallace had perfect teeth, a perfect tan, and perfect features, with the clothes and accoutrements to match. Doherty on the other hand was a little rough around the edges. Honey thought that they were like two houses in that Try Before You Buy programme. One was smooth and refined, but a bit too flashy. The other had character and just needed a bit of touching up here and there.

  The person manning reception at Assured Security Shredding was the total opposite of the young woman at Wallace & Gates. There was no smart suit and sharp haircut for this young man. He had dreadlocks and wore a pinstriped T-shirt. A single gold tooth flashed in the midst of his molars when he smiled. His tongue stud was stainless steel.

  ‘Can I help you guys?’

  One flash of Steve’s warrant card and the gold tooth and the tongue stud vanished with the smile. Hostility replaced hospitality.

  ‘I can’t let you see nothing without Mr Bannister’s permission and I can’t leave here to go and ask him.’

  ‘Can you phone him?’

  ‘No. He won’t hear you.’

  Steve frowned. ‘You’re being evasive.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Geesh! You ain’t never bin in no shredding shed!’

  ‘And where is this shredding shed?’

  He pointed to a door on his right marked Authorised Personnel Only.

  Steve pushed through. Honey followed.

  The shredding shed vibrated with sound. The noise was deafening. Up ahead of them were banks of shredding machines – big ones eating paper more quickly than McDonald’s enthusiasts could wolf down burgers.

  Men wearing rubber gloves were loading handfuls of paper from plastic bags into the gaping mouths of giant shredders. Sometimes sheets of paper escaped and floated to the floor.

  Another van-load had just arrived at the loading bay. At present the big double doors were open and a draught was blowing in. Some of the paper had already escaped and was skidding around like big white leaves. Accountancy printouts were unravelling, flopping out like fish from hiding.

  Steve did his thing with the warrant card. A kid in trainers sloped off to get Bannister.

  A bald-headed man with a closed expression and a slack jaw looked up in response to someone pulling at his shoulder. He nodded to whatever was said and quickly left what he was doing.

  He had a sloping forehead, pale eyes and shouted to make himself heard. ‘Can I help you?’

  Again Steve flashed his badge of office and shouted back. ‘I’m here with regard to a murder inquiry.’ He winced at the effort of shouting. ‘Can we talk somewhere a bit quieter?

  Mr Bannister nodded and led them back through the door. Closing it behind them was like putting the lid on a bubbling stew. The noise subsided.

  He peered at both of them with narrowed, questioning eyes. ‘Did you say murder?’

  Doherty nodded. ‘A Lady Templeton-Jones was recently murdered in Bath.’

  Bannister nodded back. ‘I did hear about it.’

  ‘We found your address and telephone number in her appointments diary. Do you know why it might be there?’

  Bannister thrust out his bottom lip when he shook his head. ‘Name doesn’t ring a bell.’

  ‘Can you check your records?’

  He shook his head. ‘No need. We get very few private individuals using this facility. Our clients are big companies producing more paperwork than a normal office machine can cope with. We do a lot of government departments and big blue-chip companies, and some smaller ones. And that’s it.’

  As Steve asked more questions, Honey watched Bannister’s body language. Apart from dropping his top set of teeth now and again, he gave no sign of having something to hide. Dropped teeth didn’t count for anything; a trapped seed from a pot of raspberry jam, a tomato seed, or a nut. Here was a man in bad need of a fixative.

  Steve showed him a photo of the dead woman.

  Bannister shook his head. ‘Nope.’

  Steve flashed the photo at Gold-tooth. His dreadlocks rattled in the negative.

  ‘If I leave a photo with you, can you pass it around?’ Doherty asked.

  ‘No problem,’ said Bannister.

  Back in the car, Steve got out a packet of jelly babies from the glove compartment. He offered one to Honey. She eyed them warily.

  ‘Devil dolls,’ she said and shuddered.

  Steve laughed. ‘What?’

  Devil dolls. One rubbery little body between my teeth and I’m well over my calorie allowance for today.’

  ‘It’s only one jelly baby, for Christ’s sake‘!’

  She groaned and made a face. One! She couldn’t resist a red one. ‘One little red one can lead to a whole rainbow of colour … Oh, go on then. Just one.’ And then there was a green one, an orange one, a white one … Steve smiled. ‘No bacon and fried eggs this morning?’

  The insinuation was obvious. She was being a pig. After rolling the bag up, she pushed it to the back of the glove compartment and snapped it shut.

  ‘Get thee behind me, Satan.’

  Still smiling and shaking his head, Steve restarted the engine.

  A large van had parked alongside while they’d been inside. More cars had arrived in the car park. It was getting pretty full. Without them Doherty would have turned right to drive out. In order to avoid their back bumpers, he had to turn left.

  Feeling guilty about guzzling the jelly babies, Honey gazed forlornly out of the window mentally reciting that well used mantra: I must not yield to temptation. I must not yield to temptation. …

  She stopped mid-mantra. Gold-tooth was sitting on the dock of the loading bay. There was another man with him, slightly plump and wearing a dull green windcheater
and polyester trousers. He appeared to be unloading the van – or was supposed to be. At this moment in time he was undoing one of the bags marked security shredding and going through the contents.

  She pointed it out to Steve. ‘What do you think they’re up to?’

  ‘Let’s go and find out.’

  The pair stiffened on seeing them approach. Doherty flashed his warrant card for the other guy’s benefit. The guy turned nervous. Doherty chanced his luck.

  ‘Did this woman come here to visit you?’ He showed the guy in the windcheater a copy of the photograph.

  It seemed a wild bet. He hadn’t really expected it to pay off. But it did.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Simon Taylor.’

  ‘Right.’

  He asked him all the relevant questions.

  Honey listened as the pieces started to fall in to place. It turned out that Lady Templeton-Jones had actually bought the title from Simon. They’d also met in the Garrick’s Head on the night of her death.

  ‘I was going to go with her, on the walk, but I had an attack of asthma. She took me home in a taxi.’

  ‘And came back in a taxi,’ murmured Honey.

  ‘So why did you meet?’

  ‘She just wanted to thank me for the good service I gave her.’

  ‘Is that all?’ urged Doherty.

  ‘Yes.’

  The boy was adamant, and yet Honey had the impression he was holding something back.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Steve Doherty rang her in the middle of the happy hour, that dull time between six and seven when the workday dips and tips into night. The hotel bar was empty. Honey made herself comfortable.

  ‘How about me abducting you tonight?’

  She agreed to be abducted but only as far as the Saracen’s Head. On her way out her eyes strayed to the traffic. A motorbike idled then skitted through the dawdling cars. She strained her neck to see if the ‘man in wellies’ was the rider.

  Steve had parked his car on double yellows.

  ‘You’ll get nicked.’

  ‘No I won’t. I’m on police business.’

  ‘Is that what I am?’

  It was a warm night as they strolled along Pulteney Street and headed past the Waitrose supermarket.

  Honey had opted for smart casual: denim skirt, a white bouclé sweater, and green earrings. Green – dark green that is – made her skin glow, and looked good against her dark hair, whereas light green, such as eau de nil and sap green, made her look ill – or even ghostly. She’d also opted for high heels. Not practical, but they did make her legs look longer.

  ‘You look good,’ he said and sniffed.

  ‘Perfume, or grease from the deep fat fryer?’

  Obviously she hoped it was the former.

  He leaned close and nuzzled behind her ear. ‘Not fried fish. Definitely perfume.’

  Steve went on to talk about Warren Price. ‘I’ve had to pass him to a colleague. This murder takes priority now. Can’t say I’m sorry. You can give jogging to the birds!’

  It was eight o’clock and they were strolling past the Theatre Royal. Neither of them seemed particularly keen to get to the pub too quickly.

  She sensed that Doherty was doing his best to relax. A list of questions seemed to be ricocheting around his brain. Physically he was with her, but mentally he seemed to be still on duty.

  Her guess was confirmed the moment he swept her past the welcoming entrance of the Theatre Royal. David Soul was appearing in something. David Soul? Ah, yes. As in Hutch, sidekick of Starsky in the 1970s cop show.

  ‘Let’s take a rain check on the Saracen’s. I want another word with the landlord of the Garrick’s Head.’

  They turned right into the pedestrianised walkway outside the old pub. Actor David Garrick looked down at them from the creaking old inn sign.

  Inside Adrian Harris loomed large behind the bar. As a keen angler, the word was that his prime objective in life was to land the biggest salmon for that year. Cultured he was not: odd for a man living next door to one of the finest theatres in England. He talked a lot about fishing and did a lot of drinking and socialising. He left the serving of customers to his barmaid. Marion was grey-haired and kindly, and without her he would have gone broke years ago, though whether he appreciated it or not was another matter. And how she put up with him was something else again. Adrian was rude. How he managed to keep any customers at all was a mystery.

  Once they had drinks, both with ice and a slice, Steve asked to speak to Adrian.

  Marion was, true to form, highly defensive of the man who ruled over her working day. ‘He might not want to speak to you, you know. He’s busy. He’s had a lot to do since coming back from Spain.’

  Honey and Steve looked to where Adrian was indulging himself. Marion had made it sound as though he were in conference. Between swigs of whisky he was fiddling with a digital camera.

  ‘This one was taken on the River Dee …’

  Honey raised her eyebrows. ‘No holiday snaps?’

  ‘He likes fish a lot,’ said Steve.

  ‘So do I,’ said Honey. ‘Fried with chips.’

  Steve was not to be brushed off. He laid his hand gently on Marion’s wrist and leaned forward. ‘I don’t want to flash my warrant card, but I will do if I have to.’

  Marion got the message. A policeman in the midst of out and out theatrical types – especially in the green room – was not good for business. People got nervous when the fuzz was around.

  Adrian’s glass paused halfway to his mouth as Marion gave him the news, jerking her fluffed-up hair do in their direction.

  The landlord’s expression of outright bonhomie faded. A wary look ensured. After downing his drink he stalked over.

  ‘I don’t know nothing. I told yer mate that.’

  ‘You haven’t told me,’ said Steve, his words evenly spaced and precisely delivered. There was no softness in his expression; no give in his jaw.

  Adrian had attitude. The wrong attitude; the sort that made the mildest-mannered want to put a dent in his jaw. To say he was surly was an understatement. There was no tanned complexion; Honey guessed he’d trawled Spanish bars rather than Spanish beaches.

  Steve asked his first question. ‘Did she come in alone?’

  Adrian nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did she give you her handbag?’

  ‘A lot of these walkers do it. Maybe in case they take a fright, wet themselves, and do a runner.’ He grinned. Honey was amazed to see he had small, rather pointed teeth – very like a fish.

  ‘Did you look inside it?’

  ‘No.’ The grin vanished. He looked defensive.

  ‘What time did she come in?’

  ‘Early. About six thirty.’

  ‘So she had a long wait until the ghost walk started.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Adrian was being monosyllabic on purpose. The two men met and held each other’s fierce glare. The two of them were like bulls snorting at each over a fence.

  ‘So what did she do to while away the time?’

  ‘Talked.’

  ‘To you?’

  ‘No. To her companion.’

  Anyone who didn’t know him wouldn’t have seen the flicker of anger that crossed Steve’s face. Honey tried to work out where this was going.

  ‘I thought you said she came in alone.’ Doherty’s tone was colder. His eyes stone-dead determined.

  Adrian appeared unfazed. ‘She did. He joined her a few minutes later.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  Adrian shrugged. ‘No one that I know.’

  If the landlord of the Garrick’s Head thought he was going to be let off the hook, he was very much mistaken. Steve got a notebook and pencil from out of his pocket and pushed it across the brass drip tray on the counter top. ‘I want a list of everyone who was here at that time. Anyone who might have seen her companion.’

  Adrian’s hands – great meaty shovels
with hairs growing out of the knuckles – still rested on the bar.

  His hesitation was obvious to Honey. It was just as obvious to Steve. Being faced with a heavily-built, six-foot-four man might be pretty forbidding, but Steve Doherty was in commando mode.

  Leaning across the bar, he bypassed the biceps and whispered in Adrian’s ear. ‘If I don’t get it pronto I might spread a rumour to the drugs boys that you’re selling more than Pimm’s Number One.’

  The shielded look dropped from Adrian’s face. ‘We don’t do that stuff in here!’

  Doherty shook his head disconsolately and pursed his lips in a low whistle. ‘Doesn’t matter. Those boys are always on the lookout for potential training exercises. They’d apologise after of course. Probably they’d even apologise in writing. But that’s not the point is it. Bad publicity travels quickly. Not good for the supper crowd from the theatre.’

  Adrian’s ego turned from one of Jonathan Swift’s giants to one of Walt Disney’s seven dwarfs. He glared at Steve. A meaty hand grudgingly snatched the notepad.

  ‘Find your own pen,’ said Doherty, slipping a Parker into his breast pocket. ‘I’ve lost too many that way.’

  ‘I thought he was going to punch your lights out,’ whispered Honey, between sips of vodka and tonic.

  ‘Nah!’ said Doherty, grinning. ‘I’ve got a reputation.’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ she said with a mocking smile. ‘What as?’

  One more drink from the ever-faithful Marion later, and Steve had his list.

  Adrian was just as abrupt, though he did manage to string a whole sentence together. ‘That’s those who I can say for sure were ’ere, but only regulars. The rest that were in were just tourists.’

  Just tourists. The city’s lifeblood, yet he said it so flippantly, thought Honey.

  Steve was running his eyes down the list. He paused about halfway before carrying on. He passed it to Honey. ‘You’d better take a look.’

  As they made for the door, she made the most of the light. The name popped out at her outside under a street light.