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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  What Honey was saying was sensible. The side street at the side of the hotel was hidden in shadow. No one ever walked past it. Pulteney Street itself had no shops; they were further back into the city.

  ‘That would be good,’ said Margaret. ‘We did get plenty of passing trade at the other shop and this does look a bit out of the way.’

  Her mother’s eyes were narrowed, her brow furrowed. She was old but not stupid. ‘The more people passing, the more bucks in the till,’ she said at last.

  Honey suddenly felt quite light-headed. Her movements went into overdrive. Her phone was hanging from a thin leather belt around her waist. It saved delving into her bag or phoning the darned thing when she’d temporarily mislaid it. Awful relying on a technical object to tell you where it was. She phoned Cameron Wallace. He answered after one ring.

  ‘Hi. How are you?’

  The sound of his voice caught her off balance. Cameron Wallace had given her a direct number. She’d been psyching herself up to deal with his PA. But hey ho! She could cope.

  ‘About that shop you promised my mother; how quickly can you arrange it?’

  She imagined him smiling triumphantly. She knew what was coming.

  ‘Are you free tonight?’

  It had to be a yes.

  ‘Yes. I can arrange that.’

  ‘When can your mother and her friends take over the lease?’

  ‘Is that the same thing as when can they move in?’

  ‘If you wish.’

  ‘How about today? Within the hour?’

  He laughed. It was full and throaty – like a character named Blade in one of her mother’s Mills and Boon historical romances.

  ‘I’ll get the keys sent round right away. Can your mother be there within the hour?’

  ‘You bet she can.’

  He ran off the address. Number Six, Beau Nash Passage. Something about it jarred in Honey’s mind, but just now she was too wound up to give it much mind.

  She repeated what he’d said to the three women hovering around the driver and his truck.

  ‘Oooow! That’s a good location,’ said Linda. ‘Plenty of passing trade by day, and it has ambience!’

  Ambience seemed the right word to throw at her mother.

  ‘Out with the gear! Get it reloaded – pronto!’

  The women worked as quickly getting the stuff back out again as they had getting it in.

  Her mother was in charge. ‘Right. Let’s get the hell over there! Driver! Get back in. We’ll direct you.’

  The driver didn’t look too pleased at this suggestion. He also looked too scared to protest or tell them it was illegal to carry more than one passenger. With his unwilling help the three women clambered in, one of them sitting on his partner’s lap.

  Honey exhaled the biggest, most grateful sigh in the whole wide world.

  ‘Thanks,’ she murmured.

  Cameron heard her. ‘Now, about this dinner …’

  She had no choice but to agree to meet the guy she’d mentally christened ‘Mr Smoothie’. He was a fast worker, too, if his fixing her mother up with a new shop was anything to go by.

  ‘OK. I give in.’

  ‘Do you always give in so easily?’

  ‘That depends. In this case I’m really grateful for helping me out. My mother’s a doll, but only at a distance. I grew up with her and now I’ve grown out of her. We’d clash big time if she was camping on the doorstep.’

  That’s when it came to her. The shop, Number Six, Beau Nash Passage had to be close to, or even next door to, the one in which Lady Templeton-Jones had met her end!

  ‘Is it empty?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, it is. It used to be a shop dealing in marine artefacts. Not really a big money-spinner in an inland city. The owner moved out. Actually, he left owing us rent, so we had to send in the bailiffs.’

  Honey remembered the shop’s name: Marine Heritage. ‘I take it everything got sent to auction?’

  ‘That’s right. We timed it well. Bonhams were having a specialist sale. We made enough to cover what was owed.’

  ‘What was the owner’s name?’

  He paused. She sensed he wasn’t keen to tell her. The reason why became clear.

  ‘I’ll tell you tonight. Over dinner.’

  Chapter Forty-five

  Emergency over, Honey trotted back round to the hotel in a pair of shoes that weren’t her favourites, but matched the grey suit she was wearing. They were grey, edged with white around the instep. The suit echoed the effect: white piping around the neck and running down the sleeves. Shame about the ones she’d ditched in the pond. But there were plenty more shoes in the sea …

  Doherty was waiting for her.

  ‘Are you free?’

  She folded her arms. ‘Am I free for what?’

  He grinned. ‘A bit of investigative work first. Then we’ll see where things go.’

  She guessed he’d ask her to meet him tonight. Should she tell him about Cameron Wallace or take a rain check? Cross that bridge when you come to it, she told herself.

  Clint, their casual dishwasher, strolled through reception on his way to evening shift with the dishwashing machine. Back after his stint inside. He wiggled his fingers in a silent ‘Hi’ when he saw her. He gave the finger to Doherty.

  ‘Your own fault for getting pickled before picking up loose women.’

  It was normal for kitchen staff to use the rear entrance. Honey asked him the reason why he hadn’t.

  ‘Smudger’s got the back door locked. Drain’s blocked.’

  Honey groaned.

  Clint offered to sort it out for her.

  ‘Of course I’ll have to charge you extra. It’s above and beyond me normal duties.’

  Honey leapt on him, grabbed his jaw and kissed him on both cheeks. ‘Done!’ Clint moved away. ‘And you have been,’ she muttered.

  ‘Grim job, huh?’ said Doherty.

  ‘Gross!’

  Outside she stopped and phoned her mother.

  ‘Are you in?’

  ‘All signed, sealed, and delivered.’

  ‘You’ve signed the lease?’

  ‘I just told you that.’

  ‘Great.’

  Next she phoned Cameron Wallace and told him the bad news. ‘I’m sorry. An emergency has arisen here at the hotel. Can we take a rain check?’

  ‘I trust your mother is settled?’

  She felt herself blushing. OK, it was a little underhand, but hell, it was him who’d terminated the lease on Second-hand Sheila in the first place.

  ‘We can do it again. How’s that with you?’

  He made her agree to another date.

  ‘Had to,’ she said to Doherty, who’d heard every word.

  ‘Your mother could have kept the date.’

  ‘You’re being fractious. Why is that?’

  He twisted his mouth this way and that.

  She peered up into his face. ‘Got something to say?’

  He told her.

  ‘I got myself a personal trainer. She’s very good.’

  She purposely skewered him with her eyes. ‘A blonde personal trainer!’

  He shrugged. ‘She was available.’

  ‘I bet she was!’

  Chapter Forty-six

  They headed for Simon Taylor’s place.

  A busker and a ‘moving’ stone statue argued over a pitch at the top of pedestrianised Union Street. A pavement artist calmly took advantage of the situation, pictures of coloured chalk spreading swiftly around them.

  A daytime tour was trooping through Queen Square. The traffic was fairly light. Rush hour would see a dramatic increase; everyone trying to get round the square and head for home. Once it was over something of the old city magic returned. In some places you could still imagine what it had once been like. In some places a ghostly Roman legion still marched at midnight.

  They sped up into Snow Hill behind the high-rise council flats. Dating from the 1930s, the Taylor house had curved bay
windows, dark green paint and grimy net curtains. Net curtains do little for most houses. For a dwelling place dating from the thirties they shouted, ‘I don’t give a stuff about fashion! I don’t even care if the windows fall out!’

  One look at Mrs Taylor confirmed that both she and her house were made for each other Like the neglected house, she was the Woman that Time Forgot; the product of a decade she had chosen never to move out of. Which, by the looks of things, had ended somewhere around 1959. She wore a beige cardigan, brown slippers that totally covered her feet, and a plaid skirt with wide box pleats. A headscarf patterned with riding whips and jumping horses snuggled cravat fashion around her neck. Loose skin quivered like a turkey’s gizzard around her slack jaw. The scarf helped keep the saggy skin in check.

  Swiftly following the intro, Steve asked to speak to her son.

  Her eyebrows were no more than two plucked lines traced over with pencil. They formed a perfect v when she frowned.

  ‘What d’ya wan ’im fur?’

  ‘Just routine inquiries,’ said Doherty.

  ‘Well, ’e ain’t ’ere.’

  ‘So where is ’e …?’ asked Steve.

  ‘At work, of course.’

  At last. It sounded like English.

  ‘At Assured Security Shredding. Is that right?’

  ‘I was right.’

  ‘You were right.’

  Honey felt a warm glow all over. She was right, right, right! Wanda had bought her name from him, then gone out to see him. ‘Her Ladyship had threatened to expose him for flogging dodgy titles.’

  Steve frowned. ‘We don’t know that for sure.’

  ‘I’ve got Lindsey looking into it.’

  Although she wanted this wrapped up, she had niggling doubts. OK, there was this thing that the title may have been a dud. But was that reason enough for Simon to kill Wanda Carpenter – aka Lady Templeton-Jones? Because she’d threatened to report him? Whether her title was genuine or not, she hadn’t seemed unduly out of sorts on the ghost walk. A woman with a score to settle would have been angry or at least agitated. Perhaps she might also have confided in someone. But she hadn’t. On the other hand she hadn’t seemed that interested in ghosts.

  She voiced the question that was circling her brain. ‘Why was Wanda on the ghost walk?’

  Steve took his eyes off the road and glanced at her. ‘Seeking cheap thrills like the rest of you?’

  Honey threw him a look of condemnation. ‘I wasn’t seeking cheap thrills. I can get those in a sports car.’

  ‘Cheeky cow!’

  Doherty loved his car. More than that: he loved driving it with the top down; the wind whipping his hair around his face.

  Honey wrapped her arms around herself. There was fresh air and there was cold air. Today the latter was making her nose numb.

  Thinking about murder helped keep the cold at bay. ‘There’s definitely something we’re missing here. Why go tramping about in the rain without purpose?’

  ‘Someone on the ghost walk?’

  ‘Could be.’

  She’d told Doherty about Hamilton and Pamela and the website He’d checked out the details. Mrs George had died of a heart attack brought on by asthma.

  ‘She’s being shipped back to the States.’

  ‘Poor woman. And her husband already dallying with someone new.’

  ‘Had been for a while according to him. Virtual dating.’

  Honey shook her head disconsolately. ‘Virtual means not real. It’s virtually the same, but not really.’

  ‘Like virtual sex.’ Steve grinned. ‘I prefer the real thing myself.’

  ‘Virtual is less tiring.’

  Steve looked surprised. ‘You’ve tried it? What was it like?’

  ‘A bit like dreaming. You wake up when you get to the best bit.’

  They eventually slid to a halt beside a gleaming Aston Martin. Steve’s eyes positively caressed the gleaming bodywork; it was purple with chrome hubcaps and wire wheels. Vintage. A DBS. A grown man’s wet dream!

  ‘Nice car.’ His voice was husky. If he’d been in seduction mode, she would have rolled over and played willing. But she wasn’t. She was remembering where she’d seen that car before. Wallace and Gates!

  ‘It belongs to Cameron Wallace.’

  Doherty looked from the car to the office. ‘What the hell is he doing here?’

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Cameron Wallace regarded himself as a man of style and culture. He rated fashion too. Not tacky high-street stuff, but the good shirts, and shoes that only the West End of London, or Paris, New York, or Rome could offer. Out of the four, Rome was his favourite. The old saying was spot on; when it comes to getting a good haircut or a new pair of shoes, always buy Italian.

  He was thinking this as he straightened his eighteen-carat cufflinks: small anchors, each tipped with a tiny ruby.

  As he patted the last one perfectly flat, he looked out of the office window. The window overlooked the car park. One of the lads employed by Associated Security Shredding had been washing his car, then drying it off with a portable vacuum cleaner. The lad had done a good job, probably because he’d known the boss would be watching. He’d smiled at that. His smile vanished on seeing Honey Driver getting out of a low-slung sports car.

  His eyes narrowed. ‘What the devil’s she doing here?’

  Bannister heard his remark and came to the window.

  ‘That’s the bird that was asking questions about the Templeton-Jones woman. She was with that bloke before. He’s a copper.’

  Cameron nodded, his lips tight against his teeth.

  Bannister had already reiterated the questions asked. There was no reason for undue concern. She was way off course as far as he was concerned.

  Wallace and Gates’ golden boy spun around. His expression darkened. ‘I don’t want to see them. I’ll let myself out the back way.’

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Out front, the same gold-tooth-flashing guy was behind the counter as before. He saw Honey and Steve, did a quick mental stock-take and remembered.

  ‘’Fraid Mr Bannister’s in conference.’

  Steve flashed his warrant card. ‘What about Simon Taylor? Is he in conference too?’

  The ropes of dreadlocked hair stayed still. His look was wary. ‘What d’ya want ’im for?’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Home I s’pose. He called in sick.’

  Doherty doffed an eyebrow. ‘Funny. We didn’t see him when we called there just now.’

  Steve flashed Lady Templeton-Jones’s photograph. ‘Have you seen this woman?’

  ‘No.’

  Someone chose that minute to come crashing in from the shredding shed. He was holding a bunch of crumpled paper in one hand.

  ‘You’ll never believe …’ Seeing strangers, he stopped mid-sentence. ‘Sorry. Didn’t know we had visitors.’

  The guy behind the counter lost his wary look. Brown eyes turned wild and wary.

  The scrawny adolescent who’d just come in looked scared as a rabbit.

  ‘Can I see those?’

  Honey snatched the pieces of paper. She frowned as she began to read. ‘Private and Confidential.’ She looked at the two youths, then at Steve. She passed him the pieces of paper.

  He gave it a quick glance. ‘Good game while it lasted? Private and confidential information can fetch a packet if you know where to sell it. Instead of shredding sensitive information they’ve been spreading it.’

  The two behind the counter exchanged looks.

  ‘It wasn’t us,’ blurted the first. ‘Bannister said that it was the boss’s orders.’

  ‘The boss?’ Steve raised a querulous eyebrow.

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  Bannister appeared. He looked shifty, though that wasn’t hard in his case. He’d been at the rear when good looks were given out – a pig’s rear.

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to shred this stuff?’ Steve held aloft the crumpled sheets of paper. Honey c
opied, holding up the ones she still had.

  Bannister shifted from one foot to the other and attempted to look innocent. It didn’t work.

  Doherty outlined the problem. ‘Sifting through stuff scheduled for shredding. Selling on the information to interested parties. Isn’t that what you’ve been doing?’

  Bannister’s jaw dropped. ‘You’re both sacked,’ he said suddenly.

  ‘Stuff yer job!’ said the first.

  ‘Stuff it,’ said the second and followed his friend.

  ‘Hold it!’ Steve’s voice hit the walls and ceiling. ‘Come on, Bannister. You’re not kidding anybody. These two numpties would be hard-pushed to sell ice creams to ten-year-olds. This isn’t what I’m here for. I want a simple answer to a simple question. OK?’

  Bannister and his merry men stopped dispersing.

  ‘OK,’ said Steve, pinning all three with a cold-eyed glare. ‘All I want to know is have you seen this woman before. I have reason to believe she’s been here. When and why and who did she come to see. That’s all I want to know.’

  ‘She came to see Simon one lunch time.’

  Honey jumped in. ‘What did she want to see him about? I’d really like to know.’ Her look was a world away from Steve’s. Her voice was soft too. ‘You can tell me,’ she said, looking intently into the guy’s dark eyes. She leaned forward, arms and breasts resting on counter. Her neckline was just about low enough to blink cleavage.

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  This was disappointing.

  ‘Are you sure? Wasn’t Simon your friend? Didn’t he tell you things?’

  ‘Ha!’

  A laugh. Definitely a laugh.

  ‘Are you kidding? Friend? That nerd?’

  The two guys fell to laughter. Bannister shook his head and grinned. ‘I’ve got to agree with them. He wasn’t the sort of guy you wanted to get close to – in more ways than one.’

  Steve looked nonplussed. ‘Tell me.’

  Honey butted in. ‘BO? Body odour?’

  The boy with the dreadlocks did a high five with his partner. ‘And all’s now sweetness and light,’ he said, still laughing.

  On her way out Honey chanced one more question.

  ‘Do any of you know a Mr Cameron Wallace?’

  ‘No,’ said Bannister, jumping in too quick for comfort.