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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Honey eyed them ruefully. Never mind genteel, she thought, give them gore every time.

  Lindsey had opted to come with her. Mary Jane had fallen in with a crowd of people from Manitoba to whom she was giving an outline of her ancestry.

  Doherty waved to her from the other side of the tape.

  ‘I can’t let you through until we’ve sucked the SOC dry.’

  ‘Scene of crime,’ Honey said to Lindsey by way of explanation.

  Lindsey tutted and pulled a long suffering teenager type face. ‘I know he didn’t mean sock.’

  ‘I tried to ring you,’ Honey said to Doherty. She told him about the tapes. ‘They’re worth a fortune. Bridgewater had to withdraw them from the auction. I presume his co-heir was not keen to sell them.’

  ‘Money’s always a good motive for murder,’ said Doherty, nodding.

  ‘So how does Simon Taylor fit into this?’

  He made a so-so expression and held his head to one side. ‘I’m not sure. At first glance it seems about the title she bought, but actually it’s not. So why else would did she go there?’

  Honey shook her head. Like her brain the city around her was working in overdrive. There was so much stuff rattling around in there.

  ‘Not exactly,’ Steve clarified. ‘Our friend Mr Taylor took it in the arse, so to speak – a needle entered his nether regions. He was a lardy lad and he must have sat down heavily. The needle went straight in. Some kind of quick-acting poison. Probably potassium cyanide. Nasty. Easily obtainable thanks to the Internet.’

  ‘Ouch!’

  Honey gulped and immediately ran her hands over her behind. Never again would she sit down in the Theatre Royal – or any other theatre for that matter – without checking her seat.

  ‘What was he doing here?’

  Doherty rubbed at his stubble – a thinking action. His brow furrowed. ‘He was meeting someone. But for what?’ He shrugged. ‘I can only guess.’

  ‘Blackmail?’

  ‘That was one of my guesses.’

  ‘It figures.’

  ‘Why? What makes you say that?’

  ‘He was involved in this Noble Present scam and he might have found something out about somebody …’ She stopped. Steve was shaking his head in a negative manner.

  ‘It wasn’t a scam. Not on his part anyway. It was a scam on the part of our friend Mr George. He was flogging rubbish. Simon Taylor was flogging the real McCoy.’

  Honey frowned. ‘How do you know that? Who was he buying them from?’

  Doherty flipped open his notebook. ‘Cameron Wallace. Apparently the family inherited a load of titles. He’s actually Lord Wallace – it’s an old Hebridean title and he apparently holds a host of others. But he prefers to use plain Mr Wallace. Reckons titles can put people off in business.’

  In the last hour or so she’d been bombarded with information. First there was this business of film reels allegedly from the Titanic – the greatest disaster in Anglo/American maritime history. Then there was this revelation about the titles; Simon Taylor’s were genuine articles; those sold by Hamilton George were not. And now Simon Taylor was dead – killed in a most bizarre manner.

  So why had Lady Templeton-Jones gone to see Simon Taylor? What were they talking about in the Garrick’s Head before she’d been murdered?

  Doherty read her mind. ‘We could have done with another word with Mr Taylor.’

  She passed on what she’d learned to Doherty.

  ‘Lordy, lordy,’ Lindsey murmured. ‘What now?’

  Small comment, but enough to whip Honey back to reality.

  Two police constables not actually involved in the murder but as curious as any passers-by suddenly burst into action just after their radios burst into life.

  ‘Hello,’ said Steve, eyes narrowing as the two constables broke into a run. ‘A street incident.’

  They caught the grin of a nearby bobby who’d also picked up the message. Steve told him to wipe the smile off his face. ‘We’re on the scene of a murder here. What’s so bloody funny?’

  The constable’s jaw jiggled as he tried not to laugh. ‘There’s a riot at a teddy bear shop in Queen Caroline Alley just off Milsom Street. Some woman is threatening the manager for kicking her out of her shop. Apparently she’s fetched him a fair clout around the ear with a teddy bear!’

  Honey grabbed Lindsey’s wrist. ‘Come on.’

  ‘Grandma can get quite bloody-minded when she’s roused!’ Lindsey exclaimed as they ran.

  Honey scowled. ‘Never mind her mind being bloody. It’s the shop manager’s head I’m worried about!’

  ‘Catch up later?’ Doherty called after her. She bristled imagining the amused look on his face. No doubt he’d guessed why she was off at the gallop. He’d met her mother, knew about her losing her shop. He also knew she could be a little unorthodox when the mood took her.

  Her phone rang. She managed to speak as she ran. That’s what losing weight does for you. Casper was in full cry.

  ‘This is too bad! One of the most beautiful, the most treasured theatres in the country. How dare this man die there! How did he die?’

  ‘Got stabbed in the arse,’ Honey said breathlessly. ‘Can’t talk now. Speak later.’

  She could imagine Casper’s indignation. Normally she wouldn’t dare to cut him off. But this was a family matter.

  Happily she was wearing her shopping shoes. They were scuffed, lace-up, and ugly, but boy, at least she could run in them. Jeans were good, as was her black polo neck sweater and green corduroy jacket. The jacket helped offset the scuffed look of the shoes which were of the same bottle green. Co-ordination was good. No one noticed scuffed shoes if you were co-ordinated.

  A crowd had gathered outside the teddy bear shop. Honey recognized Neville, Casper’s receptionist. He was in off-duty mode: pink jeans, lime-green sweater and pink silk scarf. He was being as nosy as the rest of them.

  ‘My, my,’ he said, on seeing Honey. ‘I’ve never seen anyone do that with a teddy bear before!’

  Honey ducked her head and pushed through the crowd. She ignored the titters of amusement.

  Lindsey followed beaming with a teenager’s quirky pride. ‘Grandma’s drawn quite a crowd.’

  ‘Let’s hope she hasn’t drawn blood!’

  The floor was littered with assorted sizes and colours of teddy bears. There were teddy bears wearing gingham dresses, teddy bears in leather, teddy bears in pale green and smelling of apples, teddy bears wearing artists smocks and floppy berets.

  Her attention was grabbed by an assortment of banners draped from the ceiling and along the shelves.

  Teddy Bears for all occasions!

  Cuddle up to Dudley.

  You are never alone with a Teddy.

  Take me to bed. Love me.

  Well, she thought, if an inanimate teddy bear is all you have … Perhaps some of them came with batteries nowadays.

  Far from being arrested, her mother was sitting on a chair, head back, eyes closed. A shop assistant wearing teddy bear ears, a black plastic nose, and a red gingham dress – a full-size match to the one worn by the teddies – was fanning her with a newspaper.

  It appeared the employees of Teddyitis were required to immerse themselves in teddy memorabilia. Honey grimaced, thankful the shop wasn’t in the erotic toys market. Teddies were soft and couldn’t do much harm. Rubbery dildos were an entirely different matter.

  Honey homed in on the most senior police officer. She adopted an apologetic tone and tried a bit of eye fluttering. ‘I’m so sorry. I came when I could. I understand my mother had a bit of a turn.’

  He was suitably sympathetic. ‘She most certainly has. Does she suffer from some kind of dementia?’

  ‘Yes. The wilful kind.’

  The false eyelashes on the woman sprawled in the chair fluttered over rouged cheeks by Lancôme. Honey wasn’t fooled. Neither was Lindsey. Her right hand was clamped tight against her mouth. If she eased the pressure she’d burst out laughing.r />
  A short, fat man looking a lot like a teddy bear himself was sitting on a second chair holding a handkerchief to his nose.

  Lindsey asked him if he was all right.

  ‘I’ve goth a thinus throblem,’ he said. ‘The theddy bear thumped me.’

  Not without my mother’s help, thought Honey wincing.

  Smiling and adopting the long-suffering daughter approach, she asked the policeman if she could take her dear old ma home and put her to bed.

  His eyes twinkled. ‘The manager isn’t pressing charges – so long as it doesn’t happen again.’

  No. She could see that. He was too busy pressing a damp compress against his nose to spend time filling out forms down at the police station.

  ‘She’s at a funny age,’ said Honey. ‘If she gets any worse I’ll have no alternative but to put her away.’

  She saw her mother’s jaw twitch. If there was one thing Gloria Cross certainly was not, it was senile. Not only that but she lived her life no differently than she’d ever done. She still loved shopping for clothes, still wore stockings and waspie girdles, and still had an eye for a good-looking man. Honey blamed the HRT pills for the latter. Putting her in an old folks’ home would be tantamount to burying her alive.

  Gloria’s recovery was instantaneous. The groaning and opening of one eye was pure theatre. ‘Where am I?’ she asked. Her voice was weak and watery.

  ‘You’re in teddy bear heaven,’ Honey growled. ‘Come on. Straight to bed with a cup of hot chocolate and a sleeping pill – or two!’

  Gloria Cross was only seven pounds over the weight she’d been at twenty. It was easy to get her to her feet. A path was cleared through the onlookers.

  Neville was still there, grinning from ear to ear. ‘This was better than the gunfight at the O.K. Corral. I take it your mother is being let off?’

  ‘The manager isn’t pressing charges.’

  ‘Never mind him! How about the teddy bear?’

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Following a quick visit to the auction house, Alistair had promised to let her know who had put the film reels in the auction in the first place. He’d promised to ring her as soon as he’d checked.

  Just as an afterthought, she asked him what Bonhams did with all their old paperwork.

  ‘They shred it, hen. Safer to set fire to it, I think, but then I’ve no truck with security matters.’

  It was make-up time. Gloria was still pretty peeved about Honey’s attitude to the shop round the corner from the hotel. Honey had made some excuse about it needing to be rewired.

  ‘That’s just an excuse. I know when I’m not wanted!’

  Some serious sucking up was called for.

  A trip to beard the bank manager in his den was coupled with popping round to Second-hand Sheila. Gloria Cross and friends had comfortably settled into their new shop, which had previously sold marine artefacts.

  Not the luckiest rank of shops The windows of the shop next door were empty. A large ‘To Let’ sign leaned forward in the dusty window.

  An old fashioned shop bell jangled above the door as Honey pushed it open.

  Her mother was in full cry. ‘I’ll be murdering someone if we don’t get some more dress rails.’

  ‘Are you managing?’ Honey asked breezily.

  ‘Just about,’ said Margaret. ‘There’s been no time for fitting out.’

  Her mother’s eyes narrowed on sight of her. ‘I’ve got a guy coming in to fix me some up. In the meantime we just have to manage with these.’

  ‘These’ were the rails on wheels which rolled easily from the truck and into the shop.

  Honey cast her gaze round as though it were Macy’s or Harrods – as in visibly impressive – which it certainly was not. ‘It’s going to look great,’ she said, not really believing her words.

  Her mother’s suspicious squint followed her accusingly.

  The temporary clothes rails were in place. Honey ran her hand along a series of items in tones of lilac deepening to violet. Her hand automatically homed in on something that looked quite reasonable – light wool, classic cut, mid-calf hemline. On closer inspection it looked top-drawer quality.

  She held it out from her towards the light. ‘This is lovely.’

  Her mother looked round to see her eyeing the very plain but very well-cut dress.

  ‘It’s Jean Muir. Try it on.’

  Honey did just that. It looked good. Really good.

  Her mother beamed. ‘Shoes and bag to match I think.’

  ‘I don’t think …’

  Too late. Sucking up was proving expensive. Really expensive!

  She came out of Second-hand Sheila feeling drained – of cash and energy. Even a used car salesman had nothing on her mother. She was good. Real good!

  Back at the hotel she went into her office, threw the bags down, and flopped over her desk.

  Lindsey found her there and gave counsel.

  ‘Wear it. Have it earn its keep and you’ll feel better.’

  Honey poked at the pile of invoice ledgers she was hiding behind. ‘I’ve nowhere to go,’ she said glumly.

  ‘Business or pleasure, there has to be someone.’

  Honey thought about it. Kill two birds with one stone. She picked up the phone. Doherty answered.

  ‘I’m free tonight.’

  ‘Great. I’ve got time for a quick one.’ He paused. ‘A drink that is.’

  She imagined his smile. It made her feel like a piece of warm toast – melted butter running all over it.

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Bath is a city of one-way systems. Sometimes it made sense to skirt the maze of old streets and shopping arcades rather than drive through it. Sometimes it was best to walk. Walking allowed time to peer into old windows and wonder at elegant architecture.

  Honey’s reason for walking and soaking up the atmosphere was more to do with keeping the pounds off: a luscious curve could so easily become a lumpy bump. The dress looked good. Plain but classy. She’d skipped on the lilac shoes and clutch purse her mother had chosen. Lindsey had promised to put them on eBay for a sizeable profit – she’d also promised not to let on to her grandmother.

  The Zodiac Club, that underground haunt of everyone in the catering and hospitality trade, had a blue-black atmosphere courtesy of the dimmed lighting and the smoke rising from the steak grill. The smoking of cigarettes having been banned indoors, though, meant that the unreformed smokers spilled out on to the patio in North Parade Gardens.

  It was ten thirty and Honey had got away early. She’d ordered drinks. A Jack Daniel’s for Steve, a vodka and tonic – slimline of course – for herself.

  He came in looking dishevelled, a day’s growth of beard on his jaw, and a tired look around his eyes. His smile was warm but seemed to require effort.

  ‘It’s been a long day,’ he said, rubbing his face as though he were washing it with a flannel. He gulped the drink in one.

  ‘How did his mother take it?’

  ‘Stunned. We couldn’t give her any explanation as to why anyone would want to murder her lovely boy,’ he said with a smidgen of sarcasm. ‘Not yet, at least. It was the method I think that unhinged her.’

  ‘But have you made progress?’ Honey ordered him another drink. He didn’t seem to notice until she handed it to him. She didn’t mention Simon Taylor by name just in case Doherty resorted to the damning details. Unlike Mrs Taylor she might not become unhinged, but it could make her squirm.

  It didn’t work. Doherty was in deduction mode, a faraway look in his eyes, as he poured another Jack Daniel’s down his throat.

  ‘Nasty way to die …’

  ‘Don’t!’ She did the halt sign with her hand. ‘Don’t go there. I’ll have nightmares.’

  ‘I could come and help you keep them at bay?’

  Quite frankly it was a tempting proposition. But she’d left her laundry trailed all over the bedroom floor – assuming they got that far.

  ‘Lindsey’s having a friend
sleeping over.’

  ‘Girlfriend?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He took a big swig then eyed her more seriously over the top of his glass. ‘The trail keeps leading back to Associated Security Shredding.’

  ‘I think I know why.’

  ‘You do?’

  She told him about what Alistair had said about the auction rooms and their commitment to the environment. ‘Those reels were detailed on a catalogue that was superseded because the seller pulled out. The copy left in the drawer was not the only copy. About fifty had already been run off before they scrapped it. All scrap material went to be shredded.’

  Steve drained his glass and put it down, turning it round and round as he thought things through. ‘So possibly our Simon read them, saw the projected guide prices, and started searching for a market.’

  Forgetting that it was Doherty’s round, Honey ordered more drinks. She was on a roll. The odd assortment of pieces in this puzzle was beginning to fall into place.

  ‘The owner’s details were listed. Simon must have thought he’d won the lottery when he recognised a name he’d sold online only a few months earlier. Her Ladyship didn’t contact him to complain that he’d cheated her. The name was genuine. She’d phoned to arrange to talk about the film reels. I think our young friend was blackmailing her too.’

  ‘So who did the reels originally belong to?’

  ‘A man who collected photographic memorabilia.’

  Steve raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  Honey smiled. ‘I’ve been thinking about this all day. The grandfather of Lady Templeton-Jones and Sir Ashwell Bridgewater. What do you think? Think Bridgewater could have done it?’

  ‘You’re biased. You don’t like him.’

  ‘I hate people who phone me and try to sell me stuff I don’t want.’

  ‘So he killed his cousin so he could get his hands on the reel of film?’

  Honey shook her head. ‘I’d like him to be arrested immediately, but I wasn’t sure whether he needed to kill her. So I got Lindsey to check with a few friends of hers at a big local law firm. Their grandfather was local so it stands to reason he would have had a will drawn up locally.’ She leaned forward her eyes shining. ‘And he did! Without his cousin around, Bridgewater gets the lot!’