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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘So let’s have a word with him.’ He unfolded from the chair, sending the legs squealing across the flagstone floor.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Why not?’ Placing a hand either side of her seat, he pushed her stool back. She couldn’t help but stand. ‘People are at their most malleable when they’ve just been woken up.’

  She threw him a piercing look. ‘And their most vulnerable. You wouldn’t want to get done for police harassment, would you?’

  ‘I’ve got a calling card?’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘His cousin’s handbag. It’s down at the station. Bridgewater’s been on my back for ages to return it.’

  ‘I thought you had.’

  ‘It was as close as I could get to police brutality. Must admit I enjoyed torturing the slimy toad.’

  It was a quarter to midnight by the time they’d walked to the station, collected the bag, and caught up with Doherty’s car.

  They drove with the top down, for which Honey was grateful. Steve had consumed three Jack Daniel’s in quick succession. He shouldn’t be driving at all, but the cold air would clear his head. She hoped. He assured her he’d be OK.

  She sat with the bag on her lap. She loved big bags herself so understood where the deceased woman was coming from.

  Was it big enough to have a secret compartment? Doherty might not be too pleased if she opened it and took a look. Her fingers drummed on the soft leather. And itched. Fingers really did itch when you wanted to do something drastic. And exciting. Definitely exciting. Something might be hidden in there. Or might not. But what if it was …

  Doherty interrupted her thoughts. ‘I’m reading your mind, Honey Driver. You’re tempted to do something. Right?’

  On this occasion she couldn’t lie. ‘I was trying to remember the stuff that was in here. I remember you listing it.’

  ‘I’ve got the list with me.’

  ‘No secret compartments?’

  He took his eyes off the road and glanced her way. ‘It’s a big monster of a bag, but no. No secret compartments.’

  Honey bit her lip. She was disappointed. ‘So what’s the biggest item listed?’

  ‘Let me think. Yeah! Yeah! I know. The contact lenses! A month’s supply in a green box. Unopened.’

  His eyes left the road again. They met hers.

  Without another word from him, she undid the single buckle holding the flap shut. Then she slid the zipper back.

  The box containing the contact lenses was still there; untouched; unopened. Honey jerked it out; tore at the packaging. There was not the normal battle of wills as there is with some modern day packaging. It opened easily. The reason was obvious.

  ‘It’s already been opened once and resealed,’ said Honey.

  Too involved in what she was doing to drive, Doherty pulled over.

  ‘Go careful with that. It’s evidence.’

  Honey sucked in her breath and tipped the box on end. Normally she’d expect four small boxes, the sort usually associated with contact lenses, to fall on to her lap. She tipped the box again and shook it.

  ‘Bingo!’

  The tin was round and in good condition considering its age.

  They both stared, taking in exactly what they were looking at.

  Doherty prised off the lid.

  They both stared at the unexpected. A computer disc. A CD, not some ancient reel of film.

  ‘Definitely modern,’ Honey remarked.

  ‘So where are the original reels?’

  Doherty frowned at the road ahead.

  Honey wondered what he was thinking. ‘So what gives?’

  Sighing and straightening at the same time, he rubbed the back of his neck.

  ‘Leave Bridgewater till morning?’ suggested Honey.

  ‘No.’ He turned the ignition key. ‘Let’s get the bastard out of bed.’

  The three-storey cottage in the village of Northend was in darkness. So was the rest of the village for that matter.

  Doherty rapped the knocker. The sound echoed between the cottages and the wall opposite.

  He wasn’t hot on patience. ‘Come on, come on,’ he muttered.

  He rapped again. This time harder.

  Honey cringed. It was late. It was dark. Would she open the door at this hour?

  A window opened from the cottage next door. A head popped out.

  ‘It’s gone twelve. Stop that bloody racket,’ a man shouted from above.

  ‘It’s the police.’ Doherty flashed his warrant card.

  ‘I don’t give a stuff whether you’re God Almighty. Sod off and let a working man sleep!’

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, but do you know where Mr Bridgewater is?’ Honey shouted up.

  The casement, by now half closed, paused.

  ‘No. Ain’t been there for days.’

  The window slammed shut.

  Honey looked at the door.

  Doherty did the same.

  ‘Do you think …?’ began Honey.

  ‘Possibly,’ returned Doherty.

  ‘Shall we kick down the door?’

  ‘This is the Georgian City of Bath, not Miami bloody Vice!’

  They went back to the car and sat deep in thought.

  ‘I feel another visit to Trowbridge coming on,’ said Doherty. ‘It all started at Associated Security Shredding.’

  Cogs and wheels were whirling in Honey’s head. ‘No,’ she said suddenly. ‘The ghost walk. That’s where it started.’

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Bridgewater’s neighbour was wrong. Sir Ashwell was in, but about to go out. What he had to do must be done at night.

  Flattened against the wall beside the window he’d listened to what was said. He’d recognised who they were. The cop who didn’t own a shaver and the broad with the boobs. No way did he want to speak to them.

  Craning his neck so he could see out, he watched the car’s brake lights come on at the end of the narrow lane. Then they were gone, the small car heading towards the city.

  He resisted the temptation to switch one of his many alabaster table lamps. A street light gave him enough light to see by. He phoned the person he’d planned to meet.

  ‘I’m leaving now. Give me half an hour.’

  The reply was terse. The connection was swiftly severed.

  Bridgewater was careful about closing the door. Old doors were buggers to close, swollen in wet weather, shrunken in dry. One hand pulling the knocker and one using the key, he managed it as best he could. His neighbour had given him an alibi and he intended to keep it.

  1.30 a.m. Reflections of a city asleep played on the empty shop windows. A damp mist had turned the cobbles shiny and slippery. Bridgewater turned up his collar. His throat was dry. Both palms – the one holding on to the package and the one thrust into his pocket – were moist.

  His footsteps echoed between the buildings. He stopped to catch his breath and hear the silence. Instead of footsteps the beat of his heart hammered within his skull.

  Come on, he told himself. This is no different to negotiating a deal with a telephone client. All business was much the same. Much as he tried to convince himself of this, deep down he knew it wasn’t true. This transaction was far more important. Far more lucrative.

  As arranged, the door was unlocked. He entered the dim interior and shuddered. It was similar to next door, though not so neglected.

  ‘Hello?’

  His voice echoed in the emptiness.

  ‘Up here.’

  A sharp voice. A selfish voice.

  Never mind. Keep going.

  He did just that, taking the stairs quickly despite the darkness. On reaching the first landing, he stopped and looked round. A rectangle of outside light fell in through a single window. The rest of the landing was in darkness.

  He looked up the next flight of stairs. A figure stood outlined against the skylight. For one heart-stopping moment he thought it was her: Wanda, his cousin.

  You know better than that,
he told himself. Wanda’s dead. You know she’s dead.

  ‘Have you got them?’

  He was surprised at how calmly she asked. Did the woman never get excited?

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bring them up.’

  The stairs creaked beneath his feet. He saw her move away from the balustrade. Rotten with age, it moved as she did so.

  A candle burned on a table.

  ‘A bit primitive,’ he said, and chanced a smile. He didn’t know whether she smiled back. Her face remained in shadow, but he could see the thrust of her breasts above a neat waist.

  ‘Hand me the reels.’

  ‘Certainly.’ He took the reels with both hands. ‘And the money?’

  ‘Here.’

  He stared at the envelope she was handing him. Was she for real?

  ‘What is this?’ he said without taking it. There was a hint of amusement in his voice, though he wasn’t feeling amused – far from it!

  ‘A banker’s draft. It’s quite safe.’

  Bridgewater felt his throat tighten. ‘That isn’t what we agreed. I want cash. I stipulated cash.’

  ‘Impossible. Unless you want to wait a week or more … Now give me the reels.’ She reached to take them.

  He took a sideways step. For the first time since their negotiations had started he heard a touch of anxiety in her voice.

  ‘A banker’s draft is as good as money.’

  ‘I don’t care. I want cash.’

  ‘You stupid sod! All this money. Imagine what you could do with it.’

  ‘I want cash.’

  He didn’t want to be traced. Didn’t want to have to explain how his cousin had died – and why.

  ‘No.’ He began shaking his head and walking backwards.

  He saw her step forward. The lower part of her face entered the light. Her lips were pink, plush and slightly ajar as though suddenly surprised.

  She cried out, arms flailing. It was as if she were fading away from him, hanging there, unbalanced, waiting to fall.

  Blood-red fingernails clawed at the handrail. The glue was weak, the wood brittle with age. The whole thing splintered away from its mooring. She was gone, part of the stairwell falling with her.

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Alistair from the auction room happened to know a retired projectionist who still dabbled with old film.

  ‘Sly Ellis is a wee bit eccentric, but knows his stuff. He will be able to tell you if it’s genuine.’

  ‘It’s on disc. It appears Her Ladyship had a copy made of the original reels.’

  ‘But you don’t know the whereabouts of the original reels?’

  ‘No. But we’d like to take a look at the footage – me and Doherty, that is.’

  After reporting to Casper, his name was added to the viewers. Lindsey also expressed an interest. So did Gloria Cross.

  ‘I love anything to do with the Titanic,’ said her mother. ‘Especially Kenneth More.’

  Kenneth More?

  ‘He was in that black and white film, A Night to Remember,’ explained her mother on seeing her expression. ‘Poor chap! He had such responsibility.’

  ‘That was just a film of it, Mother. Kenneth More wasn’t really on that ship.’

  Gloria Cross looked quite taken aback. ‘Well I never!’

  ‘This footage would have fantastic historical value,’ Lindsey added. ‘I suppose the man who shot the film is long dead.’

  ‘Drowned,’ said Honey. She realised she was telling the truth, but still a vexed question remained. Who had got the film to safety? How had Ashwell Bridgewater’s grandfather got his hands on it?

  Sly Ellis had a shed in his back garden. The shed was in the deluxe bracket of shed land; made of stone with double-glazed windows and chairs set out in rows.

  OK, the screen wasn’t exactly up there with Leicester Square or Broadway, but it was big enough.

  Their host was happy to be in the driving seat and interesting to meet. His costume was pure Hollywood glory days: worsted cap worn back to front, checked pullover, striped shirt and tie, and all coupled with a pair of tawny-coloured plus fours, long socks, and golf shoes.

  Doherty assumed the same as she had.

  ‘There was no need to turn out in costume for our benefit,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t … Take your seats, everyone!’

  Casper had come along with Alistair.

  ‘I’ve brought popcorn,’ said her mother. She proceeded to hand around a large bucket of pink and white fuzziness. Most declined. Honey’s eyebrows rose halfway to her hairline when Casper peered curiously into the bucket and extracted a sticky mass of popcorn.

  All eyes fixed on the screen. The picture was grainy, black and white, the figures promenading in double quick time.

  Alistair whistled through his teeth.

  Casper’s jaw stopped chomping and practically dropped on to his silk cravat. ‘The dead walk again.’

  Honey leaned forward so she could see past Casper. She addressed Alistair.

  ‘Is there any doubt?’

  He shook his head, his eyes fixed on a pair of able seamen smiling from the flickering screen. Their Guernsey sweaters said it all: RMS Titanic.

  There was absolute silence once the film had finished. The truth hit them all. Almost without exception, those people strolling or lounging on the decks, were all dead. So many people had died on that ill-fated voyage. The whole world knew the great tragedy of the ‘unsinkable’ Titanic.

  Honey was the first to find her voice. ‘How much is it worth?’

  The question was purely academic, but Honey couldn’t help asking.

  Casper put forward the absolute truth. ‘However much someone’s willing to pay for it.’

  Alistair burrowed his fingers into his beard, sending the stiff hairs into upright tufts. Then he smoothed them down. He did this a few times, his eyes lowered as he spoke in a dark, thoughtful voice. ‘A while back, a ticket for the launch of the ship fetched around thirty thousand pounds at auction. In London or New York I think. The disc has some value, but the film reels would be priceless.’

  His comment brought a tightness to Honey’s chest. The film reels were priceless. Priceless enough to cause a string of murders.

  She recalled a conversation she’d had with Lindsey earlier that day. Her daughter had remarked that Honey and Doherty were like ships in the night with no lights on. They kept missing each other. Slightly miffed, Honey had answered, ‘Better than ending up on the rocks I suppose – or hitting an iceberg.’

  Well, here was the real McCoy.

  Doherty had stayed silent but shifted position. He was leaning forward, elbows resting on knees, eyes narrowed.

  Honey did the same. Her eyes remained thoughtfully fixed on the screen. ‘I wonder who the cameraman was.’

  ‘No point in wondering,’ said Casper. ‘We know where to find him – many fathoms beneath the North Atlantic.’

  Gloria Cross slammed the lid back on to the popcorn bucket. ‘That wasn’t exactly a full-length feature.’

  Honey rolled her eyes. ‘It wasn’t meant to be.’

  Lindsey had been totally engrossed in the film. Now she was frowning thoughtfully. ‘Whoever converted those reels onto disc has to have the correct equipment. Right?’

  Everyone agreed.

  ‘It needs a computer plus some pretty hi-tech equipment to do the job. And it’s not cheap.’ She patted her mother’s shoulder. ‘I’ll take Grandma home now before she asks for her money back.’

  Doherty ran his fingers through his hair, flattening it back from his forehead. ‘Methinks another visit to “Sir” Ashwell Bridgewater is in order.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘You’re welcome – and you’re frowning. Problem?’

  Honey smacked her forehead with the palm of her hand. ‘Must stop doing that. More frowns, more furrows. Wrinkles,’ she said in response to his puzzled look.

  ‘I’d totally forgotten that Bridgewater had endowed
himself with a title.’

  ‘And you’re thinking he bought it from the same source as Lady Templeton-Jones?’

  ‘Simon Taylor.’

  She pulled the door of the low-sprung car shut behind her. ‘Simon worked at Associated Security Shredding. They also run a “copying” service. I’d presumed copying meant photocopying …’

  ‘But it might not.’

  Doherty’s expression said it all. Like the bits in a kaleidoscope, all the chips of glass were forming a pattern. It might not be the end pattern, but it was a pleasing scene nonetheless.

  The film screening had taken place at Marshfield, a stone-built village some miles out of the city and uphill all the way.

  ‘He’ll be at work,’ said Honey as Doherty turned the car towards Cold Ashton and the narrow ‘B’ road leading down to Northend.

  Stone chips flew skywards as Doherty did a U-turn back to the main road.

  ‘So where does he work?’ Honey asked him.

  He looked blankly over the steering wheel. ‘Hold on.’ He fetched out his cell phone.

  ‘That’s illegal.’

  ‘Needs must.’

  He spoke into the phone. ‘Can you go to the Lady Templeton-Jones file and give me the work address of Ashwell Bridgewater?’

  The person on the other end did as ordered. Eventually came back.

  ‘Oh. That’s interesting.’

  Honey looked at him. Something quite telling had been said.

  ‘So?’

  He grinned. ‘The company he works for is part of the Wallace and Gates group. Same building. Second floor.’

  Honey sat back. She was having so many exciting thoughts. Like: wouldn’t it be interesting if APW Marketing, and Associated Security Shredding were all part of the same group?

  As it turned out, there was no joy at APW Marketing.

  ‘Ashwell hasn’t turned up for work,’ said a plump blonde with star-spangled fingernails and a slow word delivery. ‘You can try him at home, but I don’t think he’s there. I did give him a ring earlier. No reply though.’

  ‘I’m beginning to get this,’ said Honey as she slid her bottom back on to the bucket style seat.

  Doherty started the engine. ‘And?’