Wicked Words: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘Is that some kind of fashion item for dogs?’

  ‘Totally necessary.’

  Bobo, the excitable little terrier, was sporting a Huggies disposable nappy.

  ‘They’re supposed to be for babies. It was Lindsey’s idea. Anna left a few behind when she went back to Poland. Bobo has a little bladder weakness. Lindsey cut a hole for the tail and hey presto! Bobo’s little problem is sorted – or at least not trickling over my top quality – as in megabucks per square yard – seagrass carpet.’

  The reception area of the Green River Hotel had been revamped a little while back. The job had not been without drama, the number one drama having been that Honey’s interior designer had got himself murdered. Though she’d been saddened by the demise of the designer, the hold-up in her renovation plans had been even more annoying. Everything was now looking smart and she sure as hell wasn’t having some little whippersnapper of a dog doing its business everywhere.

  ‘Is Bobo likely to be a permanent fixture in the Green River Hotel?’ Doherty asked.

  ‘Over my dead body.’

  ‘That bad, huh?’

  ‘That bad.’

  He suddenly got out of the car, went to the boot, and took out a black plastic rubbish bag. He placed it on the floor at Honey’s feet.

  ‘Put her on that.’

  Honey had half expected this kind of treatment. Doherty had as passionate a relationship with his car as he had with her. There was no way he would allow the Toyota MR2 to be stained by an excitable Norfolk terrier.

  Tracey Maplin lived in a flat in Walcot Street, a Bohemian area of the city where shops selling Oxford bags and straw boaters rubbed shoulders with stores selling second-hand musical instruments. There were also natural food shops with sacks of spices dumped on rickety shelving outside. Inside they smelled of dried nuts and ground ginger.

  The top floor flat Tracey lived in was situated above a shop selling pre-owned goth and punk clothing of which black was the dominant colour.

  First, they found a parking space. Then they sat, each looking sidelong at each other and then at the dog.

  ‘I’m not leaving her in here.’

  Honey eyed the nearest lamppost. It was tempting to leave Bobo tied up there until they were finished. However, there were concerns; someone might steal her, or she might get loose. She pointed that out to Doherty.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind that much,’ she added, ‘but I would then have to face my mother. And so would you.’

  Doherty did not believe in facing her mother unless it was absolutely necessary. If there was a compromise he’d take it and in this instance he did.

  ‘We’ll have to take her with us.’

  Doherty pressed the intercom. A girlish voice answered. Tracey Maplin was still at home.

  ‘Come on up. I’m at the top of the house, up here with the cobwebs and spiders.’

  The hall was communal and well-used. A bicycle was propped up against one wall. The hallway smelt of mud and tomato ketchup.

  The stairs were narrow and carpeted with something that might have been described as oaten when new, but was now struggling to make beige. It had never been cleaned since the day it was laid.

  They still had some breath left when they finally got to the top floor flat, though only just enough to press the doorbell.

  ‘It’s not locked. Give it a push,’ shouted the same voice that had spoken to them on the intercom.

  Tracey Maplin was lying at full stretch on an ancient sofa of chocolate brown velvet. A multi-coloured shawl was thrown over the back of the sofa, and the cushions were multi-coloured and trimmed with sequins, purple tassels, and ribbons. She was wearing a handmade woollen cardigan with huge buttons. Honey guessed it was second-hand. Whoever it had originally been made for must have been six sizes bigger than Tracey. The neckline was huge and hanging halfway down one arm, exposing her naked shoulder.

  Four or five scatter rugs were thrown over bare wooden floorboards that looked as though they’d only recently been varnished. Tracey’s flat being at the top of the house, the ceilings sloped beneath the eaves and the windows were small, though they had the benefit of great views.

  ‘Do you mind us bringing in the dog?’ Doherty asked.

  ‘I can leave it outside on the landing tied to the banister if you like,’ Honey added. The floorboards looked shiny. Tracey wouldn’t hear of it. Her face was wreathed with smiles, one hand already held out in Bobo’s direction, beckoning the little dog to come hither.

  ‘What a cute little critter. Bring him in.’

  ‘It’s a her,’ Honey explained as Bobo went into doggy wag overdrive from her skull to the tip of her tail. Luckily the Huggies stopped her spraying the flat’s varnished wooden floorboards.

  ‘Love the outfit, dude,’ Tracey said to the little dog.

  Said ‘dude’ wagged uncontrollably.

  Tracey continued to make a fuss of the ‘little critter’ or ‘little dude’, the two names she seemed to favour for the excitable Bobo. The dog seemed to be as keen on Tracey as Tracey was on her.

  They took the seats that were offered – one was an antique nursing chair with low legs and a spoon-shaped back. On seeing what else was on offer, Doherty grabbed it.

  The other was a blow-up plastic chair, circa 1965 – great design perhaps, but not the most comfortable of chairs to sit in. Honey sank into it, her chin just about level with her knees, over which she threw Doherty slitty-eyed threats.

  ‘So,’ said Doherty, his hands folded in front of one knee. ‘You think you may have some information?’

  The merry interchange between her and Bobo lessened. She looked worried.

  ‘Look, it was only a joke. Apparently that bloke had been giving the lads some stick. They’d found him lying flat out on the ground, absolutely paralytic. He stunk of whisky and although he was out of it when they brought him out, he certainly wasn’t dead. Honest he wasn’t.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’ Honey asked.

  Tracey’s face soured. ‘Too right he did. A load of abuse. A right nasty piece of work and off his face. His breath would have ignited a paraffin stove. Anyway, the guys thought it would be funny to stuff him inside Teddy Devlin. So that’s what they did.’ She giggled, then bit her lip as though suddenly realizing that this was a serious matter after all. ‘They thought it would be funny if he woke up and started staggering about in the teddy bear suit. It would raise a laugh with people passing by if nothing else. And it might make them reach deeper into their pockets.’

  A pink balloon chose that moment to float past the window. Honey followed it with her eyes. What with Bobo wearing a disposable nappy, Tracey referring to a teddy bear with a personalized name, and a pink balloon floating past the window, everything seemed a little surreal today. Alice in Wonderland had fallen down a well. Honey, Doherty, and Bobo had climbed up into something that wasn’t exactly an ivory tower but was pretty high up in the air.

  ‘Can you give me their names?’ Doherty asked the girl.

  ‘Only first names – Stefan, Johann, Colin, and Deke.’

  ‘No last names.’

  ‘No.’ She shrugged her narrow shoulders. ‘They were just guys I bumped into. Students, so they said. One of them was a medical student though basically they were all into rugby.’

  ‘So what happened then – after they’d stuffed this man into the teddy bear?’

  ‘We went for a drink. I should have stayed put really, but I was pissed off. People just weren’t giving. Must be something to do with the exchange rate.’

  ‘Can you tell me where you went for a drink?’

  ‘The Saracen’s Head.’

  Doherty made a note to call in on the pub on his way back to Manvers Street. It was a vain hope that the landlord might remember them but what was more crucial, if they were regulars then he might know their names. It would certainly be a stroke of luck if they were.

  Bobo squealed and yapped with excitement once they were back in the car.

&n
bsp; ‘I think she likes your car,’ Honey said. ‘It’s kind of kennel-sized, I suppose.’

  Doherty didn’t rise to the bait. ‘Isn’t it amazing; you’d think people would notice someone making off with a giant teddy bear slung over their shoulder? Nobody seemed to notice, or if they did thought nothing of it. Strange that.’

  ‘Unless they didn’t carry him away.’

  ‘How else would they do it? It’s a pedestrian area.’

  ‘And no cameras in the vicinity?’

  ‘They’re being checked. I’ve also asked for those students who might have been for a practise rugby match that day.’

  ‘What makes you think they’d have been playing rugby?’

  ‘They were drunk. When I was a rugby-playing student I used to get drunk after practice too.’

  ‘That’s not part of a health and fitness regime, surely?’

  ‘No, but it’s part of student life.’

  Honey remembered where she had seen Tracey before.

  ‘She was in the restaurant the other night with another girl and the four young men Mary Jane brought back with her. They were all drunk.’

  Doherty paused before unlocking the car. ‘So she could be lying. She does know their second names?’

  Honey shook her head. ‘They’re students. Who cares about second names?’

  Chapter Fourteen

  C.A. Wright had a sister. Nobody had been aware of this until he got murdered and the next of kin was traced and informed.

  Cynthia Wright had flown over from Paris, stopping off in London to check on her brother’s bachelor pad before taking a chauffeur-driven car down to Bath where she’d booked into a room at the Royal Crescent Hotel before contacting the police.

  When she did she came bowling into the police station, her cashmere coat flying out behind her and a Pekingese dog tucked under each arm.

  Plonking both dogs on the reception desk, she fixed the duty sergeant with a pair of angry eyes.

  ‘I want to see whoever is in charge of the investigation into my brother’s murder. I want to see him now. Right away.’

  The duty sergeant had been preparing to tell her that she would have to wait as the man in charge, Detective Chief Inspector Doherty, had not yet arrived back. Luckily for him Gordon Tomlinson, the landlord of the Saracen’s Head, had been out at the cash and carry, though his girlfriend – she must have been half Gordon’s age – was there. She said she would ask the bar staff if they recalled the four students. She would also ask Gordon when he got back and get him to ring if he had any information.

  Because of this hold-up, Doherty walked back into the station and straight into Cynthia Wright’s sights. Doherty’s mouth dropped at the sight of her and he got a sinking sensation in his stomach. She was wearing a pair of ostentatious clip-on earrings and a matching necklace flaunting a dangling medallion. There was something about women who wore ostentatious jewellery that unnerved him. This woman was one of such ilk. Gloria Cross was another.

  ‘I’m Cynthia Wright. I want to speak to you about my brother’s murder and the people you should be arresting,’ she snapped imperiously.

  Doherty eyed her cautiously, noticing how quiet the dogs were and thinking how strange that was. Small dogs were usually snappy. He guessed that in her presence they knew when to keep their yaps to a minimum. Miss Cynthia Wright was the one who did all the snapping and the dogs knew this.

  He opened the door to the corridor that led to the interview rooms.

  ‘This way, Miss Wright.’

  Doherty surmised that the dogs were well house-trained. They weren’t wearing Huggies, and even if they weren’t house-trained it didn’t matter that much. The room they entered didn’t belong to him. It was his job to ask questions, not to clean up dog mess.

  ‘I’m sorry for what happened to your brother,’ he said after pulling a chair out for her then sitting down himself. ‘If there’s anything I can do …’

  ‘Yes. There is.’

  He watched her mouth snap shut. Like a guillotine, he thought, the sort used to chop paper in a straight line. ‘You can question these people. One of them has to be responsible.’

  He listened because it was his job. He nodded in the right places. Like her brother Miss Wright was not a likeable person, but he would deal with her grievances.

  She threw what looked like a collection of letters on to the desk with such force that they slid halfway across towards him.

  ‘Poison pen letters from people who wished ill on my brother.’ Her bottom lip curled back as she relayed exactly what she thought of these people. ‘Wicked people, all of them. They should be locked up just for what they said in those letters. My brother was a true professional and dedicated to his job. He had awards for his work and first and last he only spoke the truth. Anyone can tell you that.’

  Doherty avoided eye contact whilst he fingered the letters, fanning them out like a hand of cards. He guessed that he wouldn’t find much difference between the letters: hate letters and, from what he’d gathered from both Honey and Casper St John Gervais, the chairman of Bath Hotels Association, not without good reason. He was doubtful of finding anyone with anything nice to say about the deceased. The man had been far from flavour of the month – or even the chef’s special.

  From what he’d found out so far, C.A. Wright had been a leech, a lecher, and a libellous bag of unmentionable detritus. Casper’s words, not his, though Honey had concurred.

  He ground his teeth as he thought about it. His dentist had warned him about doing that. ‘You’ll ground them down to the stubs,’ he’d said in a voice as cool as his hands.

  Doherty had never met this C.A. Wright except when laid out on the stainless steel in the mortuary – which was just as well for Wright. He might have had a word with him otherwise – well – not so much a word. More of a warning. A policeman needed to be impartial in his work, but the fact that the deceased had propositioned Honey with regard to a sojourn in a bedroom closet rankled. The impartiality went flying out of the window on broomsticks when things got personal. And things had got personal, so it was just as well that Wright was dead.

  He picked up one of the letters. Each letter sported a Bath postmark. Each of the letter writers had also inserted their home address – as if they’d really expected Wright to get in touch and apologize or withdraw the wicked words he’d written.

  Pushing both her dogs from beneath her arms and on to her lap, jamming them together with her be-ringed fingers like a pair of bookends, Cynthia Wright pointed out the obvious.

  ‘As you will see, Chief Inspector, they all reside in this city. In Bath. I specifically filtered these out from the rest.’

  His ears pricked up. ‘The rest? You mean there are more?’

  ‘Quite a few. No reflection at all on my brother and his work, of course. Colin made enemies of people who couldn’t take criticism. He was a professional, Chief Inspector. A man of high standards. People peeved with his deliberations on their establishment phoned or wrote in very abusive tones – as you can see. He’s had threats galore including murder, that’s why the case can so easily be solved and why I am here. One of them murdered him. Mark my words.’

  Doherty sifted through the letters, running his eyes down each one in turn. They were certainly abusive, but also threatening. The threat to kill was mentioned in all three.

  ‘And you say there were phone calls …?’

  ‘Yes,’ she snapped. ‘There were. One in particular. That one there.’

  Snatching the letters out of his hand, she thrust one at him.

  ‘Read this.’

  He did as he was told. Not that he was scared of this woman. Just taken aback. For now. The threats added a new dimension though overall he wasn’t really that surprised. He himself wished the guy was still alive so he could deal with him too. And he wouldn’t be gentle. In fact he wouldn’t be able to help himself.

  The letters were fairly predictable, but feeling Cynthia Wright’s beady eyes on him, he
made a big show of reading each letter in turn. All three threatened to kill her brother. From what he knew of the man he guessed every other letter he’d had from offended people was in much the same vein. This one he was presently reading, however, held one different line.

  ‘I’ll have you the next time you visit Bath. You just see if I don’t …’

  He looked at the signature. It was signed Walter Morden. Next to his signature Walter had drawn a skull and crossbones with a dagger running through it – similar to the way the skewer had been pushed into the deceased.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, suddenly remembering Agnes Morden and her missing daughter. ‘Did you know any of your brother’s girlfriends?’

  ‘He didn’t have any girlfriends. Not regular girlfriends. He was too busy with his work.’

  ‘Did he ever mention any names? Did you see any girls – especially young girls? Especially one named Cathy Morden?’

  He got the photo Mrs Morden had given him out of the drawer. ‘This girl?’

  Doherty noticed a slight change in expression. The eyes hardened as her expression turned from arrogant to blank.

  ‘I’ve never seen her before. As I’ve already told you, Colin was too immersed in his work to bother with girlfriends.’

  Gordon Tomlinson, landlord of the Saracen’s Head, leaned down and whispered to his girlfriend – a stunner of a twenty-six-year-old who had replaced his middle-aged wife only two months before.

  ‘I think that’s them.’

  ‘The same ones that were here last Wednesday morning. Are you sure about that?’

  She’d spoken to the copper who’d called in because Gordon had been out at the cash and carry. She’d liked the copper – Doherty. She remembered the name because it was also that of her favourite rockstar. She’d also liked his rangy look and the two days’ worth of stubble on his face. She liked rugged. She liked rough.

  Gordon licked his lips, wishing he didn’t have such a grungy taste in his mouth, and wishing Samantha, his live-in lust, wasn’t so pushy. He’d taken up with her thinking she’d be less pushy than Clara, his wife. Clara had pushed him hard. He was sure he had indents from her hands in his back the way she kept pushing him.