Something in the Blood (A Honey Driver Murder Mystery) (9 page)

Chapter Thirteen

One-thirty. Smudger the chef was complaining about the butcher again.

‘I swear to you, it’s rubbish. Trust me. Let me tell him that if he don’t up his standards, I’m for chopping out his liver!’

Honey rolled her eyes. How was a woman to cope? A batty chef
and
a mad mother.

Her mother was rabbiting on about a very upright and uptight type she wanted her to meet. ‘You must meet him, Hannah, darling. I’m sure you’ll get on like a house on fire.’

‘Mother, I can arrange my own dates.’

Her mother shrugged. ‘Well it doesn’t seem that way to me.’ Digging her painted nails into Honey’s shoulders, she flipped her round to face her.

‘Tell me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Do you have a man friend?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes?’ Her mother sounded incredulous. She clapped her hands and looked extraordinarily happy. ‘You do? Who is he?’

‘Just a guy.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Jeremy.’

Her mother frowned. ‘I don’t know him. Do I?’

‘Right. You don’t know him.’

First, deal with the chef.

‘Smudger? You will not threaten the man. If he fails to deliver decent meat, then he doesn’t get his bread. Savvy?’

Smudger’s sandy-coloured hair curled out from beneath his tall, chef’s hat. His eyes glittered. ‘Great! I can’t wait to see his face when I tell him to stick it.’

‘No!’ Honey wagged a finger at him. ‘That isn’t what I said. Just insist that he keeps his standards up, or else …’

‘Or else I chop him!’

A gleaming meat cleaver was waved with gleeful anticipation.

‘Smudger, hurting comes in many forms. A light bank account hurts more than a wound!’

Smudger looked disappointed, but accepted her judgement.

‘And for my next trick,’ she muttered to herself.

She wheeled her mother away from Smudger’s realm and into the conservatory.

‘Doesn’t the garden look lovely?’ she said, a calming measure in anyone’s book.

Her mother glared up at her as they marched the width of the conservatory until their noses were almost flat against the glass.

Her mother eyed her accusingly. ‘You haven’t got a boyfriend, have you? You were lying.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well I’ve got one for you.’

‘I don’t want one.’

The conservatory looked out over an enclosed garden. The trees had grown high and wide obliterating the view of other buildings. If you lay flat in the grass and stared directly upwards, you could almost forget you were in the heart of the city. But there was no grass. Just paving slabs.

Her mother looked puzzled, her lips parted as though there was something she wanted to say, but she wasn’t quite sure how to phrase it.

‘So you’ve met someone you think suits me. Where did you meet him?’

‘At the dentist. He’s a widower.’

The vision of the gorgeous guy she’d seen standing beside her mother at the beginning of the week flashed into her mind. Somehow she hadn’t envisaged him as being a widower.

Giving herself time to digest this, Honey banged on the window at Mary Jane and waved. Mary was practising her tai chi out on the flagstones and managed to include a slow wave amongst her movements.

Accompanied by her mother’s list of reasons why she should meet this man, Honey continued to watch Mary Jane’s sinuous arms rolling and wafting outwards, one leg slowly raised, one little twist of her spine.

‘OK, he’s a bit of a steady Eddie, but I’m sure he’s the right man for you.

This last sentence sunk in. ‘I’m really surprised. He didn’t strike me that way,’ said Honey.

‘But you haven’t met him yet.’

The vision of the cool dude in casuals was shattered.

Her mother smoothed her corn-coloured tunic as she settled gracefully into a chair.

‘You haven’t met him, dear.’

‘But he was here the other day. You said he was a bookseller. His name was John Rees.’

‘Not him. I meant Edgar Paget. He’s my dentist. And a very good one,’ she added, as though that in some way recommended him as a potential suitor.

‘Mother, I don’t think I can take to a guy who makes a living from peering into people’s mouths.’

‘He’s not just
any
dentist! Private patients only.’

Honey turned her back on Mary Jane who had just entered into the final movements of her daily routine.

Folding her arms across her chest, she eyed her mother with a mix of disbelief and total confusion. Was this woman really her mother? And what was she trying to do? Get her to notch up the same number of marriages she’d gone through herself?

But first things first:

‘So this bookseller. What was he here for?’

‘To organise a book fair. He wanted to make a booking. I just got talking to him. He seemed very pleasant.’

Honey’s jaw dropped. ‘A booking.’

Her mother nodded. ‘Yes, dear.’

‘So why didn’t you pass him to reception?’

‘Because he asked to see you.’

Honey sighed. ‘I’ll have to phone him.’

‘So what about my dentist – Mr Paget?’

‘No!’

Her mother rarely frowned.
It causes wrinkles, dear.
Her indignation showed in the way her heart-shaped face became elongated as her chin dropped. The wrinkles came anyway and would have looked good on a bloodhound.

‘Well, that’s a change of attitude, I must say.’

Honey’s thoughts were on the gorgeous guy who’d called in earlier in the week.

Mary Jane caught her just as she was rushing from the conservatory and into reception.

‘I’ll speak to you later,’ Honey called over her shoulder.

‘There’s no need to panic. He said he’d call back,’ said her mother, yet again scurrying along beside her.

Honey refused to listen, rummaging among the bits of paper in a basket marked ‘file’. Everything that didn’t have a home – which included the calling cards of salesmen selling disposables – went into the ‘file’.

‘Have we had a booking for a book fair?’ she asked Deehta, who came in to cover on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Deehta shook her dark head vehemently. When it came to efficiency, Deehta was top of the pops. Honey had no choice but to believe her.

There was no sign of a business card marked ‘
bookshop
’.

‘Never mind,’ Honey said once she was satisfied that her filing tray was its usual, uninteresting, self.

Mary Jane, who let nothing interrupt her
tai chi
session, called out to her.

‘We need to talk,’ she said quickly in a hushed voice, as though secrecy and speed were paramount.

‘I know where he went,’ hissed Mary Jane. ‘That guy who went missing; I know who he was asking about and where he went.’

Honey took hold of Mary Jane’s bony elbow, hauled her into her private office and shut the door. ‘Tell me!’

‘He enquired about a family called Charlborough.’

‘Do you mean
the
Charlborough family? Landowners, plantation owners, and allegedly members of the Hellfire Club?’

Mary Jane’s face shaped itself into a question mark. ‘You mean they were members back in the eighteenth century?’

‘Allegedly. They live at Charlborough Grange out at Limpley Stoke.’

Mary Jane’s face brightened. ‘That’s the place. That’s where he went.’

It added up. Ivor the taxi driver had taken Elmer to the church at Limpley Stoke, though he hadn’t mentioned Charlborough Grange.

‘And Elmer was related to Charlborough?’

Mary Jane shook her head. ‘Oh, he couldn’t say. He wasn’t specific according to Bob.’

Honey entertained some pretty fast-moving thoughts.

‘Am I right in thinking our missing tourist would have learned a lot from a parish register?’

‘He sure would,’ said Mary Jane. ‘That’s one thing you can say about the church, they certainly kept tight tabs on everybody.’

Chapter Fourteen

The hotel had been busy, she’d gone for a mid-evening doze and the alarm woke her just after eleven p.m. A quick shower, fresh make-up and hair dried; a search through her clothes; jeans, a black T-shirt and pearl earrings. Casual but classy, she thought, after a brief glance in the mirror.

On the way to meet Detective Sergeant Doherty, she looked for Ivor’s taxi but couldn’t see him. If she had she would have asked more about Elmer’s visit to Limpley Stoke. Mary Jane’s report was clear enough, but it wouldn’t have hurt to confirm it.

The night air was still and cool. The lights of the city obliterated the blackness of the river. The river was running high and fast and didn’t look its normal friendly self. Possibly there’d been heavy rain upstream.

Doherty awaited her.

As she descended the steps down to the solid oak door of the Zodiac Club, she considered whether she should tell him what Mary Jane had told her about Elmer having been in touch with a man named Bob the Job. Crazy name, but there, people hoping to find fame or notoriety in their background were a bit crazy; devastated when they realised their ancestry contained nothing more than generation after generation of farm labourers, housemaids and itinerant drunkards.

Should she tell him where she’d
thought
Elmer had gone, or should she check out this oddly named guy, Bob the Job?

The Zodiac was a private club. On ringing the bell, a small slot opened. A pair of eyes looked out and a muffled voice asked for her name and whether she was a member.

‘It’s me.’

The eyes opened wide in recognition and the door opened.

‘Good evening, madam!’

‘Good evening, Clint. I think that’s the first time you’ve ever called me madam.’ She looked him up and down. ‘Nice suit.’

Clint, her part-time washer-up, grinned from ear to ear. Despite the spider’s web etched into his skull and the gold earring, Clint looked both presentable and slightly menacing, in fact ideal for the job.

‘I got it at Oxfam,’ he said, running sausage thick fingers over the silky lapels. ‘Not bad is it.’

‘No. Not bad at all. Should last you a while as long as you don’t go washing up in it.’

‘I won’t be doing that. Serving in me mate’s shop is my daytime job, washing up is early evening, and this is my night-time job.’

‘So when do you sleep?’

There was a whole load of innuendo in the wink he gave her.

‘When I can. Got to have a social life, ain’t I?’

‘You certainly do.’

And all for cash, thought a bemused Honey. It occurred to her that he could be making more money than she was, and enjoying a better social life.

‘Look,’ she said. ‘I’m expecting a guest. His name’s Steve …’

‘Doherty. Yeah.’ His grin collapsed into a stiff grimace. ‘The dude’s already here.’

There was no point asking him how come he knew a member of the local constabulary. She could guess, but Clint (Rodney Eastwood to give him his full name) was Clint and his business was his own.

Threading her way through the room brought to mind old black-and-white movies; night clubs where shady characters clustered in dingy alcoves. The ceiling was barrel-vaulted and the walls bare stone. Down-lighters picked out swirls of blue smoke drifting from the sizzling steaks being grilled al fresco in the restaurant. Apart from them the lighting was minimal.

Steve was propped up in the corner of the bar. A space had opened up around him; news of his profession had no doubt travelled.

Isolation didn’t seem to worry him. His eyes were everywhere but stalled once they landed on her.

‘Drink?’ Shifting his stance he dug into the pocket of his black leather jacket.

‘Vodka and tonic. With ice and lemon.’

He took the money from his pocket. No wallet, she noticed. A cautious man. She wondered where he kept his credit cards.

‘Are you hungry?’ he asked her suddenly.

She shook her head. ‘I’ve eaten.’

She eyed the clientele, noting who was playing after hours. Hotel and pub managers mostly, plus those who owned, ran and worked bloody hard in their own hotels.

‘Cheers.’

He clinked glasses with her while they studied each other, a meeting of eyes, a furtive appraisal of each others attributes.

For his part Steve admired her clear skin, a handsome rather than pretty face. Her hair was dark, her eyes brown and her legs went up to her shoulders – or at least, that was the way it seemed.

Honey glimpsed the glint of a gold bracelet on his right wrist. His hair was cut short. It suited him.

‘So,’ she said after taking a generous sip of vodka and tonic. ‘Have you informed the relatives?’

‘It seems our American friend doesn’t have any. Apparently there was a sister, but she died a few months ago.’

‘So he went travelling to get away?’

Doherty shrugged. ‘I suppose so. Who knows? They reckoned he was well into doing research. Tracing ancestors was the latest thing. Before that it was haemophilia.’

‘The bleeding disease.’

‘That’s the one. Someone in the family died of it.’

She finished her drink. He insisted on buying her another.

Do I deserve another?

She answered her own question. You bet!

Weekends were hard in the hospitality trade. The world and his wife came away on weekend breaks, and from Friday night to Sunday lunchtime the locals were out wining and dining. Add that to the huge influx of tourists at this time of year, and you’ve got a punishing schedule.

It came to her suddenly that they were in competition with each other. He wanted all the glory in cracking this, and so did she. She hadn’t thought she had before, not when the job had first been foisted on her. But now? Something was stirring.

Unfortunately for ‘
good ole
’ Steve, it wasn’t passion that had coloured her decision to meet him, but curiosity, a driving need to find out exactly what was going on. That was the reason, she told herself, but still her eyes kept sliding sidelong.

She shook the thoughts from her head.

‘Bubbles,’ she explained on seeing Doherty’s quizzical expression. She cleared her throat. ‘Are there any clues?’

‘Minor things. A piece of wood jammed into the side of the deceased. The river’s full of debris following heavy rain. But it was interesting. There was an indentation on it where a number used to be. Could have been a nine. Could have been a six.’

‘Depending on whether you’re Australian.’

She smiled as she said it. The vodka had gone to her head.

Doherty had a blond moment. He didn’t have a clue – or perhaps just no sense of humour.

She took it slowly. ‘Upside down. A six if you’re upright and living in the northern hemisphere, and a nine if you’re upside down, i.e. Australian.’

‘Very funny.’

He gave a weak laugh, though his expression remained serious.

No sense of humour, she decided, but then it wasn’t a very good joke.

Doherty went straight into the facts. ‘He had a sack over his head. Not a big sack. A small one. It had a smell. Not a nasty smell. A nice smell.’ He said it as though only he knew its significance.

Honey nodded appreciatively as though she somehow knew the significance of such a thing. But why should she? A sack, was a sack, was a sack. And the smell? Hemp surely?

She noticed how quickly he had spoken, giving away information that perhaps he shouldn’t. Anything to maintain her interest.

He fell to silence. She sensed him looking at her. Decided it was her turn to speak.

‘And he never was in the freezer?’

He shook his head. ‘No. We checked. It was still there waiting to be de-gassed and whatever. It was empty and there were no signs of him ever being in there.’

‘Do you prefer to be called Steve or Stephen?’

She didn’t know why she asked, it just felt as though something was needed to fill the sudden silence.

‘Doherty.’

‘I prefer to be called Honey. Only my mother calls me Hannah.’

He regarded her for a moment and nodded slowly.

‘So! I take it you’re divorced.’

Was that a hopeful look in his eyes?

‘No. He died in a sailing accident.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘That’s what everyone said. But I wasn’t. Not really. Racing and delivering sailing yachts had taken precedence over his married life. The more impassioned he’d got with his sport, the less we’d seen of him. It didn’t help that most of the crew he hired had been female. He reckoned they bonded well and did everything that he asked of them.’

‘Any children?’

‘One. Lindsey. She’s eighteen.’

‘Get on! You don’t look old enough.’

‘Very kind, but I’ve heard it before.’

‘I meant it. Does she look like you?’

She wasn’t sure that he did, but at least he was treating her as a woman. Besides, it was the best chat up line she’d heard in a long while.

‘She looks like her father and like me.’

He nodded sagely, as though she had said something very profound.

She asked him about himself. He told her he was divorced – something she’d already guessed – and that he’d moved to Bath from London.

‘To make a new start,’ he added. ‘Got fed up with the pressure of work in the Met.’

He told her he rented a flat in Lansdown Crescent , but was looking to buy. ‘When I can find something affordable.’

She knew where he was coming from. Bath was expensive. Georgian houses of elegant proportions, horrendously expensive to maintain, had long ago been divided into flats. Their elegance undiminished, their interiors furnished in a suitable style with expensive antiques, nothing in a really good location came cheap.

She let him make the headway until judging the time was right to make her excuses.

‘Sorry, but I have to split. I’m cooking breakfast in the morning.’

It wasn’t strictly true. Smudger never did breakfast if he could possibly avoid it. Dumpy Doris, a woman of dumpling roundness with arms a Sumo wrestler would be proud of, cooked up a cardiologist’s nightmare; fried sausages, fried eggs and fried bacon. It was sometimes joked about that even the cornflakes would be fried if Dumpy Doris had her way. But she filled the gaps and good help on a weekend was hard to come by.

‘I’ll walk you home.’

‘No need.’

Clint opened the outer door for them, his eyeballs bouncing between her and Doherty.

‘It’s no trouble.’

‘It’s no distance.’

Doherty threw a backward glance at Clint before the door slammed shut.

‘I know him.’

‘Everyone knows Clint.’

She didn’t want to know what Clint did when he wasn’t washing dishes; she didn’t want to know what offences Doherty might have charged him with in case it put her off of ever employing him again. When they got to a certain age, automatic dishwashers were notoriously unreliable. Clint was not.

‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’ he said once they were up on pavement level.

‘Fine.’ She nodded vehemently. ‘It’s not far.’

‘I insist.’

‘Will you frogmarch me if I refuse?’

‘Possibly. You know us cops; brutal, insistent – but cute.’

She tried to pretend that he didn’t appeal to her. Not easy.

‘Shouldn’t you add conceited?’

‘I can’t see why.’

Bath didn’t have the night smell of the big city – the stewed traffic fumes, the dank river and the heat rising like dust from concrete buildings. Set like Rome in a sweeping valley surrounded by tree-topped hills, its lawns and well-kept flowerbeds lent a spring-like freshness in the air. The mellow walls of ancient buildings glowed in the borrowed gleam of well-placed lighting. Even at this hour the streets had a safe feeling about them, as though the ghosts of the past stood sentinel over those treading its cosy alleys and broad thoroughfares. Late night revellers wending their merry way home raised a hand, called and waved goodnight.

Pulteney Street flew straight as a dart from the centre of the city to the Warminster Road . The Green River Hotel was close to the very end, tucked away down a cul-de-sac.

Doherty sniffed the air. ‘I love this place. There’s something immortal about it. It looks beautiful, even at this hour. It’s sacrilege that we’re talking murder.’

She agreed with him though it occurred to her that he hadn’t mentioned much about the murder tonight, though, goodness, she was grateful for the details he had given.

‘Almost there,’ she added, her footsteps slowing. She stopped and faced him. ‘Look. You don’t need to come any further.’

She smiled as she said it. No, she did not want him to see her to the door. The windows would be black, the minimum of light falling from the reception area; everyone would be – or should be in bed. Not necessarily so. Like a lot of seniors, her mother, who’d decided to stay overnight, was a light sleeper. Questions would be asked. She’d prefer them not to be.

She turned swiftly away before he had a chance to kiss her. She wasn’t ready for it. Not just yet.

‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight.’

He sounded disappointed, perhaps even hurt. She glanced back to ensure he had indeed strolled off towards Lansdown Crescent and his bachelor pad. His form, his shadow and the sound of his footsteps faded into the night.

Walking on tiptoe was never going to be easy. The flagstones skirting the cul-de-sac were uneven and badly worn from centuries of use. Her steps slowed the closer she got to the hotel. At last, once she was sure he was gone, she stopped and turned round.

The night breeze was cool as water against her face when she looked for him. The coast was clear.

Counting to ten she waited, then slowly, still with her heels held barely off the ground, she retraced her steps. She heard a car and presumed he’d got a taxi. Certain she was right, she increased her speed, then paused as her fingers felt something in her pocket. Why was she bothering to walk to the taxi rank? Ivor Williams had given her his number.

Taking out the business card, she held it to catch the gleam of a streetlight, took her phone from her pocket, and dialled the number. Ivor answered.

‘How’s the book going?’ she asked.

‘Too busy for reading at present, lovely. What can I do to help you?’