Read Walking with Ghosts - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Online
Authors: Jean G. Goodhind
Life amused Cameron Wallace. Some people are born into money, some are blessed with good looks, and some are very clever. Cameron Wallace was one of the lucky sods who’d got the trinity. He’d always had money, always had the looks, and always outsmarted the next guy – even his father.
He also had a secret. Some might call it a weakness, others an obsession.
He locked the door after his visitors, turned and smiled at the glass panel. Like a priest he stood reverently before it. A light press of his finger and, hey presto, the glass panel opened. A series of downlighters targeted his favourite items. Some of them gleamed in the light. Others were not of the sort of material that gleamed. Some items were just too old, too stained, and too scruffy. Yet they were all valuable. Some of the shabbier items were more valuable than others. This was his personal treasure trove and a very admirable one. And yet it was not entirely complete. There was one other item he coveted to make his collection absolute. One item he would kill for. If only that bloody American woman had stuck to her word. His jaw hardened at the thought of her. Stupid bloody cow!
Every day he opened this panel, relishing the sight and smell, the look of his collection. The items contained were approaching or past a hundred years old. One look was enough. He closed the door. This part of the day was over.
He eyed the details on the card Mrs Cross had palmed him. Her daughter interested him. Hadn’t she told him she was a collector? Underwear. Not quite his area, but interesting to some. His interest in Honey Driver faded once he was back behind his desk and more weighty matters pressed for his attention.
He tapped his password and security number into his computer. The company logo came up above a row of headings. He clicked into ‘legal’ and scrolled down. The freehold and leasehold details of a number of properties came up. The company legal department had been tardy in reassigning some of these. They were a month overdue, and in the meantime someone had stepped in and snatched the options to renew from under their noses. Someone with knowledge. Someone on the inside. He wasn’t happy. He’d spent a few years building up a portfolio of property in the city. Wallace & Gates Holdings had grown considerably under his tenure and he was proud of his achievements.
Holding the card between finger and thumb, he flicked it against his teeth. Honey Driver was a little older than he liked. Younger women were less complicated; they enjoyed the high life he could offer, and were freer and easier than the older generation. All the same he had his own reasons for wanting to see her again. He phoned her at six when the office was quiet and bereft of staff.
‘Can I tempt you?’ he asked her.
She sounded surprised, flattered even. Well, that was par for the course. He wasn’t surprised. She made excuses about being busy, but he persuaded her. He was good at that.
‘I’ll pick you up at seven thirty. I’ll drive.’
‘I can’t. Not tonight. I’ve got a big function on.’
Her hesitation was surprising, but then she was a businesswoman. She did have chores to perform. No guy, though. He was pretty certain of that.
‘What time do you finish?’
‘Late.’
‘Do you have a bar?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll call in for a drink. Ten-ish?’
She didn’t decline.
At five minutes past six Debbie, the bronzed babe from reception, padded across the creamy-coloured carpet. She was carrying her shoes in her right hand. Her blouse was open to the waist and she was playing with her skirt so that it skidded up over her thighs, bunching there like a parcel waiting to be opened.
He smiled. ‘You’re coming undone.’
Smiling and smelling of high-street perfume, she wriggled between him and his desk. ‘So are you,’ she whispered huskily. Her fingers wandered down his trouser front.
Cameron clasped his hands behind his head, closed his eyes and leaned back. He let Debbie take over. Not that she was really taking over at all. She was doing exactly what he wanted her to do. He was good at that. Good at being in charge. An older woman like Honey Driver should be a pushover.
Somewhere around teatime Honey fetched out the auction catalogue and phoned Alistair. She asked if he’d found out anything about the lot numbers. Had he any idea of what the lots constituted?
‘I did a quick search, hen. Let me get the details.’
She heard the turning of papers.
‘Something photographic. Camera, photographic paraphernalia maybe. Perhaps even photographs or film of the old-fashioned variety.’
She wondered if Cameron Wallace collected photographic equipment. He hadn’t been specific.
It was all hands to the pumps in the restaurant, but the coffees had already been served, the speeches commenced and the staff could take a breather.
Honey was scraping dishes in the kitchen. Rodney Eastwood, their casual washer-upper known by all as Clint, had got himself into a spot of bother. When he wasn’t washing dishes at the Green River Hotel, he was doorman at the Zodiac. Right now, though, Clint was serving a little time at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Word was that he’d picked up a bird in the Curfew, a pub just off the London Road. After getting well and truly pickled on best bitter, he’d offered to walk her home. Kissing had been followed by fondling. His hand had sneaked up her skirt – and discovered something most women definitely
don’t
have.
A man! And while his hand was up there … Anyway, the result was that Clint was on remand for actual bodily harm, hence Honey had landed the job of loading and unloading their very temperamental dishwasher.
The automatic dishwasher at the Green River let off steam now and again. A lot of steam. Loading it was a nightmare. Who needed a sauna when you had this spitting monster?
‘Mum. There’s a man at the bar asking for you.’
Lindsey said this just as Honey was half-immersed in the hissing contraption in pursuit of a spoon that had fallen through the cutlery container. She backed out, face red, hair limp and plastered to her scalp. Panic set in.
‘I can’t see him. Look at me.’
Lindsey looked. ‘You look terrible.’
‘I knew I could count on you to stroke my ego.’
‘I’ll tell him you’re out on a date.’
‘Yes!’ Wait a minute. She remembered telling him about the gathering of dentists. ‘No!’ She entered panic mode and tried fluffing up her hair. It refused to be fluffed and remained determinedly flat.
‘You’ve got a headache,’ said Lindsey, who had watched her mother’s efforts in silence.
‘In other words you’re saying he’ll run a mile if he sees me like this.’
‘You look a fright.’
‘Do you want to be specific?’
Lindsey shook her head. ‘I don’t think you’d like it. In fact you might want to crawl into the dishwasher and not get out.’
‘Damn it. I’ve got to keep the dishes going through this washer. Keep him occupied, will you darling?’
Lindsey went off to make excuses. She came back looking slightly amused. Not that Honey could see her. Only her butt was visible to the outside world. The rest of her was stuffed in the machine.
Lindsey tapped her on her back. ‘He says he’s got a surprise for you. He’s waiting outside.’
Honey backed out, banging her head on the way.
‘Bloody Nora!’
She stood looking panic-stricken, spreading her hands helplessly.
‘What do I do?’
With computers, Lindsey was a Merlin the Magician amongst teenagers. Honey often blessed the day her one and only daughter had declined a university place.
Her daughter’s advice was usually good. ‘Your cheeks are
so
crimson!’
‘We need camouflage.’
‘White flour?’
Lindsey mugged Smudger Smith of the red kerchief he wore around his neck.
‘Emergency,’ she said in response to his surprised expression. ‘You won’t regret it.’
Smudger smiled. Lindsey never riled him. Affection hovered between them though Honey had never dared suggest it.
‘Here,’ said Lindsey, shaking the white spotted kerchief into its natural square. ‘Wear it like this.’
She twisted the kerchief into a thin sausage shape; fatter in the middle then wound it ‘Alice band’ style around her mother’s head. She tied the ends into a bow.
‘Voila! La crème de la custard!’
Honey eyed herself in the polished chrome of a refrigerator. The redness of the kerchief outdid that of her cheeks. ‘Not bad.’
Cameron Wallace was waiting in the foyer between front of house and the ‘engine room’ – the accepted term for the kitchen. He was standing with his back to her, his hands in his pockets. His stance was self-assured – too self-assured for her taste. A sudden thought struck her.
‘Tell him I won’t be long,’ she whispered to Lindsey, and dived into a closet.
The closet was opposite the kitchen. It contained disposables – paper napkins, toothpicks, tablets of soap, and toilet paper.
She got out her phone and dialled Doherty’s number. He answered fast. He always did.
‘It’s me,’ she hissed.
‘Are you in a cave? You sound kind of hollow.’
‘No. I’m in a closet.’
‘Did someone lock you in?’
‘No. I just wanted to speak to you in private.’
‘I see.’
It was obvious from the tone of his voice that he didn’t see.
‘Cameron Wallace is here and wants to speak to me. I wanted to speak to you first. I need to know how you got on when you went to see him.’
‘Nothing much to report except that he owns all the shops in that rank. Four in total. Three are let out. One – the one in which the victim was found – is empty. He was going to sell it, but he changed his mind. Up until then there’d been a lot of surveyors and builders going in and out on behalf of interested purchasers.’
‘OK. I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘How about making an A.S.S. of yourself tomorrow?’
He emphasised each letter of ASS. Honey got the drift.
‘I’ll try. I’ll ring you back.’
Cameron Wallace smiled when he saw her. White teeth flashed like a beacon on a dark night.
Honey reckoned that she looked like the winner of ‘Mrs Grunge 1956’, but he gave no sign that she did.
She smiled right back. ‘Sorry, but the bar has a dress code.’ As she said it she indicated her chef’s whites and butcher’s striped apron.
‘Another time perhaps. Never mind. I’ve come to make you an offer.’
He passed her a folder. ‘It’s the lease of a shop I own, one suitable for Second-hand Sheila. I trust your mother and her friends will approve.’
Somehow Honey had expected him to ask for a date though she much preferred him offering her mother a shop.
‘Ring me when you can.’ He sauntered off.
Honey stood and stared. This was
good
news! She rang her mother first. Her response was much the same.
‘Come with me to view.’
‘Yes!’
She rang Casper to give him an update on the murder case. She told him that Doherty had invited her to accompany him to Trowbridge to take a look at Associated Security Shredding.
‘Go!’
She started to explain about her mother and the offer of the shop.
His tone turned cold. ‘I’ve had an enquiry from a coach party for rooms next February. Are you able to take the booking?’ A carrot to keep her on board this crime liaison thing. Normally, trying to let rooms in February was like setting sail in a colander. Disastrous!
‘Yes. I can catch up with my mother at teatime.’
‘Good girl.’
Things were good and getting better. Capturing Lady Templeton-Jones’s murderer would be the icing on the cake. Solving this case above all others would be like laying a ghost to rest.
Doherty was in good form. As they motored along with the roof down, he filled her in on the details of the case. ‘Her nephew informed the police in Ohio that she’d bought the title. She reckoned it gave her kudos and had always fancied being titled. At first she’d been happy about it. An article she read then cast doubts on it. She began to think she’d been duped.’
‘So Her Ladyship was out to stick it to whoever might have sold her a duff budgie?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Do we know who she bought it from?’
‘Not yet, though we know where. On the Internet – where else? We’re getting it checked out.’
Trowbridge had a no-nonsense, red-brick Victorian look. Railway, canal, and weaving sheds had given work to the hard-pressed in years gone by. Now it was a dormitory town to Bath, an overspill for those who couldn’t afford swanky Georgian townhouses, but could happily rise to a small Victorian terraced.
A number of trading estates had been built around the town, catering for smaller industries that didn’t require lots of space for raw materials or production lines; they were ideal for the service sector.
A big sign at the entrance to the estate showed a long road leading to the very end lot, where Associated Security Shredding was housed in a building slightly larger than the others. All the buildings were colour-coded on the plan. ASS was lilac.
‘Wimpish kind of colour,’ Honey remarked.
Steve grinned. ‘It’s the kind of colour your mother would choose.’
‘Floaty and ultra-feminine.’ She cast her gaze over the prefabricated building – huge compared to a garden shed, but just as mundane. ‘Hardly the stuff dreams are made of. Not a turret in sight. What the hell was Her Ladyship doing here?’
‘It’s a start.’ He’d switched the engine off on his low-slung MR2. His fingers drummed on the steering wheel.
‘Something up?’ she queried.
‘Notice the name is in full.’
‘Initials like that can only dent their image.’
‘That guy Wallace, did he hit on you?’
‘No.’
‘Disappointed?’
‘None of your business.’
‘He’s got false teeth.’
‘No way!’
‘Yes way. And we caught him with his pants down.’
‘No!’
‘That PA of his was being
very
personal in her assistance.’
Honey grinned. She had a sudden urge to make a return visit to Wallace and Gates Holdings, if only to smirk knowingly at that stuck-up bitch manning reception.
Doherty’s grin rivalled that of Cameron Wallace – though the teeth were real, not porcelain-enhanced. Wallace had perfect teeth, a perfect tan, and perfect features, with the clothes and accoutrements to match. Doherty on the other hand was a little rough around the edges. Honey thought that they were like two houses in that
Try Before You Buy
programme. One was smooth and refined, but a bit too flashy. The other had character and just needed a bit of touching up here and there.
The person manning reception at Assured Security Shredding was the total opposite of the young woman at Wallace & Gates. There was no smart suit and sharp haircut for this young man. He had dreadlocks and wore a pinstriped T-shirt. A single gold tooth flashed in the midst of his molars when he smiled. His tongue stud was stainless steel.
‘Can I help you guys?’
One flash of Steve’s warrant card and the gold tooth and the tongue stud vanished with the smile. Hostility replaced hospitality.
‘I can’t let you see nothing without Mr Bannister’s permission and I can’t leave here to go and ask him.’
‘Can you phone him?’
‘No. He won’t hear you.’
Steve frowned. ‘You’re being evasive.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Geesh! You ain’t never bin in no shredding shed!’
‘And where is this shredding shed?’
He pointed to a door on his right marked
Authorised Personnel Only
.
Steve pushed through. Honey followed.
The shredding shed vibrated with sound. The noise was deafening. Up ahead of them were banks of shredding machines – big ones eating paper more quickly than McDonald’s enthusiasts could wolf down burgers.
Men wearing rubber gloves were loading handfuls of paper from plastic bags into the gaping mouths of giant shredders. Sometimes sheets of paper escaped and floated to the floor.
Another van-load had just arrived at the loading bay. At present the big double doors were open and a draught was blowing in. Some of the paper had already escaped and was skidding around like big white leaves. Accountancy printouts were unravelling, flopping out like fish from hiding.
Steve did his thing with the warrant card. A kid in trainers sloped off to get Bannister.
A bald-headed man with a closed expression and a slack jaw looked up in response to someone pulling at his shoulder. He nodded to whatever was said and quickly left what he was doing.
He had a sloping forehead, pale eyes and shouted to make himself heard. ‘Can I help you?’
Again Steve flashed his badge of office and shouted back. ‘I’m here with regard to a murder inquiry.’ He winced at the effort of shouting. ‘Can we talk somewhere a bit quieter?
Mr Bannister nodded and led them back through the door. Closing it behind them was like putting the lid on a bubbling stew. The noise subsided.
He peered at both of them with narrowed, questioning eyes. ‘Did you say murder?’
Doherty nodded. ‘A Lady Templeton-Jones was recently murdered in Bath.’
Bannister nodded back. ‘I did hear about it.’
‘We found your address and telephone number in her appointments diary. Do you know why it might be there?’
Bannister thrust out his bottom lip when he shook his head. ‘Name doesn’t ring a bell.’
‘Can you check your records?’
He shook his head. ‘No need. We get very few private individuals using this facility. Our clients are big companies producing more paperwork than a normal office machine can cope with. We do a lot of government departments and big blue-chip companies, and some smaller ones. And that’s it.’
As Steve asked more questions, Honey watched Bannister’s body language. Apart from dropping his top set of teeth now and again, he gave no sign of having something to hide. Dropped teeth didn’t count for anything; a trapped seed from a pot of raspberry jam, a tomato seed, or a nut. Here was a man in bad need of a fixative.
Steve showed him a photo of the dead woman.
Bannister shook his head. ‘Nope.’
Steve flashed the photo at Gold-tooth. His dreadlocks rattled in the negative.
‘If I leave a photo with you, can you pass it around?’ Doherty asked.
‘No problem,’ said Bannister.
Back in the car, Steve got out a packet of jelly babies from the glove compartment. He offered one to Honey. She eyed them warily.
‘Devil dolls,’ she said and shuddered.
Steve laughed. ‘What?’
Devil dolls. One rubbery little body between my teeth and I’m well over my calorie allowance for today.’
‘It’s only one jelly baby, for Christ’s sake‘!’
She groaned and made a face. One! She couldn’t resist a red one. ‘One little red one can lead to a whole rainbow of colour … Oh, go on then. Just one.’ And then there was a green one, an orange one, a white one … Steve smiled. ‘No bacon and fried eggs this morning?’
The insinuation was obvious. She was being a pig. After rolling the bag up, she pushed it to the back of the glove compartment and snapped it shut.
‘Get thee behind me, Satan.’
Still smiling and shaking his head, Steve restarted the engine.
A large van had parked alongside while they’d been inside. More cars had arrived in the car park. It was getting pretty full. Without them Doherty would have turned right to drive out. In order to avoid their back bumpers, he had to turn left.
Feeling guilty about guzzling the jelly babies, Honey gazed forlornly out of the window mentally reciting that well used mantra: I must not yield to temptation. I must not yield to temptation. …
She stopped mid-mantra. Gold-tooth was sitting on the dock of the loading bay. There was another man with him, slightly plump and wearing a dull green windcheater and polyester trousers. He appeared to be unloading the van – or was supposed to be. At this moment in time he was undoing one of the bags marked security shredding and going through the contents.
She pointed it out to Steve. ‘What do you think they’re up to?’
‘Let’s go and find out.’
The pair stiffened on seeing them approach. Doherty flashed his warrant card for the other guy’s benefit. The guy turned nervous. Doherty chanced his luck.
‘Did this woman come here to visit you?’ He showed the guy in the windcheater a copy of the photograph.
It seemed a wild bet. He hadn’t really expected it to pay off. But it did.
‘Yes.’
‘And you are?’
‘Simon Taylor.’
‘Right.’
He asked him all the relevant questions.
Honey listened as the pieces started to fall in to place. It turned out that Lady Templeton-Jones had actually bought the title from Simon. They’d also met in the Garrick’s Head on the night of her death.
‘I was going to go with her, on the walk, but I had an attack of asthma. She took me home in a taxi.’
‘And came back in a taxi,’ murmured Honey.
‘So why did you meet?’
‘She just wanted to thank me for the good service I gave her.’
‘Is that all?’ urged Doherty.
‘Yes.’
The boy was adamant, and yet Honey had the impression he was holding something back.