Walking with Ghosts - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) (13 page)

Chapter Thirty-three

Steve Doherty rang her in the middle of the happy hour
,
that dull time between six and seven when the workday dips and tips into night. The hotel bar was empty. Honey made herself comfortable.

‘How about
me
abducting you tonight?’

She agreed to be abducted but only as far as the Saracen’s Head. On her way out her eyes strayed to the traffic. A motorbike idled then skitted through the dawdling cars. She strained her neck to see if the ‘man in wellies’ was the rider.

Steve had parked his car on double yellows.

‘You’ll get nicked.’

‘No I won’t. I’m on police business.’

‘Is that what I am?’

It was a warm night as they strolled along Pulteney Street and headed past the Waitrose supermarket.

Honey had opted for smart casual: denim skirt, a white bouclé sweater, and green earrings. Green – dark green that is – made her skin glow, and looked good against her dark hair, whereas light green, such as eau de nil and sap green, made her look ill – or even ghostly. She’d also opted for high heels. Not practical, but they did make her legs look longer.

‘You look good,’ he said and sniffed.

‘Perfume, or grease from the deep fat fryer?’

Obviously she hoped it was the former.

He leaned close and nuzzled behind her ear. ‘Not fried fish. Definitely perfume.’

Steve went on to talk about Warren Price. ‘I’ve had to pass him to a colleague. This murder takes priority now. Can’t say I’m sorry. You can give jogging to the birds!’

It was eight o’clock and they were strolling past the Theatre Royal. Neither of them seemed particularly keen to get to the pub too quickly.

She sensed that Doherty was doing his best to relax. A list of questions seemed to be ricocheting around his brain. Physically he was with her, but mentally he seemed to be still on duty.

Her guess was confirmed the moment he swept her past the welcoming entrance of the Theatre Royal. David Soul was appearing in something.
David Soul?
Ah, yes. As in Hutch, sidekick of Starsky in the 1970s cop show.

‘Let’s take a rain check on the Saracen’s. I want another word with the landlord of the Garrick’s Head.’

They turned right into the pedestrianised walkway outside the old pub. Actor David Garrick looked down at them from the creaking old inn sign.

Inside Adrian Harris loomed large behind the bar. As a keen angler, the word was that his prime objective in life was to land the biggest salmon for that year. Cultured he was not: odd for a man living next door to one of the finest theatres in England. He talked a lot about fishing and did a lot of drinking and socialising. He left the serving of customers to his barmaid. Marion was grey-haired and kindly, and without her he would have gone broke years ago, though whether he appreciated it or not was another matter. And how she put up with him was something else again. Adrian was rude. How he managed to keep any customers at all was a mystery.

Once they had drinks, both with ice and a slice, Steve asked to speak to Adrian.

Marion was, true to form, highly defensive of the man who ruled over her working day. ‘He might not want to speak to you, you know. He’s busy. He’s had a lot to do since coming back from Spain.’

Honey and Steve looked to where Adrian was indulging himself. Marion had made it sound as though he were in conference. Between swigs of whisky he was fiddling with a digital camera.

‘This one was taken on the River Dee …’

Honey raised her eyebrows. ‘No holiday snaps?’

‘He likes fish a lot,’ said Steve.

‘So do I,’ said Honey. ‘Fried with chips.’

Steve was not to be brushed off. He laid his hand gently on Marion’s wrist and leaned forward. ‘I don’t want to flash my warrant card, but I will do if I have to.’

Marion got the message. A policeman in the midst of out and out theatrical types – especially in the green room – was not good for business. People got nervous when the fuzz was around.

Adrian’s glass paused halfway to his mouth as Marion gave him the news, jerking her fluffed-up hair do in their direction.

The landlord’s expression of outright bonhomie faded. A wary look ensured. After downing his drink he stalked over.

‘I don’t know nothing. I told yer mate that.’

‘You haven’t told
me
,’ said Steve, his words evenly spaced and precisely delivered. There was no softness in his expression; no give in his jaw.

Adrian had attitude. The wrong attitude; the sort that made the mildest-mannered want to put a dent in his jaw. To say he was surly was an understatement. There was no tanned complexion; Honey guessed he’d trawled Spanish bars rather than Spanish beaches.

Steve asked his first question. ‘Did she come in alone?’

Adrian nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Why did she give you her handbag?’

‘A lot of these walkers do it. Maybe in case they take a fright, wet themselves, and do a runner.’ He grinned. Honey was amazed to see he had small, rather pointed teeth – very like a fish.

‘Did you look inside it?’

‘No.’ The grin vanished. He looked defensive.

‘What time did she come in?’

‘Early. About six thirty.’

‘So she had a long wait until the ghost walk started.’

‘Yes.’

Adrian was being monosyllabic on purpose. The two men met and held each other’s fierce glare. The two of them were like bulls snorting at each over a fence.

‘So what did she do to while away the time?’

‘Talked.’

‘To you?’

‘No. To her
companion
.’

Anyone who didn’t know him wouldn’t have seen the flicker of anger that crossed Steve’s face. Honey tried to work out where this was going.

‘I thought you said she came in alone.’ Doherty’s tone was colder. His eyes stone-dead determined.

Adrian appeared unfazed. ‘She did. He joined her a few minutes later.’

‘Who was he?’

Adrian shrugged. ‘No one that I know.’

If the landlord of the Garrick’s Head thought he was going to be let off the hook, he was very much mistaken. Steve got a notebook and pencil from out of his pocket and pushed it across the brass drip tray on the counter top. ‘I want a list of everyone who was here at that time. Anyone who might have seen her companion.’

Adrian’s hands – great meaty shovels with hairs growing out of the knuckles – still rested on the bar.

His hesitation was obvious to Honey. It was just as obvious to Steve. Being faced with a heavily-built, six-foot-four man might be pretty forbidding, but Steve Doherty was in commando mode.

Leaning across the bar, he bypassed the biceps and whispered in Adrian’s ear. ‘If I don’t get it pronto I might spread a rumour to the drugs boys that you’re selling more than Pimm’s Number One.’

The shielded look dropped from Adrian’s face. ‘We don’t do that stuff in here!’

Doherty shook his head disconsolately and pursed his lips in a low whistle. ‘Doesn’t matter. Those boys are always on the lookout for potential training exercises. They’d apologise after of course. Probably they’d even apologise in writing. But that’s not the point is it. Bad publicity travels quickly. Not good for the supper crowd from the theatre.’

Adrian’s ego turned from one of Jonathan Swift’s giants to one of Walt Disney’s seven dwarfs. He glared at Steve. A meaty hand grudgingly snatched the notepad.

‘Find your own pen,’ said Doherty, slipping a Parker into his breast pocket. ‘I’ve lost too many that way.’

‘I thought he was going to punch your lights out,’ whispered Honey, between sips of vodka and tonic.

‘Nah!’ said Doherty, grinning. ‘I’ve got a reputation.’

‘Oh, yeah,’ she said with a mocking smile. ‘What as?’

One more drink from the ever-faithful Marion later, and Steve had his list.

Adrian was just as abrupt, though he did manage to string a whole sentence together. ‘That’s those who I can say for sure were ’ere, but only regulars. The rest that were in were just tourists.’

Just tourists. The city’s lifeblood, yet he said it so flippantly, thought Honey.

Steve was running his eyes down the list. He paused about halfway before carrying on. He passed it to Honey. ‘You’d better take a look.’

As they made for the door, she made the most of the light. The name popped out at her outside under a street light.

‘Casper!’

‘I’ll interview the others. You interview Casper.’

Now this was one of those awkward times when the personal and the professional came crashing together. It had entered her head to make a night of it, but seeing Casper’s name on the list intrigued her. She weighed up her options. It was no good. Responsibility came with her having been the last person to see the victim alive – the last person beside the murderer, that is.

Chapter Thirty-four

The flagstones outside the Garrick’s Head were roughly as old as the theatre and pub, and it showed. Knobbly bits, raised ridges, and blobs of cement and mortar held them together and in place. Wads of green moss had taken over in many places. All in all, they were lethal …

Honey was wearing her favourite shoes: plain black, higher heels than normal – and that was, as old Bill Shakespeare would say, the rub; or rather, the ridge. Her heel caught in a groove; her foot moved onwards but her shoe didn’t. With a piercing cry, she fell forwards, her nose making contact with the step.

Steve helped her to her feet. ‘Oopsy-daisy.’

She covered her nose with the flat of her hand. ‘Och, noch! My noch is broken.’

Nose! She meant nose! Why did it sound like ‘noch’?

‘Let me see,’ Steve said. ‘Move your hand away.’

She did so, holding her head back to help stem a slight blood flow.

Steve peered intently at her nose, turning her head this way and that, from the front and from each side. He kept smiling.

‘It looks good from all angles. Even full-frontal.’

She eyed him accusingly. ‘You’re not concentrating. Full-frontal means my whole body, not my nose.’

His smile widened. ‘Can I help it if my concentration wanders when you’re around? At least you’re not speaking a foreign language any more.’

A few tourists from a ‘See England in Two Hundred Hours Trip’ chose that moment to leave the pub. They all had a comment to make.

 ‘My God. What happened? Has she been attacked?’

‘She fell up the step!’

‘My, my, honey pie, I would sue if I were you.’

‘A broken nose can get you a whole lot of plastic surgery money. You could have your boobs done at the same time.’

‘Take no notice,’ said Steve, looking slightly perplexed by the last comment. ‘They’re fine as they are. As for your nose, well, that’s up to you.’

‘Honey? I thought I heard your dulcet tones.’

She looked up to see Casper St John Gervais on his way into the public bar. ‘Casper. I was just on my way to see you.’

‘Too hurriedly,’ he quipped. ‘No need to bow and scrape, dear thing.’ He was in company, and the company was vaguely familiar. Wasn’t he the Hollywood actor who’d got famous in some medical drama but didn’t admit to being gay? Was it for his benefit that Casper was putting on his Noel Coward performance? Casper was what
he
termed casually dressed. Midnight blue velvet jacket, cherry red neckerchief, black shirt, and trousers.

His attitude was as aloof as ever. ‘Dust yourself off,’ he said as he stepped around her  while Steve helped her to her feet.

His handsome companion threw her a winning smile – and did the same.

Honey was livid with Casper’s behaviour. She watched him stroll off in that casual way that he had. Damn the man!

Steve helped her up. ‘Old Casper’s certainly got a way with him.’

Honey erupted. The fact that room occupancy might be jeopardised fell by the way side.

‘That man is the most selfish, the rudest, the most arrogant … Interview be damned. Interrogation! That’s what this will be. Hold it right there, Casper! I want a word with you.’

He heard her. Turning round he raised his elegant eyebrows. ‘Such an aggressive tone!’

She heard the warning in his voice. Whoops! Steady on girl. Remember how much you like jam on your bread and butter. Room reservations were put her way, courtesy of Casper, in return for being Crime Liaison Officer on behalf of the Hotels Association. Reminding herself of that fact curbed her temper. Her tone turned as sweet as brown demerara.

‘This is a police investigation. It’s generating a lot of media interest and you do have some interesting information. Who knows, you could make the front page. Hang on and I’ll take a photograph.’

Trusty bag came off shoulder. She delved in for her cell phone.

At mention of taking a photograph and making the front page, the handsome actor turned nervous. ‘Ahem,’ he said, stepping back with all the elegance of a ballroom dancer. ‘Another time, Casper, another time. There’s an old girlfriend I promised to see …’ He gave a swift wave before the slow waltz became a backward quickstep.

Casper looked as though he’d been hit in the face with a smoked kipper. His smug smile was wiped firmly off his elegant features. But Casper was not a man to be down for long. A group of women recognised the handsome Joe Tierney. A murmur of excitement ran from one to the other. Casper saw them and pounced.

‘Ladies! He fancies me a lot more than he fancies you!’

There was momentary confusion amongst the group of women, who were out for a hen night judging by their raucous laughter and smutty comments. Then they were off!

‘Oi! Joe. Come back here.’

‘Joe! Tell us it’s not true!’

‘Joe,
show
us it’s not true!’

A stampede of clattering heels and hoots of laughter accompanied their running, as they pursued Joe Tierney down the street.

Casper sighed. ‘I could do with a drink.’

Now the tourists had gone, the bar took on a more sedate atmosphere. They headed for the corner nearest the window.

Over a large sherry, Casper told them what he’d seen – such as it was. Pursing his lips and holding her photograph at arm’s length, he confirmed that he did indeed remember her. ‘She was in the lounge bar, and so was I.’

Still slightly angry with Casper, Honey buried her mouth in the contents of her third vodka and tonic. Her hand shook. Casper presumed it was due to the fall.

‘Steady on there,’ said Casper covering her hand with his. ‘Take deep breaths. Count to ten.’

‘My, Casper, you sound so fatherly!’

He pulled a face. ‘Heaven forbid!’

She tried to pull herself and her torn skirt together.

Casper glanced and raised his eyebrows. ‘A black lining to a beige skirt?’ He looked affronted at the prospect.

She put him wise. ‘No. That’s my underwear.’

‘Thank heavens.’ He went on to describe the young man he’d seen in the company of Lady Templeton-Jones.

 He was a lumpy youth whose only redeeming feature was the fact that he could blend into a crowd very easily. Nondescript is the right word. The clothes were memorable only for their superior blandness. Green anorak. Dark
polyester
trousers.’

Casper said the word polyester as though he was spitting out something foul.

‘I know where we can find him!’ Honey exclaimed, falling back in her chair. ‘He works at ASS.’

Casper eyed her disdainfully. ‘What was that you said?’

‘Associated Security Shredding. It’s a company.’

‘An unfortunate name.’

‘My sentiments exactly.’

Steve Doherty’s expression was thoughtful. His eyes were trained on her. ‘So she did visit that place! Simon Taylor was telling the truth about that. But why did they go the pub afterwards, too? That’s going beyond the bounds of customer service, isn’t it?’

Doherty was parked in Queen Square and insisted taking her home.

‘I can walk.’

‘Your knees look sore. So does your nose.’

She gently touched her nose. ‘It is still sore.’

The lights of Queen Square passed over their shoulders as they swung into George Street. They took a left swinging up towards the Circus. The Green River Hotel was in the other direction.

‘Why are we taking the scenic route?’ Honey asked.

‘We’re being followed.’

‘Ugh.’ She suppressed a shiver. Looking out of the window was thinking time. She presumed it was the guy on the motorcycle.

‘Is it Warren Price?’

Doherty cursed inwardly. ‘I shouldn’t worry too much about him.’

‘But you said  …’

He made a snorting sound. ‘Trust me. Everything will be fine.’

‘Relax,’ she said mostly to herself. ‘Admire the view.’

That’s exactly what she did. It was no big deal. The old Georgian buildings looked just as good at night as they did in the day – only different. Less traffic gave vent to more imagination.

Unblinking, she studied shadows she would never have noticed before. Could she see a figure hiding there? It was possible. A few late-night gropers might be around, grunting and humping in silent shadows.

The curiosity reached up from where it was hidden and took hold of her. ‘So this murderer, this Warren Price, who is he exactly?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

‘I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t want to know. I
do
want to know. Especially since he could be prowling around Bath.’ Honey couldn’t quite get this evasiveness. Since they’d started working together he’d always been pretty open with her. ‘Are you trying to frighten me?’

‘Hey!’ he exclaimed, and laughed nervously. He took his eyes off the road to look at her. ‘Would I do a thing like that?’

There was something about the way he said it that just wasn’t right. His laugh didn’t ring true.

Something was definitely going on with Steve Doherty. Something he didn’t want to let go. It made her wonder about the motorcyclist who’d dogging her of late.

She couldn’t let things lie.

‘Go on, Steve. Tell me more.’

‘OK.’ He said it slowly as though giving himself time to think. ‘Now let me see  … right  … OK, OK. Warren Price  … I got him locked up. It was a long time ago. He was nearing the end of his sentence,  got time off for good behaviour. So they put him in an open prison. And then, surprise surprise, he absconded. Before legging it, though, he swore he’d have my head. Not a forgiving type.’

‘Who did he murder?’

‘His girlfriend. Well, his recently-ex-girlfriend. Slit her throat in a fit of temper.’

Honey took her turn to mull. Steve drove around the Circus and took the exit on to the long hill sloping down from Lansdown.

‘Are you hinting at revenge here? He wants to slit your throat too?’

‘Not quite. That’s why he attacked my fellow officer. He wanted to hurt me by disposing of someone close to me. That’s why I was out with Karen Sinclair, jogging late at night, trying to draw him out. As I’ve already told you, our course of action paid off. He thought she was my girlfriend. That’s the premise we’re working on anyway. Can’t get at me, so he’ll hurt her. It was a warning.’

The jealousy aroused by seeing Steve jogging with the leggy blonde shrunk from an ugly green monster to the size of a grape. Another niggling worry followed the first one. He was lying. What was more he had cause to.

‘Am I in danger?’

He made a non-committal kind of sound as though he were straining to break wind. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘But you don’t know for sure.’

‘It’s me he wants to get at  …’

She knew the rest, remembering when Steve had told her not to put her arm through his. In case they were being watched. In case Warren Price would reach an obvious conclusion. ‘Which is why you haven’t come calling too much of late.’

He made a grunting noise. ‘That’s about it. It’s been hard, babe, but I didn’t want to put you at risk. Karen drew him out quicker than we’d thought.’

The big green monster sprouted arms and legs. ‘So you were having a thing with her?’

She saw a grin crease his cheeks. ‘A training thing. I didn’t mind the jogging that much. Besides, I saw you’d lost weight and were looking good on it. I figured I needed to get into shape. Karen’s a qualified personal trainer.’ He glanced at her sideways. ‘But not that personal.’

She hit his arm. ‘Steve Doherty, this is really what this is all about, isn’t it? I saw you out jogging and you’re embarrassed about it. This Warren Price thing is a load of rubbish!’

She saw him wince as they dropped down on to the main road the Star public house and the park. At the lights he took a right on to the Warminster Road.

‘About that jogging …’

‘Forget it, Steve.’ She said it with force and feeling. ‘Anyway, if what you say about Warren Price is true, I can throw in a googly.’

He pulled in outside the hotel and looked at her. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Cameron Wallace has asked me out.’

He looked surprised. ‘You’d go out with him? After what I told you about him and his personal assistant.’

‘All in the line of duty. I’m working on him to make him offer my mother another shop. There’s no way I can cope with her camped around the corner. I’d go mad.’

‘I can see where you’re coming from. Just decline his offer to go up and view his etchings.’

‘Funny you should say that. He’s a collector. Like me.’

‘Underwear? The man collects underwear?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know what he collects. Only
that
he collects.’

‘Oh, well. No doubt you’ll hold him off.’

‘I may not want to. Had you considered that?’

‘Don’t need to. I’ve met the guy. Smooth, yes, but hey, you can’t say he’s better looking and more charming than me.’

‘You’ve a very high opinion of yourself, Steve Doherty.’

He winked again. ‘I’ve had good feedback.’

‘Not from me.’

‘Yet.’

‘I won’t kiss you goodnight just in case we’re being watched.’

‘We are,’ said Honey. She pointed to where a head bobbed at one of the windows of the Green River Hotel. ‘My mother’s staying over.’

‘One little piece of information,’ said Steve, his right hand diving into his inside pocket. ‘We’ve had a breakthrough with Noble Present, the site from where Wanda Carpenter bought the Lady Templeton-Jones title
.
I had our computer bods look into it. It’s a worldwide thing. The guy who runs it from here is only a franchisee. The real brains is this guy. Be surprised.’

She took the piece of paper he passed her.

Her gaze swept over the name. ‘Hamilton George!’ She couldn’t help sounding surprised. Hamilton George had been on the ghost walk.

Doherty raised his eyebrows questioningly. ‘Something of a coincidence?’

She nodded. ‘You bet it was! Didn’t his wife say that he was a  whiz on computers?’

‘I don’t know whether his business and Wanda Carpenter being killed are linked, but I don’t believe in coincidences.’

Doherty told her Hamilton George had been traced to a cottage in Bradford-on-Avon. ‘That’s according to the hotel he = = checked out of.’