Walking with Ghosts - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) (16 page)

Chapter Forty-two

‘It was them,’ Lindsey hissed as she followed her mother down the path. ‘Or rather, him. Noble Present, or whatever it’s called, is run by Hamilton George. Simon Taylor, that guy you interviewed at that Trowbridge firm, is one of his operatives. They work on a franchise. See? Simon Taylor bought into the franchise. It
was
him who sold Wanda Carpenter the title.’

Honey did a quick about-turn.

Lindsey kept pace.

‘Leave this to me, Lindsey.’

‘I’m coming with you.’

‘It’s not your job.’

‘You can’t outrun me.’

It was true. Lindsey was
fit
.

Honey tried lengthening her stride into a loping jog. Not a good idea. Lindsey was wearing trainers and a very fetching pink and grey jogging suit. Honey had opted for skirt, sheer tights, and fairly high heels. None of it was made for jogging. Especially not the shoes. The heel of her shoe connected with gravel instead of stone. It snapped off.

‘Damn!’

Gratified that at least she hadn’t fallen nose-first again, Honey regained her balance. She threw said heel a ‘you’re dead’ look before bending down to pick it up.

‘Shame. I loved these shoes,’ she whined. The blister on her right foot chose that time to pop. ‘But they don’t love me!’ She took both off. A gentle throw, and hey presto – they landed in the goldfish pond, where they promptly sank to the bottom.

Lindsey nodded encouragingly. ‘The fish will appreciate them.’

Honey decided she was probably right. Fish must get fed up of plastic castles that light up at night and rubbery divers spurting bubbles. Her shoes would probably be the highlight of their day.

She saw a head bob at the window. One of the pair had spotted her coming back up the garden path. From a distance it definitely looked like Hamilton George.

The door was wide open by the time she got there. Pamela was no longer the innocent little waif who had sneezed her way around the ghost walk. Slender arms were folded across her chest and her eyes flashed orange.

Innocent excuses for going back were thin on the ground and thinner in Honey’s brain. She was also peeved. How come a plain Jane like Pamela could change into a swan over night? She’d come over as a bit of a drab on the ghost walk, though the weather hadn’t helped. The rain was the reason for everything. No one looked good in the rain. Well, that was her excuse and she was sticking to it.

The excuse for the linking The Noble Present and the murder of the woman who had started life with the name Wanda Carpenter was something else.

Pamela Windsor was a picture of pissed-off self-righteousness. Down turned dimples appeared at the edges of her mouth as she clenched her jaw. ‘What now?’

Honey waded in. ‘Did you know where Wanda Carpenter – Lady Templeton-Jones – bought her title?’

Pamela’s jaw snapped shut. She shrugged over her folded arms. Out it came. ‘How the bloody hell should I know?’

So much for the dormouse demeanour.

Honey brought her credit-card wallet out from the sack she called a handbag. ‘We’ve made inquiries. We know you have dealings with a site selling earldoms, dukedoms, and suchlike. Can you confirm?’

‘No, I do not.’

‘Never heard of it?’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘The police have experts. They keep tabs on interesting and perhaps illegal websites.’

Honey saw the hint of a flinch.

‘It’s not illegal!’

Honey resisted the urge to grin. ‘So you do know of it?’

Pamela squirmed, moving her head from side to side. What she did next came as a bit of a surprise. She called for re-enforcements.

‘Hamilton?’

He must have been listening behind the door. He slid out; half his bulk hiding behind his svelte lover. He rested his hand on her waist, his palm flat on her hip, fingers spread. He was a mountain man to her woodland sprite, broad and beefy to her lean and lithesome.

‘It’s my website,’ he said. His look was even, his eyes not shifting from her face. ‘It’s all legit.’

Honey recalled his deceased wife saying how clever he was with computers and that he’d retired from IBM.

‘So you sold Wanda Carpenter the title of Lady Templeton-Jones?’

‘Not personally.’

Honey was about to say that, OK, the website sold it, but that the company belonged to him that it amounted to the same thing. Lindsey butted in.

‘You mean you run a worldwide team. They take a cut of your website on a franchise basis, operate the enquiries, collate a database, and get a percentage of the take. Correct?’

Hamilton George looked amazed that someone knew the basic set-up. He nodded.

Honey threw her daughter a sideways mutter. ‘Smart-arse!’

Lindsey looked pleased with herself.

‘May I continue?’ she asked.

Honey nodded. ‘Go for it.’

Lindsey turned back to Mr Hamilton George. ‘So which of your team did the honours?’

Chewing worriedly at his lips, he seemed in dire danger of eating his moustache. ‘Simon. Simon Taylor.’ Suddenly he seemed to wake up. ‘Hey, I don’t need to tell you this. You’re not the police.’

Honey scribbled a quick doodle in her notebook. ‘I’m working with the police. I’ve made a note of this.’

She hadn’t. A bug-eyed Mr Magoo-type character had been doodled into existence.

‘Did you know Lady Templeton-Jones’s cousin – Ashwell Bridgewater?’

‘No,’ said Hamilton.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! Let’s get this over with.’ Pamela Windsor pushed him aside. She was as sharp as a pointy stick, not at all the dormouse she’d pretended to be. ‘First of all, Simon Taylor lives at Number Seventeen, Fair Alice Avenue with his mother and works at Assured Security Shredding. He’s a creep. You’re very welcome to bugger off and bother him.’

The door slammed before Honey had chance to ask her what manner of creep he was.

‘Creeps seem to be on the increase nowadays,’ she said to Lindsey as they wandered back to the car.

She didn’t go into details about the woman police officer who’d been attacked. A need-to-know basis was sufficient. She needed to know and be scared. No point telling Lindsey and both become scared out of their pants.

Lindsey fell to silence and seemed to turn into herself. Honey resisted the urge to ask what was wrong. She guessed it was something bothering her and to do with this elusive boyfriend. She looked away, determined not to pry. Lindsey would talk when she wanted to. Until then Honey trusted her to be sensible.

Chapter Forty-three

Steve Doherty was standing in front of the reception desk at the Green River Hotel. His hands were hidden in the deep pockets of his black leather jacket.

The Green River wasn’t top of the tree as regards hotels, but it certainly made him feel shabby. The faded jeans had a lot to do with it. So did the scuffed-leather jacket. But he couldn’t allow himself to be intimidated. This was business. Police business.

He was standing with his legs slightly apart. It was a defiant stance, a defensive demeanour. Did no good though.

Unimpressed, Honey’s mother was peering over the top of her gold-rimmed glasses. As usual she was beautifully groomed. Today she was sporting a lime-green dress with a low slung waistline and a navy trim. He’d supposed that she would give him short shrift. He wasn’t wrong.

‘She’s not hiding under this desk, just in case you think I’m lying.’

Steve’s face broke into a self-conscious smile. Only Gloria Cross could do that to him. ‘That’s OK.’

He backed off. Once he was back out in Pulteney Street, he wondered what Gloria was doing there anyway. Didn’t she have some shop to tend to on Wednesdays?

Sod it, he wasn’t about to ask. He knew a brick wall when he saw one.

Outside in the city, the traffic was building up, tailing back from the island at the end of the road. A white box van was attempting to turn into the narrow road at the side of the hotel. Harking back to old training and old ways on traffic duty, he stepped out into the road and put up his hand. The traffic stopped. The van turned giving him a thank you blast on the horn as it turned into the side road. It stopped outside a shopfront. He craned his neck to see better; as far as he remembered there was nothing for sale in that shop. It was empty. Must be a new tenant, he thought to himself. Well, it just went to show how out of touch he was.

Steve took a deep breath and sauntered back on to the pavement. He looked at his watch, then looked over his shoulder. No one was following him, but then he hadn’t expected there to be. Warren Price had been recaptured. He just hadn’t mentioned it to Honey yet. It was great having her being jealous about him and Karen. Strange the depths a man will go to in order to hide the truth. It was terrible to be a liar. He’d come along fired up with the urge to come clean, but .there was no one to come clean to, it was all clear for now. Shame in a way, because he wasn’t sure when he’d have that courage again. But he’d have to tell her – sooner rather than later. And he must remember to tell Gary Sullivan to call off his Honey-surveillance. Gary had owed him a favour, so Steve had had him follow Honey whenever she was out in the city. It had seemed to work–Warren Price hadn’t been seen anywhere near her, and, equally importantly,
she
hadn’t seen a certain detective exercising…

Will she understand? he asked himself.

He ran the conversation through his head.

‘What a wonderful coincidence,’ she’d say. ‘We both decided to shape up at the same time.’

He’d nod and say, ‘Sure, Honey. You with your diet and me with my jogging. Everyone should have a personal trainer. Karen was brilliant at it, though it was a great shame she got attacked. All in the line of duty, of course.’

Wasn’t it grim that women automatically suspected extra-curricular activities when a blonde was involved?

Nah! Honey will understand. She’ll be fine. She’ll kick the whole thing into touch – either that or kick me!

Chapter Forty-four

Gloria Cross had finally given up wearing four-inch stilettos some time after her sixtieth birthday. Tripping over loose paving slabs did nothing for the dignity – or the bones – of an ageing woman. As a compromise she’d gone quite overboard on kitten-heeled shoes in all the colours of the rainbow, and then some. Black, brown, beige, red, navy blue, purple, and pale mauve. If she didn’t have an outfit to wear them with, then she’d go out and buy one.

‘Gotta go now,’ she snapped to Anna, who had only just got back from a comfort break.

Like a keen-nosed gun dog, she was off across reception. The main doors swung and slammed as she burst outwards. She skitted off round the corner into the side street, stopped dead and swelled with satisfaction. The van was here and she had the keys in her pocket. Honey would be fine about it. She’d assured Anna she would be.

Just as she made the corner, two of the women who helped run Second-hand Sheila waved to her. As though subjects of a swift energy injection they broke into a run.

‘I’ve got the keys,’ she called. She waved the trio of keys above her head.

Excited, the three of them clustered around the lock. Gloria turned the key. The door opened. A smell of mildew and old paint met them.

Margaret, who was a touch older than Gloria, wrinkled her nose. ‘Pongs a bit.’

‘Is Joe OK to do this?’ asked Gloria, addressing Linda, who was married to a very successful builder.

‘Easy-peasy,’ said Linda, whose sunbed-enhanced skin tone almost matched her dull orange designer dress. ‘I’ve brought a mop and bucket. Can we borrow the hotel’s vacuum cleaner?’

‘I don’t see why not  …’

‘What’s going on here?’

Gloria’s exuberance melted away.

Honey could be best described as being sprawled across the doorway. ‘I said what’s going on?’

‘We need somewhere to put our stock. Gloria said we could put it here until we relocate,’ Margaret answered.

Honey raised a questioning eyebrow in her mother’s direction. When it came to taking things for granted, Gloria Cross was second to none.

‘I don’t recall saying that you could do that.’

‘You intimated!’

Honey could tell her mother was getting huffy. ‘I said no such thing.’

‘You’d turn us out on the street?’

Honey threw back her head and rolled her eyes. The delivery men were lifting the shutter on the box van. Her mother took advantage, breezed in, took over.

‘Guys, you are the kindest men on earth. Now, would you like to roll the first trolley out …?’

Honey knew a wheedling voice when she heard one. She also knew there was something of a challenge hidden behind that tone; help me or hinder me. And think of your image.

Difficult times. Honey ground her teeth. Too much of that and she’d be making an emergency appointment with a dentist. This was a two-pronged problem; on the one hand she didn’t want to appear mean and on the other she had a business to consider. Bills to pay. A bank manager to keep tap dancing on cloud nine.

There was a third that she didn’t really wish to admit to. Her mother’s close proximity in a shop just around the corner would drive her nuts.

Upset mother or go nuts. There was no contest. Her mind was made up. ‘Hold it right there.’

The high buildings on either side of a narrow street acted like a megaphone.

The two men froze.

She should have known what would happen next. Her mother went into defence mode. A lacy handkerchief was tugged from a hidden pocket. She pursed her lips and her chin trembled.

‘Do you see how my daughter treats me? And just when I need her. Isn’t that typical? Children are just
so
ungrateful!’

Her mother’s two friends made sympathetic sounds. Honey felt like puking. How could they fall for this? Her mother was a born actress and puppeteer. She certainly knew how to pull the strings!

‘Mother!’

‘A daughter should help her mother.’

It went on and on, whingeing and whining, a wringing of handkerchief and a dabbing of eyes. Her compatriots from Second-hand Sheila made sympathetic sounds.

‘Halt!’ said Honey, putting up her hand, palm forward. ‘Halt right there. OK, I’m being hard-hearted Hannah. You can store that stuff here, but only for  …’

‘Great!’

They didn’t give her time to finish. The back of the truck was opened, the platform lowered and rails and rails and rails of second-hand designer wear was trundled in through the open door.

Struggling to find words, Honey watched round-eyed. Her mother and her mother’s pals were all talking at once. The poor blokes on the delivery run were being ordered around like puppies on a leash.

‘Not here, there  …’

‘Go easy with that.’

‘No. I said parallel with the window. Parallel! Like this.’

A military operation it was not, but it wasn’t far off. Honey darted in and out of all of them, trying not to be helpful but accidentally being roped in.

Mature these girls might be, but they knew what they wanted and went all out to get it. After a while she was sure she could hear them clucking like broody old hens.

For a while she’d lost control, but couldn’t allow that for too long. She had to pull rank here. She jerked herself back to basics.

‘Only until you find a new place. Is that clear?’

If they heard, they didn’t acknowledge her. They were engrossed in their world, cooing over shantung, drooling over French lace.

She smiled, hoping that she’d be as focused on something as they currently were once she got to their age.

But they can’t stay, she reminded herself. And if they’re not willing to find a new place for themselves, then you have to do it. And hadn’t she made overtures already?

‘Hold it. Hold it right there.’

Three elderly women regarded her; two of them blinking from behind prescription spectacles.

She took a deep breath. Drastic events called for drastic measures. Cameron Wallace had promised an alternative. She’d avoided phoning him. Cameron was a champagne and truffles man – not really her type at all. His offer of another shop had come combined with a dinner invitation, but now was the time to bite the bullet.

She outlined the plan. ‘He did offer,’ she said, directing the comment at her mother. ‘And let’s face it, this side street is far from the main thoroughfare. I bet you he’s got shops in a better location.’

What Honey was saying was sensible. The side street at the side of the hotel was hidden in shadow. No one ever walked past it. Pulteney Street itself had no shops; they were further back into the city.

‘That would be good,’ said Margaret. ‘We did get plenty of passing trade at the other shop and this does look a bit out of the way.’

Her mother’s eyes were narrowed, her brow furrowed. She was old but not stupid. ‘The more people passing, the more bucks in the till,’ she said at last.

Honey suddenly felt quite light-headed. Her movements went into overdrive. Her phone was hanging from a thin leather belt around her waist. It saved delving into her bag or phoning the darned thing when she’d temporarily mislaid it. Awful relying on a technical object to tell you where it was. She phoned Cameron Wallace. He answered after one ring.

‘Hi. How are you?’

The sound of his voice caught her off balance. Cameron Wallace had given her a direct number. She’d been psyching herself up to deal with his PA. But hey ho! She could cope.

‘About that shop you promised my mother; how quickly can you arrange it?’

She imagined him smiling triumphantly. She knew what was coming.

‘Are you free tonight?’

It had to be a yes.

‘Yes. I can arrange that.’

‘When can your mother and her friends take over the lease?’

‘Is that the same thing as when can they move in?’

‘If you wish.’

‘How about today? Within the hour?’

He laughed. It was full and throaty – like a character named
Blade
in one of her mother’s Mills and Boon historical romances.

‘I’ll get the keys sent round right away. Can your mother be there within the hour?’

‘You bet she can.’

He ran off the address. Number Six, Beau Nash Passage. Something about it jarred in Honey’s mind, but just now she was too wound up to give it much mind.

She repeated what he’d said to the three women hovering around the driver and his truck.

‘Oooow! That’s a good location,’ said Linda. ‘Plenty of passing trade by day,
and
it has ambience!’

Ambience seemed the right word to throw at her mother.

‘Out with the gear! Get it reloaded – 
pronto
!’

The women worked as quickly getting the stuff back out again as they had getting it in.

Her mother was in charge. ‘Right. Let’s get the hell over there! Driver! Get back in. We’ll direct you.’

The driver didn’t look too pleased at this suggestion. He also looked too scared to protest or tell them it was illegal to carry more than one passenger. With his unwilling help the three women clambered in, one of them sitting on his partner’s lap.

Honey exhaled the biggest, most grateful sigh in the whole wide world.

‘Thanks,’ she murmured.

Cameron heard her. ‘Now, about this dinner  …’

She had no choice but to agree to meet the guy she’d mentally christened ‘Mr Smoothie’. He was a fast worker, too, if his fixing her mother up with a new shop was anything to go by.

‘OK. I give in.’

‘Do you always give in so easily?’

‘That depends. In this case I’m really grateful for helping me out. My mother’s a doll, but only at a distance. I grew up with her and now I’ve grown out of her. We’d clash big time if she was camping on the doorstep.’

That’s when it came to her. The shop, Number Six, Beau Nash Passage had to be close to, or even next door to, the one in which Lady Templeton-Jones had met her end!

‘Is it empty?’ she asked.

‘Yes, it is. It used to be a shop dealing in marine artefacts. Not really a big money-spinner in an inland city. The owner moved out. Actually, he left owing us rent, so we had to send in the bailiffs.’

Honey remembered the shop’s name: Marine Heritage. ‘I take it everything got sent to auction?’

‘That’s right. We timed it well. Bonhams were having a specialist sale. We made enough to cover what was owed.’

‘What was the owner’s name?’

He paused. She sensed he wasn’t keen to tell her. The reason why became clear.

‘I’ll tell you tonight. Over dinner.’