Read Walking with Ghosts - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Online
Authors: Jean G. Goodhind
Following a quick visit to the auction house, Alistair had promised to let her know who had put the film reels in the auction in the first place. He’d promised to ring her as soon as he’d checked.
Just as an afterthought, she asked him what Bonhams did with all their old paperwork.
‘They shred it, hen. Safer to set fire to it, I think, but then I’ve no truck with security matters.’
It was make-up time. Gloria was still pretty peeved about Honey’s attitude to the shop round the corner from the hotel. Honey had made some excuse about it needing to be rewired.
‘That’s just an excuse. I know when I’m not wanted!’
Some serious sucking up was called for.
A trip to beard the bank manager in his den was coupled with popping round to Second-hand Sheila. Gloria Cross and friends had comfortably settled into their new shop, which had previously sold marine artefacts.
Not the luckiest rank of shops The windows of the shop next door were empty. A large ‘To Let’ sign leaned forward in the dusty window.
An old fashioned shop bell jangled above the door as Honey pushed it open.
Her mother was in full cry. ‘I’ll be murdering someone if we don’t get some more dress rails.’
‘Are you managing?’ Honey asked breezily.
‘Just about,’ said Margaret. ‘There’s been no time for fitting out.’
Her mother’s eyes narrowed on sight of her. ‘I’ve got a guy coming in to fix me some up. In the meantime we just have to manage with these.’
‘These’ were the rails on wheels which rolled easily from the truck and into the shop.
Honey cast her gaze round as though it were Macy’s or Harrods – as in visibly impressive – which it certainly was not. ‘It’s going to look great,’ she said, not really believing her words.
Her mother’s suspicious squint followed her accusingly.
The temporary clothes rails were in place. Honey ran her hand along a series of items in tones of lilac deepening to violet. Her hand automatically homed in on something that looked quite reasonable – light wool, classic cut, mid-calf hemline. On closer inspection it looked top-drawer quality.
She held it out from her towards the light. ‘This is lovely.’
Her mother looked round to see her eyeing the very plain but very well-cut dress.
‘It’s Jean Muir. Try it on.’
Honey did just that. It looked good. Really good.
Her mother beamed. ‘Shoes and bag to match I think.’
‘I don’t think …’
Too late. Sucking up was proving expensive.
Really
expensive!
She came out of Second-hand Sheila feeling drained – of cash
and
energy. Even a used car salesman had nothing on her mother. She was good. Real good!
Back at the hotel she went into her office, threw the bags down, and flopped over her desk.
Lindsey found her there and gave counsel.
‘Wear it. Have it earn its keep and you’ll feel better.’
Honey poked at the pile of invoice ledgers she was hiding behind. ‘I’ve nowhere to go,’ she said glumly.
‘Business or pleasure, there has to be someone.’
Honey thought about it. Kill two birds with one stone. She picked up the phone. Doherty answered.
‘I’m free tonight.’
‘Great. I’ve got time for a quick one.’ He paused. ‘A drink that is.’
She imagined his smile. It made her feel like a piece of warm toast – melted butter running all over it.
Bath is a city of one-way systems. Sometimes it made sense to skirt the maze of old streets and shopping arcades rather than drive through it. Sometimes it was best to walk. Walking allowed time to peer into old windows and wonder at elegant architecture.
Honey’s reason for walking and soaking up the atmosphere was more to do with keeping the pounds off: a luscious curve could so easily become a lumpy bump. The dress looked good. Plain but classy. She’d skipped on the lilac shoes and clutch purse her mother had chosen. Lindsey had promised to put them on eBay for a sizeable profit – she’d also promised not to let on to her grandmother.
The Zodiac Club, that underground haunt of everyone in the catering and hospitality trade, had a blue-black atmosphere courtesy of the dimmed lighting and the smoke rising from the steak grill. The smoking of cigarettes having been banned indoors, though, meant that the unreformed smokers spilled out on to the patio in North Parade Gardens.
It was ten thirty and Honey had got away early. She’d ordered drinks. A Jack Daniel’s for Steve, a vodka and tonic – slimline of course – for herself.
He came in looking dishevelled, a day’s growth of beard on his jaw, and a tired look around his eyes. His smile was warm but seemed to require effort.
‘It’s been a long day,’ he said, rubbing his face as though he were washing it with a flannel. He gulped the drink in one.
‘How did his mother take it?’
‘Stunned. We couldn’t give her any explanation as to why anyone would want to murder her lovely boy,’ he said with a smidgen of sarcasm. ‘Not yet, at least. It was the method I think that unhinged her.’
‘But have you made progress?’ Honey ordered him another drink. He didn’t seem to notice until she handed it to him. She didn’t mention Simon Taylor by name just in case Doherty resorted to the damning details. Unlike Mrs Taylor she might not become unhinged, but it could make her squirm.
It didn’t work. Doherty was in deduction mode, a faraway look in his eyes, as he poured another Jack Daniel’s down his throat.
‘Nasty way to die …’
‘Don’t!’ She did the halt sign with her hand. ‘Don’t go there. I’ll have nightmares.’
‘I could come and help you keep them at bay?’
Quite frankly it was a tempting proposition. But she’d left her laundry trailed all over the bedroom floor – assuming they got that far.
‘Lindsey’s having a friend sleeping over.’
‘Girlfriend?’
‘Of course.’
He took a big swig then eyed her more seriously over the top of his glass. ‘The trail keeps leading back to Associated Security Shredding.’
‘I think I know why.’
‘You do?’
She told him about what Alistair had said about the auction rooms and their commitment to the environment. ‘Those reels were detailed on a catalogue that was superseded because the seller pulled out. The copy left in the drawer was not the only copy. About fifty had already been run off before they scrapped it. All scrap material went to be shredded.’
Steve drained his glass and put it down, turning it round and round as he thought things through. ‘So possibly our Simon read them, saw the projected guide prices, and started searching for a market.’
Forgetting that it was Doherty’s round, Honey ordered more drinks. She was on a roll. The odd assortment of pieces in this puzzle was beginning to fall into place.
‘The owner’s details were listed. Simon must have thought he’d won the lottery when he recognised a name he’d sold online only a few months earlier. Her Ladyship didn’t contact him to complain that he’d cheated her. The name was genuine. She’d phoned to arrange to talk about the film reels. I think our young friend was blackmailing her too.’
‘So who did the reels originally belong to?’
‘A man who collected photographic memorabilia.’
Steve raised a quizzical eyebrow.
Honey smiled. ‘I’ve been thinking about this all day. The grandfather of Lady Templeton-Jones and Sir Ashwell Bridgewater. What do you think? Think Bridgewater could have done it?’
‘You’re biased. You don’t like him.’
‘I hate people who phone me and try to sell me stuff I don’t want.’
‘So he killed his cousin so he could get his hands on the reel of film?’
Honey shook her head. ‘I’d like him to be arrested immediately, but I wasn’t sure whether he needed to kill her. So I got Lindsey to check with a few friends of hers at a big local law firm. Their grandfather was local so it stands to reason he would have had a will drawn up locally.’ She leaned forward her eyes shining. ‘And he did! Without his cousin around, Bridgewater gets the lot!’
‘So let’s have a word with him.’ He unfolded from the chair, sending the legs squealing across the flagstone floor.
‘Now?’
‘Why not?’ Placing a hand either side of her seat, he pushed her stool back. She couldn’t help but stand. ‘People are at their most malleable when they’ve just been woken up.’
She threw him a piercing look. ‘And their most vulnerable. You wouldn’t want to get done for police harassment, would you?’
‘I’ve got a calling card?’
‘What does that mean?’
‘His cousin’s handbag. It’s down at the station. Bridgewater’s been on my back for ages to return it.’
‘I thought you had.’
‘It was as close as I could get to police brutality. Must admit I enjoyed torturing the slimy toad.’
It was a quarter to midnight by the time they’d walked to the station, collected the bag, and caught up with Doherty’s car.
They drove with the top down, for which Honey was grateful. Steve had consumed three Jack Daniel’s in quick succession. He shouldn’t be driving at all, but the cold air would clear his head. She hoped. He assured her he’d be OK.
She sat with the bag on her lap. She loved big bags herself so understood where the deceased woman was coming from.
Was it big enough to have a secret compartment? Doherty might not be too pleased if she opened it and took a look. Her fingers drummed on the soft leather. And itched. Fingers really did itch when you wanted to do something drastic. And exciting. Definitely exciting. Something might be hidden in there. Or might not. But what if it was …
Doherty interrupted her thoughts. ‘I’m reading your mind, Honey Driver. You’re tempted to do something. Right?’
On this occasion she couldn’t lie. ‘I was trying to remember the stuff that was in here. I remember you listing it.’
‘I’ve got the list with me.’
‘No secret compartments?’
He took his eyes off the road and glanced her way. ‘It’s a big monster of a bag, but no. No secret compartments.’
Honey bit her lip. She was disappointed. ‘So what’s the biggest item listed?’
‘Let me think. Yeah! Yeah! I know. The contact lenses! A month’s supply in a green box. Unopened.’
His eyes left the road again. They met hers.
Without another word from him, she undid the single buckle holding the flap shut. Then she slid the zipper back.
The box containing the contact lenses was still there; untouched; unopened. Honey jerked it out; tore at the packaging. There was not the normal battle of wills as there is with some modern day packaging. It opened easily. The reason was obvious.
‘It’s already been opened once and resealed,’ said Honey.
Too involved in what she was doing to drive, Doherty pulled over.
‘Go careful with that. It’s evidence.’
Honey sucked in her breath and tipped the box on end. Normally she’d expect four small boxes, the sort usually associated with contact lenses, to fall on to her lap. She tipped the box again and shook it.
‘Bingo!’
The tin was round and in good condition considering its age.
They both stared, taking in exactly what they were looking at.
Doherty prised off the lid.
They both stared at the unexpected. A computer disc. A CD, not some ancient reel of film.
‘Definitely modern,’ Honey remarked.
‘So where are the original reels?’
Doherty frowned at the road ahead.
Honey wondered what he was thinking. ‘So what gives?’
Sighing and straightening at the same time, he rubbed the back of his neck.
‘Leave Bridgewater till morning?’ suggested Honey.
‘No.’ He turned the ignition key. ‘Let’s get the bastard out of bed.’
The three-storey cottage in the village of Northend was in darkness. So was the rest of the village for that matter.
Doherty rapped the knocker. The sound echoed between the cottages and the wall opposite.
He wasn’t hot on patience. ‘Come on, come on,’ he muttered.
He rapped again. This time harder.
Honey cringed. It was late. It was dark. Would she open the door at this hour?
A window opened from the cottage next door. A head popped out.
‘It’s gone twelve. Stop that bloody racket,’ a man shouted from above.
‘It’s the police.’ Doherty flashed his warrant card.
‘I don’t give a stuff whether you’re God Almighty. Sod off and let a working man sleep!’
‘Sorry to disturb you, but do you know where Mr Bridgewater is?’ Honey shouted up.
The casement, by now half closed, paused.
‘No. Ain’t been there for days.’
The window slammed shut.
Honey looked at the door.
Doherty did the same.
‘Do you think …?’ began Honey.
‘Possibly,’ returned Doherty.
‘Shall we kick down the door?’
‘This is the Georgian City of Bath, not Miami bloody Vice!’
They went back to the car and sat deep in thought.
‘I feel another visit to Trowbridge coming on,’ said Doherty. ‘It all started at Associated Security Shredding.’
Cogs and wheels were whirling in Honey’s head. ‘No,’ she said suddenly. ‘The ghost walk.
That’s
where it started.’
Bridgewater’s neighbour was wrong. Sir Ashwell was in, but about to go out. What he had to do must be done at night.
Flattened against the wall beside the window he’d listened to what was said. He’d recognised who they were. The cop who didn’t own a shaver and the broad with the boobs. No way did he want to speak to them.
Craning his neck so he could see out, he watched the car’s brake lights come on at the end of the narrow lane. Then they were gone, the small car heading towards the city.
He resisted the temptation to switch one of his many alabaster table lamps. A street light gave him enough light to see by. He phoned the person he’d planned to meet.
‘I’m leaving now. Give me half an hour.’
The reply was terse. The connection was swiftly severed.
Bridgewater was careful about closing the door. Old doors were buggers to close, swollen in wet weather, shrunken in dry. One hand pulling the knocker and one using the key, he managed it as best he could. His neighbour had given him an alibi and he intended to keep it.
1.30 a.m. Reflections of a city asleep played on the empty shop windows. A damp mist had turned the cobbles shiny and slippery. Bridgewater turned up his collar. His throat was dry. Both palms – the one holding on to the package and the one thrust into his pocket – were moist.
His footsteps echoed between the buildings. He stopped to catch his breath and hear the silence. Instead of footsteps the beat of his heart hammered within his skull.
Come on, he told himself. This is no different to negotiating a deal with a telephone client. All business was much the same. Much as he tried to convince himself of this, deep down he knew it wasn’t true. This transaction was far more important. Far more lucrative.
As arranged, the door was unlocked. He entered the dim interior and shuddered. It was similar to next door, though not so neglected.
‘Hello?’
His voice echoed in the emptiness.
‘Up here.’
A sharp voice. A selfish voice.
Never mind. Keep going.
He did just that, taking the stairs quickly despite the darkness. On reaching the first landing, he stopped and looked round. A rectangle of outside light fell in through a single window. The rest of the landing was in darkness.
He looked up the next flight of stairs. A figure stood outlined against the skylight. For one heart-stopping moment he thought it was her: Wanda, his cousin.
You know better than that, he told himself. Wanda’s dead. You know she’s dead.
‘Have you got them?’
He was surprised at how calmly she asked. Did the woman never get excited?
‘Yes.’
‘Bring them up.’
The stairs creaked beneath his feet. He saw her move away from the balustrade. Rotten with age, it moved as she did so.
A candle burned on a table.
‘A bit primitive,’ he said, and chanced a smile. He didn’t know whether she smiled back. Her face remained in shadow, but he could see the thrust of her breasts above a neat waist.
‘Hand me the reels.’
‘Certainly.’ He took the reels with both hands. ‘And the money?’
‘Here.’
He stared at the envelope she was handing him. Was she for real?
‘What is this?’ he said without taking it. There was a hint of amusement in his voice, though he wasn’t feeling amused – far from it!
‘A banker’s draft. It’s quite safe.’
Bridgewater felt his throat tighten. ‘That isn’t what we agreed. I want cash. I stipulated cash.’
‘Impossible. Unless you want to wait a week or more … Now give me the reels.’ She reached to take them.
He took a sideways step. For the first time since their negotiations had started he heard a touch of anxiety in her voice.
‘A banker’s draft is as good as money.’
‘I don’t care. I want cash.’
‘You stupid sod! All this money. Imagine what you could do with it.’
‘I want cash.’
He didn’t want to be traced. Didn’t want to have to explain how his cousin had died – and why.
‘No.’ He began shaking his head and walking backwards.
He saw her step forward. The lower part of her face entered the light. Her lips were pink, plush and slightly ajar as though suddenly surprised.
She cried out, arms flailing. It was as if she were fading away from him, hanging there, unbalanced, waiting to fall.
Blood-red fingernails clawed at the handrail. The glue was weak, the wood brittle with age. The whole thing splintered away from its mooring. She was gone, part of the stairwell falling with her.