Something in the Blood (A Honey Driver Murder Mystery)

by Goodhind, Jean G

  Pointing at it with a painted finger, she giggled.

  He pushed it back, a red blush of embarrassment creeping up his grizzled throat.

  Loretta laughed out loud.

  ‘Crikey,’ she said, firmly asserting the old saucy self. ‘You’re getting to be a right slap-head aren’t ya! Hardly a hair left on yer head.’

  His knuckles whitened as his hands gripped the steering wheel more tightly. ‘Saucy cow! One of these days …’

  ‘One of these days what?’ She laughed openly and loudly. ‘You’ll do what, Mervyn? Nothing! I’m not a little girl any more. I can stick up for myself, and just you remember that!’

  She gasped as his hand grabbed her knee more fiercely and painfully than before.

  ‘You’d be surprised at what I’m capable of, sweetheart. There’s more to yer old step-daddy than meets the eye. And you want more money, don’t you? You’re always wanting my money.’

  Loretta suddenly felt scared. ‘Let me out of the car!’

  He opened his mouth and a cackle came out, like the sound dead men are supposed to make before they die. She wished that Mervyn Herbert were already dead. Better men than him were dead. But that was it. Mervyn was too mean to die, too nasty to end up in consecrated ground.

  His hands were back on the wheel. She thought of opening the door and jumping out, but they were travelling too fast. Her tights were new. Her knees would be scratched.

  Perhaps out of habit, or some vestige of memory, the old fear returned.

  ‘Please, Mervyn. I’ll do anything, anything …’

  He grinned, his creased face a yellow gargoyle in the flashing glow of the streetlights.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, pausing to slick his tongue over his lips. ‘Of course you will.’

  The man who’d been hiding in the shadows for the right moment cursed the weather, the car and that bloody little tart. The stupid cow had got into a car, and not just any car, HIS bloody car! Bloody Mervyn Herbert.

  The night was black and empty. Everyone was disappearing fast.

  Fortunately he managed to flag down what must have been the only available taxi left in Bath.

  ‘Follow that car!’

  The driver, a young Asian with white teeth and wearing a white shirt and tie with a black leather jacket, beamed with disbelief. ‘You’re joking!’

  Fingers thick as sausages grabbed his collar. ‘No! I ain’t!’

  The driver stabbed on the gas too fiercely; the car skidded on the water-covered tarmac, careering from side to side as the driver fought to regain control.

  Sweat broke out on the glossy forehead. He’d seen this kind of thing happen in the movies. Exciting to watch; in reality too bloody scary for his taste.

  The light-coloured Ford was now three cars ahead.

  His passenger was impatient, leaning through the partition. He could feel his fingers digging through the sleeve of his leather jacket.

  ‘Overtake! Overtake!’ His tone was vicious.

  Scared out of his wits, the taxi driver shook his head emphatically. ‘I cannot! I cannot! It is far too narrow here! There are many parked cars!’

  His passenger leaned further forward and tried to grab the wheel. A car travelling in the other direction blew its horn as they swerved into the centre of the road.

  ‘Please,’ the driver shouted; his hands clammy though he gripped the wheel tightly. ‘We cannot overtake. It is dangerous!’

  Muttering an oath under his breath, the passenger slumped back in his seat. Ahead of them two cars went through a green traffic light. The next went through amber. The traffic light turned red. The brakes squealed as the taxi came to a juddering halt.

  The driver eyed his passenger from the comparative safety of the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Where to now?’ he asked, unable to control the trembling in his voice.

  ‘Ferny Down Guest House. That’s where they should be heading. It’s on the Lower Bristol Road . Do you know it?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. I do.’

  The driver’s eyes flickered nervously between the traffic light and the rear-view mirror. Late night passengers troubled him, this one more than most.

  The lights changed. The taxi moved forwards across the river and right towards the Lower Bristol Road .

  Robert Howard Davies, lately of Horfield Prison, Bristol, made himself comfortable. He knew the taxi driver’s eyes were studying him, no doubt wondering whether he’d get his fare or not.

  That depends, thought Robert, disgruntled because he’d got so close to reacquainting himself with his daughter. Still, no harm in going to see the wife; and God help Mervyn Herbert if he wasn’t there when he arrived. There’d be some explaining to do, and he wasn’t in the market for accepting excuses. Never had been. Never would be.

  Chapter Five

  One day, one whole twenty-four hours had passed and Elmer Maxted was still missing.

  Honey received a phone call. It was Neville, Casper’s friend, hotel manager and bedtime companion.

  ‘Casper says you need to go down there and liaise,’ said Neville.

  ‘I was thinking the same thing. Whether I want to or not, I have to tell the police all I know.’

  There was silence. Neville had placed his hand over the phone. She knew from experience that Casper was in the background giving orders.

  ‘Casper says you are to try and keep the lid on things.’

  ‘At the same time as assisting them with their enquiries?’

  Again, silence.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Neville on behalf of Casper. ‘You have to be extremely diplomatic. And quick. He wants you go to the police asap.’

  ‘I can’t make it for an hour or so. My receptionist is out sick.’

  Again the delayed response.

  ‘We’ll send help.’

  ‘Thanks. I appreciate it. How come Casper’s indisposed?’

  ‘Caspernever answers the phone while soaking in the bath.’

  Although it was Sunday morning, sauntering along to Manvers Street Police Station wasn’t a problem as long as the promised help turned up. On the contrary, it was a welcome break.

  One hour later she was brushing her hair, straightening her white cotton shirt and checking the seams in her stockings. She always wore a skirt on Sunday. The stockings added to feelings of almost lost femininity.

  Today had turned out exciting again. Nothing and no one could upset her mood – with the exception of her mother who’d decided to choose this morning to pop in and tell her all about her latest lover.

  ‘I’m going on a cruise this summer. I’m going with a man friend. His name’s Christopher Jordan, and he’s a really charming man.’

  Her mother scurried along behind her like an especially tenacious Jack Russell, all clattering heels and an aura of French perfume. ‘Men are such good company. You should get yourself one.’

  Honey swung left behind the reception desk. Undeterred, her mother leaned on the counter top. ‘I’ve got just the man to suit you. Have I told you about my dentist’s friend? He’s got a very nice little business …’

  Honey stabbed at the ‘escape’ key on the computer. That’s what she wanted to do. Escape the reception desk and escape her mother. But Susan, their regular receptionist, had phoned in sick. Honey had been expecting it. Lovesick! That’s what she was. A handsome young man from Hungary, working at another hotel close by had moved into the bed-sit below Susan. International participation was bound to happen. And did. This meant that if their days off didn’t coincide, they fell sick. Today was the young man’s day off – but not Susan’s.

  Blonde coiffeur, bedecked with expensive jewellery and wearing a silk trouser suit, her mother leaned on the reception desk. Her apricot lipstick matched her outfit.

  Honey took shallow breaths in an effort to cope with the cloud of expensive perfume that fell over her.

  ‘I’ve arranged for you to meet him in the RomanBar of the Francis this evening at seven.’

  ‘I can’t
go.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m working.’

  ‘Lunchtime then. I’ll rearrange it for twelve noon.’

  ‘Mother!’

  ‘Don’t shout.’

  ‘I didn’t shout, I merely protested.’

  A couple from Sydney, Australia chose that moment to check in complete with three suitcases.

  Honey took her time checking them in and giving them their keys, fliers and special offers on local attractions. The plan was that her mother would grow impatient and disappear. She didn’t.

  ‘Look, Mother …’

  Jeremiah Poughty, Casper’s very close friend, chose that moment to come breezing through the double doors. His fingers brushed over the brass handles as though he were checking for smudges.

  ‘Casper sent me. I understand you’re a trifle short-staffed, my darling. So here I am. Lately of the hotel trade, but I do remember which buttons to press.’

  ‘So what are you doing nowadays?’ said Honey, purposely turning her back on her mother.

  ‘I’ve got a stall in the Guildhall Market. It’s called, Rice, Spice and All Things Nice.’

  Honey looked suitably impressed.

  Unfortunately, so did her mother.

  Her mother clapped her hands. ‘There! You can go on your date and enjoy yourself.’

  ‘No, Mother. I cannot. Jeremiah is taking over reception for this morning only. I have an appointment with the police and tonight I have to work. I haven’t got time for dates with your dentist’s friend.’

  Honey slid herself out of the ergonomically designed swivel chair. Jeremiah eased himself into it.

  ‘He’s phoned the police prior to you going there,’ Jeremiah went on, swinging his long limbs into the chair and sliding it back into place.

  ‘If that’s the case, I can’t understand why he hasn’t gone along himself, ‘said Honey while carefully avoiding her mother’s enquiring expression.

  ‘He’s not one for men in uniforms,’ Jeremiah said. ‘Reminds him of the bad old days. Now,’ he said, leaning threateningly at the computer screen. ‘No need to explain the system to me. Once you’ve used one, you’ve used them all.’

  Honey grabbed her overlarge bag and slung it over her shoulder.

  Her mother followed her to the door and looked worried. ‘Why are you going to the police station?’

  Determined that everything should run smoothly in her absence, Honey ignored the question and addressed Jeremiah. ‘There’s a party for lunch coming in at twelve.’

  Receiving no reply from her daughter, Gloria aimed her question at Jeremiah. ‘Why is she going to the police station?’

  Jeremiah was still taking in the orders Honey was throwing at him.

  Exasperated, Gloria Cross slammed her hand down on the desk.

  ‘Why is my daughter going to the police station? What has she done?’

  Those guests sitting in the comfortable settees around the reception area, waiting for taxis, teas or their check out bill, fell to silence. Curious eyes turned in her direction.

  Honey played to the crowd.

  ‘They’re accusing me of planning to bury my mother under the patio. I told them it wasn’t true and that I’d much prefer to drown you in malmsey, but they didn’t believe me. Said they didn’t think anyone would ruin good alcohol unless they were batty – or desperate!’

  ‘You’re batty!’ said her mother, looking thoroughly annoyed.

  The guests grinned, chuckled and exchanged knowing looks. Obviously, they too had mothers prone to cause mad moments of sheer exasperation.

  Honey threw a swift thank you to Jeremiah who merely nodded and proceeded to tidy up the whole online booking system and the paperwork around him.

  Getting to the door had been easy enough compared to getting out of it. Her mother wasn’t giving up that easily.

  ‘Right. So you’re off to the police station on official hotel business. That shouldn’t take long. From there you can make your way to church.’

  ‘Mother! I don’t do church.’

  Too late. A set of impeccably manicured nails were already tapping out a number on her mobile, a determined jut to her chin and a ‘no nonsense’ look in her eyes. ‘Right. Father Trevor’s expecting you.’

  ‘I’m not a Catholic.’

  ‘Well I think you should be.’

  ‘My father wasn’t.’

  Her mother crossed herself. Becoming a Catholic had come late in life – once all the divorces were behind her.

  ‘The service finishes at twelve. No need to hurry back. That nice poof in reception will take care of things until you get back.’

  What was the point? Honey shook her head. Her mother didn’t know how to spell politically correct let alone apply it. She was one of the old school and not up to speed on courteous terminology.

  As she approached North Parade heading for Manvers Street , Honey began questioning Casper’s generosity in sending someone over to help out. Casper could be very nice when he wanted to be. At other times he could be downright ruthless.

  On her way there she plucked out her phone and tapped into the address book. Casper answered almost immediately.

  ‘Thanks for sending Jeremiah over.’

  ‘Oh! Is that where he is?’

  Honey frowned. ‘You didn’t send him?’

  ‘I asked him to pop over and assist you. He wasn’t keen and murmured something about me using him as a stop gap. I told him to go to hell. His interpretation is a little surprising I must say. After all, I hadn’t exactly promised him eternal love – just an intimate friendship.’

  ‘Whatever. His presence was appreciated.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  Despite the fact that it was Sunday morning, the cop shop was busy. The chalky smell of dried-out paint and well-worn carpet came out to meet her. So too did a tinge of Jeyes fluid each time the cloakroom doors opened in the foyer.

  Once the desk sergeant had booked her in, she was told to sit down and wait.

  Stressing that she was here by request and on behalf of the hoteliers of the city, and had little time to spare, failed to impress him.

  So she sat and studied the people waiting for attention.

  They were a mixed bag and therefore interesting.

  Irate ex-motorists relieved of their vehicle by some mindless drogue who had fancied his chances at Grand Prix wheelies down over Brassknocker Hill. Grand Pricks were more like it, the cars mangled by now and dumped in some roadside ditch.

  A crusty, complete with tangled dreadlocks, foetid smell and a scrawny dog, was demanding the return of his untaxed, uninsured and un-roadworthy vehicle.

  An American tourist wearing a tartan cap and matching Bermudas waited while the desk sergeant took down his particulars.

  ‘What I can’t understand is how they knew we were tourists,’ he drawled.

  Judging by their age, marriage had still been in fashion when they were young. The woman Honey took to be his wife slumped in the chair next to Honey.

  Rolling her eyes, she whispered. ‘I told him not to make himself conspicuous. But would he listen? I’m not changing my style for anybody, he tells me.’ The woman shook her head dolefully. ‘Style it ain’t.’

  Honey smiled. ‘Beauty is in the reflection in the mirror. We see gravity taking its toll, and they see Steve McQueen. It’s a man thing.’

  ‘You got it!’

  A door marked private opened. A man wearing a black T-shirt and stone-washed jeans appeared.

  His eyes swept over the waiting room.

  Her eyes swept over him. Average height, well-built. The casual clothes and the stubble on his chin, hinted at the rough diamond look. Looking hard added gravitas when you were less than six feet in height. The fact that he had hands like shovels worked for her.

  A policewoman lurked in the shadows behind him as though she were watching his back. Honey met the enquiring eyes. The woman’s gaze hardened to green-glazed jealousy.

  Rough-diamond str
eet cred with stubble scythed over the melee and homed in on her. ‘Hannah Driver?’

  He had a voice like gravel.

  ‘That’s me.’

  A waiting room full of curious eyes watched her cross the floor.

  It was kind of like being on stage. All the senses kicked in. A few hip-wiggling steps and she was close enough to smell what remained of his aftershave. Three days or so since he’d shaved, but the pong was still there.

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Steve Doherty.’ He looked her up and down. ‘So you’re Bath’s answer to Miss Marple.’

  ‘Not quite. I don’t knit or do crosswords, or frequent vicarage tea parties.’

  His surliness travelled to his voice.

  ‘Well that’s a disappointment. I would have liked a new pullover or tea with the vicar. But there, amateur snoops come in all shapes and sizes.

  ‘So do cops. I thought you’d be taller.’

  For a split second his gaze fell to her 36Cs. He smirked. She guessed what was coming.

  ‘Being of average height has its advantages.’

  If looks could have killed, she would have sliced his head off, but he didn’t give her time.

  ‘Through here.’

  He jerked his thumb in the direction of the shadow in uniform and the corridor behind him.

  The interview room was exactly as she’d expected; plain walls, desk, requisite number of chairs and, of course, the tape recorder. Someone had lately run riot with a sweet-smelling aerosol; alpine flowers by the whiff of it.

  Doherty flicked the on switch on the tape recorder. The usual words were said, the date and location. Next came the personal details. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Doherty. Interviewee is one Miss Hannah Driver …’

  ‘Mrs.’

  Doherty flashed her an impatient look. ‘Mrs Hannah Driver. Also present is Detective Constable Sian Williams. The police woman straightened as though just a mention gave her special rights i.e. access to his body.