She noticed how quickly he had spoken, giving away information that perhaps he shouldn’t. Anything to maintain her interest.
He fell to silence. She sensed him looking at her. Decided it was her turn to speak.
‘And he never was in the freezer?’
He shook his head. ‘No. We checked. It was still there waiting to be de-gassed and whatever. It was empty and there were no signs of him ever being in there.’
‘Do you prefer to be called Steve or Stephen?’
She didn’t know why she asked, it just felt as though something was needed to fill the sudden silence.
‘Doherty.’
‘I prefer to be called Honey. Only my mother calls me Hannah.’
He regarded her for a moment and nodded slowly.
‘So! I take it you’re divorced.’
Was that a hopeful look in his eyes?
‘No. He died in a sailing accident.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘That’s what everyone said. But I wasn’t. Not really. Racing and delivering sailing yachts had taken precedence over his married life. The more impassioned he’d got with his sport, the less we’d seen of him. It didn’t help that most of the crew he hired had been female. He reckoned they bonded well and did everything that he asked of them.’
‘Any children?’
‘One. Lindsey. She’s eighteen.’
‘Get on! You don’t look old enough.’
‘Very kind, but I’ve heard it before.’
‘I meant it. Does she look like you?’
She wasn’t sure that he did, but at least he was treating her as a woman. Besides, it was the best chat up line she’d heard in a long while.
‘She looks like her father and like me.’
He nodded sagely, as though she had said something very profound.
She asked him about himself. He told her he was divorced – something she’d already guessed – and that he’d moved to Bath from London.
‘To make a new start,’ he added. ‘Got fed up with the pressure of work in the Met.’
He told her he rented a flat in Lansdown Crescent , but was looking to buy. ‘When I can find something affordable.’
She knew where he was coming from. Bath was expensive. Georgian houses of elegant proportions, horrendously expensive to maintain, had long ago been divided into flats. Their elegance undiminished, their interiors furnished in a suitable style with expensive antiques, nothing in a really good location came cheap.
She let him make the headway until judging the time was right to make her excuses.
‘Sorry, but I have to split. I’m cooking breakfast in the morning.’
It wasn’t strictly true. Smudger never did breakfast if he could possibly avoid it. Dumpy Doris, a woman of dumpling roundness with arms a Sumo wrestler would be proud of, cooked up a cardiologist’s nightmare; fried sausages, fried eggs and fried bacon. It was sometimes joked about that even the cornflakes would be fried if Dumpy Doris had her way. But she filled the gaps and good help on a weekend was hard to come by.
‘I’ll walk you home.’
‘No need.’
Clint opened the outer door for them, his eyeballs bouncing between her and Doherty.
‘It’s no trouble.’
‘It’s no distance.’
Doherty threw a backward glance at Clint before the door slammed shut.
‘I know him.’
‘Everyone knows Clint.’
She didn’t want to know what Clint did when he wasn’t washing dishes; she didn’t want to know what offences Doherty might have charged him with in case it put her off of ever employing him again. When they got to a certain age, automatic dishwashers were notoriously unreliable. Clint was not.
‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’ he said once they were up on pavement level.
‘Fine.’ She nodded vehemently. ‘It’s not far.’
‘I insist.’
‘Will you frogmarch me if I refuse?’
‘Possibly. You know us cops; brutal, insistent – but cute.’
She tried to pretend that he didn’t appeal to her. Not easy.
‘Shouldn’t you add conceited?’
‘I can’t see why.’
Bath didn’t have the night smell of the big city – the stewed traffic fumes, the dank river and the heat rising like dust from concrete buildings. Set like Rome in a sweeping valley surrounded by tree-topped hills, its lawns and well-kept flowerbeds lent a spring-like freshness in the air. The mellow walls of ancient buildings glowed in the borrowed gleam of well-placed lighting. Even at this hour the streets had a safe feeling about them, as though the ghosts of the past stood sentinel over those treading its cosy alleys and broad thoroughfares. Late night revellers wending their merry way home raised a hand, called and waved goodnight.
Pulteney Street flew straight as a dart from the centre of the city to the Warminster Road . The Green River Hotel was close to the very end, tucked away down a cul-de-sac.
Doherty sniffed the air. ‘I love this place. There’s something immortal about it. It looks beautiful, even at this hour. It’s sacrilege that we’re talking murder.’
She agreed with him though it occurred to her that he hadn’t mentioned much about the murder tonight, though, goodness, she was grateful for the details he had given.
‘Almost there,’ she added, her footsteps slowing. She stopped and faced him. ‘Look. You don’t need to come any further.’
She smiled as she said it. No, she did not want him to see her to the door. The windows would be black, the minimum of light falling from the reception area; everyone would be – or should be in bed. Not necessarily so. Like a lot of seniors, her mother, who’d decided to stay overnight, was a light sleeper. Questions would be asked. She’d prefer them not to be.
She turned swiftly away before he had a chance to kiss her. She wasn’t ready for it. Not just yet.
‘Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight.’
He sounded disappointed, perhaps even hurt. She glanced back to ensure he had indeed strolled off towards Lansdown Crescent and his bachelor pad. His form, his shadow and the sound of his footsteps faded into the night.
Walking on tiptoe was never going to be easy. The flagstones skirting the cul-de-sac were uneven and badly worn from centuries of use. Her steps slowed the closer she got to the hotel. At last, once she was sure he was gone, she stopped and turned round.
The night breeze was cool as water against her face when she looked for him. The coast was clear.
Counting to ten she waited, then slowly, still with her heels held barely off the ground, she retraced her steps. She heard a car and presumed he’d got a taxi. Certain she was right, she increased her speed, then paused as her fingers felt something in her pocket. Why was she bothering to walk to the taxi rank? Ivor Williams had given her his number.
Taking out the business card, she held it to catch the gleam of a streetlight, took her phone from her pocket, and dialled the number. Ivor answered.
‘How’s the book going?’ she asked.
‘Too busy for reading at present, lovely. What can I do to help you?’
It was obvious by his response that he didn’t recognise her voice.
‘It’s the hotel lady that was asking questions about Elmer Maxted. I suppose you’ve heard the news.’
‘Yeah.’ He sounded horrified. ‘Poor bloke. Who would have thought it, eh?’
She counted off all the bits of information she’d come across. Was Bob the Job for real or was he as spectral as the ghost Mary Jane insisted came out of the closet? Was her information likely to be pure fabrication?
‘When you drove him around, did you ever take him to Limpley Stoke?’
‘Sure. I told you. He wanted to visit the church. Took his time of course. Wanted to meet the vicar you see. Had things he wanted to ask so he said.’
She breathed a sign of relief. Her confidence returned.
‘What sort of things?’
‘His family?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he stayed there quite a while?’
‘Three days in a row.’
‘Three days!’
She couldn’t help sounding surprised. Why would anyone – even the most ardent sightseer or family historian, want to spend three days peering into old and very dusty archives? Surely he couldn’t have spent all that time in the company of the vicar? Just in case she was wrong, she asked Ivor.
‘He saw the vicar on the first day. I saw them talking. But not after that. He just went into the church and walked around the gravestones and all that. Took some time that did. I waited until he came out and we went sightseeing. Not that he seemed that interested in the sightseeing. He was quiet when he came back. Doing a lot of thinking you see. Finding out about your ancestors can be a bit daunting you know.’
After thanking Ivor for his help she put her phone away and headed home. So Mary Jane’s friend was right. There was no mention that he’d actually visited Charlborough Grange and introduced himself to the family. According to Ivor he’d gone no further than the church and its grounds. Would searching through the archives take three consecutive days?
That, she decided, was a question that had to be answered.
The hotel was in darkness. Loud snoring drifted out from the settee in the room just behind reception. The night porter was (almost) on duty.
She took off her shoes.
‘No point trying to creep in, mother.’
Lindsey’s head bobbed up from where she was lying full stretch on a brown leather chesterfield.
Honey jumped. ‘I wish you’d stop doing that.’
‘Scaring you or waiting up for you?’
‘Both.’
Honey eased herself onto the settee beside her daughter. ‘Are you spying on me?’
‘Yes. You’re such a virgin when it comes to men.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Don’t remind me that I’m your daughter etc., etc., I mean you haven’t indulged for a while. That’s why I’ve got to look out for you.’
‘Lindsey, I’ve only been out for a drink.’
Lindsey reached over and made a lengthening motion from the tip of her mother’s nose.
‘OK, my nose is growing like Pinocchio’s.’
Lindsey huddled forward, her face, even in the gloom, glowing with interest.
‘So! Tell me what he’s like.’
‘Who?’
‘The policeman. And don’t try and look so innocent. Grandma told me you had a date with him.’
‘There’s nothing to it.’
Lindsey gave her that ‘who do you think you’re kidding’ kind of look.
Honey held her head to one side and looked at her daughter. ‘Are you always going to be looking out for me?’
Lindsey nodded.
‘I thought so.’
Chapter Fifteen
Honey was taking a shortcut through the Guildhall and feeling as fizzy as an uncorked bottle of champagne.
For the first time since becoming an amateur sleuth, she was approaching her mission in a relaxed manner. Her mind was open to possibilities. In fact it was like a great white board on which the problem is detailed in green felt tip and all the connecting factors are entered around it.
The Guildhall market was a magical place, where stalls dealing in antiques jostled with those selling a wide variety of cheese, garlic sausage and dried flower arrangements.
She sniffed the air, enjoying the way the mix of fragrances cleared her head and her mind.
Suddenly she had a eureka moment. it was there – the unmistakable tang of oriental spices. The sack covering Elmer’s head had reeked of spices.
She looked round in the hope that she might find the source of the smell, perhaps a suspect. Stupid really. Was there likely to be a sign saying ‘Get your small sacks here – ideal for placing over the head of your victims?’
When she saw where the smell was coming from and the stallholder, she smiled; Jeremiah Poughty, the very same who had taken over her reception area on orders from Casper.
She could tell by the look on his face that he wasn’t missing the hospitality trade one little bit.
Cloves, cinnamon, bay leaves, turmeric and a host of other scents filled her head and cleared the excesses of the night before. There was a clichéd exoticism about them. A hint of the east, Persian markets, the Alhambra and over-indulgence of the senses.
It was all for sale under the sign printed in garish red letters on an apple green background, which screamed HERBS AND SPICE AND ALL THINGS NICE.
Jeremiah’s stall. He waved before turning a beaming smile on a woman customer who, even at this distance, Honey could tell was giving him aggro.
‘What’s that one?’ The woman’s voice had all the enchantment of iron filings.
‘Turmeric, honey.’ Jeremiah settled one hand on his slim hips which were tightly clad in tan suede trousers. He wore a matching waistcoat festooned with embroidered flowers. The waistcoat was worn over a peasant-style shirt. His lipstick was purple and his complexion was as shiny and brown as a conker.
‘And that?’ The woman poked her finger at another small sack and sniffed.
‘Paprika, dahling.’ He nodded a greeting to Honey. ‘Looking for something exotic to spice up our life are we?’
The woman did not appear to notice that he was talking to someone else. She pointed a podgy finger.
‘Pretty colour. Got much taste?’
‘Lots of honey, honey.’
The woman frowned and shook her head.
‘I’m not sure. I normally only buy such things when uncontaminated by human hand. Preferably in plastic bags and on a supermarket shelf. Are your hands very clean?’ said the woman, her small eyes narrowing in her pudding face.
Jeremiah threw her an indignant look. ‘If you want something in plastic, go trot along to the supermarket.
Jeremiah was committed to all things green and free trade and free love and everything else that didn’t come pre-packaged and with a hefty price. His tone was dead end and don’t pass go.
The woman took on a shocked expression, wrapped her sheepskin coat more tightly around her body, then shuffled off to the next stall.
Jeremiah recovered quickly. ‘Win some, you lose some. Oh well. There’s great demand for what I sell.’
As stalls went Jeremiah Poughty didn’t have a bad one. It was a well-stuffed pitch – wooden shelves at the back filled with sacks of vibrant-coloured powders, beans, nuts and other items she didn’t recognise. Bunches of herbs, thyme, parsley, fennel and sage hung in bunches overhead. Some substances stuffed in between looked questionable.
‘Jeremy, can I ask you something?’
His eyelids fluttered nervously. ‘Sure. But if it’s a date, I’m not your type.’
She smiled. ‘No, and I’m not yours.’
She looked over his stall and upwards at the sign.
‘Nice little spot, Jeremiah. Herbs, Spice and All Things Nice.’
Suddenly Jeremiah was all teeth, wide mouth and floating hands. ‘Spice adds a little colour to your cooking – you should try some.’
The words came rat-a-tat-tat out of his mouth.
‘It’s mine and Ade’s.’ He nodded towards his partner who was wearing a green T-shirt, matching silk scarf and trousers too tight for decency. Like an unripe banana, thought Honey.
He smiled briefly by as he was bagging up half a pound of dried beans for a crusty with three rings in his nose, in the usual uniform of ragged parka jacket and half-shaved head, with a half-starved dog.
‘I will. But not today.’ Honey dug her thumbs into the waistband of her jeans. Designer of course. Bums and thighs were a nightmare without a good cut.
‘On the house,’ he said, offering her a small bag of dried herbs
.
Honey grinned. ‘Can I put this in my mother’s curry?’
‘What you do to your mother is your affair. It’s a free sample – we give it to other customers too.’
She eyed him quizzically. ‘Just how highly spiced is it?’
Jeremiah pursed his beautifully sculptured lips. ‘I told you. Purely legit, dahling thing.’
Honey took the brown paper bag and slid it into her leather one.
‘Go on,’ he said. ‘What do you want to ask me?’
‘About these sacks …’
The necks of the sacks containing the spices were rolled over revealing the brightly coloured contents. Honey fingered them thoughtfully.
‘They’re just sacks,’ said Jeremiah with a nonchalant shrug. She noticed his eyes slide sidelong to his partner.
‘A sack like these was found covering the head of the man they dragged from the weir the other day.’
‘Oh my!’ Jeremiah jumped and grew taller. Although his teeth showed he wasn’t smiling. ‘He was murdered?’
‘He was that.’
‘How terrible! Poor man! Suffocated with spices and hit over the head with a blunt instrument.’
She wasn’t sure either from his expression or tone of voice whether he was being facetious or strangely enraptured. She didn’t know him well enough to judge but felt obliged to burst his bubble.
‘You know I’m Crime Liaison Officer for the Hotels Association, don’t you?’
She hadn’t been given a formal title or had it described in writing, but the handle seemed close enough.
He looked askance at her.
She took advantage of his off-guard moment.
‘He was killed three days ago. Saturday night sometime.’
‘Dreadful.’
‘Where were you last Saturday?’
His features froze before he burst out laughing. ‘You’re just joking. You can’t really ask me questions. You’re not a policeman, dahling.’
She raised one questioning eyebrow. ‘A sack smelling of spices? You’ve got loads of them here.’ She spread her hands, indicating tier upon tier of small, filled bags. ‘A friend of mine who is a police detective would be interested in hearing that.’
Something in the Blood (A Honey Driver Murder Mystery) Page 10