Something in the Blood (A Honey Driver Murder Mystery)

by Goodhind, Jean G

  What with Mary Jane deciding to move in and now this!

  Accepting she was surrounded by weirdos, she shook her head and left the kitchen.

  Making out bills in reception and dealing with the morning mail would make things right again.

  It didn’t!

  The quality envelope smelling of perfume intrigued her. It did more than that once she’d opened it. Pamela Charlborough had kept her promise. Honey’s jaw dropped. She’d forgotten all about the phone call.

  Stuffing the letter back into the sweetly scented envelope she addressed the girl on reception.

  ‘The bills are done, the phone’s quiet and I’m off out.’

  ‘And if anyone wants you?’ asked a surprised-looking Olga, her cheeks pink with youthful energy.

  ‘If they want to reserve a room or a table in the restaurant, write it down. If it’s a man and he sounds reasonably endearing, give him my mobile number.’

  Olga’s face burst into a grin. ‘And Mr Paget? Your mother told me he wishes to marry you.’

  ‘Tell him I’ve gone to work in a leper colony.’

  Chapter Thirty-three

  A stilted silence hung over the incident room and the aroma of stewed coffee clogged the air. Coffee got colder in half-full cups and no one seemed to have much of a laugh in them. Even in the direst of circumstances somebody usually came up with a corny gag or dry pun to break the gloom of the occasion.

  Clutching the letter from Lady Charlborough, Honey peered in through the glass door at the glum expressions and lacklustre postures. Some of the officers were slouched in their chairs, others bent over their desks, heads resting on arms. Steve Doherty was using a pencil to tap at a Santa Claus mug.

  Honey took a deep breath. Boy, was she going to lift their spirits – she hoped.

  A few pairs of eyes looked up to see what nosey so and so was disturbing their grief.

  ‘Our person from the Hotels Association,’ said Doherty, his chin resting on his hand, his elbow resting on the desk. The corners of his mouth were wedge-side down.

  He flashed her a grim reaper grimace before shifting his glance on to something less unsettling. He chose the paperclip dispenser.

  Honey sensed discomfiture. Severe discomfiture.

  ‘OK, OK. You’ve had to let Robert Davies go and you’re peed off about it!’

  Doherty’s overly wide mouth twisted into a snarl. ‘You come to gloat?’

  ‘No. I am the bearer of glad tidings, oh sad-looking shepherds!’ She held up the letter.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A letter from Lady Pamela. It explains a lot.’

  He eyed it suspiciously.

  ‘Go on,’ urged Honey. ‘It won’t bite you. Though she might have taken her teeth to you given half the chance,’ she added with a grin.

  A wave of sniggers circled the room.

  Doherty glared the sniggerers to silence. ‘You lot got nothing else to do? How about a bit of door-to-door? Better still, traffic duty. Savvy?’

  His colleagues turned back to their individual tasks: sieving evidence files, playing solitaire and drinking tea.

  As Doherty devoured the words, his dour expression brightened.

  ‘So! She’s accusing this bloke Trevor Spiteri of being a psycho.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘What’s hmmm supposed to mean?’

  ‘I thought she’d accuse the person she hates most.’

  ‘Her husband?’

  She made that ‘hmmm’ sound again. ‘Someone dedicated to her husband. And with the right address.’

  ‘This is enough for me!’

  Sensing a shift in Doherty’s mood, a few of his team eyed him like dogs about to be let off the leash.

  ‘Braden,’ he barked.

  A dark-skinned female detective with shiny black hair bolted upright.

  ‘Get a fix on a bloke named Trevor Spiteri.’

  ‘Yes, guv.’

  Her fingers pounded the computer.

  ‘Fleming?’

  The man named Fleming was already on his feet, leaning towards his boss as though ready to snaffle up every word.

  ‘Get a warrant issued!’

  The excitement was tangible. Honey could almost taste the surge in testosterone. It was as though she had entered a different room, certainly not the one she’d come into just a few minutes ago. Everyone was animated. Everyone was keen to replace one arrest with another.

  She basked in their praise.

  ‘You’re one of the team!’

  ‘We got him now!’

  ‘You’re a doll.’

  The corners of Doherty’s mouth went sunny-side up. ‘You’ll be wanting a job here before long.’

  Honey shook her head. ‘Let’s not get silly. Though I did prove myself right, but there, I’m just an amateur.’

  His eyes said bitch! She didn’t give a hoot. She told herself it wasn’t gloating, just setting the record straight.

  ‘Don’t rub it in.’

  ‘You owe me.’

  ‘Dinner?’

  ‘OK. But more than that. I want to come with you. I want to be in on the arrest.’

  He hesitated.

  ‘You owe me,’ she repeated.

  He made the decision.

  ‘OK. And let’s hope he’ll be there.’

  His attention jerked to the glossy-haired woman. ‘So what do we know, Braden?’

  Glossy hair leaned back from her console. ‘Grievous bodily harm – ten years back. He’s ex-army. Born in London, stationed in a few foreign conflicts before ending up in Warminster …’

  Doherty jabbed a finger in her direction. ‘Print it off!’

  Honey took a deep breath and began to read.

  Charlborough’s batman, Trevor Spiteri, lived at number 6 Rathbone Terrace, a stone’s throw from Charlotte Terrace where Robert Davies, Bob the Job, lived. As with other properties in the city, its cellars went under the road and had doors opening on to the river. In the past the rich people who lived in the houses had moored shallow leisure craft on the river which ran along behind. The rich people were gone, the elegant houses divided into equally elegant apartments, rented at roughly the same price per month as each house had cost to build way back. She wondered if Trevor Spiteri wore white trainers.

  ‘Got it!’ Fleming shouted, an arrest warrant flapping in the air. Up went the cheer. Cars were organised. The plan discussed. Honey ran out behind them, her heart thudding with excitement. Without waiting for a specific order she got into the car beside Doherty.

  He opened his mouth to form the words ‘shove off’, then seemed to have second thoughts and changed his mind.

  With a screech of wheels they were out of the car park and on to Manvers Street , Doherty aiming the car like a missile homing in on its target.

  The terrace was not as elegant as some in the city, its architecture originating at the beginning of the nineteenth century. Gone were the Palladian pillars each side of a wide door, the carved pediments over long, light-filled windows. The refined features had been replaced by the more business-like style of a swiftly moving industrial age. Aprons of black and white quarry tiles sloped from threshold to pavement in front of each house, worn down by countless thousands of footsteps.

  Car doors slammed in unison. Uniformed and plain-clothes officers tumbled out of cars.

  ‘I’ll take the front door with you two.’ Doherty pointed a crooked finger at two of the passengers of another car. He turned to Honey. ‘You get around the back with these two. And keep out of the way.’

  Hair flying and face flushed, Honey followed the two policemen, the heels of her black suede boots scattering gravel behind her.

  They came face to face with a blank wall. The two policemen looked baffled. One lifted his helmet and rubbed at the redness left behind on his forehead.

  ‘The guv’nor must ’ave got his facts wrong, miss. There’s no entrance round here.’

  Honey bit her lip. The place fitted in with everything required
to make this work, but not entirely. The river bounded the rear of the houses but the side wall prevented them from going any further. There was no back alley, no way of slipping from one back yard to another.

  Honey looked in the direction of the river. Doherty hadn’t wanted her to come. He’d got his way and sent her in the wrong direction. Bloody man!

  Doherty’s name was mud.

  Back in Rathbone Terrace, heads were appearing at windows, figures at doors. As insistent as plague, speculation crept from one flat, one house, one doorway, to another.

  By word of mouth, it passed the black railings protecting the drops to narrow basements. Sash windows shaded with Venetian blinds, or the braids and tassels of traditional design, became open.

  Honey barged through the cordon at the entrance to number six. The entrance was narrow. Four uniformed bods were plenty enough to keep the curious at bay.

  ‘Nobody’s allowed in,’ said a young constable with a ginger moustache.

  ‘I’m not a nobody.’

  Braden, the dark girl with the glossy hair, chose that moment to come running out.

  Honey homed in on her. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Honey. Spiteri’s barricaded himself in his flat. Steve – DS Doherty – is talking to him. He says that until this is resolved no one is allowed inside.’

  The sound of a sash window being pulled up was followed by a head appearing out of a third-floor window.

  The two women looked up.

  ‘I suppose that’s him,’ said Fleming.

  Honey agreed.

  ‘I’ll jump if you smash my door in!’ Spiteri shouted.

  Honey recognised the hushed voice coming from a broken voice box.

  ‘We only want to talk to you,’ Fleming called back.

  ‘If I jump and hurt myself, I’ll claim police harassment,’ Spiteri shouted back.

  Without being invited, Honey joined in. ‘You might not be able to claim a single penny.’

  ‘Name one reason why I couldn’t.’

  ‘The fall might kill you. Your head and guts could be splattered on the pavement or speared on the railings and the bill for cleaning up would be set against the compensation.’

  A posse of police dropped jaws turned in her direction.

  Ignoring them, she kept her attention fixed on Trevor. Even from this distance she could see his perplexed expression, now the horror had been spelled out to him. To jump or not to jump. No contest.

  Things seemed to have come to a halt so Honey tackled Braden. ‘Doherty sent me round the back on purpose!’

  ‘Um. Yes,’ said Braden, torn between loyalty to Doherty and disgruntled sisterhood.

  ‘He’s a pig!’

  Fleming managed a lop-sided grin. ‘We all are, aren’t we?’

  ‘He’s miffed,’ said Braden.

  ‘He’s toast,’ grunted Honey.

  After confirming that Honey was definitely not to be allowed in the house, Braden summoned more assistance on her radio.

  Honey found herself melting into the small crowd of watchers as though she never had been of any consequence. Mentally she was sticking pins into a real-life Doherty. She’d been part of the investigation and now she was not.

  She hardly noticed the dusky young woman in the business suit come out of the house next door. Only when she spoke did it occur to her that the woman had moved like a panther, silently, swiftly, and making an instant impression.

  ‘What is going on?’

  Her voice was as dark as her hair.

  Honey turned and took in the details. The crisply white collar of a starched blouse lay flat against the lapels of a navy blue business suit. She carried a briefcase – or perhaps it was a laptop. The heels on her shoes were business-like, built for daywear. It was easy to believe that at night those long legs appeared even longer in four-inch heels. She was beautiful.

  ‘The police are trying to arrest the man next door,’ Honey explained. At the same time she wished she’d been blessed with sooty lashes and flawless skin.

  Intelligence shone in the dark, kohl-lined eyes.

  ‘But not very successfully.’

  ‘Par for the course. Nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Do excuse me for saying so, but I got the impression you were with them.’

  Honey grimaced. ‘So did I. I think they’d decided that I’d outlived my usefulness.’

  Blurting it all to a stranger seemed ridiculous, but she couldn’t help herself.

  ‘The annoying thing is that I obtained the evidence. Not them.’

  The lovely lady from next door tutted and shook her head.

  ‘Poor Mr Spiteri. And only just back from visiting his family.’

  Honey’s interest slackened. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. He was away most of the summer and has only been back two weeks.’

  ‘Two weeks?’ Honey was counting back the days to Elmer’s disappearance.

  Honey turned to face her informant. ‘Is that a fact?’

  The young woman’s complexion was to die for. Honey felt a tinge of jealousy for her youthful skin, dark eyes and confident manner.

  Her perfect teeth flashed pearl white. ‘I was told this by a nosey parker that I know very well. My own grandmother in fact.’

  The thick lashes flickered as she checked her watch.

  ‘Your being treated so offhandedly annoys me. Sisters have to stick together! Now if you wish to confirm all I have told you, go into my house and up the first flight of stairs. My grandmother is home. The rest of the family are out at work all day. Don’t tell her that I called her a nosey parker, but I can confidently assure you she can tell you everything that happens in this street. She doesn’t get out much and sees everything.’

  Out of gratitude, Honey felt a need to show interest in such a helpful young woman.

  Honey made an assumption. ‘Your family is in business?’

  ‘My parents, along with other members of the Patel family, run various businesses. My brothers and I have professions.’

  ‘And what is yours?’ Honey asked adopting the warmest of smiles.

  ‘I’m a tax accountant.’

  Honey’s smile froze.

  The young woman saw her look. ‘I said tax accountant, not tax inspector.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Honey taking a deep breath and fanning her face with her hand. ‘Thank goodness for that.’

  ‘Please. Tell my grandmother that Zakia said you should speak to her. Like a lot of elderly people, she has an obsession with security.’

  Like most Georgian houses, the property had once been home to just one family and their servants. Now it was divided into individual homes for the members of one family.

  After the third knock at the Patels’ door, it opened inches and a pair of dark eyes appeared over the tight restraint of a brass security chain. The perfume that wafted out through the gap was immediately recognisable. Chanel. Honey instantly thought of her mother. Grandma Patel and Gloria Cross had something in common.

  ‘Mrs Patel? I’m working in conjunction with the police. Your granddaughter Zakia suggested I speak with you.’

  ‘Will she get to work on time?’

  ‘I see no reason why not.’

  ‘Oh. That is good.’

  Her dark eyes darted from Honey’s head to her toes and back again before the door closed, the chain rattled and the door reopened.

  ‘Please. Come in. I will put the kettle on. You’ll have to excuse the mess. I’m researching my thesis for a degree with the Open University.’

  ‘Oh, really? What subject are you studying?’

  ‘Computer Science, though I am not sure I have picked the right aspect. I think I need to enrol for a City and Guilds-type of qualification. I’m more interested in stripping them apart rather than understanding the mathematics and the science of the subject.’

  Honey was suitably impressed. ‘You mean you can actually take a computer apart and put it back together again?’

 
Mrs Patel grinned. ‘Oh yes. I can strip it down now, thanks to my grandson’s instruction.’ She frowned as a thought occurred to her. ‘The trouble is that neither of us are any good at putting it back together again. That is what I need to learn.’

  Mrs Patel was dressed in a swathe of rich green silk banded with gold. Grey hair spread like a halo framing her face. She was elegant and oozed confidence. Nothing, thought Honey, had ever been allowed to stand in the way of anything she’d ever wanted to do.

  ‘Come. Follow me. We will make ourselves comfortable.’

  She limped as she led her to the back of the house overlooking the river.

  ‘This is my private little flat where I go when I wish to be away from the family,’ she explained.

  Her eyes shone as she spoke. Arm outstretched, she indicated a row of family photographs including one of Zakia wearing mortarboard and gown, and clutching her degree. Pride shone from Mrs Patel’s eyes.

  Honey guessed she did not frequent this room when the family was home.

  ‘Sit here. Make yourself comfortable. I will make tea.’

  She limped off into the adjoining kitchen. The sound of a kettle being switched on and crockery being laid out rattled into the living room.

  The Georgians had favoured high ceilings and big windows to let in the light. This room was no exception. A Bentwood rocker packed with silk-covered cushions was placed in front of the high window. Beyond the yard was the river.

  ‘This is where I sit and watch the world at the back of the house,’ Mrs Patel explained on coming back with the tea. ‘Sometimes I watch the world at the front of the house. I have another chair just like this one in front of that window. But I prefer back here. It is so quiet. So deserted – most of the time.’

  ‘You have very nice views. I bet you see all that goes on.’

  Mrs Patel sighed, her fine wrinkles deepening, as she eased herself into her chair.

  ‘I see a lot. Sometimes it is very interesting. Sometimes it is tiring. I sit here a lot, you know. It is my hip you see. The pain it causes interferes with my studies. I am waiting for an operation. I am waiting until the end of the month and then if I have not got an appointment my son says he will pay for me. I can get it done in France if I have to. One can do that now we are in Europe.’ She rubbed her hip as she said it.