Something in the Blood (A Honey Driver Murder Mystery)

by Goodhind, Jean G

  ‘Not at all. You don’t seem surprised.’

  ‘I met her twice. Enough to form an instant opinion.

  ‘She wasn’t that bad.’

  ‘She was blonde, Steve, and you’re a man which means you’re biased.’

  ‘I prefer brunettes – like you.’

  ‘Smoothie!’

  ‘We’re trying to find Mark Conway,’ said Doherty.

  ‘He’s in number nine! It’s empty! Mark Conway was used to slipping in and out unnoticed and I know how he was doing it. Sir Andrew has a boat. Mark Conway maintains it just like he does the cars. Anything mechanical, he said. Are you going to do anything about it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She heard him shout at someone to get hold of the key holder before coming back to her.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  It was eight o’clock in the evening. A mist was rising from the river when they eventually got the keys.

  The estate agent had insisted on accompanying them.

  Although the key was in the lock, professional habits – as well as bad ones – are hard to kick. The policeman with the key heaved his shoulder into the door.

  The estate agent turned pale.

  ‘Go carefully! This is a very valuable property. It has great development potential,’ he protested.

  ‘Search the whole house,’ Doherty ordered. Four burly detectives rushed into the ground-floor hall.

  The estate agent had a shiny tie and a surly attitude. ‘I hope you don’t expect me to accompany you. There’s no electricity on. You’ll be in pitch darkness in some parts of the building,’ he added.

  Honey headed towards the front door when Doherty grabbed her arm. ‘Not you. This is police business.’

  ‘No way! I’ve been with this case all the way through. You can’t blank me out now.’

  ‘Yes I can. I’m a policeman,’ he said after frogmarching her back out on to the pavement.

  Doherty headed back towards the front door.

  Honey leaned on the railings and looked down into the basement courtyard. There was another door down there, one that led directly into the basement flat.

  The gate hinges creaked as she pushed it open.

  Doherty chose that moment to reappear.

  ‘Get back up here,’ he shouted down at her.

  Doherty raced after her down the slimy green steps. The small courtyard wasn’t big enough to swing a cat – even a kitten, but it still smelled of cats pee.

  ‘I’m going in whether you like it or not,’ Honey told him.

  He shook his head. ‘Honey, I just can’t resist an angry woman.’

  The door to the cellar area had multi-coloured diamond-shaped glass panels in it.

  It wasn’t locked. Doherty pushed it open.

  ‘I say again, the electricity is not switched on,’ said the estate agent who was leaning over the railings above them.

  Doherty switched on his flashlight. ‘No need to concern yourself, sir. Boy scouts are always prepared.’

  ‘So are girl guides,’ said Honey and did the same with her mobile.

  They passed into gloom; the light from their torches showing that whoever bought the place had a lot of work to do. It didn’t hold a candle to Trevor’s flat in number six. Nevertheless, they were likely to make a fortune. This was probably the last house on the block ripe for conversion to flats.

  A passageway led to the rooms at the back. He opened a latched door and discovered the steps down to the lower level. At the bottom of the steps was a small hall. Honey raised her hand to her nose. The smell of damp and mould was overpowering.

  Doherty moved off to her right.

  Doherty motioned for to stay behind. She did as she was told, though not because he’d ordered her to. She’d heard something and fancied he had not.

  The light from Doherty’s torch moved away. Her own light began to dim. Drat. Why hadn’t she thought to recharge it?

  Telling herself that she wasn’t in the least bit nervous, she moved sideways to her right, thinking she had passed through a doorway, although she couldn’t be sure.

  It was dark now. Doherty and his flashlight were far away.

  She guessed she was in one of the small, square cellar rooms close to the river and beneath the road to the rear of the property. This was where provisions were kept in years gone by. Not now. Now there was only decay and damp and darkness.

  She moved sideways again thinking she heard someone, something. Not Doherty. Doherty was behind her. The noise came from somewhere ahead. In the hope of not being seen, she turned off her phone light.

  The smell of mud and a rush of air told her she wasn’t far from the river now.

  Suddenly she could see the orange lights shining from the other side of the river. She turned her light back on and told herself that it was probably only a rat she’d heard earlier.

  Was that rats she could see moving about on the river? If they were, they were a strange shape and very large.

  Her foot brushed against something. She flashed her phone at the ground. Her mouth went dry.

  A pair of staring, dead eyes were caught in the flashlight’s gleam. Not one of the plastic heads she’d found in the war games greenhouse. This was real, the flesh blackened and falling away from the face. Probably eaten by rats.

  The flashlight picked out the glint of gold earrings. Expensive earrings.

  Pamela Charlborough was not in Spain!

  Her stomach churned. Sickened at the sight, she put her hand over her mouth and tried not to breathe.

  Something knocked against her knees causing her to bend. An arm thick with muscle wrapped around her neck. Her legs buckled as he jabbed his knees more forcefully into the back of hers.

  His arm was tight against her throat.

  ‘Do you see them?’

  His breath was moist against her ear. ‘Do you see my trophy? My father told me how to kill. That was the other reason Andrew stepped in when our mother died. Our father served with him in Malaya. Did you know that? The Gurkhas used to cut off their enemies’ heads. My dad learned how to do it from them. And Sir Andrew. Him too.’

  A cold chill ran down her spine. Even before she felt it against her neck, she knew it was coming.

  ‘This is my friend,’ he said.

  Because the steel blade rested on her neck, he loosened his grip on her throat. Obviously he guessed she’d be too scared to do anything silly. He was dead right.

  ‘I’m not a police officer,’ she said, trying not to sound frightened.

  ‘I know. You’re just like the others. You want to upset everything. Can’t have that, can we?’

  She closed her eyes, prayed it would be over quickly, then thought of her mother and Lindsey. Which one would have to identify her?

  YOU ARE NOT GOING TO PANIC.

  ‘Please!’

  Her voice sounded small.

  She managed to peer over his arm. She could see the river and the waning light of sunset glowing around the opening and the city lights across the river. She prayed for Doherty to come. He was bound to come.

  Fifty yards away, Doherty’s flashlight had failed. Muttering to himself, he edged his way back over the slimy flagstones.

  The walls crumbled silently as he felt his way back. Some instinct told him to be very quiet as he retraced his way to where he’d left her. The muted light from the world outside shone somewhere ahead of him. He looked to his left and suddenly there she was, held tightly, silhouetted against the light coming from the river. It glinted on the knife at her throat.

  His first thought was to rush Conway. Not wise! She’d be dead by the time he got there. Somehow he had to catch Conway off-guard and get him away from her. But how?

  He saw her tense and knew she’d seen him. Perhaps Mark Conway had not; he didn’t turn.

  In the little light there was, he looked for anything that might help him take Conway out. There was nothing on the walls, nothing on the floor.

  All he could see were iron h
ooks and bars ranged along the ceiling. Before refrigeration was invented this was where meat would have been hung. One of the bars was hanging from the ceiling like a giant pendulum, one end fallen from its bracket.

  Honey had indeed seen him. She kept as still as she could, very much aware that the strong arm holding her could break her neck if it chose.

  So he wouldn’t be heard, Doherty kept his breathing under control. Sweat ran down his face and into his collar as he calculated the weight of the pendulum and how hard he’d need to swing it. Honey’s life depended on him getting it right.

  Judging by the consistency of the walls, the ceiling would be equally crumbly; he hoped it would hold. The iron bar was huge. Everything depended on Conway’s position if he was to get it right.

  Honey saw him, little more than a shadow, looking at the long, thick iron bar that hung from the ceiling.

  She saw it was loose and guessed that if it was swung in the right direction Conway would get the full impact – if she could get him closer. If she could turn him so the iron bar hit him and not her.

  Keep him talking. You have to keep distract him!

  ‘I spoke to your brother. He told me everything. I can’t blame you for what you did. I mean, you were just looking after your brother’s interests …’

  ‘The American should have kept his mouth shut then none of this would have happened. Stupid bitch …’

  Honey closed her eyes thinking at first that she was the stupid bitch he was referring to, but he went on with his diatribe and the reference to Pamela Charlborough became obvious.

  As he ranted on, Doherty gingerly tested the movement of the bar.

  Honey listened as he muttered about Charlborough and what he’d done.

  ‘He was my brother, you see. Our mother was dead. Our father didn’t want us. That’s what hurt the most, but Andrew made up for that. He gave us a home – as long as Shaun became Lance. That was the deal.’

  ‘And he paid your father off,’ she said, glancing at Doherty and praying she’d get the timing right.

  ‘That’s right. Very handsomely, but then, look what Sir Andrew was gaining.’

  Honey swallowed. The knife was sharp against her throat. The tiniest movement or the wrong word and her crisp white shirt could be the wrong shade of pink. And yet she had to move, and not just a little. Violently, so that his body would be facing Doherty.

  She braved herself to ask a few more questions.

  ‘So you hate him for that?’

  ‘Of course not. He’s treated us well.’

  ‘And Lance didn’t know that Sir Andrew was not his real father?’

  ‘He didn’t! Not until she told him. That bitch! That harlot!’ His arm tightened around her. ‘I won’t have anyone – anyone – spoil his life. And she did. Though I tried to be nice to her. I really did.’

  Honey thought of the crisp, clean love nest next door. ‘Yes. Of course you did.’

  ‘First that American trying to upset the applecart, and then that slime-ball Herbert begging for money.’

  ‘He tried blackmail?’

  ‘Yes. That’s the only way his sort ever gets money – by leeching off others.’

  ‘So you buried him in the rockery hoping that Mrs Herbert’s first husband would be blamed?’

  ‘That’s right! Bob the Job. Lance had been having a fling with that little slut Loretta. He told me all about it.’

  His laughter echoed off and around the damp ceilings.

  ‘Bob Davies deserved to be blamed. It was his fault that the Yank came visiting in the first place. Him and his stupid hobby. Maxted had the money to check things out. Detecting was his hobby. He didn’t need to do it. But he wanted to see the boy, and then that stupid bitch told him the truth.’

  Mark told it all. The real Lance had inherited haemophilia from his mother. He had died in the same car accident as her. Sir Andrew hadn’t been too well-off at the time and was determined to hold on to the fortune his wife had brought to the marriage. Without an heir it would have reverted back to her family. So he’d bought – it was the only way she could describe it – bought Shaun from his father. The deal was struck on the condition he took Mark as well, though only loosely, not as a family member.

  ‘So a kidnap was contrived, the boy never found?’ Her voice sounded shaky.

  Mark continued to be forthcoming. ‘That’s how it worked. Shaun – Lance – never knew any different.’

  ‘But you killed Lady Pamela. Surely she was trying to protect you?’

  ‘And make sure she got her husband’s money. That’s why she accused Trevor and not me. Bitch! Dishonest bitch!’

  Honey licked the sweat off her lips and tensed her muscles. She could see Doherty was almost ready. His arms were gripping the bar, moving it backwards.

  With an almighty effort, he heaved it back as far as he could, then let it go.

  The pendulum made a grating sound as it swung.

  Just before it reached the lowest point of its arc, Honey jerked back sharply from the waist, twisting her hips. Conway was taken off balance. To regain his hold on her, he turned sideways towards Doherty – and the iron bar.

  Honey was flung forward as the force of the great iron bar sent Conway crashing towards the wall.

  She lay winded, breathing in dust and dirt, feeling soreness on her cheek.

  Doherty ran to her.

  ‘I’m all right,’ she kept saying in a squeaky voice that sounded nothing like her own. ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘She’s all right,’ he called out to the other figures moving in the gloom.

  Reinforcements had arrived.

  ‘Is he dead?’ Even to her ears, her voice hadn’t quite gone back to normal.

  Doherty glanced towards the dark bundle lying still on the floor.

  ‘With the side of his head missing? I should think so.’

  Honey rejected his offer to help her to her feet. ‘I’m OK.’ She looked down at her favourite suit and groaned. ‘Why did I choose white?’

  ‘Because you’re contrary and won’t be told anything.’

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  A guy wearing a lop-sided toupée and a carnation in his buttonhole smiled in her direction. For a split second his shiny shoes pointed her way. His course altered the moment John Rees appeared.

  ‘Have you had a good day?’ he asked, once the drinks were on the bar.

  She nodded. ‘Good enough. My daughter hasn’t told me she’s pregnant, the chef hasn’t sliced off a customer’s ears, and no one’s caught the curtains alight with a double Sambucca.’

  He nodded affably. Being affable as well as good-looking was definitely one of John’s things. She told herself he was exactly what she needed; nothing too macho, too cocksure and too much of a lad with the ladies. She knew a policeman who fitted the latter category.

  ‘You seem good, you know, kind of relaxed.’

  She licked a dewdrop of wine from her bottom lip.

  ‘I’m wearing my relaxation hat.’

  ‘Do you have many? Hats that is.’

  She counted them off on her fingers. ‘There’s my Father Confessor hat – people tell you all sorts of details about their private lives over the bar. Then there’s my ‘the customer is always right hat’. That’s the one I reserve for the loudmouth who insists on his consumer rights when a greenfly lands on his salad. Then there’s …’

  ‘Whoa! And what about your amateur detective hat?’

  The sound of her sigh seemed to echo through her body.

  ‘Not tonight. Case solved and the butler DID do it – well sometimes butler. Most times mechanic.’

  ‘So how do you intend to celebrate?’

  Honey pursed her lips, eyed the ceiling and thought about it.

  ‘I could buy something really old, silky and outdated at Bonhams’ next collectibles auction, but I’ve got a long wait. They held one yesterday and there were some good items going under the hammer. But never mind. I’ll catch the next one.’
/>   John smiled. ‘It was a good auction.’

  ‘You went?’

  He nodded. ‘Indeed I did.’

  ‘Lucky dog!’

  ‘I was. I bought you a present.’

  He reached down to the gap between their bar stools.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘I saw this and thought of you.’

  She started to undo the black plastic bin bag he’d handed her.

  ‘Stylish wrapper,’ she mused.

  He shrugged. ‘It was practical.’

  Her fingertips touched something familiar.

  She smiled at him. ‘Whalebone running through crisp lace and soft silk feels like nothing else in the world.’

  She peered in and saw red satin trimmed with black lace. Probably French, just like the one she’d missed on the morning when Casper had summoned her to his office.

  John’s hand covered hers. ‘Best if you didn’t get it out in here. People might get jealous.’

  She grinned and looking up at him felt all warm inside.

  ‘A corset. Should look nice encased behind glass with the rest of my collection.’

  The look he gave her was almost serious, certainly unsmiling.

  ‘In my opinion it’s the corset that should do the encasing. What do you think?’

  A slow smile spread across her face. ‘You must have read my mind.’

  The hollow sound of a phone ringing in the deep recesses of her favourite Gucci handbag cut the conversation short, though the inclination remained.

  ‘Mother!’

  Her smile was stiff and barely patient.

  ‘Hannah, I’ve arranged for Mr Paget to meet you in the bar of the FrancisHotel at nine o’clock. Are you far from there?’

  ‘Mr Paget?’

  ‘My dentist.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mother, I’m not. I’m in Bradford on Avon,’ she lied. ‘I’ll have to take a rain check I’m afraid. Can you tell him that?’

  The response was grumbled.

  An echo of another phone trilled from the other end of the bar. The guy with the toupée answered the call, shoved the phone away and ordered a double whisky.

  Honey eyed him feeling like a rabbit that’s just outwitted the fox.

  ‘Do you know him?’ asked John.