Brotherly Blood

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘This matter is out of your league. Just let events take their natural course and everything will turn out well in the end.’

  ‘You sound as though you have great faith – or more information than the rest of us.’

  ‘That may be as it may. Leave it to us, old boy. We do know what we’re doing. You will leave the matter alone if you know what’s best for you.’

  He cut the connection.

  Feet resting on his desk, a cup of coffee untouched, Doherty attempted to return the number that had just rang him. An angry burring sounded. Not a message saying this number was engaged or unavailable. His stomach churned at the possibilities. It was exactly as he’d anticipated. The number was barred.

  He scratched his chin and frowned at his phone. If somebody didn’t want you to see their number it usually came up unknown. This one had not done that. This one was hidden behind a tight barrier. Only computer criminals and spooks did that, the latter well educated gentlemen who worked for faceless government departments with frightening agendas.

  Doherty decided to check his facts and phoned Devizes. Goudge sat at his desk in Devizes picked up his phone on the first ring.

  After exchanging the preliminary courtesies, Doherty asked him a few questions. He was not surprised by the answers but wished they could have been different.

  He repeated himself. ‘Are you sure about this Christiansen bloke? Are you sure you’ve never heard of him?’

  Goudge was adamant. He also sounded very disgruntled. ‘What’s more, there’s precious little information about the case coming in here. Somebody is holding onto the forensic report for grim death. Okay, he could very likely have had an accident, perhaps even a heart attack, slipped and got buried in the mud. But I don’t think so. I think there’s more here than meets the eye.’

  Doherty told him of his experience. ‘That’s not all, my old friend. I tried phoning our friend Christiansen on the number you gave me in Devizes. He phoned me back but when I tried to return his call I found the number was barred.’

  The silence between them was that of old friends, their thoughts hurtling along on the same wavelength.

  ‘Well, as I see it,’ began Goudge, ‘Somebody doesn’t want to talk to you. Could be one of the cloak and dagger brigade and you’re best giving that lot a wide berth. Mix with them at your peril.’

  Doherty didn’t confirm his thoughts on the matter one way or another. He did explain about the mistaken identity which resulted in a stony silence on the other end of the phone.

  For a moment he thought the line had gone dead. ‘Are you still there?’

  Goudge sighed. ‘Yes. I’m still here. That name. St John Gervais. It’s the same as the family who own Torrington Towers. Lord Torrington in fact. That’s his name. Tarquin St John Gervais.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  Doherty’s mind was made up.

  ‘You could well be right about the spooks being involved. I fancy rattling their cage a bit. Do you want to jeopardise your pension and join me?’

  Goudge chuckled. ‘Don’t mind if I do. Wouldn’t hurt to have a little adventure to look back on when I’m nursing a beer in my rocking chair.’

  ‘Right. As I see it we need to pull in a favour from a friendly pathologist. Do you know one?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Right. This is the plan...’

  Honey was just evicting the cat from her coach house when her phone rang. It was Smudger’s night off and although he’d asked to have a word with her, so far they hadn’t caught up. She presumed it was him, then changed her mind and guessed it was Steve Doherty.

  She leapt on it immediately, and certain it would be Doherty spoke first.

  ‘Hi handsome. Care for a late night drink with a sexy broad?’

  ‘What? Honey. It’s Xavier! Night receptionist at La Reine Rouge! Something terrible has happened.’

  Xavier was one of a number of receptionists at La Reine Rouge Hotel. His high pitched voice sounded as though somebody had their hands tight around his throat.

  ‘Mrs Driver. I’m so sorry to disturb you at this hour, but it’s Caspar! The old darling’s been taken into the police station for questioning with regard to that body found in Bradford on Avon.’

  Regardless of the confusion regarding identity, Honey wondered how he could possibly be implicated.

  ‘Leave it to me, Xavier. I’ll go there right away and see what’s going on. Have you contacted Caspar’s lawyer?’

  ‘I don’t have an evening phone number for Mr Featherlight, only his office number.’

  ‘Leave it with me. Caspar might already have phoned him. If not I’ll get in touch myself. Don’t worry.’

  Xavier sounded as though he were about to break out in a very bad case of hysterics. Honey asked if there was someone there he could share his fears with. Xavier replied that there was.

  ‘I’ve got Gulliver. He sleeps on his cushion under the desk.’

  She didn’t wait to ask if it was a cat or a dog. She tried phoning Doherty but there was no response. Was he on duty or had he left for this longstanding trip to the Brecon Beacons? Whatever the reason she couldn’t hang around.

  The duty sergeant at Manvers Street looked up and smiled when he saw Honey enter.

  ‘Hello there, Mrs Driver. I thought you might be along.’

  ‘Sergeant Clark. How are you?’

  ‘Fine to middling. Fine to middling.’

  It was all he ever said when asked how he was. Honey had no idea whether he had a family or not, because his responses never went further than fine to middling.

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I hear the chairman of Bath Hotels Association has been brought in for questioning regarding the body found at Bradford on Avon. Is there any particular reason for that?’

  Sergeant Clark leaned forward and whispered so nobody else around could hear.

  ‘I hear it’s all about identification. I don’t know where the order came from, but I had a phone call saying they want a sample of Mr St. John Gervais’ DNA.’

  Honey drew back, as much to avoid the desk sergeant’s bad breath as well as surprise.

  ‘What for?’

  The desk sergeant scratched his head. ‘Apparently the wheel was set in motion by some pathologist in Devizes.

  Honey tried to think why that would be. She couldn’t even begin to guess.

  ‘Has he agreed to give a sample?’

  Actually Caspar wouldn’t have much choice, but she knew how independent he could be. It wasn’t inconceivable that he would put up a fight. Anyway, the police would be insistent. The police would have asked him for DNA if they suspected some connection. In this case they were insisting he gave a sample. If that was so then this case was no longer a suicide. DNA was required when a crime had been committed. In this case it had to be murder.

  ‘He’s very subdued,’ murmured the sergeant, still trying to avoid being overheard. ‘However, he was persuaded. The guvnor’s asked for a quick turn round on the results.’

  Honey frowned. ‘But I thought everything to do with this was going through Devizes.’

  The sergeant tapped the side of his nose and winked. ‘Devizes did want him taken there, but the guvnor persuaded them that it would be quicker for us to do it.’

  Honey had to agree that it made sense. She also guessed the word guv’nor alluded to Steve Doherty.

  ‘There seems to be a bit of rivalry going on here – I mean between Wiltshire police and Bath.’

  The sergeant nodded. ‘Seems that way, though we all know old Caspar. He’s done a lot for this city and it owes him. Why put him through unnecessary hassle?’

  Honey’s fingers tapped a rhythm on the counter as she thought it through. It came to her that Doherty was doing Caspar a favour and playing for time. She nodded her thanks to the desk sergeant.

  ‘Do you want to wait for the guvnor?’ he asked her, a slightly mischievous look in his eyes, which meant Doherty was still somewhere in the city
.

  Honey smiled and shook her head. The whole station knew about her and Doherty.

  When he came out from giving a sample of his DNA, Caspar’s face was paler than the collar of the white shirt that peeped above his navy blue blazer. He looked like the commodore of a yacht club.

  ‘Are they letting you go?’ Honey whispered.

  Caspar nodded his eyes downcast and his jaw moving as though he were grinding his teeth.

  ‘At least they know you’re not the dead man.’

  She said it cheerfully in the hope of raising his spirits.

  Caspar’s face remained deadpan, in fact severely concerned.

  The fresh evening air outside hit them with a fine shower of drizzle. Just for once Caspar didn’t have his umbrella.

  They walked away from the police station, Caspar lacking his usual composure. Honey sensed there was more he wanted to say.

  ‘What is it Caspar? Why did they want a sample of your DNA?’

  ‘In order to identify the man who was murdered. If it matches, then I also have to make a formal identification.

  Murder! So it was murder.

  Sprinkles of rain showered from Honey’s hair when she shook her head, puzzled by all this.

  ‘DNA and a formal identification? Why?’

  Caspar stopped in his tracks and took a deep breath, a strange, foreign look in his eyes.

  ‘Because they think it was Tarquin who was murdered. They think it was my brother. One way or another, my DNA will prove that.’

  Chapter Five

  She tried a few times to phone Caspar after that, but on each occasion one of his bevy of receptionists told her he was busy.

  The next time she saw Caspar he was sipping cocktails in Raphael’s, the smart restaurant opposite the Mineral Hospital and he seemed incredibly calm.

  ‘I understand your policeman lover is off shortly to the wilds of mid Wales. Will you have the opportunity for some time together before he leaves?’

  Up until now Caspar had never referred to her and Doherty in the same breath or asked such a personal question. It was unlike him.

  ‘Well, we were considering a weekend away…’

  Caspar generously offered the use of a cottage he owned down near a place called Wyvern Wendell. Honey expressed her gratefulness.

  ‘It’s the least I can do,’ Caspar responded. ‘It’s on the Torrington Towers estate. A lovely little place. I’m sure you’ll like it. Here’s the key.’

  Seeing as they’d only just discussed his cottage, it seemed odd that he had the key on his person.

  ‘I’d very much like you to be there.’

  Honey smiled wanly. What else was this about?’

  ‘Next weekend, if you don’t mind. I’ll be there too of course.’

  Honey’s joy at being given this opportunity had brightened her day. Sensing there was a price to pay – though not a monetary one – her beaming countenance vanished.

  ‘Why will you be there too, Caspar? What else is happening?’

  Eyelids as smooth and big as dessertspoons hid the expression in his eyes.

  ‘It’s my brother’s funeral. I would like you to come. Not to keep me company, but to observe, to ask questions etc.’

  Honey found herself agreeing. After all he was right about her making enquiries. It made sense.

  Doherty was also taken by surprise but leapt at the opportunity.

  ‘A chance to be alone.’ He went on to say he had a few things to tidy up before they left.

  She didn’t mention the funeral.

  ‘So we’re on if you don’t mind us driving down separately.’

  She didn’t mind at all.

  The plan was that she would drive to the cottage at Upper Stanley and Doherty would follow on behind. She didn’t mind that. Tomorrow night, Saturday, was for eating out. On arrival, a little wearied by travelling, they would eat in.

  The weather was seasonal, the Indian summer they’d been enjoying having headed south, leaving the trees heavy with colour and a refreshing nip in the air.

  It was the ideal weather for an autumn weekend away.

  She wouldn’t admit it to him, but she felt good about arriving before him. She’d have time to prepare this evening’s meal, chill the wine and await his arrival. Everything would go swimmingly. At least that’s what she thought, until she glanced in her rear view mirror.

  The car was sleek, black and had tinted windows. Four times she glanced in her mirror, each time growing more suspicious, after all she’d travelled some miles.

  She couldn’t be sure it wasn’t Dominic Christiansen’s BMW. In one way she hoped it was. In another she wondered why he would want to follow her. She’d phoned him a few times and either hadn’t got through or he hadn’t returned her call.

  So, she said to herself, you’re being followed. Either that or you’re paranoid.

  She didn’t think she was paranoid. A fifth and a sixth glance and it was still there.

  As a result she found herself feeling slightly sick. Why would anyone want to follow her.

  Nahh! You’ve got to be mistaken.

  Miles more motoring and he was still there.

  She ‘d left the motorway some way back. The traffic on the main road was less than on the motorway and lessened again once she’d left the main road and onto a minor road.

  The hedges were higher and in places it was single file with just a few passing places.

  The affect was claustrophobic and definitely scary. She’d never had that sensation before and had no experience of following anyone else. It was the stuff of crime and thriller novels created by vivid imaginations and although she tried to persuade herself otherwise, she knew, she just knew.

  The driver’s identity was cloaked in the dim interior behind the darkened glass of the windscreen. No passengers, or at least none that she could see.

  Was she being paranoid? A little test would prove it one way or the other. She stabbed at the brake and saw the reflection of her brake light glowing red on the shiny chrome of the car behind. There was a screeching of locked wheels as the driver fought to maintain control and avoid kissing the Citroen’s rear.

  ‘You’re driving too bloody close,’ Honey shouted.

  She made a rude gesture into the rear view mirror, pushed the accelerator to the floor and shot off. Though she’d expected some kind of response – even a sounding of a horn, she received none.

  The narrow road ahead was in need of close attention if she was to outrun the man and outrun him she damn well would. His engine was bigger than the Citroen, but the little car was extremely manoeuvrable.

  Determinedly she wove along the narrow road which became no more than a lane before she shot out across a T junction and onto a wider road.

  The sign opposite her said Wyvern Wendell, three miles.

  Without halting at the white line, she took a swift right and put her foot down, driving in and out of the traffic like a demented spider weaving a web. When she next looked in the mirror, the shiny black limousine had been replaced by a police car.

  ‘Damn and blast it!’

  Then there was another car.

  The flashing blue lights were an annoying interruption but not wishing to upset the men in blue, she pulled dutifully over, checked her makeup in the mirror and wound down the window. By looking her best and smiling sweetly, she might get this over with quickly.

  She tossed her head so that her hair flayed around like a living halo. Uppermost in her mind was the prospect of getting a speeding ticket, something she could well do without. It wouldn’t hurt to be pleasantly seductive, though only within reason.

  There were two uniformed police officers. One of them approached her, his walk slow and purposeful as though he were John Wayne and had just dismounted from his horse.

  She fancied his eyes brushed over her legs so smiled at him as though she could read his thoughts and was keen to know what was in the next chapter. He did not return her smile.

  ‘Is
there a problem, constable?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid there is, Miss. You were travelling at over sixty miles per hour in a thirty-mile limit. Going somewhere in a hurry are we?’

  The sarcasm was feral. Shame. He was fresh, he was young and he had a cute face – as policemen go.

  ‘Yes. I thought I was being followed.’

  The policeman looked tellingly at the empty road.

  ‘If he is it must be the invisible man.’

  ‘Look. I’m meeting my boyfriend. He’s a policeman.

  He didn’t look as though he believed her. ‘That’s what they all say, miss. Everyone wants to be a policeman.’

  ‘It’s true!’ she exclaimed with feeling. ‘His name’s Detective Inspector Steve Doherty. He’s stationed at Manvers Street in Bath and…’

  ‘Can I see your driving licence, miss?’

  Heaving a huge sigh, Honey dragged her shoulder bag off the front passenger seat. The bag was made of brown suede, very square with a rawhide fringe all around. Very hippy looking, though in actuality very expensive and bought in a shop specialising in the retro look.

  ‘Here you are, constable.’ She gave him the licence which he scrutinised as though searching for some hidden meaning in the basic details of name, age, and contact address.

  His disdainful manner continued.

  The writing was on the wall. There was no way he was going to let her get away with this but she determined to give it another go.

  ‘Look. I really did think I was being stalked by a man in a black car. Really I did.’

  He held onto the licence as he gave it back and for a brief moment his fingertips touched hers. His look was direct.

  ‘I’ll let you off this time. Next time I won’t.’

  After snatching the licence back, Honey made a big fuss about putting everything back in the bag.

  ‘What about the man following me? Will you keep a lookout for him?’

  ‘Well, he isn’t following you now, is he?’

  ‘He wouldn’t be,’ Honey returned hotly. ‘You pulled me over because you said I was speeding. You’d be speeding too if somebody was following you.’

  He screwed up his face until it looked like a withered balloon.