Walking with Ghosts - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  She closed her eyes and nestled into the pillow. This was so good. Comforting. Warm. And yet she simply could not drift into sleep.

  Exasperated, she flung herself on to her back and stared up at the ceiling. What the hell was keeping her awake?

  She sighed. It was like having a roundabout inside her head, the same observations and questions going around and around and around.

  Why had the woman been so quick off the mark about moving into the Green River? Was the hotel she was staying at that bad? No point losing sleep over it. She’d probably turn up in the morning with a plausible excuse. No one could simply vanish.

  Chapter Five

  Sleep was elusive even though the rain had stopped tap dancing against the bedroom window. She checked the clock. One thirty. Tried closing her eyes. Brain wouldn’t stop dancing.

  How about retracing your steps?

  Are you kidding?

  How about retracing them then heading for the Zodiac Club? How about Doherty might be sitting there on a bar stool expecting you to drop in? You could run this strange night past him.

  Honey swung her legs out of bed and got dressed. Jeans, a sweater, and loafers would do the job. Her soggy shoes had found the bottom of the rubbish bin and a fresh pair was dug out along with jeans and a red angora sweater. Her raincoat was still soaked. She left it draping over a radiator chancing that the rain would hold off.

  The rain had gone off and the city had come alive. OK, it wasn’t actually zinging along, but like nocturnal lemmings, the populace were poking twitching noses out into the night.

  A big shiny motorcycle slowed and for a while seemed to keep pace with her. She looked round. Was the city being taken over by Kawasaki and Yamaha?

  A police car surged into the space immediately behind the gleaming monster. A twist of throttle, a throaty roar and it was gone.

  The police car eased its pace, the officers inside scrutinizing the shop fronts before moving off.

  Honey watched it go, its brake lights glaring at the traffic lights before it disappeared. She found herself near Henrietta Park. Not liking the dark shadows thrown by the trees, she kept to the opposite side of the road. The air smelled of fresh foliage.

  Two jogging figures came into focus on the other side of the road. Late shifters, she thought. People who worked odd hours like six to two, two to ten, ten to six and found it difficult to fit in keep-fit time.

  Then she saw him. Doherty! Jogging along the pavement with a woman in tow.

  Jogging ? He’d never struck her as a fitness fanatic nor keen on sport.

  Her attention jumped to his leggy companion. Now that was more like his idea of sport! She was blonde, tall, and athletically built. Her shoulders were square and her legs were long. Her bosoms were firm and very still, as though plaster of Paris had been applied and set hard. Either that, or she was wearing a cast-iron brassiere.

  Honey’s heart did a quick cartwheel. She wasn’t jealous, she told herself. Doherty was hardly Mr Wonderful. He wasn’t even the best of coppers. But he’d held her hand since overseeing her appointment as Crime Liaison Officer on behalf of the Hotels Association. She felt comfortable in his company – a bit like the old trainers that she’d just thrown away.

  She thought fast. Hovering like this, she was bound to be seen. She didn’t want to be. He might think she’d been heading in his direction. She didn’t want to appear needy – or keen. Heaven forbid!

  There was nowhere to hide on her side of the street. Now what?

  Just before she drew level with them, a black motorcycle slid into the kerb.

  ‘Wanna lift?’

  Never take a lift from a stranger. She gave him the once over. Silver crash helmet, leather jacket, jeans and … wellington boots!

  It was stupid. It was spur of the moment, but hey, nobody with dark deeds in mind wears wellies – do they?

  Of course not! But there was something not quite right about this guy … wasn’t that the same motorbike she’d been seeing on and off all evening?

  Trust your instincts, Honey.

  She fled in the other direction, running all the way along the street, hoping Doherty hadn’t seen her or that the weirdo on the motorbike wasn’t following. There was a taxi at the end of the street spewing drunken revellers out onto the pavement. As they fell out, she leapt in.

  The taxi driver, keen to get his fare from the drunks, looked surprised to see her – especially seeing as she was lying along the back seat.

  ‘If you’re drunk, you can get out. I’ve had enough for tonight.’

  He sounded fed up.

  ‘I’m not. I’m in hiding. I think I’m being followed.’

  It was a good enough excuse; no need to mention Doherty and the blonde.

  ‘Where do you want to go?’

  She thought about going straight to the Green River Hotel, but what if Doherty went that way and saw her? She didn’t want him to know she’d seen him. He’d take it for granted that she had the hots for him. OK, basically it was true, but a man knowing a woman was in need got unnecessarily smug. She couldn’t stand smug.

  ‘Out of the city. For a ride. I fancy a bit of fresh air.’

  ‘So do I, love,’ the taxi driver muttered. ‘Open that back window, will you? Smells like a bloody distillery in ’ere.’

  The taxi driver turned into the city centre and then headed for Lansdown Hill. They sped up it, skirting parked cars and moving vehicles that dared to hog the middle of the road.

  Elegant buildings gave way to squat cottages. The wind whistled through the open window as they hurtled past the racecourse and the Blathwayt Arms. Where the hell was he taking her? He followed the left-hand curve of the road. She recognised where she was. They were dropping down towards the village of Wick on the outskirts of Bristol.

  A swift right and they were climbing again, this time up Tog Hill.

  Honey recalled the views being stupendous at the top of this hill. Not that she’d have time to sit and stare by the look of it – or stand and stare for that matter.

  They circled the island at the top and headed back down the A46 into Bath.

  Familiar streets and buildings were suddenly being passed again, in double-quick time. Honey sighed with relief as with a squeal of brakes he came to a halt outside the Green River Hotel.

  Home!

  She tried not to think about the forty quid her little sightseeing tour had cost her. It was lucky she’d had her purse with her. At least she’d avoided Doherty – and got away from the motorcycle menace. Money well spent. Her bed called. The taxi ride had done some good. As for Doherty …

  It had been an odd night.

  ‘I’m ready for bed,’ she said as she let herself back into the coach house. The interior was silvery still, moonlight pouring through the round window high up in the apex above the beams.

  She shivered. She sneezed. Damn the rain. Damn getting a cold or flu. The recipe required was well tried and tested. After fetching a Lemsip from the bathroom, she armed herself with the ingredients for a brandy balloon: a bottle of brandy and a can of coke.

  The contents of the brandy balloon tasted good and went down fast. The glass nudged aside the unopened packet of anti-flu powder. Drat, she thought, picking it up and tearing it open. I’ll just have to drink another one.

  The guy on the motorbike had unnerved her. Who was he and why was he stalking her?

  Chapter Six

  Some minutes after Honey got home, a young man named Simon Taylor pulled up outside the Regency terrace where he lived. The house had long ago been divided into flats; five floors, two flats on each. He parked his motorcycle in one of the allotted spaces next to a dark red scooter. The light in the living-room window of the flat he shared with his mother was still on. He hoped she’d forgotten to turn it off and had gone to bed. Unlikely. His mother always waited up for him, even though he was twenty-two now. She always had done.

  The doorway was wide and swollen in its frame, scuffing the black and whit
e floor tiles of the threshold as he pushed it open. The hallway was far from welcoming. The walls and internal doors were a faded burgundy colour, by virtue of a job lot of paint the landlord had acquired some years before. A ground-floor tenant had attempted to brighten the decor by adding a series of pink and gold lines around the architrave of the door to his one-roomed apartment. It was hardly art, nor did it do anything to lift the atmosphere of neglect. Likewise the plug-in air freshener was fighting a losing battle against the smell of damp caused by ferns growing from third floor parapets and mould climbing up from the cellar.

  Not wanting to answer any questions about why he was out so late, he shut the front door quietly behind him. The hallway on the ground floor of the house in Green Park was still and silent. Not a stick of furniture invaded its austere emptiness. The floor was covered with a cracked brown covering that might shine if anyone ever got up the energy to attack it with a can of polish and a duster. No one ever had; a brief sweep and mop over was all it ever got. This was why he took his shoes off before going up the stairs to their flat. His soles would stick to the glutinous underside of the threadbare carpet covering the stairs and make a sucking sound. The woollen pile of his socks would snag and tear softly away.

  By the time he got to the door of the apartment he shared with his mother, he knew for sure she hadn’t yet retired. The sound of car sirens on a late-night cop show told him she was still watching television. On gently turning the key and opening the front door, his suspicions were realised.

  ‘That you, Simon?’

  As if it was likely to be anyone else at this time in the morning.

  Her son grimaced as he shook the rain from his coat. Why was she so deaf if anyone rang the doorbell, but so alert when it was him coming in from a night out?

  ‘Yes,’ he replied in a cheery voice. His mother would hear it and think he was smiling.

  He managed to bare his teeth in a fair imitation of one when he poked his head around the living-room door.

  His mother was sitting in an armchair pulled to within four or five feet of the television screen. To either side of her were placed two small tables with piecrust tops and tripod legs. They were originally meant to take a gentleman’s – or woman’s – wine or spirit glass. In his mother’s case, a box of Maltesers chocolates sat on one, and a tumbler of Jameson’s Irish Whiskey sat on the other. Nutshells and sweet wrappers filled a porcelain dish. The dish was quite valuable, a pretty little Dresden thing. His mother wouldn’t know that. Wouldn’t know how much he’d bid for it on eBay.

  He picked up the dish and took it into the kitchen to empty it. After swilling it beneath running water and wiping it carefully, he brought it back in.

  ‘Did everything go according to plan?’ she asked, without her eyes ever leaving the screen.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘I’m going online now. See you in the morning. Goodnight, Mother.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  He paused, mesmerized by the effect of the light shining on her face and through her thinning hair. He could distinguish the shape of her skull and the freckles on her scalp. Seemingly unaware she was doing it her fingers were tapping the chair arm. Her nerves were bad and getting worse. All those chocolates. All that booze. It was only to be expected.

  He closed the door silently behind him and made his way up the stairs. His bedroom door locked against the world and his mother, Simon smiled at the screen saver as it soared from corner to corner. At present it was a Tudor rose, an amalgamation of the white rose of York and the red rose of Lancaster, a great favourite of his.

  He tapped into his business site. This extra-curricular working life was a secret he kept from his mother. This was the work he enjoyed the most. It also made him quite a bit of money.

  Rich shades of blue and burgundy flashed on to the screen; a coloured-in brass rubbing of a knight in full armour; a lady in flowing gown and pointed hat.

  The Noble Present.

  Purchase a noble title from the past as a present for your loved one – make her a lady – make yourself a lord.

  Authentic Antique Titles for Sale

  Chapter Seven

  The phone rang early.

  ‘Hannah. It’s me. What are you doing?’

  Only her mother ever called her Hannah. Honey closed her eyes and began the count to ten. She got to fifteen.

  ‘I’m on my way to the kitchen.’

  ‘Never mind that. I need to speak to you. It’s important.’

  Honey looked up at the ceiling. ‘Mother, I’ve a hotel to run. The kitchen is the powerhouse of the Green River. There’s work to be done there.’

  ‘You’ve got a chef!’

  ‘It’s his day off.’

  It was not his day off. Smudger Smith, Head Chef Extraordinaire and one-time all-in wrestler, had met some old friends the night before. Lindsey had rung from reception this morning to inform her mother that their chef was sitting on the cold store floor, with a bag of peas on his head and another on his groin. Honey had taken as read the reason for the peas being on his head. She made a mental note to check how much he’d drank and what. Their stocks would be depleted. There was no way she was going to enquire the reason for the other bag. Men did pretty strange things when they were drunk …

  ‘Hannah, I’m very worried.’

  Honey held her breath. Her mother was a born survivor. Anyone who’d had as many husbands as she’d had, had to be.

  ‘Is it to do with a man?’

  ‘Of course not. Why would I be worried about a man?’

  ‘I thought you might … Never mind.’ Her mother considered it her duty to find her daughter a new man. The trouble was that she had different tastes to her daughter. Besides, Honey felt she was mature enough to find her own. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘It’s about the shop. Second-hand Sheila. We have a problem I need to run past you.’

  Honey glanced at her watch. Juggling work and such little leisure as she could manage was bad enough. Trying to fit in time for family was a bit of a squeeze.

  ‘Mother, this is not a good time. The guests’ mood gets ugly if they don’t get their breakfast on time. Can we talk later?’

  ‘Well, that’s it! To think a daughter of mine prefers to take care of perfect strangers rather than help her poor old mother!’

  Gloria Cross was far from being a frail old woman. In fact she was feisty, flirty, and frightening to know. She was also selfish, irritating, domineering, and downright testy when she wanted to be.

  Honey used both hands to strangle the phone before gritting her teeth and diving back in.

  ‘So who’s rattled your cage?’

  Her mother’s tone turned whiny. ‘Well, that’s pretty typical. You youngsters lead hectic lives and have no time for the problems of old folk, even your own mother! Never you mind about my problems. Your mother can look after herself despite being an old-age pensioner.’

  This was serious! Never, ever – not ever – had she heard her mother refer to herself as an OAP. A mature lady; a senior citizen, maybe. But ‘old-age pensioner’ conjured up a vision of decrepit old lady in wrinkly stockings and squashed felt hat. Her mother was far from being that.

  Honey immediately felt contrite.

  ‘Mother, if there’s a problem, tell me about it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to burden you.’

  The voice on the other end of the phone took on a fragile tone.

  As though she’s drawing her last breath.

  ‘What if you call in for coffee?’

  ‘Fine! I’ll ring reception and fix an appointment!’

  Slam went the phone.

  ‘Ouch!’

  There always followed a sense of relief once her mother stopped talking. There was now, but there was also guilt. By the time she got to reception she was already flicking open her phone and ready to beg forgiveness. The line was engaged.

  ‘Later,’ she muttered to herself. ‘I’ll phone her later.

  Shirking res
ponsibility meant hiding in the dry goods store. There was something therapeutic about sorting out jars of rice, pasta, sugar, and salt while she wiped the shelves. Borrowing Lindsey’s iPod helped things go with a swing. She wiggled as she worked; she’d read it helped reduce the waistline. Kept her mind occupied too.

  Honey scrubbed at a particularly vigorous stain. Keep focused. That was the secret. Everything was fine and would stay fine.

  Then Murphy’s law kicked in. If something’s likely to go wrong it will.

  Lindsey poked her shoulder. Tina Turner’s ‘Simply the Best’ was put on hold.

  Lindsey’s expression was bad news. ‘There’s water everywhere! It’s pouring in.’

  Recovered from his hangover, Smudger the chef came running from the kitchen, his fair complexion pink with irritation and steam from the dishwasher.

  ‘That bloody drain’s blocked again.’

  It was the third time that week. Honey began rolling up her sleeves. ‘Here we go again. Fetch the wet and dry.’

  while Lindsey went off to wrestle the vacuum from Dumpy Doris’s meaty hands, Honey headed out to the yard at the back of the kitchen. Smudger followed her out.

  The thought of donning rubber gloves, lifting a drain cover and hauling out all manner of gunge was not exactly appetizing. Mentally, then orally, she began to squirm. ‘It’s really a man’s job … and by the way, that bag of peas …’

  ‘I’ve got severins to sauté.’

  The kitchen door slammed shut. Smudger was gone. What were severins? Or had she misheard? Had he in fact said ‘several things’? Whatever it had been, it translated that she was on her lonesome for the time being.

  The drain was situated in a narrow area bounded on three sides by the hotel itself; a funny inlet set into the stone. The sun never reached here, so moss and ferns sprouted to their hearts’ content. It was a mini eco-world complete with a small lake when the drain blocked. A slope on the open end meant the water could not run away. The only way out was down the drain.

  Honey gritted her teeth. ‘The glamour of running a Bath hotel!’