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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Grandma Cross, Honey and daughter looked at each other. Nobody smoked.

  ‘I know!’ Gloria’s clicking heels made for the back of the shop. ‘We have a gas cooker. It ain’t exactly space age technology, but it fires up OK.’

  She turned a knob and a circle of blue flame sprang into life.

  ‘Great!’

  Mary Jane’s eyes sparkled by gaslight as she dipped the sagebrush into the flame. The dry sagebrush sparkled red. The red embers changed swiftly to smoke.

  Mary Jane began pacing up and down.

  Gloria frowned, caught the door between kitchen and shop, and slammed it shut.

  ‘I prefer you didn’t go wafting that stuff around in the shop. The clothes will take up the smell. And smoked salmon is very nice, but nobody wants to go around smelling like it.’

  It was agreed that the top landing was the best place to start. Mary Jane led the way, sagebrush held aloft.

  The stair lighting was dim; candle bulbs in wrought-iron sconces. The top landing was the most ill-lit of all. The ceiling receded into the rafters of an enormous mansard roof. Sloping walls and oak trusses created shadows where none should exist.

  Being scared is for screaming teens in silly movies, Honey told herself. She carefully avoided looking at the more suspect shadows.

  Mary Jane began doing her thing, waving the sagebrush around. At the same time she chanted something in a language no one could understand. Trance-like, she wandered around, barely missing falling down the stairs.

  ‘Steady, Mary Jane.’

  Lindsey grabbed a trailing sleeve and hooked her back.

  Mary Jane insisted on ‘cleansing’ each landing.

  Honey reconnoitred behind her. There was little to see. The stars were out; easy to see through the overhead skylight. A sheet of tarpaulin had obliterated the view on the night of the murder. Had Lady Templeton-Jones looked up and, expecting to see stars, been concerned?

  Honey felt an immediate sadness and also a sense of foreboding. She wasn’t prone to premonitions; she left that sort of stuff to Mary Jane. Still, she had to mention it.

  ‘I’ve got butterflies.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ said Mary Jane in a matter-of-fact manner. ‘This is an old building full of old ghosts.’ To her such stuff was as normal as breathing.

  ‘And old doors,’ Honey added. She noticed there was either a door or a blank wall inside a door architrave. ‘I think this place used to be two places.’

  ‘I need to use the bathroom,’ said Honey’s mother. ‘It’s downstairs.’

  ‘This way.’ Lindsey sprinted on ahead. They were coming down the last few stairs when she poked her head around the door to the minuscule kitchen.

  ‘Guess what? We have a problem.’

  ‘Don’t tell me there’s no bathroom!’ Gloria Cross looked distraught.

  ‘The bathroom’s there.’ Lindsey indicated the direction. Gloria scuttled off. ‘But the door’s locked. We can’t get out.’

  Mary Jane suggested they smash a window.

  The voice of Honey’s mother shouted through the lavatory door.

  ‘Don’t you dare!’

  Honey echoed her point of view. Damage this early in her tenure could end up in non-renewal – a prospect she would prefer to avoid if possible.

  The sound of the flush preceded Gloria’s re-emergence. Honey suggested they try one of the doors. ‘Shop doors always have bolts and catches. Back doors with bars have deadlocks. If we can approach it from inside, we can get out.’

  It seemed feasible enough. The search was on. The door on the very top landing was exactly what they were looking for.

  Lindsey did the honours. The good tug she gave it threw her backwards when the door opened so easily.

  ‘It wasn’t locked.’

  ‘Someone’s been here!’ Honey was convinced of it.

  Lindsey was a mine of historical information covering a wide spectrum of interest. Old buildings were no exception. ‘When one building got separated into two, they didn’t necessarily bother with the attic rooms.’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Honey. ‘That’s it!’

  Everyone shushed her.

  ‘Sorry.’

  Her mind continued to tick. She remembered the candle burning in a shop window. Marine Heritage or the shop next door? This one! The empty one. The candle had acted like a lighthouse on a dark night. The killer had lured Her Ladyship in like a ship on to the rocks. Looking at the shops from the outside it was difficult to know where one began and the other ended. But this one was next door to Marine Heritage! Wanda, Lady Templeton-Jones, had been instructed to look for the candle and enter the door. The marine façade of the shop next door would have placated any doubts she might have had about her contact being a bona fide dealer.

  They stepped over the threshold. Honey fingered the wall and found a light switch. There was a clunk then darkness.

  ‘Drat. Fuse blown.’

  ‘Keep your voice down.’

  ‘I am keeping my voice down, Mother.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we all keep our voices down?’ Lindsey added in a warning whisper.

  ‘Seeing as we’re burgling the shop next door, yes is the answer to that,’ Honey whispered back.

  The one thing Honey could count on with all her family was their capacity for declaring the obvious and going ahead with breaking the law. She vaguely remembered some ancestor her mother insisted had sailed with Blackbeard the Pirate and had stocked up a huge treasure. He’d like gold. Lots of gold. She could well believe it if her mother was anything to go by.

  The darkness smelled musty.

  Honey thought about a flashlight. She was thinking this as she felt her way along a makeshift workbench. Her hand knocked against something metallic that wobbled. A flashlight!

  ‘Stop!’

  Mary Jane had been leading the descent. She stopped so quickly it was like hitting the proverbial brick wall. Everyone collided.

  ‘Flash that light, Honey.’

  Honey flashed.

  Lindsey called the police.

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Ashwell Bridgewater was hardly the handsomest of men, but being bouncing-bean happy helped lift his looks. He’d done the deal and was driving back to his little terraced cottage in Northend. No more Mr Nice Guy, he thought to himself. Using his syrupy voice over the telephone was a thing of the past. He patted the small brown leather case sitting in the passenger seat. Faraway places with strange sounding names beckoned him. Red sunsets, dusky maidens, and plum-coloured cocktails would be de rigueur in the future he’d planned for himself.

  Daydreaming was never a good idea when driving down a dual carriageway. Worse still when he was overtaking a bus at the point where the dual carriageway became single. The bus, full of seniors on a trip from Germany, had no chance to swerve and hit the car head on. There were two tour guides on board. Their first duty was to the party of tourists in their care.

  ‘Just cuts and bruises,’ said one to the other. They looked out of the big front windscreen to where the bus driver stood running his hands through his hair.

  The car was squashed, a single arm trailing out of the driver’s side window.

  Chapter Sixty-two

  Cameron Wallace poured himself a drink, downed it in one then poured himself another. He swiped at the sweat on his forehead. He hated sweating. Other people sweated and stunk. Never him. Until now. Where the bloody hell was she?

  The sudden sound of the desk phone sent him striding across the floor. Just as he picked up the phone, his office door sprang open.

  ‘You can’t go in!’

  The sound of the receptionist’s voice was echoed on the telephone receiver.

  ‘Yes, I can.’

  The voice had authority. He recognised the policeman. He recognised the woman with him.

  Without thinking, Cameron Wallace blurted out the uppermost question in his mind.

  ‘You’ve found her?’

  Doherty weighed him
up. There were a few reasons for him disliking the man. Money – as in Wallace’s – was one. Secondly, he didn’t like the over-groomed façade. This was likely a man who eyed up his own reflection more than a woman did.

  ‘If you mean Miss Lisette Fraser, then yes, we have found her.’

  Wallace looked troubled. ‘Tell me the rest. Is she dead?’

  ‘Very. Do you know anything about it?’

  Wallace shook his head. ‘No! She didn’t turn up for work this morning. It’s unlike her.’

  ‘Didn’t exactly send out a search party,’ said Honey.

  Doherty shot her a warning look. She’d promised not to poke her oar in. Difficult that. She was really keen on poking oars in.

  She left Doherty to it. The open bar area to the side of the big glass mural looked interesting.

  Doherty was in agreement with Honey. Wallace was nervous. His gut feeling told him the man had something to hide. What was he not saying?

  ‘I don’t believe you. Now let’s have the truth.’

  Faced with Doherty’s accusing look, Cameron sunk on to a corner of his glass and stainless-steel desk. He looked disconcerted, even frightened.

  ‘Did he kill her?’

  Honey paused, her head just about to peer behind the mural.

  Doherty congratulated himself .

  ‘Who would be likely to do that?’

  Wallace swiped nervous fingers over his face. ‘Jan Stevensen. Tall, skinny chap…’

  Doherty looked blank.

  Honey remembered a tall skinny chap from the ghost walk – but he’d been named Kowalski. Were they the same person?

  A good cop didn’t betray his ignorance. ‘Go on. What’s he been up to?’

  ‘Lisette went to see him on my behalf.’

  ‘With regard to the film reels.’

  ‘That’s right. The reels are absolutely authentic; a unique record of the Titanic’s maiden voyage right up until the ship began to sink. The cameraman had perfected a sure-fire filming system he intended patenting and selling in America. Then the famous sinking. Somehow, I don’t quite know how, the reels were passed to a passenger from first class – they had better access to the lifeboats. I think the cameraman must have been in steerage.’

  ‘An immigrant,’ said Doherty.

  Honey stood holding on with both hands to the edge of the coloured glass, fascinated by the chain of events.

  Wallace nodded. ‘He wanted money for them. A lot of money.’

  ‘Where did he get them from?’

  Cameron Wallace shrugged broad shoulders beneath a pure cotton shirt. ‘I’ve no idea. I didn’t care. All I wanted was the film reels.’ He looked down at the floor and cleared his throat, a picture of embarrassment. ‘The Titanic is an obsession of mine, as are all things nautical. But the Titanic most of all.’

  Honey took a step forward. ‘That shop was yours, wasn’t it? Marine Heritage.’

  It was sheer guesswork, but one look at his expression and she knew she’d hit the jackpot.

  Doherty had been about to tell her to butt out, but clocked that look and remembered. He clicked his fingers. ‘You came out of that shop on the day of the murder. Why the disguise?’

  Wallace shrugged. ‘It was my secret world away from all this.’ He indicated the sumptuous office with a wave of his arms. ‘There’s no law against it.’

  Doherty’s jaw stiffened. ‘Disguises make me suspicious. They’re used by people with something to hide.’

  ‘I did not kill Lisette!’ Wallace thundered.

  Doherty shook his head. He was thinking of the young woman lying with her neck broken. She might have fallen. She might have been pushed. He was obliged to tell Wallace this.

  ‘Nothing’s been confirmed. I await reports. If it wasn’t an accident I’ll have some questions to ask.’

  Wallace had turned defiant. ‘I had nothing to do with it. I told you, she went to meet Stevensen.’

  ‘I heard you the first time. Where can I find him?’

  Wallace shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He found us.’

  Chapter Sixty-three

  At Doherty’s insistence, they took the glass-enclosed scenic elevator back down. ‘Helps me think,’ he said in response to Honey’s amused expression. ‘Gives me a wider perspective.’

  ‘Only of the city. Tell the truth. You’re a big kid at heart. You like fairground rides too.’

  ‘What was so interesting behind that picture?’

  Honey recognised a parry when she heard one. OK. She’d oblige.

  ‘It was like a shrine to the Titanic. That’s what he collects. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how much a collection like that is worth. There must be hundreds if not thousands of collectors who …’

  The elevator doors opened. So did Honey’s mouth. She gulped.

  ‘That’s it!’ She barely controlled the urge to jump up and down. ‘That’s it! That’s it!’ She jumped up and down and kind of bunny hopped out of the elevator.

  The glass doors huffed shut behind them. The sun was out. The alloy wheels on Doherty’s sports car gleamed like small suns.

  Doherty leaned on the black cloth roof. ‘Elucidate!’

  He’d fully expected her to congratulate him on using such a grown-up word at midday. She didn’t.

  She was standing with her arms poker stiff at her side, eyes wide, face lit up with excitement.

  ‘I was right. Everything goes back to the ghost walk. Mary Jane was told that the ghost walk proper had been cancelled. The organisers hadn’t expected anyone to turn up in that weather, but they did.’

  Doherty couldn’t resist a jibe. ‘And let’s face it: anyone who did turn out had to be nuts or there for a purpose …’ Then it clicked. ‘They were all there to bid for the big one.’

  Honey nodded, almost too excited to breathe. ‘Except for Mary Jane and yours truly …’

  ‘Who are known to be nuts …’

  ‘Thank you very much. So us, and the Australian women who were just out to have a good time.’

  Doherty fast-tracked. He got out his phone and issued orders to make sure that each of those interviewed were specifically asked about an online auction. Honey phoned Lindsey and got her to surf the net. She wasn’t long coming back. Honey flipped the control to loudspeaker so Doherty could listen in.

  ‘Yep! I spoke to a few friends who know more about the Net than I do. It seems that a coded message was sent to individual collectors inviting them to a closed auction, subject to a ten-thousand pound registration fee. The dice were rolled and just six people were selected.’

  Doherty’s jaw dropped. ‘Hells bells! How many people registered?’

  ‘Hundreds, I should think. If not thousands.’

  ‘Who instigated the auction?

  ‘Someone calling himself “Sir Prancelot of the Cake”.’

  Doherty arched quizzical eyebrows. ‘Hamilton George?’

  Honey shook her head. ‘Someone lardy – and a total nerd. Simon Taylor.’

  Doherty was miles away, his fingers drumming on the car’s soft top. ‘Simon Taylor was employed by Associated Security Shredding, which is owned by Cameron Wallace, an avid collector of anything to do with the Titanic.’ He looked up the office frontage, his gaze focusing on the rooftop penthouse suite. He slapped the soft top. ‘That bastard!’

  ‘Simon was also working for Hamilton George and, as his late departed wife explained, there was nothing her husband didn’t know about computers.’

  Doherty gunned the engine into life. ‘Where to first?’ he pondered. The decision was made for him. His phone rang.

  Honey watched his expression change as he listened. ‘Keep him there,’ he said, and put the phone down. ‘Stevensen’s at the station,’ he told Honey. ‘He heard about the girl. He knows something about it.’

  Chapter Sixty-four

  The moment she saw him, she recognised him. ‘You said you were Polish!’

  Jan grinned sheepishly. ‘We thought it best to do so.’
/>   ‘You’re Swedish, like the other couple.’ Doherty glanced down at his list.

  ‘We are related. A number of us joined the online auction to retrieve what is rightfully ours. The reels belong to my great-great-grandfather, Lorne Stevensen. He was a passenger in steerage on the Titanic. Like most of those passengers, he could not get into a lifeboat, so he gave it to someone who could.’

  ‘Lady Templeton-Jones’s great-grandfather.’

  He nodded. ‘The reels rightly belong to my family.’

  ‘Have you got them?’ asked Doherty.

  ‘No. Wanda’s cousin offered the film to me. My family had raised a certain amount, but Bridgewater wanted more. Wanda – Lady Templeton-Jones – had promised me that film. She thought it only right that it should be back with the family of the man who had taken the film. She was a very fair person. I began following Bridgewater. He was casting his net for a buyer. I thought I would approach whoever was offering and see if they would consider donating the film to a museum. Cameron Wallace was one of the last two players. I asked him. He refused. I also went to see Mr George at his hotel but wasn’t allowed in. His wife died there. I knew Bridgewater would do a deal shortly and followed. I was sure he was meeting Wallace, but he wasn’t. Wallace didn’t turn up, but the girl did.’ He shook his head vehemently.

  Doherty screwed up his face as though he were sucking on something sour. ‘Excuse me for being a moron, but how come you didn’t declare that the reels were yours anyway? Why go through this charade, this online auction thing?’

  Honey jumped in. ‘Because if a legitimate claim turned up the reels would have instantly disappeared. They’d never be seen again and become the stuff of legend. Did they exist or didn’t they?’

  Doherty nodded. ‘I get you. But she didn’t have the reels that night, only a digitalised version.’

  ‘And someone lured her into the empty shop. There’s one other thing – those reels might be viewed as a national treasure. They’d have to have clearance before being allowed out of the country. It happens to paintings and stuff, so the same would apply to them.’

  ‘That’s correct,’ said Stevensen, his long legs stretched out straight beneath the interview table. ‘My family would have been willing to loan the film for, say, six months at a time. That would be only fair.’