Doherty shook his head. ‘It appears Her Ladyship tried to play fair but got killed for it. She’d decided to swap hotels for her own safety and she was looking to find a safe haven for the reels. Wisely, she didn’t take them with her on the ghost walk.’
Stevensen listened carefully, his calm grey eyes fixed on them. ‘She said she would get them for me. She said it was only right and was glad she’d come over to ensure they were returned to the rightful owner. We met up before she went on the walk. That’s when she made up her mind to do this. Her great-grandfather had survived the sinking, but other family members had not. She felt it a fitting memorial to their memory.’
Honey frowned. ‘Her great-grandfather came back from America sometime in the twenties and bequeathed the film to his son, her grandfather. He died a short while ago, that’s why she came over. She kept it pretty secret. Why was that?’
‘She didn’t want to draw attention. Rumours about why she was here could have caused problems.’
‘But you didn’t step forward when she was murdered.’
‘I was booked to fly back the next day. My grandmother was dying. I had to be there. When I got back I found out what was happening. I thought it better to keep a low profile.’
She recalled the list of possessions she’d inherited from her own husband, some stuff she never knew he had.
She’d have been surprised to see the reels. Perhaps she already had an inkling about them.
‘So why go to see Simon Taylor?’
‘There was a link between his Noble Present site and that for the auction,’ she said. ‘She stumbled on it and came raring over to put things right. They were among her grandfather’s possessions in Northend … Bridgewater. That snake!’
Doherty stopped her from dashing off to do serious injury to a guy she’d disliked on sight. The look on Doherty’s face told her this was not a good idea. At this point they were interrupted by a call for Doherty.
‘Our telephone cold-caller is as flat as a pancake.’ He gave her the rest of the details. ‘He was on his way along the A4 from the Bradford-on-Avon direction.’
The looks they exchanged said it all. Once Doherty had ordered backup, they hit the ground running.
Chapter Sixty-five
Hamilton George answered the door. He looked knocked off balance to see them. Behind him sat a clutch of baggage labelled Virgin Atlantic.
Doherty pushed his way in waving a warrant. ‘Baggage first,’ he said to the team tumbling in behind.
Honey’s hands were itching to join in, but Doherty had reminded her that she was only here to observe. But, hey, a girl could push her luck just a little, couldn’t she?
‘Where’s Pammy?’
She said it with a smile and as though she was on intimate terms with Ms Windsor Fat Chance!
Hamilton George smirked – not smiled! He smirked.
‘Pammy’s out.’ He turned to Doherty. ‘Look, officer, you’ll find nothing of interest to you in my luggage.’
‘Might I ask where you’re going, sir?’
‘Home! Where the hell else? And I sure as hell won’t be coming back. My wife died here, for Christ’s sake!’
Honey couldn’t resist. ‘Is Pammy going with you?’
At first it seemed she’d thrown him, but he was quick coming back to centre. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘Caught you on the rebound, did she?’
She half expected him to slap her. His hands balled into fists. Doherty sent him a warning scowl, but Mr George was not easily intimidated.
‘I’m going to make an official complaint,’ he snarled. ‘I’m a man who’s lost his wife. Can a man have some consideration? Is that too much to ask?’
‘We’ve found Bridgewater.’
Doherty’s sudden statement made Honey turn her head. He wasn’t saying Bridgewater was dead. He was hinting that Bridgewater had talked.
The pale, round face flexed for a minute like stretched rubber. ‘I want a lawyer.’
‘Famous last words,’ Doherty muttered.
‘Where’s Pammy?’ Honey asked again.
Hamilton George frowned at her. ‘She’s gone to sort out a few personal things.’
‘Where are the film reels?’
He grinned. ‘What does it matter? I bought them legitimately.’
Doherty nodded. ‘OK. You’re probably right, but I still want to ask you some questions about the death of Lady Templeton-Jones and Simon Taylor.’
George’s laugh was as loud as a baying hyena. ‘Not me, pal. Certainly not me! All I’ve done is outbid another Titanic enthusiast.’
‘Have you got clearance to take the film out of the country?’
It was clear from his expression that he did not. His look turned from surly to nasty. ‘The film’s mine. I paid for it. I’ll do with it as I please!’
Honey watched as Doherty’s look turned cast iron.
Once he was read his rights, Hamilton George was bundled into the back seat of a squad car. He still maintained the same smug expression. Honey could tell that Doherty was uneasy.
‘He’s right about the reels. He paid for them.’ His eyes stayed fixed on the car until it moved away.
‘But is he the killer?’
Doherty shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
Chapter Sixty-six
Twenty-four hours later, Pamela Windsor made her entrance. She came into the police station having heard the news via a text message Hamilton George had sent her.
Mr George had a very good lawyer present and was in the throes of being released, checking his stuff out from the desk sergeant. He’d made an official complaint about harassment. He was looking happy about being released, which was more than could be said for Pamela.
‘Let’s celebrate,’ he said to her. ‘Champagne and cream scones at the Pump Room.’
Doherty noted that she didn’t look too happy at the prospect.
Honey was not present, but Doherty had phoned her and told her they’d found nothing in his luggage. If he did have the reels of film, they were well hidden.
‘That figures. He wouldn’t want to be detained any longer than necessary. Claims take a long time to sort out and the subject matter kept in a treasury vault until it is.’
‘He’s now on his say to celebrate at the Pump Rooms. Champagne and cakes.’
‘I’m already there with Mary Jane.’
‘You’ve got that quivery tone to your voice. Did Mary Jane drive you again?’
‘We walked. By the way, guess who else is taking a mid-morning break. Cameron Wallace. I’m not sure, but I think he’s following me.’
Doherty paused. ‘I might see my way to joining the scene. Save me a cream slice.’
As he entered the Pump Rooms, Hamilton George was sporting a wide enough smile to crack his face in half. Pamela looked a little out of sync with his good humour. She was well-groomed and her face was Vogue-cover perfect, but something was wrong.
George had the cheek to nod in Honey’s direction.
Between talking with Lindsey, she watched the pair order and be given their champagne. She heard George urge Pamela to take a sip. Pamela snatched the glass he offered and downed the lot in one.
George poured her another. ‘Sure,’ he drawled. ‘Why not swallow it whole? The world’s our oyster. You and me’ll settle real well once the old girl’s safely planted and we’ve finalised our little business in New York. Everything settled on that score? We’re all going home; you, me and my late departed wife.’
Two tables away, Cameron Wallace was staring at the pair with a look in his eyes that Honey couldn’t quite understand. They were burning, literally burning, into the back of the American’s head.
Doherty arrived just as Pamela Windsor sprang to her feet. The table went crashing over. Champagne, glass, and cream cake spattered those sitting closest. Pamela ran for the exit bawling her head off.
‘Pammy!’
Hamilton George staggered to his feet, apologisi
ng to the manager as two waitresses bent to clear up the mess.
Honey got to Pamela before anyone else and did her best to comfort her.
Doherty was next, closely followed by Hamilton George who was looking shell-shocked.
‘What the hell is this, Pammy?’
Honey hugged the girl. ‘There, there. Let it out. Nothing can be that bad.’
But it was.
Pink-cheeked, Pamela Windsor seemed to wince and smile both at the same time. She gazed beseechingly at the man who had taken over her life. ‘I’m sorry, Hamilton. It wasn’t my fault. The funeral parlour made a mistake. They cremated the wrong coffin.’
Honey sucked in her breath.
Cameron Wallace had been loitering in the doorway.
His face turned red with fury. ‘You bastard! You stupid bastard!’
Doherty called for backup.
Hamilton George tried to make a run for it. For some strange reason he headed back into the Pump Room. Wallace stopped him with a rugby tackle a quarterback could only dream of. Both men went down. Chairs and tables went flying; those people still clasping their cream buns rapidly got out of the way.
Wallace had his hands around George’s throat, squeezing the life out of him. George twisted out of Wallace’s grip and aimed a punch at his jaw.
A woman clutching a teapot looked on in alarm. ‘Is someone going to stop them?’
Doherty stopped the Pump Room manager from attempting to do any such thing.
‘Let them tire themselves out. The cavalry are on their way.’
The manager looked relieved. Two uniformed police officers ran in to the room.
Hamilton George looked smug. ‘Couldn’t raise the cash, old boy?’
Cameron tried to fly at him again but was restrained by the newly arrived police officers.
‘I outbid you, you bastard! That film was rightfully mine. I laid everything on the line for it. Everything!’
Hamilton George laughed. ‘Well, it ain’t yours now, old boy! Ashes. That’s all they are now. The film and my dead spouse are nothing but ashes.’
‘I killed for that film!’
The confession was unexpected, not until you really took on board that Cameron Wallace had one great passion besides making money. Titanic.
Honey made a clicking sound at the side of her mouth. ‘It figures. He owns the shops. He also owns a whole range of businesses including photocopying. Potassium cyanide is used in some forms of printing. Cameron Wallace can lay his hands on anything he wants.’
‘Including you?’
‘Nah!’ She shook her head. ‘Too smooth for my liking.’
Doherty grinned. He looked scruffy. He spoke roughly. But hell, he was all man.
And who wanted to go to bed with a perfume bottle anyway?
‘Yeah. Some blokes are like that – obsessive about their appearance.’ He shrugged his shoulders inside his leather coat. The leather was scuffed around the cuffs. Like Doherty, it had seen better days, but both were built for comfort.
So what swings it in favour of Cameron Wallace?’
‘I smelled something in that shop. At first I thought it was my mother’s perfume. Then I realised it was aftershave. Very expensive aftershave.’
‘He was obsessive about the Titanic.’
Honey’s face saddened. ‘Sad that people can still lose their lives over it. Enough were killed at the time.’
‘Just ghosts now.’
‘Just ghosts.’
Chapter Sixty-seven
They had hot cocoa when they got back. Honey even tipped a little brandy into hers. Lindsey made toast that she dipped into the frothy surface. Gloria added a large blob of whipped cream and two spoonfuls of sugar.
Mary Jane went to bed, stating that clearing the shop of spirits had drained her energy.
Lindsey looked thoughtful. Honey sensed that some kind of confession was in the melting pot.
‘Something up, kiddo?’
Lindsey took one of those deep, purposeful breaths that people take when they’ve come to a sudden decision.
‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ she said, looking at her mother.
Honey looked up at her from over the rim of her mug.
‘You’re not pregnant?’
‘Pregnant? Oh, Mother! A chance would be a fine thing!’
Honey felt a great sense of relief. ‘Point taken.’
Lindsey waited for a suitable pause. ‘As I began telling you before the pot boiled over, I’ve got a very shy new boyfriend. He’s a bit of a traditionalist and wants to introduce himself, but chickens out easily. And he doesn’t play bagpipes or wear a kilt.’
All faced Lindsey’s direction; mugs held in both hands, mouths open.
She looked away as though deciding whether to continue. With a big sigh she faced front again.
‘Mum, sorry he put the wind up you’
Honey swallowed. ‘Right! He’s just a shy lad who’s scared of older women.’
Lindsey sat with her hands cupped around her iPod. When she took on that old look, Honey braced herself for what was coming.
‘I knew that a guy in a kilt would get your juices going. And it would be a big no-no to a guy in wellington boots. Especially a pig farmer. Right?’
Lindsey’s grandmother was not impressed. ‘A pig farmer!’
‘Ah!’ said Honey. She had to admit she would have turned up her nose if she’d known her daughter’s latest was a pig farmer. Who wouldn’t? ‘I certainly wouldn’t have thought he was your type. You normally only go for academic types with inky fingers rather than muddy boots.’
‘Pigs are quite nice really. He delivered a brood of eight a while back from his favourite sow.’
‘Now there’s a thing,’ said Honey, raising her eyebrows and wondering how many pounds of bacon eight piglets made once they had grown into adult pigs. A brawny bloke with a few yards of tartan swinging round his thighs was a different matter, but wellington boots flapping around the shins didn’t do much for her. Naked in wellingtons? Oh, no! Don’t go there.
But lots of little piggies going to market did help and definitely appealed to her practical side.
‘His name’s Keith. Keith McCall.’
Her daughter slipped the earphones back in situ, leaving her mother feeling strangely adrift. OK, Lindsey did most of the things other teenagers did, but she came with extras. She was more complicated than other girls of her age.
After seeing her mother into a taxi, Honey retreated into her own room, slipped off her shoes, and lay down on the bed. Her big toe wiggled at her through a hole in her tights. Like a friendly face it seemed to smile at her.
Lindsey brought her a second mug of hot chocolate.
‘Am I dim or what?’ Honey wiggled her toe. ‘Fancy thinking your boyfriend was stalking me.’
‘Can we change the subject, Mother?’
‘Sure. Now: did Her Ladyship hide that reel of film, or did Ashwell Bridgewater steal it?’
Lindsey also referred back to the crime scenario. ‘I get the impression you had it in for the wicked cousin.’
Honey ground her teeth. ‘Obnoxious.’
‘You’re biased.’
‘Of course I am. I wanted Bridgewater to be the murderer. But he wasn’t.’
‘So what about the guy in the black patent shoes and evening cape?’
Honey felt her jaw go slack. So what about the guy in the black patent shoes and evening cape indeed?
‘I think it was Bridgewater keeping an eye on things.’
Mary Jane will be disappointed. She was sure you’d seen a ghost.’
Honey shrugged. She couldn’t admit to the truth now, could she? Or was it the truth? She wasn’t sure herself. The eyes played tricks, especially on dark and dirty nights.
There was still one query she had. Those patent shoes had been stone dry. Perhaps because he was walking six inches above the ground?
‘Nah!’ she said to herself later on as she lay back in bed. ‘Just y
our imagination. Of course he wasn’t.’
Another Honey Driver Mystery
Available January 2014
Killing Jane Austen
A film crew arrives in Bath to make a new film about Jane Austen, romantic novelist and one time resident of the fair city of Bath. To the satisfaction of hotel owner and police liaison officer Honey Driver, some of the visitors are staying at the Green River Hotel, bringing welcome low-season boost to business, most specifically the bar takings. Honey, her daughter Lindsay and even her mother, are offered the chance to work as extras. It's all very exciting...until reality and murder hit. The film's star, the impossibly demanding Martyna Manderley, is found dead, and Honey finds she's landed her own starring role - as prime suspect. DI Steve Doherty, Honey's new and as yet tantalisingly unexplored love interest, races to the rescue, and the pair embark on a mission to uncover the truth.
Look out for other forthcoming
Honey Driver mysteries:
Deadly Lampshades
Murder by Mudpack
. Wicked Words
The Ghost of Christmas Past
Death of a Diva
. Blood and Broomsticks.
To find out more about Jean Goodhind
And other Accent Press titles
please visit
www.accentpress.co.uk
Walking with Ghosts
A Honey Driver Mystery
by Jean G Goodhind
Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2013
ISBN 9781909520264
Copyright © Jean G Goodhind 2013
First published by Severn House as
A Taste to Die For by J.G. Goodhind
The right of Jean G Goodhind to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Walking with Ghosts - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 25