Murder By Mudpack: A Honey Driver Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  He sighed. Paperwork never had been his strongest point, but he needed the desk space. There was nothing else for it but to act swiftly and confidently. Placing one pile on top of another in no specific order, he opened a drawer and shoved the lot in, slamming it shut with an air of finality.

  ‘That’s that,’ he said, brushing his hands together before sitting himself down and booting the computer into life.

  Before clocking in, he sent a third text message to Honey, not having received any response to the first two. Not that he was worried; Honey had probably thrown herself into her work and into the varied beauty treatments on offer. She was probably enjoying herself while taking the job seriously.

  He answered ‘Come in’ to the knock at the door. The office door cracked open just as he was about to type in his computer authorization code.

  ‘Black coffee, no sugar,’ he said without looking up.

  Christine Palmer, his new aide in all things administrative, knew what time he expected coffee and had appeared as if by magic. She was learning fast. The kid was keen to please and even if constantly fetching him cups of coffee might be viewed as sexist by some, Christine didn’t seem to mind as long as it gained her brownie points on her record. Doherty was obliged to write a report on her ability at the end of her placement. She was doing all in her power to ensure it glowed with praise.

  Today, however, she didn’t scurry off like a racing hare to do his bidding.

  ‘Sir, there’s someone to see you.’

  She always called him ‘sir’. Other lesser officers called him ‘guv’, ‘governor’, or even ‘Steve’ if they’d known him for ages. Some names he got called were unmentionable but on the whole not from his colleagues. Basically he was a popular guy.

  He glanced up from the screen where he’d called up the details of the ‘mudpack murder’. The pathologist insisted that it could not have been an accident judging by the way the mud had been inhaled. Nobody would purposely suck it in as though they were guzzling a choc ice. There’d been no sign of a struggle. No bruises. And nobody there had been around at her death, so it seemed.

  Something Honey had told him resurfaced. There had been a report in the Bath Chronicle about a woman suing the clinic for lesions suffered after surgery. The claim had got nowhere as the woman had died in a fire. Was there any link between the two?

  The woman’s flat above a bread and cake shop in the old Southgate shopping centre had been gutted by the fire. The shop itself, famous for its unusual cakes and traditional Christmas puddings, was gone now, part of the redevelopment of that area of the city. So there was no chance of sifting through the rubble.

  What he did know was that bread shops and bakeries could be highly combustible. Wasn’t that how the Great Fire of London had started? He smiled at the fact that the baker’s shop had been named The Pudding Club and the Great Fire of London had been started in Pudding Lane.

  Stick to the facts, he said to himself, re-examining the paperwork. Strange facts though. The partner of the woman in that instance had insisted that she’d stayed at the clinic for two whole weeks. Two weeks! Why the hell would anyone want to immerse themselves in mud for fourteen days? It didn’t make sense to him.

  Christine was still lingering at the door and there was no sign of impending coffee. She was giving off nervous vibes. He assumed the visitor wore a top brass uniform. Top brass always made people nervous – including him.

  ‘So who is it?’ he asked nonchalantly, his eyes still fixed on the screen.

  There was something of a pregnant pause on Christine’s part, like she’d just taken a big intake of breath and was holding on to it.

  ‘Your daughter.’

  Steve’s head jerked up. He stared.

  Suddenly aware that he was not alone, he looked up. Christine stared right back, though hers was forthright whereas his was outright surprise. He sat back from the screen, speechless, slumped in his chair.

  The trusty sound of his desk phone jerked him back from the brink. If it had been his mobile phone he might have ignored it. He couldn’t ignore the landline. The landline phone always had to be answered. Most likely it would be the Chief Constable; high-ranking officers were more partial to land line phones than they were to hand-held mobiles. If high-tech crime prevention by robotic means ever came in, it wouldn’t be until the present hierarchy was long retired.

  ‘The coffee for now,’ he said to Christine before reaching for the phone, his hand clammy with nervous sweat.

  ‘Is that Stephen?’

  The accent was refined.

  ‘Casper.’

  Casper St John Gervais was chairman of Bath Hotels Association. Casper was the reason Hannah – Honey Driver – had landed the job of Crime Liaison Officer. She hadn’t wanted the job at first, but Casper had pointed out to her that she too had a vested interest in keeping a lid on crime. ‘Besides, you used to be an officer in the probation service,’ Casper had pointed out to her.

  She’d pointed out in return that she’d merely been a clerical officer, typing and filing the details of everyday crime. She’d been persuaded to accept on the grounds that it would improve her room lettings – in other words she would get preferential treatment when it came to package-deal room bookings. It wasn’t important in the height of summer, but in the depths of winter it helped keep the bank manager – a wolf in sheep’s clothing if ever there was – from the door.

  ‘How did you get this number?’

  ‘I have ways, dear boy. I’m looking for Hannah.’

  The way he said Hannah instead of Honey, as was his usual term of address, sent alarm bells ringing.

  ‘Is there some problem?’

  ‘The tasting. She promised to lend me that exquisite epergne she showed me a while back.’ He sounded quite put out.

  A line of question marks floated like high-kicking showgirls before Doherty’s eyes. The word meant nothing to him.

  ‘She promised to lend you a what?’

  Casper breathed an impatient sigh. ‘An epergne, my boy. An epergne! She has a cut crystal Victorian one – quite unique. Quite beautiful. We both agreed it would make a most worthy central decoration for the tasting.’

  Although no connoisseur of antiques, Steve Doherty had a pretty good grasp of language – though mostly bad in his job, not the kind of vocabulary you’d use in front of your mother.

  ‘So it’s an antique that you want her to bring along to some tasting. I take it it’s a wine tasting?’

  ‘On this occasion, yes. Australian wines. I’m not a connoisseur of vintages produced by our Antipodean cousins, but vintners are vintners after all is said and done. With regard to the epergne, I would wish to have it in my possession before the actual event.’

  ‘Shall I get one of her staff to arrange it?’

  ‘She’s not there?’ He sounded put out more than surprised.

  ‘The Beauty Spot. Remember?’

  ‘Ah! Yes. I hope she does not over-indulge herself in too many treatments. She is there for a purpose after all.’

  ‘We wouldn’t want her to forget that, would we, Casper?’

  ‘Certainly not. Under the circumstances I do not think it sensible for me to call round and pick up the epergne myself. I do so hate having to lie to people.’

  ‘I quite understand. We wouldn’t want anyone guessing where she is. Gossip whips around Bath like a champion greyhound. Her family have not been informed of the truth and that’s for the best.’

  ‘My staff tell me that everyone at the Green River seems to think she’s with you.’

  Doherty sensed the amusement in Casper’s voice.

  ‘They won’t think that when I call round for this epergne,’ he said, stressing the last word in an effort to spike the amusement in Casper’s voice.

  Sometimes spiking Casper’s conversation worked. On this occasion it did not. He was positively bubbling.

  ‘The rumour below stairs – if you’ll pardon such an old-fashioned expression – is that
she’s gone away to lose a few pounds and beautify herself with regard to imminent nuptials!’

  ‘Nuptials?’

  ‘Marriage. To you, my dear Detective Inspector. Isn’t that terribly amusing?’

  The bubbling evolved into a full-scale chuckle.

  ‘Well, you know what staff are like,’ returned Doherty, his jaw aching with tension. ‘They thrive on rumours.’

  ‘Her mother is not amused, of course.’

  Doherty threw back his head. ‘Christ,’ he exclaimed out of range of the mouthpiece. He went back to the job in hand.

  ‘The thing – the epergne – I’ll see that it gets to you. I’ll see that someone gets the message. When is the tasting, by the way?’

  ‘Friday. The Assembly Rooms. Hoteliers and guests only.’

  ‘Great. I make a good guest.’

  The phone snapped back into place. In his head it sounded sharp, like a bone breaking. Normally he wouldn’t be feeling that edgy about this. Honey working undercover was really no big deal. She could take care of herself. But the arrival of his daughter was something else.

  When Christine came back with the coffee he asked her to show the girl in.

  ‘She’s gone,’ said Christine.

  Doherty blinked. ‘Oh.’

  Few people knew he had a daughter. Honey wasn’t one of them. Somehow he’d just never got round to telling her. He couldn’t explain why. He’d have to soon. If Rachel was still in Bath she was bound to turn up again. She always did.

  Get it off your chest, he said to himself, picked up his cell phone and punched in Honey’s number. The message service kicked in immediately. Her phone was switched off.

  His second option was to phone his wife. Cheryl answered almost immediately in that breathless, always-in-a-hurry way of hers.

  ‘Oh it’s you! I might have known.’

  ‘Of course you do. Cheryl always knows best.’ He hadn’t meant to sound sarcastic, but Cheryl brought out the worst in him. Her tone of voice made him feel like a worm – one that was about to be chopped in half.

  ‘Now listen here right now! You’re to put Rachel on the next train back. Phone me immediately you’ve done that. Hugh and I will be at Paddington waiting for her.’

  ‘Hugh? I thought it was Ralph you were shacked up with.’

  ‘It’s none of your bloody business. At least he comes home at night.’

  ‘Hugh or Ralph?’

  ‘You won’t wind me up, Steve. Just get Rachel on that bloody train. My God, you never were around when I wanted you to do something.’

  ‘I used to work at nights, Cheryl. It comes with the job.’

  ‘Just get Rachel on that train.’

  ‘I don’t know where she is.’

  Cheryl hit the buffers, though not for long. ‘Then do what I did. Check her credit card statement. She booked a ticket with it.’

  ‘I haven’t seen her yet.’

  ‘Then go and find her. You’re a policeman. That’s what you’re supposed to do.’

  Doherty rolled his eyes. Listening to Cheryl ripping him off a strip took him back to the two-bedroom flat, the crying baby, and the constant demands on him for more money to get them out of there, more money that had come from extra shifts – night shifts. That had been the trouble with Cheryl; she’d wanted the extra money but she’d also wanted him home at night.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘You’d better!’

  The sound of the phone slamming down echoed around his skull. As if he didn’t have enough problems to contend with. A woman murdered after being force-fed a mudpack. Honey undercover, a missing daughter, and not forgetting a cut-glass epergne. On top of that he had to choose the right time for telling Honey about Rachel. That, he decided, was the hardest thing to do.

  Chapter Eight

  True to form, Lindsey was on top of things at the Green River Hotel. The staff were either supportive or totally oblivious to the fact that the boss was away.

  The guests got their meals, their fresh towels, and their morning calls on time, there were no professional moaners, and the hot water was staying hot.

  Most were staying no more than two nights. The exception was the Japanese couple who were staying for ten days. They were serious travellers; also serious collectors.

  ‘I have bought two dragons,’ said the Japanese gentleman.

  ‘You do like a bargain, Mr Okinara.’

  ‘And interesting items,’ he puffed. He was presently manhandling one of the aforesaid cast-iron beasts into the reception area with the help of a cab driver. Both men were soaked through by virtue of the slow process of heaving the beast from the taxi to the front door.

  The guests’ storage facility beneath the stairs already held the Victorian enema kit that he’d purchased, plus an ancient atlas, its paper map bright pink with old British Empire territories.

  And now dragons! She only hoped they weren’t too large.

  ‘Please. Take a look,’ Mr Okinara invited cheerily while he paused for breath.

  Lindsey peered over the top of the reception desk in the manner of a slow cuckoo coming out of her clock. History was her lifeblood. She knew lots about history. Lots about mythical beasts too.

  ‘Mind if I make a comment?’ she asked.

  He nodded, which sent the sweat dripping off his chin.

  ‘That’s not a dragon,’ she declared. ‘It’s a wyvern. See? They’ve only got two legs. A proper dragon has four.’ She came out from behind her desk and peered more closely. ‘They’re boot scrapers.’

  Mrs Okinara clapped her hands. ‘Wonderful!’

  Lindsey was in her element. Medieval history was her favourite.

  ‘Mythical medieval beasts. Saxon rather than Celtic and a symbol of Alfred the Great rather than Arthur.’

  ‘Can I put them with my other purchases until I can arrange for freight home?’

  Lindsey reached for the key to the closet beneath the stairs. ‘Come this way.’

  Once the first of the cast-iron boot scrapers was safely incarcerated, Mr Okinara and the taxi driver went back for the other one.

  ‘As I believe I have already told you, we are antique dealers,’ said Mrs Okinara. ‘These will look very good at the entrance to a corporate building, don’t you think?’

  Lindsey agreed that they probably would look very nice. She was too polite to ask how much mud littered the streets of Tokyo or any other centre of corporate business to warrant the purchase of two very heavy and quite large boot scrapers. She also wondered about the cost with regard to excess baggage, but decided that the end might indeed suit the means. Corporate businesses had plenty of money, didn’t they?

  Mrs Okinara patted the threatening combs of each cast-iron biped. ‘I think they look like velociraptors – you know – those dinosaurs in Jurassic Park.’

  Lindsey agreed with her that they did. ‘Except that wyverns were said to run on the tips of their wings while using the talons on their toes to claw your heart out. I think velociraptors had forearms, though you’re right, they did kill with the big claw on their rear limbs.’

  ‘Well, they do have only two legs, so I suppose they would find it very hard to walk and claw at the same time.’

  ‘That’s the idea.’

  Mr and Mrs Okinara sorted themselves out and went up to their room. A group of people from Poland were having a picnic in the conservatory, the rain having scuppered their plans to eat outdoors.

  Apart from them, all was peace and quiet.

  Lindsey didn’t mind at all being left alone to run Reception. If things got too hot she could always buzz for Anna, one of the chambermaids, to give her a hand. So far she hadn’t needed to, but when Steve Doherty came through the door bringing the smell of the outside inside, she went with it.

  ‘I want to speak to you,’ she said to Doherty.

  ‘Ditto. Tea on the terrace?’

  He said it dead chipper; Lindsey burst his bubble. ‘Shall we settle for my mother’s office?’r />
  While she set up two mugs and began pouring coffee from a constantly refreshed percolator he looked out of the window. Rods of rain were hitting the flagstones of the courtyard that separated the hotel from the coach house where Honey lived with her daughter. Looking at the coach house and remembering the last time he’d stayed there overnight made him feel warmer.

  She set a mug before him and settled her hands around a steaming mug for herself. Before sipping she inhaled the fumes.

  ‘I’m needing this,’ she said to him.

  ‘So am I.’ She wanted to ask him what the big deal was with her mother staying at a spa. She didn’t hold with her grandmother’s assumption that it was a prelude to getting married. Gran was a romantic. Her mother was not – well, not that much anyway.

  ‘I’m wining and dining your mother on Friday. She’ll be home then.’

  She suddenly had second thoughts.

  ‘On Friday?’

  ‘After she gets back from the full engine overhaul and gearbox service.’

  Lindsey pursed her lips.

  ‘She isn’t a car.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. We’re all a bit like cars. Every so often we need our bits tweaked and tidied. Just like cars. I should think your mother was enjoying her time away. She doesn’t get much time off.’

  Lindsey eyed him thoughtfully. Gran’s idea about them marrying was difficult to get out of her head.

  She asked herself, would she mind Steve Doherty becoming her stepfather? Possibly not. This was basically about wanting to be in on the secret – if there was one.

  ‘It’s not like her to go off to a health spa – if that’s really where she’s gone.’

  ‘At least the phone won’t ring in the middle of an Indian head massage,’ he pointed out after blowing on his coffee. ‘Anyway, you didn’t seem to mind before she went.’

  Lindsey raised her eyebrows. ‘She told you that, did she?’

  ‘Sure. So why the sudden interrogation?’

  The truth was that she didn’t like not knowing the full picture. She liked to think that she and her mother were close. They were close.