Wicked Words: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  When she’d announced she was off to Spain to be herself, he’d been stunned. After two months he’d never felt happier. After four months he’d begun feeling lonely. Samantha had come along when he’d been at his lowest ebb. Two months together then Sam had moved in.

  He couldn’t quite get a handle on why she’d moved in with him. After all, she wasn’t a bad looker. But perhaps you’re not so bad yerself, he decided. ‘I mean, just look at those shoulders,’ he’d said to himself as he eyed his reflection in a full-length mirror.

  Gordon’s eyesight wasn’t quite what it had been. Neither was his body. His upper torso was shaped like a wedge of cheese. In his youth he might have had quite a body. Nowadays he looked as though he’d swallowed a barrel of beer – a small one only, but still enough to disrupt the firmer contours of yesteryear.

  Sam was nudging him, pushing him to make a decision – just as Clara had done.

  ‘Are they the ones, Gordon? Come on. Are they?’

  He’d been taken aback when she’d told him about the visit they’d had from the police.

  ‘I saw them there but I don’t know their names. Now is it or isn’t it?’ she whispered.

  Gordon gulped. He didn’t really want anything to do with the police, but the thought of going up to an empty bed was totally unpalatable.

  He knew the four lads all right. They were regulars and he’d laughed and joked with them about rugby, about women, about drinking.

  Sam had told him about the copper calling and asking if they would give him a call if the students came in. Normally Gordon wouldn’t have given the matter the time of day, presuming the crime to be something trivial, but given that this was in connection with the murder of some bloke found out in a grave at Much Maryleigh his sense of duty had been jogged from unploughed depths. He couldn’t believe they could have had anything to do with it, but they were a lot more subdued than when he’d last seen them. Their bottles of Budweiser were being more slowly sipped than usual. They looked as though they were discussing something worrying. Gone were the loud voices, the confident air of young men on the threshold of life. Something was troubling them and he could guess what it was.

  ‘Well?’

  Sam was nudging him again. Thinking of the cold bed he almost shivered.

  ‘It’s them,’ he whispered back.

  Leaving them unaware of his attention, he went into the back room, picked up the phone, and dialled the line that went straight through to Detective Chief Inspector Doherty

  Chapter Fifteen

  Honey was trying to make the best with regards to the orphaned Bobo while considering the details of the murder of C.A. Wright. It wasn’t so easy to be positive about Wright. Like most of the people in the hospitality trade her opinion was that he’d been a number one stinker. There was no other way to describe him.

  Casper phoned her to say that Doherty was making progress. This meant that Casper, in his capacity as chairman of Bath Hotels Association, had been chasing Doherty’s ass. He wanted results. He wanted his clean and pleasant city to resume its worldwide respectable image. Poor Doherty.

  Casper was filling her in on the details, the basics of which she already knew. These had to be the four students responsible for stuffing Wright into a large teddy bear. She could see the funny side of it. Wright deserved stuffing – though not so gently.

  She pretended to be listening intently. ‘He’s interviewing four students, so he says. Four rugby-playing students.’

  ‘You sound regretful,’ she said to Casper.

  ‘Well …’ he said, sounding quite peeved in fact. ‘I do like to watch local rugby. Those boys are so fit – and very nice.’

  She reminded him that they may have committed murder.

  ‘I know, my dear …’ He sounded as though the bottom had fallen out of his world. It was typical. Casper was fine about the out-and-out villains of the world being arrested but he had a soft spot for beautiful people – especially young men who performed on the sports field. He sighed heavily. ‘What a shame.’

  Guessing that Doherty wouldn’t be in touch for some time, she concentrated on Bobo, thinking to herself that the nice thing about having a dog boarded on her was walking through the park, getting fresh air plus the exercise she’d always promised herself. The negative that she tried not to think about was carrying a pooper scooper and the requisite plastic bag.

  The moment she was outside, standing with the dog outside the Green River, woman and dog looked each other in the eyes.

  Honey stood with hands on hips. Bobo stood four-square looking up at her and wagging.

  ‘Are you reading my mind?’ Honey asked the dog.

  Bobo gave one yap.

  ‘Right. Off with your pants.’

  Taken unawares, the chin of a gentleman wearing a tartan cap and golfing trews dropped like an elevator from the seventeenth floor.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Not you. Sorry,’ Honey said hurriedly, popped the nappy behind a plant pot and hurried off.

  Bobo trotted along with more of a spring in her step. The Huggies disposable for a birth size to three-month-old baby would not be replaced until they got back.

  Henrietta Park formed a patch of greenery in the midst of the city, and had big trees, rolling lawns, neat paths, and benches to sit on. A magnet for office workers eating their lunch, it was shady and surprisingly quiet for a park in the middle of a city. Big it was not.

  Dogs had to be kept on a lead in city parks under threat of a fine if they were not. Long walks were best taken on the perimeters of the city: fields where the towpath ran beside the river and canal, or footpaths leading off the main road into Bristol. And then there was the required pooper scooper and the plastic bag.

  Clean up after your dog.

  Quite right, thought Honey. The signs were everywhere. The city was no place for dogs and neither tourists nor locals relished stepping in nasty things. She wondered at the outcome of the will. Bobo deserved a bit of space, she decided. Living with her mother was out of the question and so for that matter was living with her. In fact the dog wouldn’t be happy living with anyone who resided within the city. No matter what the terms of Dora Crampton’s will, the dog would be better placed in a home in the country. So Honey told herself as she wandered the paths through the park, musing on murder, mutts with incontinence problems, and matters relating to the smooth running of a Bath hotel.

  Deep in thought she didn’t at first notice she was being summoned.

  ‘Excuse me!’

  The summons just couldn’t get through the whirligig of stuff in her mind, didn’t sink in and if it did sounded as though it might apply to someone else.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  Slowing her pace, she looked over her shoulder.

  A very tall man sporting ash-blond shoulder-length hair was running up behind her, his gloved fists powering him forward like a steam train, his long thin legs kicking out behind him.

  Running entered her own head – away from him with all due speed. He looked weird. He looked strange.

  She cocked her head to one side debating whether to flee or face him. Kids were told never to speak to strangers. Perhaps she shouldn’t either. Bath attracted some pretty quirky-looking types and this guy certainly had a quirky look about him.

  She looked him up and down, rating him on a one to ten for weirdness. He was pretty close to ten and definitely no lower than an eight on the scale.

  Apart from the over-long hair, which was of such gossamer fineness it let through the sunlight, he had an all-over tan, skinny arms, and very skinny legs; a definite winner in a knobbly knees competition.

  She blinked when she took in the white shorts he was wearing. ‘Skimpy’ was the best way to describe them, though ‘too tight’ and ‘too small for decency’ were right up there with it. The matching vest was a mere formality. White socks, running shoes, and fingerless gloves plus a sweatband around his forehead finished his far from fetching ensemble. She came t
o the conclusion that the shop must have been out of his size at the time he’d taken up jogging.

  Just in case she’d made a mistake and he wasn’t really addressing her, she did a swift sweep around. An old lady sitting on a bench out of earshot feeding the pigeons, a woman wearing a tangerine skirt and lots of beads was doing a series of T’ai Chi movements under a tree, and two toddlers were running around while their mothers smoked and chatted. Nobody else was close by. She’d definitely drawn the short straw. The spidery man with the dyed blond hair was addressing her.

  He’d come to a halt on the path in front of her, blocking her progress. His hands were bunched into fists which he held at his waist. The stance made her think that he might sprint off suddenly; either that or he had it in mind to throw a left hook. She tensed just in case she had to duck. On second thoughts she decided he was around sixty years of age and she should be able to handle things – even a punch on the jaw.

  ‘Were you speaking to me?’ she asked, sounding casual when in fact she was still considering doing a speedy dash in the opposite direction.

  ‘Ye…sss,’ he said between rushed breathing. ‘Are you that bird who does the crime thingy with the hotels thingy?’

  His narrow chest heaved from concave to convex like a pair of punctured bellows.

  She thought she knew the thingy he was referring to. ‘If you mean the Hotels Association thingy, then I am. Crime Liaison Officer last time I looked.’

  ‘I want to speak to you.’

  ‘You already are speaking to me.’ Honey met his look with firm resolve though inside she was about as firm as a warm jelly. Nutcases of every persuasion lurked in unexpected places – even in Henrietta Park. Even in Bath.

  ‘I wanted to tell you that I wrote that letter on a whim.’

  A letter? What letter? Perhaps he was speaking to the wrong person. She hoped he was.

  She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what letter you mean.’

  ‘I want it back,’ he blurted. It sounded as though he’d been psyching himself up for this.

  The pale cheeks either side of his overlong nose were laced with fine veins that were getting redder by the second.

  Honey took a step back and eyed him sidelong. The self-awareness, self-defence, and desperate scenario course she’d attended had advised keeping things light. At the time she hadn’t been able to envisage when exactly she would ever use what she was taught. There was only a very outside chance that she would find herself in a hostage situation. This was very likely the closest she was likely to get so she shrugged and did a little laugh. It wouldn’t hurt to put a little practice in. ‘I know nothing about any letter.’

  ‘Yes you do. I want it back!’ he snapped.

  This was crazy. He was crazy.

  Shaking her head, she laughed even more – not a manic laugh, just a gentle ‘hey, let’s be friendly and funny’ kind of laugh. My, that course was coming in handy. Unfortunately, things didn’t come out quite as she’d planned.

  ‘You’re crazy! I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about …’

  He had staring eyes – pale, limpid, staring eyes. The pink veins in his face took on a rosier glow, almost as though they were being fed by sub-dermal heat ducts. ‘If you won’t give it to me …’

  ‘I cannot give you what I do not have,’ she said, shaking her head and wondering what opportunities there were for people skilful at negotiating techniques.

  The blond jogger burst her bubble. In one swift move he’d snatched Bobo’s pink leather leash.

  Taken totally by surprise, Honey yelped as it blistered through her palm.

  ‘You can’t do this,’ she yelled, desperately trying not to envisage a carefree lifestyle without Bobo.

  ‘Yes I can.’

  She couldn’t believe what he did next. Jerking the leash as though it were a yo-yo, Bobo was propelled upwards landing in the crook of his arm.

  ‘You can’t do that,’ she shouted, not sure whether she was referring to him taking the dog or using the helpless mutt like that.

  Leaping into his stride, he shouted at her over his shoulder. ‘You’re not getting your dog back until I get the letter.’

  ‘Hey! It’s not my dog. Bring her back this minute!’

  ‘Ha!’ she heard him shout.

  The jogging outfit was a blur of white as he sped off with Bobo beneath his arm.

  ‘Bobo. You traitor!’

  The women chatting and smoking glanced over, paused then went back to what they were doing.

  She took a few tentative steps, but stopped as a very important thought came to her. His stride was greater than hers, plus she had the pooper scooper.

  ‘Hey!’ she shouted again. ‘You’ll get fined if you don’t have one of these.’ She waved the red plastic scoop and the plastic bag in the air. He took no notice of course.

  ‘You’ll get fined if she does a poo-poo on the grass,’ she yelled somewhat lamely.

  He didn’t stop, of course, and disappeared out of sight.

  ‘And you haven’t got any Huggies,’ she added with a smile. ‘Pity your laminate floors or your woollen rug.’

  Her smile turned to a grin. Bobo’s kidnapper was totally unaware of what he’d got himself into. He’d left her holding the poop-scoop and the plastic bag, and the baby’s disposable pee pad was stuffed behind a flowerpot outside the hotel.

  It was very likely Bobo would never be seen again. What kind of result was that?

  With raised spirits, she shoved the lot into the nearest bin, smacked her hands together, and made for home.

  There could be repercussions, of course, but she’d cross that bridge when she came to them. First things first, there was no need to tell her mother what had happened. Since lumbering her daughter with the dog, Gloria Cross had absented herself from the Green River Hotel and from the end of the telephone. She’d gone undercover and would not emerge until the will was read and the dog’s future cast in stone.

  And there was no chance of paying a ransom. None of the deceased’s old friends were keen on giving Bobo a home anyway, so for now it seemed best to let sleeping dogs lie.

  Best of all, she was shot of the dog. Her smile was as broad as the sunshine and the avenue of blue sky all the way down Pulteney Street. She smiled broadly to passers-by and tipped a wink at elderly foreign gentlemen whose legs were kaput but whose fantasies were still active judging by some of the winks she received back.

  See? If you’re happy you make other people happy. Just see what positive thinking does for you, she told herself, unable to stop her silly grin from spreading.

  ‘Poor mutt,’ she muttered to herself, and she didn’t mean the dog. She hoped the guy who’d taken Bobo had a really expensive Persian rug – or fitted carpet newly laid. Either way, it wasn’t going to stay pristine for long. Bobo was moving in!

  As for the letter? What letter? Was it something to do with C.A. Wright? She had to presume it was.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘Something about a letter.’

  Honey was mumbling her thanks to Bobo. She’d heard it said that looking after a dog was a big responsibility. It tied you down. You couldn’t go anywhere or do anything with a dog in tow. And once it was gone? Whoopee!

  She was on her fourth vodka and tonic – hence the mumbling and the pleasant fuzziness invading her head.

  ‘So he kidnapped your dog in exchange for this letter? And now you’re celebrating.’

  She looked at him with a silly grin on her face, the same one she’d been wearing since Bobo’s kidnapping. If she’d been more sober she might have wondered why Steve Doherty was eyeing her so thoughtfully. Normally she cottoned on to when his mind was ticking at time bomb speed. Usually all this talk of a daft dog being kidnapped would have been greeted with a raw mix of disbelief and humour. But he wasn’t doing that – he was being very serious.

  Honey, on the other hand, was finding it very difficult to be serious. She was on a high, blasé and celebratory
– hence the drinking. Her vision wobbled a little when she nodded.

  ‘That’s what he said. A letter. A letter I told him I know nothing about.’

  She giggled, shook her head too vehemently, and nearly fell off the stool.

  Doherty set her back on it again.

  ‘Now listen to me. I need to locate this blond jogger you’re on about. He may know something. Think carefully about what he said to you.’

  ‘I thought you’d traced the students? I thought you suspected they did it but wouldn’t own up?’

  ‘You thought wrong. The four students have an alibi. They were in the Saracen’s Head until three. The girl left them there at two. The post-mortem states death occurred no later than three. It couldn’t have been them, plus the deceased had one hell of a lump on the back of his head. I’m presuming that he might have been sobering up and the murderer wanted him comatose.’ He paused and slid a fresh drink across the bar. ‘Drink this.’

  She drank without being asked twice then screwed her nose up. ‘There’s not much vodka in this.’

  ‘There’s no vodka in it. OK, the dog’s gone, you’re very happy about it and want to celebrate, but I need you to listen to what I’m saying and I also need to know about this runner.’

  ‘Jogger.’

  ‘Runner, jogger, whatever. Did you hear what I said about Wright?’

  She nodded. ‘Lump on the back of the head.’

  ‘Someone had hit him before he was killed, possibly while he was doing the sightseeing thing in the Roman Baths. Deke Hattersley, one of the students, went back in following an argument with Wright. He could have hit him. We can only charge him with grievous bodily harm – though he denies doing anything, just finding him there.’

  Honey swigged back the straight tonic feeling saintly that she hadn’t insisted on having a shot of vodka added.

  ‘So you’re hinging your suspicions on the writers of the letters that Wright’s sister brought in?’