‘Yeah. Sure. See you soon.’
He looked amused. ‘I should hope so.’
She watched him make his way across the pub, noting that she wasn’t the only one. Women were drawn to Doherty. He had an ‘available’ look about him. For some reason she didn’t mind that and anyway she had a plan to put into action.
The waitress came to collect plates.
‘I’d like to book the four-poster room,’ said Honey. ‘Three days’ time. Thursday night. Can you check availability and book it if it’s free? Here’s my card.’
The waitress said she would do that and came back at exactly the same time as Doherty did.
‘Here you are, Mrs Driver. Special occasion is it?’
Doherty looked at her, smiled, and took a leaflet detailing room rates from his pocket, placing it in front of Honey. It was opened at the page showing the four-poster bed.
‘Great minds think alike.’
‘Thursday night,’ said Honey.
‘If I can make it.’
Honey threw him a threatening look. ‘You will make it.’
He grinned. ‘I will make it.’
He went quiet on the drive back. He’d been doing this a lot of late. He’d also got into the habit of joking around in front of Lindsey, as though nothing in the world was really that serious, including his association with her mother.
His sentences got shorter the closer they got to the Green River Hotel. She was guessing this was a mother and child thing: Doherty was taking Lindsey’s mum to bed. Honey had an urge to remind him that Lindsey was way beyond being a child. She had boyfriends. She wore a 36B bra. On reflection she decided it wasn’t a bad idea to cut him some slack.
‘You don’t have to drop me off outside the door,’ she said. ‘I do have a few errands to run.’
He hunched his shoulders, bracing his arms as he pressed his hands against the steering wheel. ‘It’s no problem. But I won’t come in. I’ve got a lot to do. Paperwork. You know how it is.’
‘Of course I do. I’ve got plenty enough to do myself. Luckily I’ve got a daughter who’s better at it than I am.’
‘So I noticed. Your family has many talents. I hear your mother takes part in some of Mary Jane’s séances.’
‘No jokes about the three witches from Macbeth,’ Honey said pointedly. ‘My mother has a lot of dead friends. I presume the latest one was to do with Dora, the recently deceased.’
‘If not her friend and yours, Sean O’Brian,’ he said. His amusement at her discomfort was obvious.
‘My mother reckons funerals have replaced christenings, weddings, and even divorces in her social life.’
‘You can’t knock them – funerals, that is; they can be really fun events. I mean, that coffin was something else though, don’t you think?’
‘My mother and her friends did not approve. What’s a few more rainforests between the over-seventies?’
‘You would have thought they would have made the boxes – sorry, coffins – stronger.’
Honey burst into laughter. ‘Did you see what was printed along the side? “Suitable for recycling”.’
Judging by the sudden narrowing of his eyes, Doherty’s thoughts had darted off in another direction. Cardboard coffins had led to cardboard boxes and ultimately to the one Cynthia Wright had brought in.
‘I sent someone from the local police along to check Wright’s pad in London. While he was there Cynthia Wright brought in a whole box of nasty letters threatening all manner of things from hoteliers all over the country.’
‘Everything from drowning in a deep fat fryer to death by a thousand cuts?’
He eyed her sidelong. ‘I thought I recognized the handwriting.’
She was half-inclined to take his comment seriously until he grinned.
‘Very funny.’
‘He didn’t ring the bell for many people.’
‘He preferred them to ring his.’
‘Which means …?’
‘Quid pro quo – as long as you’re female.’
‘Ah yes. So you said.’
‘His sister insisted that I study every review he’s ever done. She’s bringing in the disc, though where the hell she thinks I’ve got the time to go through that lot I don’t know.’
An instant thought, so obvious, so enterprising, caused Honey to look directly in his eyes whilst sucking in her bottom lip. Doherty knew the look as thoughtful, inventive, and slick with common sense. Interpreting what she was thinking was no big deal. Reading her mind had become something of a habit and speaking what was in it was very close behind. He looked right back and said it out loud.
‘Is Lindsey free?’
Honey too thought it the obvious conclusion. ‘I’m sure she’d love the diversion. Can she use your computer? She’s in need of a day away from it all.’
He looked puzzled. After all, Manvers Street Police Station was hardly a country retreat far away from the maddening crowd.
There was no need to make a big song and dance about him getting to feel more at ease with her daughter and perhaps make the situation worse.
‘She’s been a little quiet lately.’
‘OK.’
‘Before Thursday would be good.’
‘Hmm. That suits me fine.’
Chapter Nineteen
It was three o’clock in the afternoon and the Green River Hotel was in that deep trough of slack activity between the cleaning down of the kitchen following the lunchtime trade and the prepping up for the evening.
Today was the day Honey took the takings to the bank – in fact she endeavoured to bank some money every day, a reminder to her bank manager that the Green River was still in existence and that the bank was in with a chance of getting its money back.
She informed Lindsey of her intentions. ‘Bank first, sausage shop second. Might even make a coffee with Clare Watkins from the Royal Albert.’
The Royal Albert was an ancient steam locomotive and its two carriages which had long left the rails and now served as a restaurant on a railway siding near Frome.
Lindsey carried on reading last month’s copy of Bath Life, but said she would hold the fort.
Youthful and attractive, it surprised Honey that her daughter appeared content to look after her mother’s business rather than get a job with her own peers. But there it was. Lindsey was the most responsible member of the three generations of females who made up the immediate family.
It was on Honey’s tongue to plead gratitude, but today there was something else on her mind.
‘Do you fancy some time out?’
Lindsey looked up. Her eyes were velvet brown, deep pools in a creamy-coloured complexion.
‘Where are we going?’
‘You. Not me. Dawn said she’s willing to take over.’
‘That’s fine,’ said Lindsey, setting her magazine to one side. ‘She’s working out pretty well.’
Dawn had come to them from a holiday complex in Antigua. Lindsey was right about her having worked out pretty well. Dawn bubbled with enthusiasm. Honey was of the opinion it had something to do with being born and raised in a land of endless sunshine. Dawn was like a battery and still running on years of sunshine permeating her skin.
‘What it is,’ said Honey, feeling oddly nervous under her daughter’s searching look, ‘is that Doherty is in need of a favour.’
‘Whatever. What time does he want me round there?’
This was not a normal Lindsey response. Her daughter was usually a little sassier than that with a longer dialogue.
‘Soon as you can?’
‘Whatever.’ Having tired of the Bath Life magazine, Lindsey reached for a pile of invoices filed in plastic-coated files.
Honey tried again.
‘I shouldn’t be long. If your grandmother comes in tell her Mary Jane has gone out too. I saw her earlier.’
‘Sure,’ mumbled Lindsey, slamming one file down on top of another.
‘I hear they had a séance.’
&n
bsp; ‘No big surprise. All witches together.’
Well this was something new; Lindsey was in a mood. Honey frowned. This was decidedly worrying. Lindsey had never been moody. Even as a babe in arms, she’d been a cheery sort who seemed to cope well with the inconsistencies of adult attention. Honey had never considered herself a natural born mother, just a loving one who’d always gone out to earn her own crust of bread under difficult circumstances. She’d been the independent modern woman out of necessity. Carl, Lindsey’s father, was absent more than he was present. He had hobbies, he had challenges to face, and he’d had girlfriends. Basically, Carl had never grown up. His intention had been to stay blond and beautiful forever, the Peter Pan of the over-forties. Unfortunately, after he’d drowned, Lindsey had been left with just her doting mother and dotty grandmother.
Seemingly having got bored with the files, Lindsey resettled herself, running her fingers through her hair, thus fiddling it into instant disarray. Usually she was staring at the computer screen. Today she was staring into space, seemingly devoid of concentration. She wasn’t usually like that. She was good at concentrating. It was second nature.
Honey knew when something was wrong.
‘What gives?’
‘Nothing.’
Honey knew all the signs. The word ‘nothing’ in teenage speak meant something very irritating indeed. She was right there.
‘I don’t believe that.’
‘I’m under considerable pressure.’
Honey placed the canvas bag containing the takings next to her brown leather shoulder bag on the reception desk. Reaching out she rubbed her daughter’s shoulder.
‘Boyfriend trouble?’
‘I wish.’
‘Things can’t be that bad.’
‘They are. Think of worst-case scenario.’
Honey shrugged. She couldn’t answer. She’d had too many worst-case scenarios in her life. Lindsey’s could be a world away from those and still bad.
Prying her daughter’s fingers from mussing up her hair, she took both hands between hers.
‘Spill the beans, sweetheart.’
‘Gloria’s given up on you. She’s diverted her attention to me. In short, she’s trying to fix me up with a guy who ticks all the right boxes. All her right boxes, that is.’
Honey’s grip tightened. ‘She saw Archie?’
‘She screamed when she saw Archie.’
Honey sucked in her breath. ‘My God. This is serious.’
Darn right it was. Lindsey’s terminology was enough to light the touch paper of worrying moments.
Gloria Cross had never really left her thirties behind. At seventy-plus she was still as meticulous with her appearance as when she’d been twenty-five – perhaps more so. The nose piercing she’d recently had done was a case in point. Honey had pretended not to notice, but didn’t get away with it.
‘Do you like it,?’ her mother had asked.
She’d nodded dumbly, unable to tear her eyes away from the sight of it.
Her mother’s nostrils were large and brought to mind a goat that an old friend of hers had owned.
Insisting on being called Gloria by her granddaughter, Honey’s mother always looked at her best. Her hair was blonde and received the attention of one of Bath’s top hairdressers on a weekly basis. The rest of her body received the best of care from a number of beauty salons and Botox treatment centres. Getting old was a challenge to be risen to as far as Gloria Cross was concerned. Everything to do with age was kept at bay and that included being called ‘grandmother’.
Gloria Cross kept up a pretty fast-moving social life. She also had a hobby in that she considered she had a penchant for matchmaking. She thought she knew men far better than her daughter – hard to believe she thought that at all seeing as she’d been married four times.
‘You need a man,’ her mother had proclaimed.
‘I’ve got one,’ Honey had retorted.
‘He’s a mere dalliance. He’s not husband material.’
She was, of course, referring to DCI Steve Doherty.
There were times when Honey felt a great need to pinch herself at the same time as ripping up every copy of Pride and Prejudice – and everything else in the Jane Austen collection if she had her way – and throwing it all into the river.
Deciding that her daughter wasn’t going to give up Doherty, she’d refocused her attention (and presumably skill) on her granddaughter.
Lindsey was far from pleased. ‘“I’ve found you a professional man.” That’s what she said to me.’
‘Oh! One of them. Is he that bad?’
Lindsey gave her mother the sort of look old ladies reserve for young men on crowded buses who haven’t thought to give up their seat for the elderly.
‘He wears glasses and has neat dark hair.’
‘Is that so bad? A lot of good-looking men wear glasses – and have neat dark hair.’
‘He also wears bicycle clips. He also wears flannelette striped pyjamas. I cannot envisage a great love life with a man who wears flannelette striped pyjamas.’
‘How do you …?’
Honey’s question was cut short.
‘Whoa there! Before you ask me how I know, it’s not from personal experience. Gran told me his mother buys them for him.’
‘Ouch!’
Lindsey sighed.
Honey did too until she rediscovered that little chink of light that might raise her daughter’s spirits.
‘Did I just mention that Doherty had asked a little favour?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Lindsey nodded.
‘Someone is delivering him a computer disc on which are a load of reviews Wright did on Bath hotels. We’re sticking to Bath because it was his favourite hunting ground – if you know what I mean. I think he liked sticking it to the little people.’
‘And hotels in Bath are mostly run by little people.’
‘Correct. What he wants someone – you – to do, is to go through the reviews and list the bad ones on a separate file. Is that possible?’
The look daughter gave mother could be loosely interpreted as ‘Are you kidding? Am I a whizz at this or what?’
‘ They’re waiting for you and I’m reliably informed that the computer is close to the water fountain. You OK with that?’
‘Variety, as they say, is the spice of life.’
Lindsey gathered herself together, smoothing her hair and attacking the computer keyboard with renewed energy in order to finish off what she was doing.
Honey knew how it was. Her mother couldn’t help herself. Honey had often asked herself why it was so. The only conclusion she’d reached was that her mother wasn’t bagging blokes for herself nowadays, so concentrated on bagging them for her daughter, and now her granddaughter, instead.
There being nothing constructive she could add, and things seemingly improved, Honey made a sharp exit, money in bag and bag over her shoulder.
The city was busy. The weather was fair and it felt good to be out walking the pavements with visitors from all over the world. She felt like smiling at everyone in sight – that was until she spotted a trio of Agatha Christie fans bearing down in her direction.
There was something formidable about a threesome of old ladies, especially these three.
Not wishing to have to field questions on the ongoing enquiries with regard to C.A. Wright, she ducked into a shop doorway, opened the door, and went in.
The shop smelled a little musty and there were collecting tins everywhere. Lying next to them were piles of forms and pens. Head bowed she pretended to be filling one in.
‘Goat or cow?’ somebody asked.
She looked up into a smiling, moon-shaped face.
‘Pardon?’
‘A goat or a cow? You can sponsor a goat or a cow. Five pounds will secure.’
She was trapped. She chose a goat.
By the time she left the shop the old ladies had gone. Looking back towards Oxfam, the charity shop she’d entered, she saw the ass
istant who’d taken her money looking out at her. She was smiling, no doubt pleased that she’d sold a goat to someone who had basically been in hiding.
Chapter Twenty
Lindsey’s perusal of the CD containing C.A. Wright’s reviews drew a big blank.
‘I got sick of reading them,’ she said. ‘The good ones were sickly and the bad ones were vicious.’
‘There was no in-between with Colin Wright,’ muttered Honey, yet again on her way to the bank though only with half the amount she’d banked yesterday. That was it with the hospitality trade: up one day and down the next.
It was just possible that the blond jogger was another disgruntled member of the catering trade, though she herself had never seen him before and no one else seemed to remember him. He was, she decided, an enigma.
She was in the process of stepping out of the revolving door, one foot still inside and one out on the pavement – and there he was! Mr Blond Jogger himself. She couldn’t believe it.
‘You!’
Mr Blond Jogger looked apologetic.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his right hand gripping the handle of a red tartan leash. ‘I brought your dog back. I shouldn’t have taken him.’ He had a face like a bereaved bloodhound.
‘Her,’ Honey corrected, feeling absolutely brilliant that Bobo had wreaked revenge on her kidnapper. The feeling didn’t last when it hit her that it would be her floor next to receive Bobo’s lack of direction – unless Lindsey could find some more nappies.
Although her mother had guardianship of the dog and she herself was basically responsible for it, she couldn’t help niggling Mr Blond Jogger by way of revenge.
‘And it isn’t my dog. I was looking after her for someone. It really doesn’t matter who looks after her. You’ve got her, you keep her. A weekly clean with Domestos should sort you out.’
In a frenzy of denial and seemingly glad to be back, Bobo yapped and jumped up and down, her little paws clawing at Honey’s brand new tights.
Honey growled. The tights would have been good for a few days, if not a few weeks. Now they were only fit for straining sprouts.
Wicked Words: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 19