Something in the Blood (A Honey Driver Murder Mystery) (15 page)

‘That’s nice. Were you close to your dad?’

‘Yep!’

‘But not to Mervyn.’

Loretta’s expression darkened into a deep scowl. ‘A prime-time creep!’

Honey imagined the affect Loretta’s skimpy attire might have had on Mervyn Herbert.

‘Did he bother you?’

‘No,’ she said, her eyes blazing. ‘He didn’t

me! He

me!’

Chapter Twenty-three

Honey stretched her tired body and plunged headfirst into sleep and a very scintillating dream. She was lounging beneath an azure sky by the side of a lagoon which in turn was fringed with waving palm trees.

The sound of surf brushing over a golden beach changed suddenly.

Funny, she thought languorously. The sea sounds just like my telephone at home …

Just at the point when a gorgeous hunk was handing her a long, cool drink, the dream was broken.

Swearing under her breath, she switched on the light and reached for her watch. Twelve thirty-two. The phone was still purring.

Drawing her other hand from beneath the thick layer of sheet, blankets and satin eiderdown; an old-fashioned eiderdown; she so loved old-fashioned. She eased herself up against the pillows and reached for it.

‘Hope you weren’t doing anything special?’

Doherty!

‘Just sleeping.’ Well actually, the lean torso of her dream reminded her of him, but there was no way she would tell him that. His ego was big enough.

She rolled over on to her side, cuddling the phone against her cheek.

‘I do sometimes go to bed before midnight!’

‘Do you?’

He sounded genuinely surprised. The truth was she was tired out after serving a party of history buffs holding their annual bash. History was sometimes viewed as dry; the historians ensured their throats were always wet. Dreaming of him had provided a little light relief.

‘Look, Steve, running a hotel and being a sleuth …’

‘Doherty. I prefer to be called Doherty.’

‘OK. Doherty. Being a sleuth is quite burdensome. Anyway, what do you want?’

There was a pause. ‘I’ve had a heavy day. You know, Mrs Herbert and all that. I thought you might feel the same.’

Honey pulled herself up into a more comfortable sitting position. She told him that she’d rung the station earlier to enquire what was going on. Cora was still being questioned.

She frowned at the thought of poor Cora ending up in a cell on a bed that wasn’t her own.

‘There have been developments.’

It was a case of ‘pigs might fly’ to hope that Mervyn Herbert had been a random killing. And did Doherty know that Mervyn had raped his stepdaughter?

‘Steve …’

‘Doherty. Call me Doherty.’

‘Doherty. Loretta told me something, something that she may also have told her natural father that would make him real mad.’

She told him what Loretta had told her. ‘I’m not sure whether her mother knows.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

He sounded genuinely sorry, almost as though he could really empathise as a parent. He’d mentioned having once been in a long-term relationship. He hadn’t mentioned having children.

The likelihood of Cora killing her husband wasn’t that far fetched. The option of her first husband, Loretta’s father, having done the job, was also possible.

‘Besides keeping me informed of developments and feeling mutually drained, what else did you want?’

‘Company. How about we meet up at the Zodiac.’

‘Now?’

‘As good a time as any.’

‘I don’t know …’

‘The night’s still young. And so are we.’

‘I don’t feel young.’

‘I’ll make you feel young.’

Something electrical steered a southerly course to erogenous areas she hadn’t used in a long while.

She swung her legs out of bed. ‘Give me twenty minutes – no – thirty. It’s a pretty long walk unless I get a taxi.’

‘No need to do either. I’m parked outside.’

‘I could accuse you of being too sure of yourself.’

‘I could accuse you of being out of your depth and say that I don’t enjoy your company. But I won’t.’

A pale green silk sweater, jeans and loafers, plus a quick brushing of her hair and she was ready. She popped on pearl earrings – a classy afterthought. Classy was good.

As he drove, she blinked at the impatient city where visitors still wandered taking in the atmosphere, and late-night revellers and theatregoers headed for nightclubs or a taxi home.

Doherty was driving extremely steadily. No van drivers were honking horns at him. Not that many van drivers made deliveries at one in the morning.

‘How many have you had to drink?’

‘Two small ones.’

A borderline case of drink-driving? She wasn’t sure, but she wasn’t chancing it.

‘Can we go for a walk?’ she said suddenly. ‘I don’t really feel like a drink.’

He gave in without a fight. ‘OK.’

They headed for Pulteney Bridge, parked the car and got out. He automatically offered her his arm. She automatically took it. Not a word passed between them. Honey was comfortable with that. She presumed he was musing over the day’s events, but also enjoying making her wait for what he had to say.

She studied his profile. Strong silent type with well-chiselled features, a masculine smell and an aura of power. Leather jacket. Stone-washed jeans. Good thighs. Alpha male at his best.

They stopped at the water’s edge, and looked towards the bridge and the river.

Doherty leaned on the parapet. He fixed his gaze on the lights reflected in the river.

‘Mrs Herbert’s out of the picture. Pathology confirmed a time of death when she was out at bingo.’

‘So what next?’

‘We’re looking for Mrs Herbert’s first husband. He’s a dead cert for doing it.’

‘Because of Loretta?’

‘Could be. He’s not long out of prison. There’s nothing between him and the ex-wife, but he’s very protective of Loretta.’

A breeze blowing off the river whipped her hair across her face. It was nice being here with him. Terrible circumstances of course.

Leaning forward, his hands resting on the parapet, he looked up into her face.

‘You feel guilty you didn’t tell me sooner about Loretta’s accusation. I can see it in your eyes.’

‘You can’t see my eyes.’

‘Do I have to beat it out of you? I can play good cop, bad cop if called upon.’

She sighed. ‘Can I call upon you to buy me a coffee instead?’

‘Yeah. Sure.’

His gaze turned to the other side of the river. ‘Look at the river. At its edges the current runs faster. I reckon Elmer came down on the current on this side. If the current on the river is just as strong upstream as it is here, then the body could have been put in anywhere along that stretch. But that piece of wood came down with it.’ He stood thoughtfully for a moment.

‘And Mervyn Herbert?’

He shook his head. ‘Another sack over his head and traces of coriander. That’s a spice, isn’t it?’

She told him it was and thought of Jeremiah. The sacks had to have come from him.

Before she had chance to mention Jeremiah’s spice stall and him being a personal friend, Docherty stepped in.

‘We questioned a spice stall in the market about their sacks.’

‘But not the stall owners. They wouldn’t have a motive.’

‘Not at this moment they don’t, but who knows? Something may crop up.’

Honey thought of Jeremiah and Ade. No. There was no possible motive.

She rubbed at her forehead as she tried to work out where this was going. Being dragged out of bed for midnight walks didn’t happen very often. Midnight walks were something lovesick teenagers did when they couldn’t afford anything else after a lively night out.

‘Are you insinuating that Loretta’s father murdered both Elmer
and
Mervyn?’

‘I think so. The spice sacks link them. And Davies has a record.’

‘So do a lot of people.’

‘Do you?’

‘Not a criminal one. I just carry a lot of baggage – you know – failed marriage, widowed, raising a kid, mad mother …’

‘I wouldn’t say you were mad.’

‘I meant my mother!’

‘No need to snap.’

‘Sorry.’ She rubbed at her frowning forehead again.

‘Right. Now what is it you know that I don’t?’

He sounded insistent. She wondered if he would drag her down to the station for questioning if she didn’t spill the beans. Possibly.

‘Loretta Davies was raped by her stepfather, her stepfather has been found with a spice sack over his head, and I know the bloke in the market who runs the spice stall. That’s all.’

Doherty raised his eyebrows. ‘Jeremiah Poughty?’

Honey looked at him. ‘You know him?’

‘Who doesn’t?’

Honey frowned. ‘I wonder if Loretta’s mother knows about the rape?’ Girls didn’t tell their mothers everything. Neither did they always tell the truth.

‘It happens. She might not have known. And who could blame the man? But Mervyn deserving what he got won’t keep Loretta’s father from prison.’ Doherty grunted. ‘At least he’s used to it.’

Late-night revellers chose that moment to come skipping along the promenade like six-year-olds. Every so often they leapt up at the flower baskets hanging from the lampposts, hitting them with their hands and sending them swinging.

Doherty waited until they’d gone by before explaining.

‘Mrs Herbert told us at first that Mervyn had gone to the pub. The Green Park Tavern, a favourite of mine, it so happens.’

Honey nodded. The Green Park Tavern was a fair walk from the guest house towards the viaduct and the train station.

‘She told me that,’ said Honey. ‘He did it quite regularly apparently.’

‘When did she tell you?’

‘On the first occasion I went there when Mr Weinstock, as he was then, went missing. Mervyn shot off at the same time. I presumed he was avoiding me – you know – just another busybody to blight his days. Obviously that wasn’t quite the case.’

Suddenly the scene that day came back in full clarity. ‘Oh my God!’

‘God’s not here. Just me. What’s the problem?’

‘He was helping some men from the council take out a large chest freezer. It was being dumped. I never saw him after that.’

‘The chest was checked when our American friend went missing, then left unattended and unoccupied. Just enough room for Mr Herbert – if only temporarily.’

Doherty flicked open his phone, punched the shortcut button and immediately introduced himself and what he wanted.

‘Check the file. Where’s Davies working?’

There was a pause as the lowly police officer on the other end obeyed and checked the particulars.

Something was said that she couldn’t hear. Doherty didn’t look too pleased.

‘That’s all it says? The council? Didn’t anyone think to check which department?’

Obviously not. He slammed his phone shut.

‘Chimps. The lot of them. Qualified by a bit of paper and they’re all bloody chimps!’

‘Never mind. You already know that there’s nothing in the freezer now.’

‘Absolutely. But there could have been.’

Doherty’s arm brushed around her back. She took it as a signal to resume their walk. He was surprisingly serious as he talked, his eyes now fixed on the ground in front of them. If he was being ‘fresh’ as her mother used to say, he showed no sign of it apart from the encircling arm. He was into his subject, recounting what had happened – as related by Mrs Herbert.

‘Sometimes, when he’d had enough of Bath and tourists, or when her former husband was threatening to bash his head in, Mervyn used to jump on a train.’

‘Where to?’

‘Anywhere. Two days or so and he returned. But not this time. Then Davies turned up and was more than pleased that it seemed he wasn’t coming back. Offered to move back in. Loretta was all for it. Cora didn’t seem too bothered about it. They could have worked in collusion.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘He’s scarpered! That’s a sign of guilt if ever there was. Probably in Mervyn’s Volvo estate. We haven’t found that either.’

‘So the murderer could be driving around in a Volvo estate.’

Doherty pulled a face. ‘Some people have no taste.’

Chapter Twenty-four

Honey smiled as she greeted diners arriving for dinner in the restaurant of the Green River Hotel. Most were guests, but Smudger the chef knew his stuff, so there was always a smattering of locals wanting to sample his seafood thermidor or his heaven-sent white chocolate mousse with orange liqueur.

Mary Jane came floating in wearing strawberry pink chiffon, her long feet encased in Roman-style gold sandals the straps of which finished in a knot halfway up her shins.

A look of contentment suffused her gaunt features and her eyes glittered with a far-seeing look – quite suiting a woman who claimed to number ghosts among her friends, Honey thought. The incumbent of her regular room had left and she immediately changed rooms. Once again it was left to her and Sir Cedric.

Her usual room was spooky; there was no other way to describe it. Honey disliked the high wooden ceiling and the silly closets that were lacking in depth and had no room to hang clothes. She planned to renovate during the off-season. Sensing her plans would not be welcome, she had not yet mentioned it to Mary Jane.

‘Sorry I’m a little late coming down,’ said Mary Jane in a lazy Californian drawl.

Close up, her eyes shone with unworldly brightness. Honey guessed what was coming.

‘I have been conversing in the most intimate terms with dearest, darling, Sir Cedric,’ she said, her eyelashes fluttering, and her long fingers resting on her ribcage. Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘He has confided some really scandalous family secrets.’

Honey feigned awe struck interest and adopted the same hushed voice.

‘Is that so?’ At the same time, she guided the elderly and very tall lady to her usual table where the long legs and torso folded obediently into a chair.

‘Indeed. He had three wives you know!’

She tittered like old ladies are prone to do when salaciously delicious sex is mentioned – though, it had to be said, Mary Jane did not quite fit the image of a comfortable old lady.

Honey handed her the menu. ‘He didn’t chop off their heads did he – you know – like Henry the Eighth?’

‘Oh, no,’ came the adamant reply. Her expression was deadly serious. ‘It was very naughty, and I’ve been sworn to secrecy.’

‘Then I won’t pressurise you,’ said Honey smiling.

‘But I must tell you,’ said Mary Jane, her fingers locking over Honey’s arm. ‘I’m going on one of these fabulous Ghost Walks this evening. It visits some of the places Sir Cedric has told me about. Would you like to come along?’ she asked, eyes of periwinkle blue youthfully bright in her wrinkled face.

Honey eyed the steadily filling restaurant and shook her head. ‘I can’t see I’ll have time for that.’

Mary Jane looked crestfallen. ‘I quite understand, my dear. Now let me see,’ she said, rummaging in her solidly square bag. ‘I have a bus timetable here somewhere …’

‘No need for the bus. I can’t come on the walk, but I could spare ten minutes to give you a lift.’

‘Oh good.’ The voluminous bag was snapped shut. ‘Your mother said you would.’

Honey maintained her smile through gritted teeth. It galled to find out she’d already been volunteered before she’d had chance to offer.

She might have stayed prickly if her eyes hadn’t clapped on to John Rees. He was wearing a smart but casual cream linen shirt with shoulder tabs. It gave him a soft military kind of look.

‘How are ya?’ he said, getting to his feet and shaking her hand.

She wanted to say, ‘All the better for seeing you,’ but she didn’t.

‘I’m very well. And you?’

She held the professional smile. He might be here just to sample the food and not to see her. Once she came back down to earth, her gaze strayed to his dinner partner.

The woman was slim; not just in a
thin
way, but glossy, as though a copy of
Vogue
had fallen open and the model had stepped out fully fleshed.

She was sipping water and her eyes were downcast. The latter were perfectly made up; dark smudges in all the right places, lashes as thick as furry caterpillars.

‘Miriam,’ he said by way of introduction. ‘This is Honey Driver who owns this fantastic place.’

Miriam nodded, murmured good evening, but didn’t look up.

Honey resisted clenching her jaw. After all, what did it matter if she’d been fantasising about their assignation at his bookshop? The stuff he’d wanted to adorn his walls beside the artworks and books had already been collected. OK, so although it was by invitation only, it was still basically a public event. Anyone could go in and buy tickets.

‘I’m looking forward to the open evening,’ she gushed, keeping her smile trained on gorgeous John.

‘So am I.’

There was something about his manner that was different. He smiled but his features were stiff. She guessed he was coping with tension and Miriam, his glossy, bronzed companion with her black hair and red lips, was the cause of it.

Honey excused herself. Waltzing around the restaurant, she was a picture of solicitous charm. Waltzing around in her head was the same recurring thought. Why were all the best guys already spoken for?

Lindsey was supervising the bar. As usual she dispensed drinks and opened bottles of wine swiftly and efficiently. She never mixed up orders and neither did she panic.

She was tipping a measure of Harvey’s Bristol Cream into a schooner, the largest of the sherry measures. Honey knew without being told that it was for Mary Jane. She’d developed a passion for the very English drink. No doubt a little spirit inside would prepare her for the spirits she might encounter on her Ghost Walk.

‘I see that your friend the bookseller has company,’ said Lindsey.

Honey resisted the urge to grit her teeth, rested her elbow on the bar and sighed. ‘And there was I thinking I might get the opportunity to eat him alive.’

‘You don’t mean that. Personally, my preference is for the rugged, silent type. I like the cop.’

‘Don’t let Gran hear you say that.’

‘The fact that I’m giving my mother the benefit of my experience?’ Lindsey leaned forward, arms resting on the bar. ‘You need youth on your side, mother. Grandma’s talking marriage; I’m talking about having fun.’

‘Your grandma’s old-fashioned.’

‘No she’s not. She’s a control freak. She doesn’t really want you to remarry. I’ve seen how she works it. Take that businessman who used to come in here. First she pushed you in his direction, and when you did take an interest she told you he was like a sailor; a girl in every port.’

‘He was.’

‘I think she lied.’

Lindsey was telling the truth. It was strange, it was annoying and it was also plain bloody-mindedness. The kind of scenario Lindsey referred to had happened more than once. But not now. She was now Crime Liaison Officer for Bath Hotels Association and had acquired street cred; and a policeman friend.

Honey asked, ‘So who’s the supermodel dining with out bookseller friend?’

Lindsey checked the reservation register, running her finger down the page until she found the right time and name. ‘Mr and Mrs Rees.’

The restaurant was full and compliments to the chef were coming thick and fast. Honey knew she should have felt supremely smug that things were going so well tonight, but John Rees had punctured her balloon. Steve Doherty was still a contender, but that ego … John Rees didn’t have one. Or baggage. At least she hadn’t thought so; until tonight.

She was almost glad when the customers thinned out and Mary Jane came tottering over to claim her lift to the Ghost Walk.

‘I hope I’m not inconveniencing you,’ she said, her bony fingers light as swan’s feathers on Honey’s arm.

‘Of course not,’ Honey lied, her eyes sliding sidelong to Mr and Mrs Rees. Their heads were almost touching across the table. Their expressions were intense, not with desire, but with something else. They could have been talking about their marriage; they could just as easily be disagreeing over the colour scheme for a new kitchen.

Mary Jane folded herself into the car in much the same way as she had her seat in the restaurant; basically in three parts; lower legs, upper legs and torso.

A finely crocheted grey cape was draped around her shoulders and fastened with a pin at the front.

Mary Jane chatted all the way, recounting how often she’d contacted Sir Cedric in the privacy of her room. By the time they’d reached Queens Square and the FrancisHotel, Honey knew all about Sir Cedric’s wives and which one Mary Jane was related to.

‘Fanny,’ she pronounced emphatically. ‘Fanny Millington. Bob the Job actually located a picture of her; just a sketch but enough to tell me she was a handsome woman. She bore Sir Cedric six children. His first wife didn’t have any. Apparently she was fragile. I suppose we’d say that Fanny had good genes.’

Honey couldn’t argue with that. She knew Mary Jane was at least seventy-five and still looking good.

‘What about the third wife?’

‘I don’t know anything about her genes. Apparently she ran off with the coachman and the marriage was annulled.’

Beaming broadly, she shrugged her square, bony shoulders. ‘ Isn’t family history just wonderful!’

Quite a crowd had gathered at the bottom end of Queens Square , just along from the FrancisHotel.

Crocheted cape billowing in the breeze, Mary Jane strode to join the other tourists. The merry band chattered like magpies, full of excitement at the prospect of seeing what few had ever seen, and pleased to pay for the privilege.

Honey turned the steering wheel meaning to head back to the hotel, when Loretta Davies emerged from Charlotte Street at the top end of the square. She was wearing a white blouse and a black skirt, regulation uniform for a hotel waitress.

Honey hit the horn and opened the passenger side window. ‘Do you want a lift?’

Loretta opened the door and got in. ‘Thanks. I’ve just finished my shift. Working helps keep my mind off things. I’ve made sure our place keeps going, but you just have to get out, don’t you?’

Honey agreed with her.

Despite the uniform, three gold earrings dangled from Loretta’s right ear. The white blouse was long enough to cover her belly button.

It was now nine-thirty. She calculated that Loretta had been on duty since mid-afternoon to be going home this early.

‘Where do you work?’

‘La Traviata.’

Honey recognised the name of an up-market Italian restaurant situated behind the world famous Royal Crescent .

Loretta slid her feet from her shoes.

‘Me feet are killing me. I’ve been on since two.’

‘Poor you. I didn’t know you worked in the catering trade. I presumed you did a bit for your mother and had something else … you know … like an office job.’

‘Not bloody likely. My mum likes things done her way. She gets Marge in to clean and do the laundry and ironing when it’s busy. Especially now. I’ve hung around and looked after things, but it’s only temporary. I had to get out. Honest I did.’

Her voice seemed to nose dive on the last two words. Honey decided that she was not quite as confident as she made out. She was hurting. Under the circumstances, it wasn’t surprising.

The smell of trees bathed in darkness drifted into the car. So did the aroma of fast food joints; hamburgers, kebab shops and tacos bars.

Now was as good a time as any to ask the most difficult question. I might even get an answer, thought Honey. Either that or she’ll tell me to bog off.

She decided it was worth the effort.

‘What did your mother say – you know – about your stepfather … doing what he did? I presume you told her.’

‘Fat lot of good it did. She didn’t believe me. Couldn’t live without ’im, but could live without me.’

Honey bit her lip and kept her eyes on the road ahead. She felt so sorry for this girl, not just because it seemed her mother had not believed her. While being questioned, Doherty had asked Cora Herbert outright about her daughter’s accusation. Her response had been casually indifferent, stating that her daughter could lie for England. In the next breath she’d declared how devastated she was.

They were fast approaching the Lower Bristol Road .

‘I’ll come in with you if I may,’ said Honey. ‘Just to see how your mum is bearing up.’

‘Why?’

Loretta eyed her suspiciously.

‘It’s OK, isn’t it?’

Loretta chewed her bottom lip. ‘I suppose you can.’

To Honey’s eyes Loretta was no longer the girl with the hard eyes and the blatant attempt to be sluttish. She was a little girl and vulnerable. How must it have felt to be raped by her stepfather and being too afraid to tell her mother, and when she did, not being believed?

The porch light was still on when they got there. Loretta had a key. Honey followed her along the passage leading to the rear kitchen and the small sitting room adjoining the conservatory.

Dishes were heaped in the sink. An empty tin of ravioli sat on the draining board. The place smelled of bacon fat, old teabags and Guinness.

Honey averted her eyes from a frying pan containing rashers of bacon – tomorrow’s breakfast for residents.

‘Mum?’

‘I’m in here.’

The response came from Mervyn Herbert’s ‘den’.

Cora was on her knees tidying up, repacking what the police had unpacked, and putting it away. Her backside wobbled against her meaty calves as she did it.

‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything.’

Cora stopped what she was doing and glared over her shoulder. ‘What do you want?’

‘I saw Loretta and gave her a lift. I just thought I’d see how you were. It must have been quite an ordeal down at the station. Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘Well you could start by finding a landscape gardener. My rockery’s a right shambles.’

‘Sorry. Can’t help.’

Cora Herbert threw her a sneer before going back to what she was doing.

‘Everything’s a mess,’ she grumbled. ‘Bloody coppers! Mucking my place up like this. I’ve got a business to run. It’s got to be a bit tidy, you know.’

‘Yes. I know.’

Honey made a snap decision. If she was going to get this woman to trust her, she had to bend. Literally.

She knelt down beside her on the moss-coloured carpet. ‘Let me help you.’