Something in the Blood (A Honey Driver Murder Mystery) (19 page)

She didn’t hear him following her. She wasn’t meant to. That was the good thing about wearing trainers. OK, your feet might end up stinking, but no one heard you following.

He saw her take her phone from out of her pocket and tap in a number. Judging by the brief moment the phone was next to her ear there was either no signal or the battery was flat.

He’d expected her to return to the hotel. Instead she headed for the taxi rank outside the Abbey.

Swearing beneath his breath, he pushed his way through the crowds strolling around, recording their visits to the city on digital camcorders and cameras and stopping to sniff the aroma of up-market cuisine wafting on the evening air.

His eyes followed her as she wove through the crowds. He saw her get into a taxi.

Suddenly a text came through to him on his own phone. He read the message quickly. He was wanted. It wouldn’t take long. He’d catch up with Honey Driver later.

Chapter Thirty

Lady Pamela Charlborough snapped shut the clasp of her Gucci handbag and, turning to her husband, put on a confident front.

‘My car’s broken. Mark will have to drive me to the airport. I’ve booked a hotel. He can stay overnight.’

Her husband took quick strides across the room, caught her wrist and squeezed hard.

‘You expect me to believe that? But don’t worry. I’m not jealous. Sorry for the poor sod. That’s all.’

‘Stop it! Stop it! You’re hurting me.’

He tightened his grip.

‘Good. I want to hurt you.’

He smiled at the thought of her feeling pain, the discomfort as her veins filled up with trapped blood.

He brought his face close to hers.

‘Let me go!’

‘How can I let you go my little darling, you who think you have the right to dispose of my possessions even before I am dead, things that I prize, things that have been in this house for years.’

‘I needed the money!’ she snapped.

His face closed on hers. His hand encompassed her neck before his thumb pressed on her windpipe.

‘You need!’

She tugged with both hands at his fingers, eyes wide with fear as she struggled for breath.

He was doing this with only one hand, still holding his brandy glass in the other.

The feel of her squirming against his strength excited him. Her mouth was open. He knew she was trying to scream but no sound came out.

Such was the strength and tension in his fingers, that the hand not compressing his wife’s throat snapped the stem of the brandy balloon.

Pamela’s eyes were bulging, her face changing colour.

Feeling an incredible surge of excitement that he hadn’t felt for years – not since he’d left active service; not since he’d come home from killing people, he brought the jagged edge of the stem close to her face.

She mouthed all the most profane words she knew yet no sound came out. But he understood. She could see from his eyes that he understood. It had been years since she’d been this close to him and it scared her. He looked as if only part of him was in the room. The rest was somewhere else.

Suddenly he let go. Staggering and gasping for air she ran for the stairs.

Once the bedroom door was safely locked, clothes, shoes and toiletries flew into her luggage. Lingerie was wound into balls; shoes were shoved haphazardly amongst delicate laces, silks and cashmere.

Passport and essentials were thrown into a tan leather bag with the famous Gucci symbol on the side. Her mobile fell onto the silk and satin counterpane.

Her enhanced breasts heaved and she coughed a little before regaining control, before even being able to speak.

She stared at the passport. Revenge was like an ice-cold knife between her ribs. It was not in her power to destroy Andrew, but she could make things difficult for him – swine that he was.

She phoned the police, asked for whoever was in charge of the case and told him that the murdered American HAD visited Charlborough Grange.

‘It would be very worthwhile if you questioned my husband.’

Doherty noted what she said. ‘We do already have someone helping us with our enquiries. I’ll let you know if we need to speak to you or your husband again.’

Frustrated by his answer, she slammed the disconnect button. Someone had to be interested.

Her! The hotel liaison person! She’d left her card.

Honey answered on the fourth ring.

‘My husband lied. The American was here,’ she said once the initial introductions were taken care of.

‘That’s interesting. Thank you very much.’

Lady Pamela’s mouth remained open. This was not the response she’d hoped for – from either of them.

‘Interesting? Is that all you can say?’

‘Look, I’m a bit busy at the moment, but if you’d like to jot down all you remember …’

‘Surely what I know deserves a little time?’

‘All right. Tell me something.’

Pamela paused. ‘Elmer Maxted. Do you know where he died?’

Honey was currently in the back of the taxi, en route to Cora Herbert’s establishment.

Still, information was information. She answered Pamela’s question.

‘As far as they know, he was killed in the cellars of one of the houses with access to the river. They think the house he was murdered in was numbered six or nine.’

Silence ensued before Pamela spoke.

‘I see.’

She sounded a lot less intense. Again silence. Honey gave her a nudge.

‘What did you want to tell me?’

‘Never mind. I’ll put it in a letter.’

She slammed the phone shut. Razor thin, it slid from her hand and into her suitcase.

Nothing was going quite as she’d wanted it to. Even her car was refusing to start. ‘Give me an hour and I’ll take a look at it,’ said Mark.

‘Half an hour!’

He turned his back on her temper. ‘Mark, I think you should come to Spain with me.’

He said nothing.

She wanted to say so much, but couldn’t. He might not approve of what she was about to do.

The maid had left today’s
Bath Chronicle
on the dressing table. The headlines caught her eye. SUSPECT RELEASED
.
She read on. The police had raided the wrong house, the wrong terrace. What was more, the suspect, Robert Davies, had been released due to lack of evidence. She shivered.

Her room was an oasis of tranquil pale lime and deep pink. She sat down at her desk, took out a pad and began to write. Once finished, she read what she had written. Her fine eyebrows arched with satisfaction. Yes. This would do the trick.

Frances Tolly, housekeeper at Charlborough Grange, came in to tell her that Mark had failed to fix her car.

‘Then tell him to get the Rolls out, and tell him I need a driver. I’m not driving that bloody great thing! He’ll have to stay overnight at the airport hotel.’

And come with me. Yes, he must come with me!

Pamela smiled at the prospect. Although she had told her husband that she wanted Mark to drive her and stay overnight, there had been no guarantee that he would. But the car was big. Perhaps there would be time to get together en route.

Perhaps it was just as well that the sleek little Mercedes would not start. The thought of Mark’s youthful body sent a shiver of excitement down her spine. There was so much potential in that young man. She’d tempted him into having sex with her. She hadn’t managed to persuade him to kill Andrew, but there was more than one way to skin a rabbit.

Frances turned to go.

‘Wait a moment. Can you post this for me, Frances? It needs a stamp.’

After sealing the envelope, she passed it to the maid.

That, she thought, closes the last chapter in a loveless marriage.

Her luggage was transferred into the trunk of the Rolls Royce.

To her dismay she found that Trevor was driving.

‘Mark’s gone on an errand,’ he told her.

She wasn’t sure that he was telling the truth. But she had a flight booked. She wanted to go before the shit really hit the fan.

She didn’t look back as they drove off. She never wanted to see the place again.

The main gate loomed up before them. Suddenly, Trevor stopped the car.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘There’s something wrong with the brakes. We’ll have to go back.’

He swung the car round and headed back down the drive. Out back in the old stable yard, he left the car running. She tapped her fingers impatiently, watching as he went into the garage to find what he needed.

Trevor hadn’t liked lying. The fact was that Sir Andrew had ordered him to drive his soon-to-be ex-wife to the airport.

Damned nuisance with the brakes, but soon fixed.

He cocked his ear, thinking he’d heard the engine rev up then disappear. Perhaps it had cut out?

Never mind. It would soon start up.

Whistling to himself, he opened the top tier of the toolbox, found what he was looking for and went back outside.

Swinging the tool from his hand, he went back to where he’d left the car – but it wasn’t there.

‘What the bloody …?’

Thinking her ladyship had driven it round the front – perhaps because she’d left luggage behind – he ran round the front to check. No car to be seen.

‘What the hell! Sod her. Let her drive her bloody self.’

Arms hanging listlessly at his side, he shrugged and walked back to the house. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d shot off to meet a secret lover. Either that or someone from the house had taken over.

He didn’t care which it was. He had the greenhouses to contend with. He had war games to prepare.

Chapter Thirty-one

Cora’s hands shook as she placed the cereal packets along the sideboard in the dining room, the granola next to the bran flakes; the Cornflakes next to the Rice Crispies, then the Weetabix, the Shreddies and the Sugar Puffs.

Honey watched silently, a picture of calm professionalism. Things wouldn’t be done like this at the Green River, but in a guest house it was perfectly acceptable. The lines were straight, the crockery gleamed and the cutlery sparkled. None of this seemed enough for Cora. Again and again she realigned the packets. Her hands shook and for once her fingers did not reach for cigarettes.

Feeling as though she’d won the lottery, Honey tried to contain her excitement. She could be wrong about the newspapers being the key to everything, but her instinct told her otherwise. Her instinct also told her to tread carefully; be nice.

‘It must be very difficult – losing your husband and trying to keep things going.’

‘Two husbands actually, and when it came to charm and reliability, both were interchangeable.’

It wouldn’t be right to add anything about Mervyn having abused his position as stepfather to Loretta. How would I feel, she wondered. A pair of large pinking shears – the heavy and very sharp sort that dressmakers use popped into her mind – something else she mustn’t voice!

‘Our Loretta’s a help. She’s given up her other job to give me a hand.’

‘That’s good of her.’

Cora stopped the obsessive moving of cereal packets and glared at her.

‘She’s a good girl! I won’t have anyone saying anything else. Neither will Bob.’

Robert Davies! The impression came over loud and clear that Cora and her former husband were shoulder to shoulder in this.

‘You don’t think he killed Mervyn?’

‘Of course he didn’t! Though at times he was tempted, mark you!’

‘It has to be admitted that your first husband did have a motive for killing your second husband. But why the American? It doesn’t make sense to pin that one on him as well.’

Cora shook her head emphatically. ‘He didn’t do it! Neither of ’em!’

And Andrew Charlborough lied. Once she was finished here, he was next on her list – once she’d informed Doherty.

Sitting at a table with an instant coffee, Honey watched as Cora resumed her fussing along the sideboard, straightening servers, smoothing the lace-edged cloth covering the polished wood. The intricacies of the case slid around in her head – a bit like pieces of scrabble – a bit like Cora rearranging the cereal packets.

Move that bit there, this bit here, and approach from another angle. She could have come straight out and said, ‘Hey, can I have a look at the old newspapers those watches are wrapped in?’ Best to tread softly, she’d decided.
Softly, softly catchee monkey,
or in this case a motive and a murderer.

‘Do you think Mervyn was capable of murder?’

The question was out before she could put on the brakes.

Cora was like a figure on a TV screen when someone hits the pause button on the video. She didn’t seem surprised, more confused as though the thought had never, ever entered her bleached blonde head.

Eventually, she came to herself. ‘Mervyn was a first-class creep. And that’s putting it mildly! Bob was never like that. An out and out tea-leaf, but never a scumbag.’

She picked up a duster and began flicking it at imagined specks around the bay window. The windows rattled as a heavy truck trundled past heading along the main A4 towards Bristol.

‘But him murder that nice Mr Weinstock? No. Like our Loretta said, Mervyn invited him into his den. He didn’t do that very often, I can tell you. Even me and our Loretta weren’t allowed in there.’

Something clicked in Honey’s brain. Cora had just called her first husband Bob. No! Could it be Mary Jane’s Bob the Job?

‘Did err … Bob … meet Elmer?’

Cora stiffened.

‘Bob the Job?’

Cora stopped fussing. Her doughy figure turned doughier.

‘That was his interest, you see. He started doing it in prison years ago. He’d put adverts in magazines about helping people trace their roots, and they’d write to him. Got hundreds of replies he did.’

Mouth dry with excitement, Honey curbed her enthusiasm. She didn’t want to alienate Cora. The poor woman had gone through enough.

‘Is there any chance that you and Bob might get back together?’

Cora shrugged. ‘There may be – if we get through this bother that is. It would be good for our Loretta.’

Honey put down her coffee mug. ‘So. Tell me about Mervyn’s watches. He was quite a collector.’

‘That’s right. Rubbish most of them from car boots and junk shops. But that was his hobby. Mended them and got them going, he did.’

‘Do you think I could have another look in there?’

Cora made a whistling sort of noise as she drew in her breath. ‘I was going to put it all to auction. I’ve been advised to keep them all together as one lot.’

‘That’s good advice. You can come in with me if you like, though I’m not into collecting watches.’

‘Can’t understand why people collect old junk. What is it you collect then?’

‘Underwear.’

‘Get on!’

Cora looked flabbergasted.

‘Old corsets, stockings, liberty bodices …’

‘Knickers?’

‘Especially knickers. So you see I’m not going to steal your deceased husband’s watches. You never know. I might pick up on something that the police have overlooked that might help your first husband get off the hook. Perhaps then the two of you might have a future together.’

Cora pursed her lips then flicked at a cornflake packet with her duster.

‘Why not?’

Mervyn’s den smelled of dried rubber and stale beer. The blink of a computer terminal caught her eye. The unit was old and smudged with dirty finger- and palm-prints. Having a frugal attitude to energy waste, she turned the screen off and looked for the box.

Cora had placed it beneath the ancient desk on which the computer sat. She pulled it out. As she unwrapped the contents from their newspaper, she became aware of Cora watching her from the doorway.

Wishing she had a camera, she placed each watch on top of the desk. None of them looked particularly valuable, but you could never tell.

‘Do you have a camera?’ she asked Cora. ‘Only I think it might be a good idea for me to photograph the whole collection and pass them to a friend of mine who’s an expert on timepieces. He could advise you of the best way of disposal.’

‘I could do with the money,’ said Cora.

‘That’s what I thought.’

Cora disappeared and came back with the required object.

Pretty soon all the watches had been photographed.

One of the newspapers tore as she started to rewrap each watch as she’d found them. Her hands shook. This was the real reason why she was here. If she was right, there was something here that caused Elmer Maxted to pay Sir Andrew Charlborough a visit.

Various headlines caught her eye. They were interesting, some downright dramatic, but what exactly was she looking for?

The odd thing about the newspapers was that most of them were Irish, none so far from Bath. The tragedies of the world were there in black and white. Robberies, murders, and children left motherless following a fire.

She read on about the motherless children. One of the boys had been abducted and never seen again. The other had been given a home by a wealthy landowner in the southwest.

Honey sat back on her haunches and sighed. ‘These newspapers are next to useless.’

Cora misunderstood. ‘I’ll go and fetch some more.’ Cora turned to go.

‘No. Best not,’ said Honey. ‘The police might get uppity about us disturbing things.’

As far as she could see, the newspapers said nothing. The sudden idea at the bookshop wasn’t as good as it first seemed. None of these articles could possibly be the reason behind the murder of two men of two different nationalities. Except …

There was a son … he’d survived an accident in which his mother had died. The only Bath newspaper there carried the story, but why was it wrapped up with the Irish national?

She eyed the orphans whose mother had died in a fire.

One of the boys looked quite a bit older than the other. The age of the younger one was the same as that of the child whose mother had died in a car crash.

She frowned. And this means something. But what?

Once the watches were rewrapped, Cora went with her to the front door.

‘It’s a nice night,’ said Honey.

Cora sighed. ‘It’ll be a better night once all this is sorted out. It’s unsettling having people think you’ve done away with yer husband. Bad for business.’

Honey wasn’t so sure. Having a murdered husband found in the back garden attracted the ghoulishly curious. A murdered American was a different matter. The national press had got hold of the story. OK if it had stayed local, but national could syndicate the news to international. She thought about this more deeply as she walked back along Bristol Road . She got a taxi as far as WidcombeBasin. A little evening air would help the thinking process.

‘I’ll walk from here,’ she said, got out and paid the driver.

She took a left turn along the towpath, enjoying the smell of water, the colours of a narrow boat moored in the lock. Lights from the restaurant of a nearby hotel lay like fallen stars on the water.

Veins of purple stretched from the western sky, the air just cool enough to invigorate the brain without chilling the skin.

She passed a troop of tourists undertaking yet another Ghost Walk. The tour guide, a leggy chap wearing learned glasses above an acne-covered chin, sounded full of enthusiasm.

‘There are many legends and many buildings supposedly haunted by a “Grey Lady”. One of the most famous has to be the one who haunts the Theatre Royal.’

A low murmur of interest rustled through the listeners. ‘Have you ever seen her?’ someone asked.

‘I didn’t exactly see her,’ said the guide, his eyes brilliant behind the wire-rimmed specs. ‘But I did feel her presence. It’s a bit like turning round quickly and fancying you’ve just seen someone out of the corner of your eye.’

Perhaps it was the tone of emphatic belief that made Honey do just that.

Was it her imagination, or had someone ducked into a doorway? She’d caught a glimpse of white trainers. Ghosts didn’t wear white trainers; did they?

Under the circumstances, she joined the crowd following behind their guide like a clutch of spring ducklings.

Someone nudged her elbow. ‘Have you ever felt someone was trying to get in touch with you from the other side?’ The woman spoke in a thick New York accent.

Honey grimaced. ‘Yes. Mostly my bank manager when I’ve gone on the wrong side of my overdraft facility.’