Something in the Blood (A Honey Driver Murder Mystery) (22 page)

Finding out the truth about something as perplexing – and stupidly simple – as those sacks, was like breathing frosty air. It wasn’t just refreshing, it invigorated.

‘So,’ she said, trying hard to control her racing heart, ‘when’s he expected back?’

‘He’s not. As you can see, my son is selling both this house and number nine. Mr Spiteri had agreed to move out at the end of the week. He’s been offered accommodation with his employer who I believe is moving abroad. In the meantime my son offered Mr Conway the basement of number nine in which to keep his heads. I did not see him move his things there, but I presume he did.’

She phoned Doherty from Mrs Patel’s phone before leaving but was told he was interviewing a suspect.

‘Tell him he’s got the wrong man.’

‘I wouldn’t dare,’ said the female voice on the other end.

‘Well I will. I’m on my way over.’

Chapter Thirty-four

Doherty was being stubborn. They wouldn’t let her in, so she phoned him from the reception line in the Green River Hotel.

He listened, grunting in places as though he really was taking it on board.

‘You need a search warrant for number nine.’

‘No I don’t. I’ve got our man.’

‘No you haven’t. He was abroad at the time.’

‘He’ll have to prove it.’

‘There are witnesses.’

There was silence.

‘What’s that? I can hear something mechanical rattling into place. Must be your brain. Use it before it goes rusty.’

She hoped the sound of the phone being slammed down burst Doherty’s eardrum. Stubborn cuss!

For the rest of that day, she played the same game, refusing to take his calls, pretending she was out, doing anything rather than speaking to him. At the same time she was considering what she could do herself to sidetrack him and get the right man arrested.

Lindsey caught her cleaning the glass in the front door.

‘You don’t have to do that.’

‘It’s surprisingly therapeutic.’

‘You’re taking long enough.’

‘You bet I am.’

Three times she’d sprayed the glass, and three times she’d pushed the polishing duster around.

‘How’s Sam?’ she said lightly, though in all honesty all she wanted to do was stop Lindsey from interrupting her thought process.

‘Coming on nicely. By the way, I told Grandma you were practically engaged.’

The polishing stalled. ‘Why?’

‘She wouldn’t stop asking me questions about the other night when I slept at Sam’s.’

‘So I was thrown to the lion.’

Lindsey looked contrite. ‘Sorry. I needed to do that. She wouldn’t let go.’

Honey smoothed Lindsey’s hair back from her forehead. ‘Poor darling. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It’s not you giving me hassle. It’s her. Grandma would have been great in the days when young girls were presented at court as debutantes.’

‘I think she would have been better as a wife of Henry the Eighth.’

‘He cut off three of his wife’s heads.’

‘Yes. One of those.

Honey’s gaze went through the glass to the white trainers standing on the other side of the street.

There was a flash of white as whoever was wearing them did his best to hide behind a green wheelie bin.

‘Does he look familiar to you?’ she asked Lindsey.

Lindsey took a bite of the cold toast she’d snitched from kitchen leftovers and shook her head.

‘What’s he doing?’

‘Following me. I think.’

Lindsey frowned. ‘Perhaps he’s a hotel inspector from the tourist board or something.’

Honey blew a mental raspberry. ‘Hotel inspectors don’t wear Lee Cooper jeans and white trainers.’

Lindsey peered out of the window. ‘How do you know they’re Lee Cooper? Have you seen his butt?’

‘They just look that kind of quality, and no, I haven’t seen his butt.’

‘By the way, Doherty’s just called again.’

‘Was he apologetic?’

‘He asked you to phone him. He’s brought Sir Andrew in for questioning and is now looking for Mark Conway.’

‘Ah!’ Honey tapped her smiling lips. My, but it was good to be right. She became aware that Lindsey was giving her the incisive,
what have you been up to, mother,
type of look. Honey knew it well. She often used it to stump her own mother.

‘He wanted to solve this case all on his own,’ said Honey.

‘But he didn’t.’

‘No. His call means that he’s been out to Charlborough Grange, but Mark Conway wasn’t there. Mark Conway is the murderer, not Trevor Spiteri, the man he hauled in for the murders of Elmer Maxted and Mervyn Herbert.’

‘Right. And you know where he is. Yes?’

‘I’m working on it.’

In her mind she was the Lone Ranger hunting down the baddy alongside a bumbling lawman. The truth was that crime wasn’t like that at all. Leave it to the professionals, said a small voice in her mind, you know it makes sense.

The trouble was that there were
two
small voices. The other one was feeding her ego, telling her,
sure, babe, of course you can do it. You’re cleverer than him!

‘What are you doing now?’ asked Lindsey. Not for the first time in her life, she sounded nervous about her mother’s intentions. The way her chin was jutting reminded her of the time they’d lived in a brand new house in a village. The locals had opposed the development. They’d also insisted that a footpath still ran through the backyard of the house they’d bought. One day Honey had caught their ringleader relieving himself against a bush she’d just planted.

He did it three days on the trot, insisting he was entitled.

On the fourth day her mother had been ready with a piece of brown paper smeared with thick, dark molasses.

Taking him unawares, she’d slapped the brown paper onto his exposed loins. The stuff was a devil to remove without help. His wife would have to help him. Likely as not, he’d also had to explain how molasses had got tangled in his pubic hair.

Honey was heading for the door and the man across the street.

‘I want a word with you,’ she called out as she ran across the road, weaving in and out of the cars.

A bevy of car horns blew in quick succession. Brakes screeched and a truck driver let loose with a whole host of expletives that did nothing for Bath’s cultural heritage.

Her attention was fixed on the man in the trainers. She’d half expected him to leg it, but he didn’t. Instead he hesitated, shifting his stance and drawing his hands from his pockets.

Flight or fight, that was the choice he was facing. Flight meant darting off through the evening rush-hour traffic. Fight was facing a middle-aged woman who was wide enough to keep him pinned behind a wheelie bin.

‘Why are you following me?’ she demanded.

He had chocolate brown eyes and corn-coloured hair. Mid-twenties and made to be admired. She’d seen him before. But where? It would come to her, but first the explanation.

‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

‘So! Apologise!’

‘I … I … apologise.’

Shifting from one foot to the other, he looked preoccupied, gazing into the distance.

Suddenly she was back in Charlborough Grange, studying the family photographs hung in a line on one wall.

‘You’re Lance Charlborough.’

‘I found out,’ he said, as though those three little words answered everything she might wish to know. ‘I found out that my real mother died in a fire.’

The fuzzy photographs in a copy of the
Irish Times
sprang into her mind.

Suddenly the articles in the old newspapers pointed in the right direction. One in the
Irish Times
. One in the Bath newspaper.

‘How?’ she asked.

‘Mark had always tried to keep the truth from me. He’s older than me. He wouldn’t let anyone hurt me. No one.’

‘Mark Conway?’

He nodded.

‘We’re brothers. He’s older than me. When our mother died, he ended up in an orphanage. I disappeared, fostered out so he was told. But I wasn’t. Not really. Money changed hands. I become Lance Charlborough. Mark ended up in London and went looking for me. He saw my photo in a newspaper with my father at one of his military things.’

There was an intense sadness in his eyes.

‘So! What happened?’

Lance swallowed as though he were having trouble coming to terms with what he’d learned and what he wanted to say.

‘Our father couldn’t cope when our mother died. He abandoned us. Sir Andrew took me in. He’d lost his son. He wanted another. A lot of money was involved, but it wasn’t only that. He was devastated. His real son was a haemophiliac. He died in a road accident miles from anywhere. Mark was fostered with some people Sir Andrew knew. It was them that got him the job with Sir Andrew after he came out of the army.’

Initially, she had been going to berate him for following her, but not now.

‘How did you find out?’

‘She told me. My stepmother. She got it from the American. Apparently the first Lady Charlborough was his sister-in-law.’

‘And your father? Sir Andrew? Does he know that you know?’

He nodded. ‘He does now. When I left home a few weeks ago, my father – Sir Andrew – cried out after me that he’d make everything right. That there was no need to worry about my inheritance.’

He shook his head, his eyes brimming with unshed tears.

‘But it isn’t my inheritance, is it? Not really.’

Honey felt a compunction to cuddle him, pat him on the back as though he were a little boy again, a little boy who had lost his mother.

‘I don’t know the details. I can’t comment.’

‘I never knew anything about it until she told me. Mark knew, but he’d kept it from me. He’d protected me. He’s always protected me.’

Despite his age, Lance Charlborough had a waif-like quality about him.

‘Come and have a coffee.’

Over coffee he told her that he’d got a job as a voluntary prison visitor. That was when he’d met Robert Davies – Bob the Job. It was him that did the tracing and came up with Elmer Maxted, related by marriage to Sir Andrew’s first wife. Lance had contacted him. He’d insisted on coming over right away. Lance had begged him not to use his real name, just in case his adoptive father sussed what was going on.

‘I wish I hadn’t started this. I feel so guilty about Elmer getting killed.’

‘Do you think your father did it?’

The chocolate pools looked into hers before he nodded. ‘But I couldn’t turn him in. I love him as a father, so I couldn’t do that no matter what he’s done.’

She thought of her mother and nodded. ‘I know what you mean.’

‘I wanted to know what was going on, so I followed you.’

‘Why not follow the cops?’

He shrugged. ‘They’re the professionals. They might have noticed me.’

It hurt. But never mind, she told herself. You’re proving them all wrong. The professionals adhered to strict guidelines. Her enquiries were less stringent and carried out between the shenanigans of a domineering mother and a dozy dishwasher.

They parted company once she’d promised she would let him know when someone was actually arrested. He gave her his phone number, but no address.

‘Just in case you cave in under torture. I don’t want my father – my adoptive father – to know where I am.’

Your father’s liable to torture me?

She didn’t voice the comment, just in case he confirmed it was true and she gave up sleuthing to take up line dancing instead. You couldn’t line dance if your legs had turned to jelly or your toenails had been pulled out one by one.

After he’d gone, she felt a need to talk to someone about the nuances of the case, but not the police. They were busily looking for Mark Conway, Lance’s brother.

She phoned Casper. He answered within seconds.

‘What now?’

‘I thought you’d like to know what’s going on in the world of crime fighting.’

‘Not really, my dear. I just want things tidied up for the sake of next year’s profit ratio. I trust you are swiftly putting this problem to bed. Are you doing that, Hannah?’

Honey failed to suppress a surprising shiver. Only a man like Casper could sound like her mother.

She bounced back, her mood was reflected in her tone. ‘Well you know what they say, Casper. If you want a man to do a good job, get a woman to do it.’

He made a snorting sound. Disdain was Casper’s middle name.

She carried on, wanting to tell someone involved – even if only on a moderate level – all that was going on.

‘The police arrested the wrong man. His name’s Trevor Spiteri.’

‘That’s a foreign name.’

‘Being foreign isn’t an indication of guilt.’

‘That’s a matter of opinion.’

‘They’ll have to let him go. And by the way, I think I should tell you I’m being followed.’

‘A psycho?’

‘No. Just sad.’

She explained about the basement flat and the expensive perfume. She also explained about the newspapers the watches were wrapped in being the clue and reminded him of the photos she’d sent to him.

‘At least the newspapers were of some value,’ he said sniffily. By that Honey presumed he meant that the watches were not.

She stuck to the subject in hand.

‘It all ties in. Lance wrote to Elmer who was murdered because he knew it was virtually impossible that his nephew was still alive. The real Lance died in a road accident way out in the Spanish interior, far from any city. Drugs to speed blood clotting in haemophiliacs weren’t so widely available then. Mervyn was showing Elmer his watch collection, but Elmer’s attention was drawn to the old newspapers. First the report of a fire, and then the photograph of father and son at a social event, plus Mark Conway. The two boys were doubles for the two boys whose mother had died in the fire. Both Elmer and Mervyn put two and two together. I think Mervyn tried a touch of blackmail.’

‘And now?’ Casper’s tone was only slightly less disdainful than it had been.

‘I’m going to try and speak to Lady Pamela. She’s a cow but I think she’s willing to drop her husband in it.’

‘Not a happy marriage?’

‘Far from it.’

Casper taken care of. Doherty was next.

‘Are you now ready to hear more?’

‘Tell me.’

‘The next door neighbour kept a diary of the comings and goings in Rathbone Terrace.’

‘And?’

‘I think I know where Mark Conway is.’

‘I want that diary.’

‘I’ll bring it to you, but not yet. Not until I’m satisfied that every stone’s been turned.’