Something in the Blood (A Honey Driver Murder Mystery) (23 page)

Chapter Thirty-five

It might have been sheer instinct that made her swerve into the car park in front of the church. On the other hand, it could have been fear. Confronting Charlborough filled her with dread.

She watched as two women armed with bunches of gladioli, roses, lupins and delphiniums disappeared through the arched doorway. Keeping the church clean and placing flower displays in dark little alcoves took on a sudden – and safe – attraction.

Why do you suddenly want jam and Jerusalem? she asked herself. Surely you knew before you started this that being a detective isn’t like doing a crossword puzzle?

Summer was in full swing, the trees groaning in the breeze under the weight of dark green leaves, the grass bowing in waves.

Once the coast was clear, she got out of the car, locked it and followed the path through the churchyard.

Passing along the side of the church and around the back, the grass was longer and the earth lumpy. She stopped and kicked at a mound.

‘Moles,’ said a voice.

The muddy face of a gravedigger was regarding her from an empty grave.

‘Well I didn’t think it was somebody trying to sit up.’

He bent back to his job. Honey went back to hers.

Wispy heads of uncut grass tickled her legs as marble headstones gave way to pock-marked stone from centuries before. The names of the departed had flaked away. Lichen blemished the faces of granite angels and ivy smothered the last breath from a rose bush planted on a child’s grave.

In the distance sunlight flashed on the windows of Charlborough Grange.

Swiftly, before she could change her mind, she followed the overgrown path to the stone stile and climbed over.

The footpath on the other side of the stile led her beside the canal before veering off towards Charlborough Grange.

The smell of wood smoke curled lazily up from a well-stacked bonfire. There was no one in sight.

The huge greenhouse lured her onwards. She remembered the heads, the very ones Mark Conway made from wax, clay and latex.

The sandbags were still piled around the entrance and because of their height would hide her from anyone.

The door made a sucking sound when she opened it and the humidity gushed out like a warm wave.

Leaving daylight and fresh air behind, it took time for her eyes to adjust to the gloom and her nose to the smell of rotting vegetation. Worse was the humidity. Within seconds her clothes were stuck to her back and the silence was oppressive.

‘Anyone here?’ she called. Her voice was lost in the greenery.

There was no neat path down the middle, no trays of seedlings waiting to be planted. Huge leaves fanned out from plants whose more natural habitat was Borneo or Sumatra; somewhere further south and east than North Somerset.

Jungle was the only word to adequately describe it. Just as she thought it, the sound of insects, monkeys, and all the other strange noises associated with a tropical rain forest burst into being.

Don’t be scared. It’s no different from being in KewGardens. Though clammier
.

And there wasn’t the possibility of latex heads being scattered around at Kew.

Her hair clung stubbornly to her face.

‘Is anyone there?’ she shouted again. The sound of insects and monkeys drowned her out.

A tape. It was only a tape.

All the same she kept her eyes open.

Bravely she made her way beneath huge leaves, stepped over thick roots. A flash of colour to the right caught her attention. An orchid. Just one. For some stupid reason she was curious to know whether it was in a pot. She stepped closer, the thick foliage closing behind her.

Looking everywhere except down at her feet, she suddenly fell over.

‘Damn!’ she muttered, then checked her ankles, then her knees. Nothing broken. Just caked with mud.

But who had turned on the tape? It hadn’t been running when she’d first entered – had it?

With trembling fingers, she parted the leaves and peered out.

At first she saw no one, and then there he was.

His face was blackened. He wore fatigues, carried what looked like an AK47 under one arm, not that she knew much about guns, only that they scared her.

His hand rested on a long leather sheath hanging from his belt.

Her nerves jangled. Suddenly, she wanted to pee.

In the bushes? Hardly ladylike and in this heat she could probably sweat it out.

Putting her trust in her metabolism, she melted into the undergrowth.

The soil she slid into was soft and damp. She inwardly groaned at the obvious. Footsteps would be seen.

She sank back as far as she could without making a noise. What would Charlborough – if it was Charlborough – do if he caught her?

Swallowing fear was like swallowing cornflakes without milk. It stuck and was sharp in her throat.

More rustling ensued around her. Another figure joined the first one.

She heard someone sigh. ‘Christ, I’ve had enough of this.’

Peering cautiously through the undergrowth, she saw the recent arrival take off his balaclava.

‘Still, it has been quite a team-forming weekend,’ said the other man.

She didn’t recognize either of them. Peeing was still a priority. She just had to break cover.

‘Gentlemen!’

They looked taken aback to see her emerging from the bushes.

‘Are you with us?’ asked the Johnny-come-lately.

‘No. I’m with the Tourist Board. We’re doing a survey on customer satisfaction. Are you totally satisfied with your weekend here?’

She dragged Mrs Patel’s notebook out of her bag just to make the lie look a little more authentic. Her hand wasn’t really big enough to hide the pink plastic cover and the bright red lips; only King Kong could do that.

‘I’ll just make a few notes,’ she said as more weekend soldiers tumbled out of the bushes. ‘How do you rate the course on a scale of one to ten?’

She pretended to note down the series of numbers called to her.

‘Thank you,’ she said, shoving everything back into her bag. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

All thoughts of confronting Charlborough went out of her head. Hot and sweaty, she ran all the way back to the canal.

The sobbing branches of a willow tree dipped into the water on one side and on the bank the grass beneath it looked soft and green.

Her legs protesting that they hadn’t done cross country running since she was fifteen, she flung herself beneath its shade.

Her bag flopped open and Mrs Patel’s notebook fell out. The red plastic lips looked incongruous amongst the greenness.

Birdsong and the sound of a brightly painted narrow boat heading towards Bath made her want to linger.

Castles, roses and impossibly blue birds decorated the vessel’s full length. The bright colours even outdid the cover of Mrs Patel’s diary. But the cover made her smile.

‘Nice day,’ she called out. ‘Lovely boat.’

‘Thank you.’

She looked along the canal in the direction the narrow boat had come from. There was a white boat moored fifty yards away. The sign fastened to it said, PRIVATE MOORING. CHARLBOROUGH GRANGE.

So! Sir Andrew owned a luxury river boat made of shiny fibreglass and stainless steel. It must surely have a large engine, another mechanical device for Mark Conway to look after.

She picked up the diary and began to read. It was strong stuff – at least as far as the case was concerned.

Mrs Patel reported Mr Conway coming in but not going out. She also mentioned activity at the river’s edge; someone clearing out their cellar and boats coming and going.

The dates were clear. Mrs Patel was very observant. She described what looked like a rolled-up carpet or a piece of furniture being turned out into the river. The phraseology reflected her obvious indignation. It looked to come from number nine, she had added.

‘But number nine’s empty,’ murmured Honey.

She lay back in the grass. The peace of the old canal was disturbed by yet another boat. Opening her eyes, she raised herself on to one elbow and looked.

The river cruiser was white and long. Its owner/captain stood proudly at the wheel with a blonde woman beside him. They were both in their fifties, just about the right age for indulging their dreams.

Suddenly she sat upright. Sir Andrew Charlborough could afford to indulge himself. The canal, not the river ran through the grounds of Charlborough Grange. Via a series of lock gates, the canal led into the river …

As one piece of jigsaw fitted into another – and all based around the canal – she dialled Steve Doherty’s number.

‘Have you interviewed Mrs Patel?’

‘Honey!’

He sounded pleased to hear her.

‘Yes, I have. Very interesting, but we need a bit more. Best of all would be finding Mark Conway.’

‘He’s our man. I told you. He killed both men.’

‘We confirmed with Sir Andrew that his wife had been having an affair with Mark Conway. He didn’t seem unduly worried about it.’

‘Did she deny it?’

‘She wasn’t there. Her husband says she’s gone back to Spain.’

‘And I don’t suppose he’s worried about that either.’

‘Not at all. You don’t seem surprised.’

‘I met her twice. Enough to form an instant opinion.

‘She wasn’t that bad.’

‘She was blonde, Steve, and you’re a man which means you’re biased.’

‘I prefer brunettes – like you.’

‘Smoothie!’

‘We’re trying to find Mark Conway,’ said Doherty.

‘He’s in number nine! It’s empty! Mark Conway was used to slipping in and out unnoticed and I know how he was doing it. Sir Andrew has a boat. Mark Conway maintains it just like he does the cars. Anything mechanical, he said. Are you going to do anything about it?’

‘Yes.’

She heard him shout at someone to get hold of the key holder before coming back to her.

Chapter Thirty-six

It was eight o’clock in the evening. A mist was rising from the river when they eventually got the keys.

The estate agent had insisted on accompanying them.

Although the key was in the lock, professional habits – as well as bad ones – are hard to kick. The policeman with the key heaved his shoulder into the door.

The estate agent turned pale.

‘Go carefully! This is a very valuable property. It has great development potential,’ he protested.

‘Search the whole house,’ Doherty ordered. Four burly detectives rushed into the ground-floor hall.

The estate agent had a shiny tie and a surly attitude. ‘I hope you don’t expect me to accompany you. There’s no electricity on. You’ll be in pitch darkness in some parts of the building,’ he added.

Honey headed towards the front door when Doherty grabbed her arm. ‘Not you. This is police business.’

‘No way! I’ve been with this case all the way through. You can’t blank me out now.’

‘Yes I can. I’m a policeman,’ he said after frogmarching her back out on to the pavement.

Doherty headed back towards the front door.

Honey leaned on the railings and looked down into the basement courtyard. There was another door down there, one that led directly into the basement flat.

The gate hinges creaked as she pushed it open.

Doherty chose that moment to reappear.

‘Get back up here,’ he shouted down at her.

Doherty raced after her down the slimy green steps. The small courtyard wasn’t big enough to swing a cat – even a kitten, but it still smelled of cats pee.

‘I’m going in whether you like it or not,’ Honey told him.

He shook his head. ‘Honey, I just can’t resist an angry woman.’

The door to the cellar area had multi-coloured diamond-shaped glass panels in it.

It wasn’t locked. Doherty pushed it open.

‘I say again, the electricity is not switched on,’ said the estate agent who was leaning over the railings above them.

Doherty switched on his flashlight. ‘No need to concern yourself, sir. Boy scouts are always prepared.’

‘So are girl guides,’ said Honey and did the same with her mobile.

They passed into gloom; the light from their torches showing that whoever bought the place had a lot of work to do. It didn’t hold a candle to Trevor’s flat in number six. Nevertheless, they were likely to make a fortune. This was probably the last house on the block ripe for conversion to flats.

A passageway led to the rooms at the back. He opened a latched door and discovered the steps down to the lower level. At the bottom of the steps was a small hall. Honey raised her hand to her nose. The smell of damp and mould was overpowering.

Doherty moved off to her right.

Doherty motioned for to stay behind. She did as she was told, though not because he’d ordered her to. She’d heard something and fancied he had not.

The light from Doherty’s torch moved away. Her own light began to dim. Drat. Why hadn’t she thought to recharge it?

Telling herself that she wasn’t in the least bit nervous, she moved sideways to her right, thinking she had passed through a doorway, although she couldn’t be sure.

It was dark now. Doherty and his flashlight were far away.

She guessed she was in one of the small, square cellar rooms close to the river and beneath the road to the rear of the property. This was where provisions were kept in years gone by. Not now. Now there was only decay and damp and darkness.

She moved sideways again thinking she heard someone, something. Not Doherty. Doherty was behind her. The noise came from somewhere ahead. In the hope of not being seen, she turned off her phone light.

The smell of mud and a rush of air told her she wasn’t far from the river now.

Suddenly she could see the orange lights shining from the other side of the river. She turned her light back on and told herself that it was probably only a rat she’d heard earlier.

Was that rats she could see moving about on the river? If they were, they were a strange shape and very large.

Her foot brushed against something. She flashed her phone at the ground. Her mouth went dry.

A pair of staring, dead eyes were caught in the flashlight’s gleam. Not one of the plastic heads she’d found in the war games greenhouse. This was real, the flesh blackened and falling away from the face. Probably eaten by rats.

The flashlight picked out the glint of gold earrings. Expensive earrings.

Pamela Charlborough was not in Spain!

Her stomach churned. Sickened at the sight, she put her hand over her mouth and tried not to breathe.

Something knocked against her knees causing her to bend. An arm thick with muscle wrapped around her neck. Her legs buckled as he jabbed his knees more forcefully into the back of hers.

His arm was tight against her throat.

‘Do you see them?’

His breath was moist against her ear. ‘Do you see my trophy? My father told me how to kill. That was the other reason Andrew stepped in when our mother died. Our father served with him in Malaya. Did you know that? The Gurkhas used to cut off their enemies’ heads. My dad learned how to do it from them. And Sir Andrew. Him too.’

A cold chill ran down her spine. Even before she felt it against her neck, she knew it was coming.

‘This is my friend,’ he said.

Because the steel blade rested on her neck, he loosened his grip on her throat. Obviously he guessed she’d be too scared to do anything silly. He was dead right.

‘I’m not a police officer,’ she said, trying not to sound frightened.

‘I know. You’re just like the others. You want to upset everything. Can’t have that, can we?’

She closed her eyes, prayed it would be over quickly, then thought of her mother and Lindsey. Which one would have to identify her?

YOU ARE NOT GOING TO PANIC.

‘Please!’

Her voice sounded small.

She managed to peer over his arm. She could see the river and the waning light of sunset glowing around the opening and the city lights across the river. She prayed for Doherty to come. He was
bound
to come.

Fifty yards away, Doherty’s flashlight had failed. Muttering to himself, he edged his way back over the slimy flagstones.

The walls crumbled silently as he felt his way back. Some instinct told him to be very quiet as he retraced his way to where he’d left her. The muted light from the world outside shone somewhere ahead of him. He looked to his left and suddenly there she was, held tightly, silhouetted against the light coming from the river. It glinted on the knife at her throat.

His first thought was to rush Conway. Not wise! She’d be dead by the time he got there. Somehow he had to catch Conway off-guard and get him away from her. But how?

He saw her tense and knew she’d seen him. Perhaps Mark Conway had not; he didn’t turn.

In the little light there was, he looked for anything that might help him take Conway out. There was nothing on the walls, nothing on the floor.

All he could see were iron hooks and bars ranged along the ceiling. Before refrigeration was invented this was where meat would have been hung. One of the bars was hanging from the ceiling like a giant pendulum, one end fallen from its bracket.

Honey had indeed seen him. She kept as still as she could, very much aware that the strong arm holding her could break her neck if it chose.

So he wouldn’t be heard, Doherty kept his breathing under control. Sweat ran down his face and into his collar as he calculated the weight of the pendulum and how hard he’d need to swing it. Honey’s life depended on him getting it right.

Judging by the consistency of the walls, the ceiling would be equally crumbly; he hoped it would hold. The iron bar was huge. Everything depended on Conway’s position if he was to get it right.

Honey saw him, little more than a shadow, looking at the long, thick iron bar that hung from the ceiling.

She saw it was loose and guessed that if it was swung in the right direction Conway would get the full impact – if she could get him closer. If she could turn him so the iron bar hit him and not her.

Keep him talking. You have to keep distract him!

‘I spoke to your brother. He told me everything. I can’t blame you for what you did. I mean, you were just looking after your brother’s interests …’

‘The American should have kept his mouth shut then none of this would have happened. Stupid bitch …’

Honey closed her eyes thinking at first that she was the stupid bitch he was referring to, but he went on with his diatribe and the reference to Pamela Charlborough became obvious.

As he ranted on, Doherty gingerly tested the movement of the bar.

Honey listened as he muttered about Charlborough and what he’d done.

‘He was my brother, you see. Our mother was dead. Our father didn’t want us. That’s what hurt the most, but Andrew made up for that. He gave us a home – as long as Shaun became Lance. That was the deal.’

‘And he paid your father off,’ she said, glancing at Doherty and praying she’d get the timing right.

‘That’s right. Very handsomely, but then, look what Sir Andrew was gaining.’

Honey swallowed. The knife was sharp against her throat. The tiniest movement or the wrong word and her crisp white shirt could be the wrong shade of pink. And yet she had to move, and not just a little. Violently, so that his body would be facing Doherty.

She braved herself to ask a few more questions.

‘So you hate him for that?’

‘Of course not. He’s treated us well.’

‘And Lance didn’t know that Sir Andrew was not his real father?’

‘He didn’t! Not until she told him. That bitch! That harlot!’ His arm tightened around her. ‘I won’t have anyone –
anyone
– spoil his life. And she did. Though I tried to be nice to her. I really did.’

Honey thought of the crisp, clean love nest next door. ‘Yes. Of course you did.’

‘First that American trying to upset the applecart, and then that slime-ball Herbert begging for money.’

‘He tried blackmail?’

‘Yes. That’s the only way his sort ever gets money – by leeching off others.’

‘So you buried him in the rockery hoping that Mrs Herbert’s first husband would be blamed?’

‘That’s right! Bob the Job. Lance had been having a fling with that little slut Loretta. He told me all about it.’

His laughter echoed off and around the damp ceilings.

‘Bob Davies deserved to be blamed. It was his fault that the Yank came visiting in the first place. Him and his stupid hobby. Maxted had the money to check things out. Detecting was his hobby. He didn’t need to do it. But he wanted to see the boy, and then that stupid bitch told him the truth.’

Mark told it all. The real Lance had inherited haemophilia from his mother. He had died in the same car accident as her. Sir Andrew hadn’t been too well-off at the time and was determined to hold on to the fortune his wife had brought to the marriage. Without an heir it would have reverted back to her family. So he’d bought – it was the only way she could describe it –
bought
Shaun from his father. The deal was struck on the condition he took Mark as well, though only loosely, not as a family member.

‘So a kidnap was contrived, the boy never found?’ Her voice sounded shaky.

Mark continued to be forthcoming. ‘That’s how it worked. Shaun – Lance – never knew any different.’

‘But you killed Lady Pamela. Surely she was trying to protect you?’

‘And make sure she got her husband’s money. That’s why she accused Trevor and not me. Bitch! Dishonest bitch!’

Honey licked the sweat off her lips and tensed her muscles. She could see Doherty was almost ready. His arms were gripping the bar, moving it backwards.

With an almighty effort, he heaved it back as far as he could, then let it go.

The pendulum made a grating sound as it swung.

Just before it reached the lowest point of its arc, Honey jerked back sharply from the waist, twisting her hips. Conway was taken off balance. To regain his hold on her, he turned sideways towards Doherty – and the iron bar.

Honey was flung forward as the force of the great iron bar sent Conway crashing towards the wall.

She lay winded, breathing in dust and dirt, feeling soreness on her cheek.

Doherty ran to her.

‘I’m all right,’ she kept saying in a squeaky voice that sounded nothing like her own. ‘I’m all right.’

‘She’s all right,’ he called out to the other figures moving in the gloom.

Reinforcements had arrived.

‘Is he dead?’ Even to her ears, her voice hadn’t quite gone back to normal.

Doherty glanced towards the dark bundle lying still on the floor.

‘With the side of his head missing? I should think so.’

Honey rejected his offer to help her to her feet. ‘I’m OK.’ She looked down at her favourite suit and groaned. ‘Why did I choose white?’

‘Because you’re contrary and won’t be told anything.’