Walking with Ghosts - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) (18 page)

Chapter Fifty

Simon Taylor eyed the brightly- coloured brochures lining the travel agent’s shelves. An assistant spotted him, smoothed her skirt, and put on her best smile.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

She smelled of cheap make-up from the two-for-£10 shelf. Her cheeks were unnaturally peach-coloured. She was pretty, but like a painted doll is pretty – not quite real.

Simon still found himself blushing. It wasn’t often that pretty women approached him and called him ‘sir’.

‘That one. And that one.’

Both were for South America. He’d heard that was the place to go if someone – especially the law – was after you.

‘Here’s my card,’ she said with a dazzling smile. ‘Once you’ve perused them,
do
give me a call.’

He said that he would. In actual fact,  he had no intention of giving her a call. The brochures could be perused at leisure on a park bench far away, where no one – especially not his mother – could see him. He’d done the research into far and distant places online. Getting the hard copy helped set the idea in his mind.

He bought a Cornish pasty in Greggs and a caffé latte in Starbucks. Stuff going to work! He’d had enough of work. Anyway, he thought, smiling at the clear blue sky, he didn’t need to work any more. Not if everything went to plan.

Royal Victoria Park was relatively empty on a weekday. On weekends and school holidays it was packed with parents and kids. He settled on an empty bench, placing the greasy bag and the styrofoam coffee cup beside him.

He couldn’t stop smiling. It was amazing how many people smiled back: an old couple, a woman pushing a baby in a pram, and a college lecturer-type wearing shabby clothes and sporting a grey beard.

He was still smiling when he reached for his phone and jabbed the memory key.

‘I’m waiting for my cut.’

The silence on the other end thrilled him. It was like going fishing, having a worm wriggling on the end of a hook. He quite liked the feeling for a short while, but then it seemed to go on too long. His smile diminished. A knot of nerves tightened in his stomach. Panic wasn’t far away.

‘Did you hear me? I said I wanted my cut.’ He talked tough. He didn’t feel it. Streetwise was just a word to him. Something he’d never quite got his head round.

Again silence, though this time it ended.

‘All right. Where?’

They had to meet. He wished they didn’t. It was dangerous, but unavoidable. He’d carefully considered the options. A place filled with people was best. Not too public. Somewhere their transaction wouldn’t be noticed. Convenient. It had to be convenient; preferably within walking distance. He’d decided on the ideal place.

‘There’s a matinee at the Theatre Royal this afternoon. Buy two tickets for two seats next to each other. Leave mine at reception. You go on in. I’ll join you.’

The line went dead.

Simon heaved a sigh of relief. His smile returned. Pulling back his sleeve, he checked his watch. Ninety minutes to curtain up: plenty of time to compose himself and dream of things to come.

Arranging his biggest project yet had given him an appetite. Settling the brochures on his lap, he got the warm pasty out of the bag and prised the lid from the coffee. Everything was going according to plan.

The time would have dragged if it hadn’t been for the brochures. He eyed the name on the card the travel agent had given him. Glenys Watkins. She’d smiled so nicely and had smelt really good. He wouldn’t go back there, of course. Once he had the money, he would pack the few things he was taking with him, shut the door on his home and mother. After that he’d go to the bus station, get the next bus to Heathrow, and the next plane to somewhere in South America – anywhere would do. The thought of a new life away from his mother made him tingle. A smirk came to his face. Perhaps he’d ask Glenys to accompany him. After all, he’d be rich. Downright irresistible!

Once it was time to leave, he fed the last crumbs of his pasty to the pigeons gathered around his feet. Being an eco-friendly guy, he crumpled up the paper bag he’d bought the pasty in. Both bag and coffee cup went into the bin.

Brushing crumbs from his lap to the ground brought a flurry of renewed interest from his feathered friends.

Hands in pockets, like the Jack the Lad he wanted to be, he whistled as he sauntered off, the travel brochures stuffed into his coat pocket.

A bus had stopped outside the theatre. A group of seniors was being helped off and shepherded into the building. He held back, watching the grey-haired biddies and snowy-topped gents with a certain disdain. Some used sticks, a few had walking frames. The sight of them brought a widening smile to his smug expression. They reminded him of his mother: decrepit and selfish, running his life for him. He would never be like them, herded around like old sheep going to slaughter, lots of yesterdays but few tomorrows.

He had lots of tomorrows. Even when he was older, he’d be independent, because he’d have the money to be so. And he’d be warm. Most of those South American countries had shirtsleeve climates for most of the year. He imagined himself showing his torso to Glenys Watkins lookalikes. Oh, yes. He was going places.

He checked his watch. He had no intention of entering the theatre until the lights had gone down and the show was about to begin.

The seniors and the others in the queue shuffled into the foyer; like shuffling into God’s waiting room, he thought. At one time he’d wished his mother would snuff it. He would have ended up with the flat and the bank account – such as it was. But not now. Ready cash made more sense. He couldn’t wait any longer for her to die.

He waited until the queue had diminished to the last few. His eyes searched for the person he was expecting. Again he checked his watch. No one else appeared. His appointment was either not coming or already inside. He chose to believe the latter. Everything he’d planned depended on it.

Heart pounding and mouth dry as dust, he made his way to the box office. The cashier was just being handed a cup of coffee. Taking money and checking tickets was thirsty work. He wanted to laugh at that, but instead he kept his smile – a little nervously perhaps; just in case his contact was a no-show.

The cashier put down her cup and asked if she could help him.

‘A ticket in the name of Taylor? A friend left it here for me.’

She reached into a small box marked ‘reservations’.

‘Here you are. All paid for.’

He took the ticket and thanked her. His pounding heart seemed to be somewhere at the back of his throat. He was that excited.

The ticket was for a private box forward of the circle. His sweaty hand squeaked on the brass banister as he climbed the stairs. The light vanished as he pushed open the door and entered the blackness. The show had started; first performance of a new run of
Hello, Dolly!
He grimaced at the prospect and hoped this wouldn’t take too long. He hated musicals. How anyone could bear to watch it beat him. It seemed that plenty of others were of the same opinion. The theatre was half empty; most attendees seated in the stalls on the ground floor. The circle boasted only a few scattered figures, the few that could manage the stairs. Theirs was the only box. A good choice. A public view, darkness, and privacy.

The stage was bright, its borrowed light shining on the upturned faces of the audience and the ornate decoration.

His companion was leaning forward, arms resting on the balustrade. Aware of Simon entering, one hand reached back and indicated an empty seat already unfolded, awaiting his arrival.

Fireworks were exploding in Simon’s brain. This was it! This was the moment.

Eyes fixed on the person he’d come to meet, he sat down. He gasped on feeling something sharp nick his flesh. A spring. Nothing but a spring. These seats were old. Time they refurbished, he thought, and sat down anyway.

What did he care about an old seat and a bit of discomfort? He’d insist on soft cushions and sweet ladies from here on. And besides, he felt no pain, no feeling at all in his buttocks. He tried to shift, but the spring had dug deep and his movement was feeble. He tried to turn to his companion and tell him how it was.

‘Something  …’ His tongue refused to obey him. A terrible numbness was creeping upwards. His vision blurred.

Slowly  … very, very slowly, he raised his hand meaning to wipe the sweat from his forehead. It flopped into his lap. His other hand was already laid across his beating heart. Its rate had increased, hammering against his ribs.

He heard a voice. ‘Hope you don’t mind, but I’d prefer to get this over with as quickly as possible. I hate musicals. And it’s so hot in here  …’

A hand came to rest on his shoulder. He felt himself being pressed downwards into his seat. He was skewered on to whatever had pierced his flesh. In his fading thoughts, he knew it could not have been a spring. His hand trembled as he made another swipe at his sweating forehead – and missed. He attempted to rise, but when he tried his legs refused to obey. The theatre itself was a blur of darkness interspersed by light from the stage, by shadows, by ghosts from its past.

The light was obliterated. A figure had arisen between the light and him. His brain had become as numb as his body. The travel brochures fell to the floor. The figure moved away.

‘Enjoy the show, old boy.’

A hand gave his shoulder a final pat.

His eyes stared at the dancers on stage, but did not see them. Neither was he aware of the hand finally leaving his shoulder. For Simon Taylor all journeys were at an end.

Chapter Fifty-one

‘Sausages! We need sausages. Look!’ Smudger the Chef demanded. He stood like the Statue of Liberty, a single remaining sausage raised high in his right hand. ‘My last one!’

Honey looked. Usually the meaty sausages they used stood upright, stiff in their skins. This one had flopped to one side. Sad. Lonesome.

A full English breakfast was important for a hotel’s reputation. The bacon must be lean, the eggs fresh, and last but not least, the sausages had to be low on spice and high on meat content. Hence a day set aside specifically for collecting the sausages.

A whole day shopping usually ensued once the sausage situation was taken care of. This was one of the rare occasions when mother and daughter grabbed some time for themselves. When it came to variety in sausages, Bath had the best; a shop dedicated to nothing but sausages. There was also a fancy fish shop next door. No point in doing things by halves. Following their weekly raid of succulent, shiny sausages and odd fish they’d never tried before, it was tea and scones in the Pump Room.

Honey doodled over the handwritten order. ‘I should phone it through really. There’s this murder for a start, and I need to visit your grandmother’s new shop. She’s having it painted, but I’d like a peek before she makes it too spic and span.’

Lindsey stopped her reaching for the phone. ‘Take a break. Your little grey cells could do with a day off. A coffee and cream cake won’t do too much damage to the waistline.’

Just as they were making the decision whether to drive or grab a taxi, Mary Jane breezed in through the front door along with a brisk draught. She looked excited. She was also dressed in bright pink leggings. Strawberries and a pink waistband decorated her tunic top and she wore plastic earrings of the same fruit. She looked like an excited strawberry on an outing to a jam factory. She asked where they were off to. They made the mistake of telling her the truth.

‘I insist on giving you a lift. I’m bright as a daisy and the chickmobile needs to burn rubber!’

Honey paled. ‘It’s a Caddy, not a dragster.’

‘It’s a dragster when Mary Jane’s behind the wheel,’ muttered Lindsey.

Oblivious to what was said, Mary Jane’s eyes glittered with excitement. ‘She may be a little long in the tooth, but when my foot hits the floor the old girl can sure still shift her ass!’

The thought of doing thirty, let alone sixty, down Milsom Street made Honey’s legs shake.

‘Green Street’s no distance,’ said Honey. ‘I can walk it.’

Mary Jane was adamant. ‘I’m not taking no for an answer. You’re getting older, girl, and your legs aren’t getting any younger.’

Great to hear – 
not
.

‘Gee. Thanks.’

‘The car’s outside.’ Mary Jane leaned close suddenly, her voice dropping to a whisper. ‘There’s something I want to tell you. It may shed some light on the murder.’

Honey was none too sure on the validity of the offer, but what the hell.

‘I’m coming,’ said Lindsey, when Honey said that she needn’t.

No one else dared park on the double yellow lines outside the hotel. The regular parking warden – a Sikh gentleman with a thick white beard and a navy blue turban –  had come back from semi-retirement into his job. He was usually very capable but Mary Jane scared the pants off him. Honey had seen him hiding in a shop doorway in order to avoid her. One day she’d ask him why. But not today. There were too many other things to worry about. One of them was the shiny pink Cadillac. The other was its driver.

‘Hop in!’

Honey took what advantage she could of the situation, diving into the back seat  while Lindsey took the front.

‘You’re braver than me,’ Honey said quietly to her daughter.

‘And more agile,’ Lindsey muttered back. ‘I can grab the wheel if I need to.’

Mary Jane blasted off from the kerb like a rocket from Cape Canaveral. Hunched over the wheel, elbows at acute angles, eyes narrowed as though she were taking aim with a high-powered rifle, not driving an old pink car.

Honey gritted her teeth. The City of Bath was passing in a blur of scattered pedestrians and honking car horns. Her eyes were narrowed slits and her teeth were on edge. When it came to white-knuckle rides, Disney World had nothing on Mary Jane.

After the trip to Northend, Honey had worked out that the best course of action when travelling in Mary Jane’s car was not to talk. Lindsey had worked that one out too. If any talking was to be done, leave it to Mary Jane. She kept her eyes on the road when she was talking.

At present everything was fine. Most of the conversation coming in was directed at the traffic. Mary Jane had comments to make on other people’s bad driving habits. She was blind to her own. The same applied to her dress sense.

‘Will you look at that cycling get up? Purple and grey Lycra! You can see the guy’s credentials! Where the hell d’ya think he’s going dressed like that?’

Honey squeezed her eyes tightly shut. ‘I don’t care. All I care is that we get to the sausage shop in one piece.’

Lindsey’s shoulders began to shake.

Gritting her teeth, fingers clinging to the back of Lindsey’s seat, Honey rolled forward. ‘Stop thinking sausages.’

While Mary Jane drove, health and safety were top priority.

It was something of a relief to make it to the car park in one piece.

‘Was there somewhere special you had to go?’ Honey asked Mary Jane.

‘No. I just enjoy driving. It makes me feel so invigorated. So alive!’

Honey glimpsed Lindsey making a choking action. The words death defying came to mind, but remained unspoken.

Mary Jane added that she was quite happy to give them a hand with their shopping.

‘And then I’m going to buy you coffee and doughnuts. Or giant teacakes in Sally Lunn’s tea shop.’

Lindsey smiled weakly. ‘Today’s unwind day. We do the Pump Rooms on sausage day.’

From the car park to Green Street was a short walk. The three of them strolled, looking in shop windows. Honey remained thoughtful.

They waited outside a needlework shop while Mary Jane went in to browse through a rack of pink silks.

Lindsey noticed her silence. ‘Something bugging you?’

Honey breathed a deep sigh. Should she tell or shouldn’t she. Yes. She had to.

‘I did mention about being stalked.’

‘Oh yeah. This Warren Price guy.’

‘No. He was caught. But there’s still someone …’

They moved aside to let a mechanical road sweeper through, then like the Red Sea after Moses, merged again. In that short space of time, Honey had come to a decision.

First she told Lindsey about Doherty, the jogging, the blonde, and him not telling her that Warren Price had been picked up.

‘He liked me being jealous. Do you think I should dump him?’

Lindsey pulled the kind of face that made Honey feel decidedly un-knowledgeable on the relationship front. ‘Men are
so
touchy about their weight and fitness. Far more so than women.’

‘Correct.’

‘So if it was a lie, how come you still think you’re being stalked?’ Lindsey felt obliged to ask it, even though she thought she knew the answer.

‘I keep seeing this guy. A motorcyclist wearing wellington boots. How bizarre is that?’

Lindsey stood there gaping. Her cheeks were turning pink.

Honey frowned. Never mind little grey cells, straightforward female instinct was kicking in here.

She stopped in her tracks, placed a hand on Lindsey’s shoulder and turned her so they faced each other.

‘You know a guy who wears wellington boots?’

Lindsey bit her bottom lip. ‘Well, actually … Hey! Look at that book on Catherine di Medici. It’s on special offer.’

  ‘What about …’

‘It’ll have to wait,’ said Lindsey. ‘I’ll tell you later.’