Walking with Ghosts - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) (7 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Casper St John Gervais turned pasty and pale. He held the telephone receiver away from him as he locked eyes with Neville, his hotel manager.

‘Neville. The empty room. Lady Templeton-Jones. Is that the name?’ He spoke very slowly, very precisely, his tone rising with each word spoken as though stinging his throat.

Neville nodded. ‘That’s her. The bed hasn’t been slept in.’

Casper closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had his hand over the receiver. ‘The woman decided to book into the Green River. How
could
she?’

Gathering himself together, he resumed speaking to Honey. ‘I cannot believe that she was not satisfied with her hotel. Still. There is taste – and there is taste
less.
’

Now it was Honey’s turn to turn pale. By tone of voice alone, Casper had told her where the dead woman had been staying. La Reine Rouge!

Casper put the phone down before she could apologise.

Honey groaned and screwed up her face as she turned to Steve. ‘Whoops!’

‘What do you mean, whoops?’

‘She was staying at Casper’s place!’

‘Whoops!’

Honey glared at him. ‘It’s not funny. Casper isn’t good at taking criticism. I dread the next time I run into him. He’ll be
so
sniffy.’

Steve grinned and shrugged. ‘No change there, then.’ His expression hardened as he called up a team and ordered them round to La Reine Rouge.

Honey’s mind was skipping between clues to the murder and what Casper would say the next time she saw him.

Both thoughts were pretty heavy. All the good work of the last few months drowned in her preoccupied brain. Her fingers scurried over the last croissant.

Casper – or rather his hotel – was part of the murder investigation, so worrying about him took precedence for the moment. ‘I’ll stay away from him for a few days  …’ She chewed. ‘Give him chance to calm down  …’ More chewing. ‘And then I’ll explain  … I expect it’s as spick and span as ever by now. He’ll –’

Steve Doherty was on his feet. ‘Get him back.’

Crumbs sprayed from her mouth as she gaped in horror. ‘No! I couldn’t!’

Steve dialled recall. Casper answered.

‘Don’t touch anything in that room. Don’t let it and don’t clean it. Not until we’ve looked at it,’ Steve told Casper.

Honey brushed the crumbs from her bosom. ‘We?’

‘After we’ve done the interviews we’ll take a look at the room. This woman had two separate identities. Maybe she also had two separate lives.

Chapter Seventeen

Honey was not the most careful of people, so taking a cell phone into the bathroom was something of a risk. But she wanted a shower. She was also finding this latest crime caper difficult to deal with. She’d been the last person to see the victim alive – apart from the murderer. Hot water pouring over her closed eyes and naked body helped her think. There was a lot to think about; a lot of emptiness that is. Lady Templeton-Jones had been there one minute and gone the next. Quick as lightning. Steve Doherty had promised to keep her informed. The waiting was agonizing.

Suddenly her cell phone sprang into the hallelujah chorus. Dripping wet, she sprang from the shower, grabbed it and flicked it open. Steam had made it slippery. It slid out of her hands and did a circuit of the toilet seat. She caught it just before it skittered off into the deep water of the toilet bowl.

Casper was on the other end. Suddenly she wished she’d let it drown.

‘I don’t like being involved in this,’ he said coldly.

‘Casper, you got me out of the shower  …’

‘The police are all over my premises.’

She knew this wasn’t true. The police were at La Reine Rouge in the room lately occupied by the said Lady Templeton-Jones. But it came as no surprise that Casper was less than enthusiastic. Crime happened to other people.

‘They’re only in one room, Casper, and shouldn’t be there very long.’

‘I hope not. The press are coming. I’ve insisted they give me a full-page spread.’

The line went dead. Despite everything, Casper was going to make the best of the deal. All publicity was good publicity.

Mildly satisfied that Casper wouldn’t be boiling her in oil, she padded through into the living room wrapped in a towel. More thinking was needed plus a cup of black coffee. She went to the kitchen, poured one, and then headed for the living room and her favourite ‘thinking’ chair.

A singular question kept running round in her head. Why had Her Ladyship decided to check out of Casper’s hotel and into hers? OK, she was cheaper, but was that enough of a reason? And why make that decision so swiftly and so late in the day?

Honey breathed in the comparative calm of the old coach house she called home and shared with her daughter. This was her oasis away from it all. Her surroundings helped calm her nerves.

Whereas other people had watercolours hanging on their walls, Honey had antique underwear. Just like the watercolours it was safely behind glare-proof glass. The lace was fragile, the satin still shiny; sexy it was not. Vintage drawers were shaped like footballers’ shorts – baggy, and with plenty of room to manoeuvre.

The old station clock set halfway up the apex wall struck eight.

Honey finished drying herself, chose black trousers and a red sweater, tucked her hair up with a fixing comb, and slid her feet into a pair of black ballet pumps decorated with gold bows. Dress code for today was quick and casual. No to make-up. She’d been summoned to the Garrick’s Head along with the rest of the ghost walkers; Doherty wanted to interview everybody back where everything had started.

‘Get going, get going,’ she muttered to herself. In her head she counted off the things she had to do before abandoning ship.

First she went to the kitchen, to say hello to Smudger the chef. She enquired if their stock of frozen veg was holding up. He blushed and mumbled something about having to order more peas.

Smudger’s underlings scurried about their business. The kitchen reverberated to the sound of clattering pans, hissing gas and the dull thud of a closing fridge door. The lack of conversation was nothing new. Head Chef Smudger was not a morning person. Big multinationals had dress-down days. At the Green River they had heads-down days every day. The kitchen staff kept their heads down and got on with what they had to do. It beat getting your head snapped off.

The other sound was that of her stomach rumbling. Nerves, she decided. Damn the diet. It had to be dealt with.

There was toast in the dining room. Honey followed the smell, said good morning to the remaining guests and fixed herself a slice. Just a little bit of butter  … 

Her stomach rumbled in protest. It wasn’t wise to ignore it. Another, thicker application – then a smidgen  … then a more generous helping of marmalade. Yummy! She ate it on the hoof, the whole slice demolished by the time she reached reception. On her way she popped into the ladies’ bathroom. A quick look in the mirror confirmed there were no crumbs around her mouth. No shiny smear of butter either.

Another quick glance. Did she look any fatter? It was difficult to tell. Yet. Time to give herself a good talking to.

‘OK, so you’ve sinned. What the hell? A little of what you fancy does you good.’ Her reflection looked guiltily back.

There was no getting away with the fact that sins tasted good. A salad for lunch should get her back on track. Same for supper. And no wine.

She headed for reception.

It was Lindsey’s morning off and she was having a lie-in. Anna was on duty.

Honey checked the invoices made out for guests who were leaving that morning.

‘Everything is in order,’ said Anna, echoing what she already knew.

Honey felt the receptionist’s eyes scrutinising her.

‘You know I always do this right, Mrs Driver.’

It was almost a hurt tone – at least questioning.

‘Of course.’

Honey opened her leather-bound diary and entered her movements for that day and read them out to Anna as she wrote them down.

‘First the Garrick’s Head. Not sure how long I’ll be,’ she said.

‘I almost forgot. Your mother called,’ Anna began. ‘She said to make sure you are here. She is on her way.’

Honey frowned. ‘She was supposed to come yesterday and didn’t.’

It was unusual for her mother not to arrive when she said she would. The double doors – warm mahogany with brass fingerplates and original handles – swung open.

‘Hannah!’

Gloria’s outfit contrasted vividly with the muted tones of a Regency inspired interior. Lacroix; pistachio green, purple and white leggings teamed with a mauve blouson jacket. Her suede boots matched the jacket. So did her lipstick.

Anna blinked.

Honey slid on her sunglasses.

‘Mother, I can’t stop. I’ve got to go to the Garrick’s Head.’

Drawing a sharp intake of breath, her mother positively
glared
at her watch. ‘This early in the morning!’

‘I’m not drinking there. It’s police business.’

There was a gap between her mother and the reception counter. She slid through it, back flattened against the desk. Not a very good avoidance tactic, though a quick sideways sashay should have been enough. Today, though, Gloria was on top form, and she could move pretty damn quick for a seventy-plus-year-old. Vice-like fingers gripped Honey’s wrist. Lacking her daughter’s height, Gloria stood on tiptoe and sniffed suspiciously.

‘Are you sure about that? I wouldn’t want you following in your father’s footsteps. Other people have eggs for breakfast. He had Jack Daniel’s with toast.’

‘I’ve only had coffee and toast.’ She failed to admit to the butter and marmalade. It didn’t count as sinning if no one knew about it.

Her mother’s fingers were long and tipped with red varnish. She had one hell of a grip, more peregrine falcon than pensioner.

‘Mother, I have to go. This is a police investigation. I’m sitting in on interviewing the witnesses.’ Honey prised off each finger in turn, but they kept coming back.

Her mother made round-eyed surprise and loosened her fingers. ‘Is it a murder investigation?’

‘Yes.’

‘I hope it was a crime of passion. They’re the best sort.’

Gloria Cross read a lot, but only romance: a flock of her gender and generation could clear the library shelves of Mills and Boons in twenty seconds flat .

‘I don’t know that it is,’ Honey replied, though in all honesty she couldn’t be sure. This case was a blank sheet. It could be some time before it was written on.

‘Will you get to ask some of the questions?’ her mother asked.

‘I don’t know. I expect Doherty would prefer to ask the questions himself.’

‘You could both play at bad cop, good cop,’ said Gloria Cross with great enthusiasm. ‘Best if you could be bad cop. Bad cop’s the one who gets to do the physical stuff.’

‘Physical stuff?’

‘You know. Torture. Nothing much, just bending their fingers back, or giving them a rabbit punch in the guts.’

Honey slung both bags over her shoulder while making a mental note to check if Mills and Boon novels were less conservative than they used to be.

‘I have to go.’

Swift as a Thomson’s gazelle, though nowhere near as graceful, she sprang for the door.

‘I’ve got a problem,’ her mother called after her. ‘I need your help.’

‘Speak to Lindsey. I’ll catch up later.’

She let the door slam shut behind her. Problems came to her mother in small packages marked ‘house maintenance’, ‘noisy neighbours,’ or ‘choosing this year’s cruise for the over-seventies club’. Unlike murder investigations, such things could wait.

‘Don’t be nervous,’ Gloria shouted after her. ‘And give ’em hell.’ 

Chapter Eighteen

Bath, a World Heritage Site, is noted for elegance, culture, and unrivalled history. That was how most people viewed it. Sometimes it turned weird – or at least it did as far as Honey was concerned.

She’d never envisaged any of this murder stuff when she’d first entered the hotel industry. And now here she was sitting in on a murder inquiry.

The only problem was that this particular murder had come too close for comfort. Investigating a crime after the event was one thing. Being the last person to see the victim alive – possibly even the murderer – was another.

Honey stopped outside the imposing facade of the Garrick’s Head and took a deep breath. This part of Bath hadn’t changed much since it was built back in the eighteenth century. She looked up at the gleaming windows. If it wasn’t for the traffic she could easily imagine herself back then. As it was, she looked for signs of past residents. They said that the Grey Lady could sometimes be seen at an upstairs window or even peering over the parapet. At present the windows reflected nothing except sky and other buildings, the stuff she expected to see. She’d never spied anything else, much as she might want to – or not.

Mary Jane had once told her that ghosts and spirits are only seen when the mind least expects it. At present her mind was too full of other things.

‘In there,’ said the police constable, standing to one side of the steps leading in. The smell of something cooking smothered those of traffic, dust, and everything else Bathonian. There were lots of restaurants around here; lots of kitchens in the basements of lofty houses.

Honey took a sniff. Her stomach rumbled. Steak and kidney pie? Shepherd’s pie? Whatever it was, the smell was good.

The chest of the policeman expanded and contracted. It was accompanied by a hefty sigh. ‘My favourite. Steak and kidney.’

Honey shook her head. ‘No. Close. But it’s shepherd’s pie.’

He looked affronted. ‘I know steak and kidney when I smell it. Bet you a fiver.’

‘OK.’

He got out a fiver. Honey snatched it. ‘Shepherd’s pie,’ she said, pointing to a chalkboard leaning against the wall in the vestibule behind him.

He muttered something inaudible.

Honey made her way into what had been termed ‘The Green Room,’ where actors and the gay community had once gathered. Tables were neatly arranged and covered with tablecloths ready for lunch.

Two more constables stood just inside and parted to let her through.

Doherty was sitting at a table down at the far end of the room. The cloth had been removed, the cutlery replaced by notepads, witness statements, and pens.

Doherty looked up when she entered. ‘Good morning.’ His eyes held hers for a moment. ‘Take a seat. Would you like a coffee?’

‘No. I’ve had one.’

She sat down opposite him, surprised that the nervousness was still with her.

Steve noticed her unease. ‘Just here,’ he said, patting the space beside him.

After moving around the table, she swung her bag from her shoulder and tucked it between her feet.

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a coffee? You can have a tot of something in it to steady your nerves.’

She shook her head. ‘My mother would curse me. Can we begin? As long as you treat me gently. I’m feeling fragile.’

‘That’s a promise. Anything you want to ask me before we start?’ He smiled. Fine lines radiated from the corners of his eyes. ‘You look as though you got ready in a hurry. No make-up.’

He may not have meant it to, but it stung. She retaliated.

‘I take it today was a non-shaving day. You look like a tramp.’

He grinned, his fingertips making a rasping sound as they ran over his stubble.

‘Designer stubble. It’s hip in Hollywood. Touch it.’ His chin jutted forward.

‘No, thank you.’

They got down to business. She repeated the events of the fateful night once again, including the  moment Lady Templeton-Jones had vanished.

‘And you said you saw someone.’

She squirmed as she nodded. ‘I was tying my lace when he passed by. He wasn’t one of our group.’

‘The one you thought might be a ghost.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘OK.’ Steve smiled. ‘Could he have been part of the other group you bumped into at the end?’

She made a sharp guffaw. ‘Are you kidding?
Pop Idol
meets
Phantom of the Opera
?’

‘Phantom, eh?’

‘I’ve already told you. He wasn’t a phantom.’

‘Are you reassuring me or reassuring yourself?’

She went over the details in her mind. At some point she
had
regarded the dark stranger as some kind of phantom. He’d appeared from nowhere. Had vanished into nothing.      

‘Anything else you remember?’

She shook her head.

‘Could he have been stalking her?’

Honey thought about it. She hadn’t heard footsteps following them, but that didn’t mean there were none. The sound of hammering-down rain and water gushing through pipes could have easily drowned out the sound of footsteps. She put this to him. He agreed.

‘If he was stalking her, he has to be our prime suspect. But who was he? And why was she murdered?’

She nodded. ‘Evening dress. It had to be evening dress.’

In the cold light of day logic replaced fantasy; dark clothes and patent shoes pointed to someone coming home from a dinner party, an official function or theatre. Yes, that was it.