Murder By Mudpack: A Honey Driver Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) by Goodhind Jean G

Author:Goodhind, Jean G. [Goodhind, Jean G.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781909520325
Publisher: Accent Press
Published: 2014-06-17T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-four

Built in the days before the railways, the Kennet and Avon Canal had been the M4 motorway of its day as far as heavy goods traffic was concerned.

At one time it had wound alongside the river through the Avon Valley like a strip of silver silk. The railway chose the same route later. Now all three wound through together.

So far the proposed road link connecting the city of Bath to the docks at Southampton had not further blighted the valley. If it ever did come the road would go underground.

Jocelyn Trinder, cohabiting partner of the deceased Pansy Porter, lived on a narrowboat. Along with many other live-aboards, the vessel was moored on the Kennet and Avon Canal.

Doherty informed Honey that the vessel was called Gypsy.

The weather was cold but the sky was clear. The grass lining the towpath was wet, the taller plants decorated with spiders’ webs that sparkled in the weak winter sun.

A pair of ducks dashed for the water at their approach, making a soft plopping sound as they hit the surface before paddling away.

Gypsy was long and green. A ginger cat stretched languorously around a metal chimney. A finger of what looked like steam or smoke stretched upwards.

The narrowboats used to carry massive loads in the days before the railways. The boatmen (never to be called bargees) and their families had lived at one end of the boat, a tiny area barely measuring eight feet by eight. Nowadays the whole boat was given over to living accommodation, fitted out with space saving in mind.

People were attracted to living on them because not only were they cheap to run, they were often moored in attractive places within walking distance of a town or city centre.

Doherty leaned over and knocked on the roof.

‘There’s a door,’ Honey observed and made as if to go aboard.

Doherty stopped her.

‘It’s not done to go aboard a vessel without the skipper’s permission,’ he told her.

She jutted her chin in a nod. ‘OK. So you knock on the roof.’

She’d expected someone living on a narrowboat to be of a hippy persuasion, complete with dreadlocks, nose piercing, and a haphazard look to his eyes. Jocelyn Trinder was far from that. He looked like a retired businessman. His hair was white, his skull was pink, and a black cigarillo jiggled from one corner of his mouth.

‘You all right?’ he asked in a northern accent which Honey presumed was Yorkshire, though it could just as easily have been Lancashire. Her ears weren’t that well tuned to northern dialects – especially people who came from Tyne and Wear, whom she couldn’t understand at all.

‘Thank you for agreeing to see us. Sorry it’s so early.’

Doherty had checked the file for Jocelyn’s mobile phone number to ask if they could come. He’d thought it might be too early, but Jocelyn had been up and about. Apparently he always was.

‘Don’t sleep much when you’re older,’ he said with a grin. His eyes strayed to Honey and suddenly twinkled. ‘Don’t sleep much when you’re younger either – but for different reasons.

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