Walking with Ghosts - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) by Goodhind Jean G

Author:Goodhind, Jean G. [Goodhind, Jean G.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
ISBN: 9781909520264
Publisher: Accent Press
Published: 2013-10-09T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty-three

Steve Doherty rang her in the middle of the happy hour, that dull time between six and seven when the workday dips and tips into night. The hotel bar was empty. Honey made herself comfortable.

‘How about me abducting you tonight?’

She agreed to be abducted but only as far as the Saracen’s Head. On her way out her eyes strayed to the traffic. A motorbike idled then skitted through the dawdling cars. She strained her neck to see if the ‘man in wellies’ was the rider.

Steve had parked his car on double yellows.

‘You’ll get nicked.’

‘No I won’t. I’m on police business.’

‘Is that what I am?’

It was a warm night as they strolled along Pulteney Street and headed past the Waitrose supermarket.

Honey had opted for smart casual: denim skirt, a white bouclé sweater, and green earrings. Green – dark green that is – made her skin glow, and looked good against her dark hair, whereas light green, such as eau de nil and sap green, made her look ill – or even ghostly. She’d also opted for high heels. Not practical, but they did make her legs look longer.

‘You look good,’ he said and sniffed.

‘Perfume, or grease from the deep fat fryer?’

Obviously she hoped it was the former.

He leaned close and nuzzled behind her ear. ‘Not fried fish. Definitely perfume.’

Steve went on to talk about Warren Price. ‘I’ve had to pass him to a colleague. This murder takes priority now. Can’t say I’m sorry. You can give jogging to the birds!’

It was eight o’clock and they were strolling past the Theatre Royal. Neither of them seemed particularly keen to get to the pub too quickly.

She sensed that Doherty was doing his best to relax. A list of questions seemed to be ricocheting around his brain. Physically he was with her, but mentally he seemed to be still on duty.

Her guess was confirmed the moment he swept her past the welcoming entrance of the Theatre Royal. David Soul was appearing in something. David Soul? Ah, yes. As in Hutch, sidekick of Starsky in the 1970s cop show.

‘Let’s take a rain check on the Saracen’s. I want another word with the landlord of the Garrick’s Head.’

They turned right into the pedestrianised walkway outside the old pub. Actor David Garrick looked down at them from the creaking old inn sign.

Inside Adrian Harris loomed large behind the bar. As a keen angler, the word was that his prime objective in life was to land the biggest salmon for that year. Cultured he was not: odd for a man living next door to one of the finest theatres in England. He talked a lot about fishing and did a lot of drinking and socialising. He left the serving of customers to his barmaid. Marion was grey-haired and kindly, and without her he would have gone broke years ago, though whether he appreciated it or not was another matter. And how she put up with him was something else again. Adrian was rude. How he managed to keep any customers at all was a mystery.

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