Walking with Ghosts - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) by Jean G. Goodhind Read Free Book Online

that for a woman of forty-five-ish? Her springy steps sprang higher as she gingerly avoided the wheel of a black motorcycle that had ventured too far on to the crossing. He revved his engine as though warning her to get out of his way. Well, she was feeling cheeky too so gave him the finger.
    The smell of flowery air freshener wafted out through the door of the central police station. Before entering she checked the car park. There was no sign of Doherty’s low-sprung sports car. Never mind, she told herself. If he’d started jogging regularly, he probably walked to work on nice days. Her jaw stiffened. Perhaps the blonde Amazon that jogged with him at night walked with him by day.
    She smiled at the desk sergeant. He was male, thank goodness. Female desk sergeants switched on the ‘she’s competition for Doherty’ antenna the moment they spotted her.
    Older male police officers weren’t so observant. Working behind the desk was the last post before hanging up their helmet and doing voluntary work for Help the Aged.
    Close to retirement age, the desk sergeant had iron-grey hair and droopy eyes. ‘Can I help you?’
    ‘I’ve brought in this.’ Honey brought the bag up on to the desk and started to explain.
    He made a sucking sound. ‘Ooow. It’s not officially lost property; not if the owner indicated her intention that she was coming to stay at your hotel. In effect she has tendered it to your safe-keeping.’
    Honey was only half listening, her neck swivelling round every time a door behind her opened and closed. It was never Steve. She played for more time. ‘But it’ll have all her things in it. Perhaps even her hotel keys.’
    He raised his grey eyebrows. ‘You haven’t looked?’ This sounded strange coming from a copper – surely it was illegal to open someone else’s property and nose around?
    ‘Certainly not!’
    What was he thinking of? Not that she hadn’t considered it of course, but bringing it in as lost property had seemed the right thing to do. Now it didn’t seem so clever.
    ‘Look, dear,’ he said in that condescending manner usually reserved for ladies of mature years –  very mature years. ‘Give it a bit longer. She may have meant for you to take care of the bag until she got to you. Tell you what, you give me her name and I’ll make a note of it. If she comes in asking for her property, then I’ll point her in your direction. How does that suit?’
    She eyed the bland smile, the pale, watery eyes. A queue was building up behind her. Her eyes travelled to the door leading to Steve’s domain, wishing it would open and he’d offer her coffee.
    ‘Is Steve Doherty in?’
    ‘No. He’s out on a case at present. Now if you’ll just give me that name  …’
    He indicated the queue with an impatient jerk of his chin.
    ‘Lady Templeton-Jones.’
    He wrote it down.
    ‘And the last place you saw her?’
    ‘Near the Assembly Rooms.’
    He wrote that down too.
    ‘Were you attending the Assembly Rooms for any particular reason?’
    ‘Yes. It was part of a ghost walk. She was on the ghost walk too.’
    ‘Oh! Right.’ He sounded as though he didn’t have much truck with ghost walkers; that he thought they should be committed to a custodial sentence, along with shoplifters and willy-wagglers. ‘I’ll let you know if she comes in asking about it.’ He drew a line beneath what he’d written. ‘Next?’
    Dismissed and still carrying the brown leather handbag, she left the queue and the desk sergeant to their own devices. Outside, she paused and breathed a huge sigh of relief. The heat inside the police station was oppressive; no wonder they all worked in shirtsleeves.
    The fresh air perked her up. A day to walk, she thought. Her feet reached the same conclusion and began to amble in the direction of Bath’s premier auction house.
    Collectables were her thing; collectable underwear, stockings, garters, and sometimes gloves, shoes, reticules, and parasols; the pretty, small and