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

less noticeable particulars of historical wardrobes. For big frocks and hats fetched big prices. She left those to the big money.

Chapter Ten
    Today’s auction sale was not to her taste: General Household Effects.
    Honey made a screwed-up face that betrayed her distaste. A host of second-hand furniture dealers would be sitting on chairs, waiting to bid on enough items to fill a pantechnicon for shipment to North America.
    She wandered in for no other reason than to prove her point. And to say ‘hello’ to the auction clerk.
    Red-bearded and big enough to fill a large space himself, Alistair was in his usual spot behind the counter where bills were settled.
    ‘Not your day, hen.’ His voice was as big as his body, almost drowning out the auctioneer’s methodical rant.
    ‘No. When’s the next collectables?’
    His pursed lips slipped out from between the red hair that forested his chin and upper lip.
    ‘There’s one coming up, though not exactly in your sphere of interest. No naughty knickers or lace trimmed garters. No buxom braziers either.’ He smirked, an obvious reference to a pair of Büstenhalter she’d bought some time back. ‘Marine connotations,’ he added with a smacking of lips and a far away look in his eyes. ‘Big bucks stuff. Really big from what I’m hearing.’
    ‘Really?’ Her eyebrows rose in puzzled interest. When Alistair spoke like that, it meant international.
    ‘Some of it. There’s some of that blue and white Chinese ware that went down on a Dutch ship sometime in the seventeenth century. That should make a packet. Then there’s the really valuable stuff of world renown.’
    ‘What sort of stuff?’ she asked in a hushed voice, her eyes standing on stalks. Even if she herself wasn’t interested in buying, her curiosity rose to number seven on the Richter scale.
    A slow smile made Alistair’s beard appear to double in size as it spread across his face. He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Nothing’s confirmed yet. It’s a secret, hen. For me to know and you to only guess at.’
    ‘Spoilsport!’
    She flounced off but lingered by the door.
    ‘Are you sure  …?’
    Alistair shook his head and made a sucking sound. ‘Can’t tell ye, hen. More than my job’s worth. Anyway, you’ll only get overexcited.’
    ‘Shame,’ she said. ‘I could use some excitement in my life.’
    The midday traffic was heavy. Gary Sullivan nicked his toe beneath the clutch pedal and changed down. This was the third time he’d gone round Queen Square. He’d seen Mrs Honey Driver saunter into Bonhams, the famous auction house in King Street. If he wasn’t careful he’d miss her coming out, depending on which direction she took. Anything on wheels had to come back out into Queen Square. Pedestrians had the option of cutting down into Quiet Street or even through Jollys, the city’s only department store.
    Jaw clenched, he drove slowly towards the traffic lights fronting the King Street section of Queen Square. Once he was through those and there was no sign of his prey, he accelerated until he was facing King Street again. Four times he did this. Four times and there was no sign of her. On the fifth he saw her coming towards him. He held back, slowing the bike by dragging one foot behind him.
    He couldn’t tell if she saw him. He hoped not. He’d changed his mind about dealing with her just yet. His stomach was in a knot at the thought of what he was supposed to do – what he must do.

Chapter Eleven
    Steve Doherty looked up at the skylight some twelve feet above his head. Normally the skylight would have shed light upon the narrow old stairwell, but something was covering it He’d presumed that any broken glass up there had been replaced with a sheet of plyboard. A constable he’d sent up to investigate came back to say that the culprit was a piece of waterproof tarpaulin.
    ‘Who found her?’
    ‘I did.’
    The small man with a wizened face and henna-dyed hair had stood silently and