The Ghost of Christmas Past: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 8) Read online

  THE GHOST OF

  CHRISTMAS PAST

  A Honey Driver Mystery

  Jean G Goodhind

  It's a Dickensian Christmas in Bath; frost lies thick on the ground and white mist drifts through the narrow alleys. The Green River Hotel is hosting the very last office Christmas party of the season. The employees of the firm arrive and seem shell-shocked that their miserly boss, frequently referred to as Scrooge, has paid for everything. How come the change of heart?

  They never get the chance to ask because old 'Scrooge' doesn't turn up for the party. A deadly deed has been done, and it's up to Honey Driver and her darling DCI Doherty to solve this Christmas caper.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty one

  Chapter Twenty two

  Chapter Twenty three

  Chapter Twenty four

  Chapter Twenty five

  Chapter Twenty six

  Chapter Twenty seven

  Chapter Twenty eight

  Chapter Twenty nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty one

  Chapter Thirty two

  Chapter Thirty three

  Chapter Thirty four

  Chapter Thirty five

  Chapter Thirty six

  Chapter Thirty seven

  Prologue

  Maine, USA

  Carols were playing on the prison’s loudspeaker system and two guards were heavily involved in positioning a blow-up Santa Claus behind an iron grille.

  Professor Jake Truebody coughed to get their attention. Reluctantly, one of the guards sauntered across.

  ‘What’s up, doc?’

  ‘My file’s gone missing.’

  ‘Sorry about that, Professor. Was it important?’

  On a scale of one to ten the prison guard’s concern didn’t rate too highly. A weapon rated eight to ten. Contraband in the form of drugs, cell phones, or hooch, rated six or seven. A visiting professor’s paperwork rated as highly as a pair of six-year-old sports shoes or a worn-out jockstrap. A big fat zero.

  The professor curbed his impatience. ‘It was to me. It contained a letter for mailing and some course work in factual history. The prisoners were looking forward to that.’

  The prison officer’s expression went a little screwed as serious attention vied with amusement. The amusement won.

  Grinning he said, ‘Nothing too bloodthirsty I hope, Prof. You know how keen the governor is to protect our inmates from too much blood and gore. Tom and Jerry are obviously on the banned list, and he’s debating the sexual undertones between Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.’

  The guard exchanged a sly wink with his partner. They both grinned.

  Jake Truebody blinked nervously before twigging that the guard was only joking. Jokiness at the large penitentiary where the professor took a history class was part of the scene. Everyone made jokes; the prisoners, the guards, the visiting lecturers, the medical staff, and even the governor. It helped them all cope with the endless grind of dealing with the same offenders, the same hopelessness year in and year out.

  Once the joke came to him Jake Truebody only managed a small, tight smile. Prison surroundings were depressing at the best of times and off-the-cuff humour did nothing to relieve it as far as he was concerned. A man of deep social conscience, he took what he did here very seriously. To his mind teaching history to a bunch of lifers was his way of giving something back to the community. Two hours a week out of his teaching and social schedule was all that he could manage. The prison guards were here all the time; a little light relief helped them cope. The professor didn’t make jokes. Neither did he could always work out when somebody was being serious or when they were not.

  The prison guard’s comment was taken more seriously than it should have been.

  ‘I’ve been careful with regard to subject matter. No gore, just interesting details with regard to interesting time periods. Just lately I’ve been covering outstanding women in history,’ explained the professor with his usual enthusiasm for the subject he loved.

  ‘Covering them?’

  ‘Figuratively speaking,’ returned the professor, a scarlet flush spreading from gizzard to hairline.

  The guard, who relished innuendo but regarded history as hogwash, raised a pair of bushy eyebrows in mock concern. ‘Not too sexy I hope, Professor. The governor is very …’

  ‘Yes! Yes. I know. The governor doesn’t like a syllabus with too much sex in it either. I don’t go there. There were some personal papers in with my course notes. I’ve been penning a brief biography of my life. It’s thrown up some surprises that are worth investigating, so I would like the papers back. You will keep an eye out?’

  ‘You bet I will.’

  Once the professor’s back was turned, the guard let one corner of his mouth lift in a sardonic smile. Why would a prisoner bother to steal a visiting professor’s paperwork?

  ‘Not like it’s non-negotiable bonds or a cell phone,’ he reiterated to one of his colleagues later when they were on other duties. ‘Is Santa sorted yet?’

  His partner assured him that Santa was firmly incarcerated behind the mock prison bars. ‘He won’t get out of there. Better get on with the job, I suppose.’

  Tinsel and glass baubles were set aside to make room for paperwork. Two prisoners were being set free right now, just a few days before Christmas. One had managed, by some legal botch, to gain early release. He was the second that day. The first one had been released two hours earlier. It didn’t do to release in batches; two together formed a team. Birds of a feather flock together, but criminals flocking together was not a good idea; so stated the governor, who fancied himself as something of a wise man when it came to criminal behaviour.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ they shouted after the second released prisoner of that day.

  The prisoner turned round and gave them the finger.

  The guards laughed.

  They both prided themselves on knowing their charges well – very well.

  ‘Just history. What goof would want notes on history or the professor’s life? A little skag or a bottle of hooch – now you’re talking. ’

  They laughed at the professor’s naivety as they turned away from the last chore of their shift, confident in their perceived knowledge of all human behaviour.

  The sleet that had threatened all day came at the front of a deep depression blowing in from the Atlantic coast. It smelled of sea salt, fresh and biting cold. Night had closed in early. Burdened with what remained of his papers, both private and work related, Professor Truebody ran for his car, piled the papers on the front seat, and gunned the engine.

  Sensible people were heading home, glad there were only two weeks to go before Christmas. The extremely sensible were already there, sheltered from the storm and the early darkness. The night was bleak, the roads like a river, so he took it slow whilst musing
about his trip to Europe.

  He smiled. ‘Jake, you’re a lucky devil.’

  Picked out in his car headlights, he spotted a lone figure standing at the bus stop just two hundred yards from the prison gates. The man was tall and carried a bundle beneath his arm. The face looking straight into the headlights was familiar. The man had been a prisoner and a keen attendee at his history class.

  He hummed ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’ and felt good. Really good.

  Bringing the car to a stop he asked the ex-con if he wanted a lift.

  ‘I think I know where you’re going. I’ll take you there. Save getting drenched at the bus stop,’ he said, generosity oozing out of every pore.

  A sudden gust grabbed the door and papers whirled around the car as the man got in.

  ‘There’ was the halfway house that most prisoners ended up in whilst on parole. He figured this guy would be no different despite the air of betterment he had about him.

  ‘Hell of a night,’ he added.

  The newly released prisoner only nodded, his eyes wide and his prison pallor bathed by the headlights of infrequent vehicles passing in the opposite direction.

  The professor felt equal measures of pity and jubilation as he observed the way the man was drinking in the multi-coloured Christmas lights, plastic snowmen, and lit up reindeer lashed by wind and rain – not a snow flake in sight.

  Jake’s enthusiasm for his subject and concern for lesser mortals got the better of him.

  ‘Look. I noticed you attended the majority of my history classes and also that you were very interested in genealogy.’

  ‘You bet. Nice to know where you came from, who your pappy was; stuff like that.’

  ‘It certainly is,’ said the professor. He paused, his mind drifting to the research he’d carried out into his own family.

  ‘You know where you come from, Professor?’

  ‘Yes. It meant a lot of research, but it was worth it. Now if you’d like to continue on the outside, perhaps with a view to further study and a degree …?

  The man, whose name , he recalled , was Wes Patterson, looked at him. ‘I may do.’

  ‘Well. If you’re not doing anything else …’

  The storm came in with a fury, sweeping water across the road along with branches torn from trees. The sleet was turning heavier, flakes of snow hammering against the windscreen.

  The car skidded.

  ‘My. That was close,’ the professor said breathlessly. His heart thudded in his chest and beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead.

  Ahead of them was a road block and police halting traffic, detouring the few cars out to take a right turn rather than go straight on. The halfway house for prisoners was straight on. Truebody took the detour prescribed.

  ‘Grim weather for the time of year. Should be snow by Christmas proper,’ he said once he’d straightened the car and breathed easy again.

  Wes Patterson agreed. ‘This storm’s real bad. Likely to get even worse, so I hear.’

  He sounded enthralled at the prospect. It occurred to the professor that the recent guest of the federal authorities was loosening up a little. It was no big surprise that prisoners incarcerated for long periods were a little withdrawn when they were first let out. The prison had done everything for them. Adjusting was daunting. It was like losing a protective blanket. Suddenly they had to think for themselves and mix in with decent folk again.

  ‘I don’t think we’re going to get you to the halfway house tonight,’ said the professor. ‘I reckon the best thing we can do is to make for my place. You can stay there the night. I’ll phone the halfway house either tonight or in the morning and explain there was a problem – not that they can’t see the problem for themselves,’ he added dryly.

  The bulky body of the man sitting beside him seemed to sigh with relief. ‘Whatever you say, Professor. I’m sure we’ll be comfortable at your place.’

  ‘Perhaps we can discuss your continued study of history,’ Jake said cheerfully, noting that the man had said ‘we’ll be comfortable’.

  ‘I’m sure we can,’ said Wes. ‘And your interest is much appreciated. I think early American History would suit me best. I’m particularly interested in the early settlers and their relationship with the Native Americans they encountered. ’

  The professor nodded. The man was finding his feet, regaining his confidence.

  ‘A good choice. A very good choice indeed.’

  Jake felt himself swell with satisfaction. Back in the prison they’d called Wes Patterson ‘The Legend’. Others assumed it was to do with his crime and the way he’d handled his legal case, finding a technical loophole that the professional defence lawyer had failed to see.

  Jake preferred to take the view that it had something to do with his interest in history.

  ‘You’ll do well, Wes.’

  ‘I will?’

  ‘I guarantee you’ll never offend again.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  The man didn’t sound believe him. But Jake knew it for sure. Wes Patterson would never offend again.

  For his part, Wes Patterson knew he’d latched onto the right subject. His friend Sheldon had told him that. Sheldon was well informed on history though touched in the head. Anyone who thought himself the reincarnation of a long-dead Indian had to be that didn’t they? Not that he was always an Indian. Sometimes he was other things; historical characters Wes had never heard of. Sometimes he was a vampire or a ghost; Sheldon was into the supernatural as well as history and they were great buddies. That was the best bit.

  The weather and the night weren’t getting any better. Branches, leaves, and rolling trash cans were being blown around like wedding confetti. Not a soul was in sight, not a dog, not a cat, not even a bird.

  Professor Truebody peered through the windscreen of his Japanese coupe, fully prepared for problems but confident of dealing with whatever came his way. On the street where he lived all of the lights were out.

  The professor stated the obvious as he turned into his drive. ‘Looks like the power’s down.’

  Pausing for a split second, his hand on the car door, the professor peered at the dark outline of his house. The sudden gleam of a flash light passed over one of the windows and was gone.

  ‘Anything wrong, Prof?’

  Jake narrowed his eyes. There was no light now. Just darkness.

  ‘I thought I saw a light inside. Must have been my imagination.’

  Papers firmly tucked beneath one arm, his bulky briefcase bumping against one leg, Professor Jake Truebody headed for his front door, opened it, and stepped into the darkness. Wes Patterson followed him, not quite able to believe his luck.

  Chapter One

  On the other side of the Atlantic, in the city of Bath, the weather was cold. Overnight frost lay like icing on the mansard roofs of buildings built in the eighteenth century. The frost from the night before remained in situ all day, before another frost thickened what was already there. Snow was threatening to fall.

  Honey Driver was out shopping and minding her own business, though not for long.

  ‘That’s him! That’s him that’s been sticking red noses on the reindeer. I saw one in his bag,’ somebody shouted.

  Gasps of surprise were expressed on steaming breath.

  ‘Grab him,’ shouted someone else.

  Honey Driver spun round. As Crime Liaison Officer on behalf of Bath Hotels Association, vandalism wasn’t usually part of her remit, but she was in the right place at the right time.

  The young man was standing next to one of the fibreglass reindeers that had appeared in situ once the first of December had come.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ she shouted, and immediately had second thoughts. He was bigger than her. She needed back-up. Better still, a weapon. With a flourish she pulled the French stick she’d just bought from its wrapper, brandishing it like a baseball bat over her head. She could still smell the newness of it, fresh bread straight from the oven.

&nb
sp; The young man with the half-opened holdall took one look at her and scarpered.

  ‘Hey! Come back here!’ Honey gave chase. Luckily, she was wearing flat boots. Heels would never have worked.

  All over the city, day after day, people had come across the same act of vandalism; red noses stuck on the fibre glass reindeers displayed around the city. Worse still they were stuck on with super glue and they just wouldn’t come off. The burgeoning of red noses had made headlines in the Bath Chronicle and the Western Daily Press. The reindeers were a fund-raising thing, each about four feet tall, decorated by celebrities and artists and placed all over the city at park entrances, on handy parapets, and at either end of the Royal Crescent.

  The front-page article suggested that someone knew who was doing the dastardly deed and, what’s more, was protecting their identity.

  I’ll make the front page too, Honey thought as she gave chase through an arcade of shops linking one main thoroughfare to another. The sight of her trusty bread baton raised high over her head caused shoppers to scatter.

  He ran down towards the city’s elegant spa, newly renovated with a rooftop hot tub and a view over the city. He made a side move to where there had been an alley – now blocked off.

  Honey cannonballed into him.

  Winded, his knees crumpled and he collapsed against a wall.

  ‘Don’t hit me!’

  His arms were folded over his head. His eyes were on the French stick.

  The bread stayed upright for no more than a few seconds before bending in the middle and flopping sideways.

  The young man looked surprised. His jaw dropped onto his chest.

  Honey glowed with triumph. ‘Gotcha!’

  ‘Waste not, want not,’ she murmured as she folded the bread in half and tucked it inside her coat.

  The young man looked petrified.

  ‘What do you want?’

  He had big brown eyes and long lashes and reminded her of a spaniel. She had a soft spot for spaniels, but refrained from patting him on the head.

  ‘You! I want you.’

  ‘You’re mad!’

  Honey was breathless, but also excited. She could see the headlines now: ‘BATH HOTELIER NABS PHANTOM RED NOSE VANDAL.’