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

seconds – even marching it out with a walking stick. It turned out not to be the group anyway.’
    He dutifully jotted it down.
    She entwined her hands around her knees, squeezing hard enough to make her bones crack. Perhaps he wouldn’t ask the dreaded question, the one she wasn’t sure how to answer.
    He did.
    ‘Did you see anyone else close by once you noticed she was gone?’
    She nodded and put a brave face on it. ‘Someone walked past. I didn’t see his face. All I saw was a pair of black patent shoes and a big hat.’
    ‘Height? Weight? Anything?’
    She shook her head. ‘It was the classic dark and stormy night.’
    Convinced she’d done her bit, she went back to entwining her hands around her knees. She also fixed her gaze on the toes of her brown suede shoes. It took a little time before she realised Doherty was giving her one of his intense, meaningful looks. Funny how he could do that and how she knew he was doing it; as though his eyes were on the end of fibre-optic cables and tickling the side of her head.
    ‘Did you recognise him?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘There was something special about him. I can see it in your face. Go on. What was it?’
    Now she squirmed. It took a total hugging of knees by the whole of her arms to stop it. She took a deep breath. ‘His shoes weren’t wet. Not a spot of water on them.’
    ‘OK. OK. He’d taken shelter from the storm. In a doorway. Beneath a parapet. There’s tons of them along there.’
    ‘I suppose so.’
    ‘Was there anything else?’
    She squirmed beneath that look.
    Tilting her head back, she looked up at the ceiling. Trailing her gaze along the ornate plasterwork she finally settled on bunches of grapes in the corners. If she’d been anything of a secretive kind of person she would have kept her mouth shut. But she couldn’t do that. She had to tell the truth.
    ‘I’m not sure that he had a body.’
    There was silence. And him looking askance. And her looking back up at the ceiling.
    At last he said, ‘OK. You saw a ghost.’
    She heard the amusement.
    ‘Did you go in the Garrick’s Head beforehand?’
    ‘Only for one  …’ She stopped, seeing by his expression precisely where this was going. ‘One! Just one. And he was wearing a black cloak – like an old-fashioned evening cloak. That’s why I couldn’t see his body.’
    A smile drifted across his lips and into his eyes. He began shaking his head. ‘You need a break. We both need a break.’ The serious expression returned. He looked at her, glanced at the half-completed statement, and then back at her. ‘We’ll just say you thought you saw someone, but not enough to verify details. OK?’
    ‘OK.’ It was good enough for her. Superstition was based on suggestion. Deserted streets and dark nights only served to influence the imagination. Everything seemed so explainable in the cold light of day.
    She took a deep breath. ‘So what’s next?’
    ‘I’m planning to interview all those people who were last to see her alive. I’d like you to sit in, not just because of your position with the Hotels Association, but because you might be able to verify statements – remember where people were at the time she disappeared.’
    ‘That reminds me. I need to let Casper know what’s happening.’
    A motley collection of clock chimes sounded as Casper answered the phone.
    ‘What gives? What’s the story? Have you made any progress yet?’
    ‘Nothing concrete. I’m working closely with Detective Inspector Doherty.’
    ‘Oh. Him. I have great faith in you, Honey. I’m sure you’ll have this solved in no time. After all you have first-hand knowledge of the woman. She must have said something useful.’
    ‘Besides her name, the only other thing I know about Lady Templeton-Jones is that she wanted to check out of her hotel and into mine. I presume the one she was staying in wasn’t up to scratch.’
    The line seemed to freeze over. Honey felt that she’d touched a raw nerve.

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