Free Something in the Blood (A Honey Driver Murder Mystery) by Jean G. Goodhind

of foam and filling the air with spray – a sight by itself that was worth a look. But there was more than that going on today. Much more.
    Doherty narrowed his eyes at the span of Pulteney Bridge, its stone piecrust gold. The rain had cleared. Licked by the early morning sun, the crescents, parades and avenues of Bath tiered upwards like steaming slabs of honey to the crisp blue of the sky. What a spot! All blue and gold on postcards sent home to Mom in Illinois or Auntie Meg in Alice Springs.
    He was down on the towpath examining the body. Above him, the curious watched in hushed silence until an incident tent hid the bloated body.
    Flanders the Scene of Crime Officer, a man with pale eyes and even paler skin, gave him the low down.
    ‘Been dead a while. Look at him. Reminds you of a …’
    ‘Stilton cheese,’ Doherty interrupted. ‘Blood congealing in the veins.’
    Flanders pallid features took on a dejected look. He so loved flaunting his knowledge, especially if it meant he could make someone sick with the details. It was easier to make young constables sick. More difficult with seasoned detectives, especially this one.
    Doherty had burst his bubble on the first count, but he wouldn’t on the second; Flanders was pretty sure of that.
    The man had been found fully clothed with a sack covering his head. Flanders carefully removed the sack. The side of the man’s head was caved in.
    ‘Blunt instrument,’ he said flatly, as though he’d seen thousands in his life. He had and had long ago giving up counting.
    He picked up a transparent evidence bag.
    ‘See this piece of wood?’
    Doherty narrowed his eyes. The piece of wood was old and weathered.
    ‘Part of a door,’ said Flanders, warming to his subject. ‘It had a number on it at one time. One of them little brass ones, or even plastic. See?’ He pointed to the faint indentation on the wood. ‘A nine or perhaps a six. It was lodged beneath his armpit.’
    Doherty’s attention strayed to a group of office girls, leggy, lovely things and young enough to be his daughters.
    Doherty smiled at the office girls before barking out orders to the assembled team. ‘Come on lads. We’ve got work to do. Let’s be having you. I want it swept with a toothbrush if need be. No skimping and no moans about bad backs and cups of tea.’
    One of the forensic boys chose that moment to lean over the wall and spray the towpath with a shower of whatever he’d had for breakfast that morning. The office girls groaned and began to disperse.
    Flanders kept on about the piece of wood.
    Doherty refused to be impressed. ‘So what? The river’s high. There’s always flotsam and jetsam floating about.’
    ‘Do you want me to throw it back in?’
    Flanders was being sarcastic. Doherty had no time for that and it showed in his attitude.
    He snatched the wood. ‘The second word’s off!’
    Flanders bowed to his job, his white plastic siren suit crackling as he carried out the last rites as far as a cop is concerned – going through the deceased’s pockets.
    ‘No money on him, no watch, just a white mark where it used to be. A dead cert mugging.’ His probing fingers hesitated. ‘Hello, hello! What have we here.
    Flanders held up the Amex credit card so he could more easily read the name. ‘Elmer John Maxted.’
    Doherty watched with narrowed eyes as it was slid into yet another transparent evidence bag then escorted Flanders back up to the road.
    ‘Give you a full report later!’ Flanders puffed once he’d reached the top of the towpath steps and was only a few steps and a few more puffs from his dark green Citroen.
    Nearby a traffic warden checked her watch, pursed her lips and clenched her jaw. This morning her routine and her tally were sharply curtailed and she looked pig sick about it.
    Once Flanders was swinging the Citroen away from the kerb, Doherty took out his phone and scrolled down the numbers until he got to hers.
    She answered after the fourth ring. It