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

sounded as though she were in a hurry.
    ‘Hannah – Mrs Driver? This is Detective Sergeant Doherty.’
    ‘I’ll ring you back.’
    He frowned at the phone. It wasn’t the response he’d been banking on. He’d been about to eat humble pie. Well sod the bloody woman. He’d tell her in his own good time.

Chapter Eight
    A row of taxicabs waited on the rank alongside Bath Abbey. A few of them were of the old-fashioned London black cab variety, like a row of black beetles queuing for a meal. The others were smart and shiny saloons. Only Busy Bee Cabs proclaimed their trade, in red lettering along their sides.
    After making enquiries, she was directed to a man named Ivor Webber, a stocky Welshman of West Indian descent.
    ‘He’s the one who got the fat fares last week,’ someone told her. ‘Bloody Welsh Tafia!’
    Ivor was sitting in the driving seat of his cab sipping at an elderberry crush and reading what looked like a copy of Mein Kampf .
    ‘Sorry to interrupt you,’ she said, bending down close enough to see that he really WAS reading Hitler’s one and only attempt to woo the world with the written word.
    Ivor flipped his sunglasses back on to his forehead. ‘Where to, lovely?’ he said. He closed his book and placed it on the seat beside him.
    Honey jerked her chin in its direction. ‘A surprising title.’
    His teeth flashed in a healthy white smile. ‘Well there you are, lovely. I’m a surprising man. I like to form my own opinions, you see. It attests more reasonably to my intellectual growth. Now where can I take you?’
    ‘Nowhere.’ She leaned on the door. ‘Just a question. Do you remember an American you picked up from Ferny Down Guest House?’
    His amiability was undiminished. He threw back his head and slapped the steering wheel.
    ‘You mean good old Elmer. Wish I had a few more like him in a week – a most generous tipper. There’s not many of them nowadays, what with the exchange rate and all that.’
    Honey smiled and nodded, sensing she was off to a good start. ‘Must have been some journeys. Where did you take him?’
    ‘Here and there.’ Ivor Webber had a happy face.
    She fancied the smile was a permanent fixture.
    ‘Pretty far, so I hear.’
    He nodded. ‘I did.’
    Honey brought out her notebook and pen. ‘So where exactly?’
    His smile melted. ‘You the fuzz, lovely?’
    ‘Now what makes you think that?’
    The wariness of a man who hasn’t always been upright and law abiding came to his eyes. ‘Instinct, lovely, just instinct.
    She decided to come clean. ‘Look. He’s gone missing and his relatives are wondering where he’s got to.’
    OK, so it wasn’t one hundred per cent clean, but a little white lie about worried relatives wouldn’t hurt surely?
    Ivor showed the whites of his eyes. ‘Is that right, lovely? Well I never. I took him to a few places – bit of sightseeing – usual stuff like Bradford on Avon, St Catherine’s Valley, Lacock – you know – that place they use on a lot of historical dramas on television and film and suchlike.’
    Honey nodded appreciatively. This was going SO well! ‘You sound as though you like history,’ she said.
    ‘I do, but not that fancy pants and heaving bosom stuff. I prefer World War Two myself. See?’ He held up the offending tome. ‘Not so much the military and political side, though that of course is interesting. I like to investigate how it started you see. Just in case. You know what they say about history, don’t you?’
    Honey didn’t bother to tell him she knew very well; he was going to tell her anyway.
    ‘History repeats itself,’ he said with the air of a man who’s spent his time analysing world politics while awaiting a fare.
    When her phone ran she thanked him before turning away to take the call. This time it was her mother.
    Her voice was thin; not exactly wavering and weak; more wavering and worked on.
    ‘I fell down the stairs, dear.’
    Honey raised her eyes to heaven – or at least as far