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

imagine the disappointment in her eyes. Bending down, he uncovered the dead woman a little more. He didn’t know what he was looking for, only that he wished to be occupied so that Karen could not draw his attention.
    ‘Sir, I can’t come jogging this evening. I’ve got a date.’
    ‘Fine. It wasn’t working anyway.’
    ‘It was for me.’
    He glared at her. ‘That is not a professional comment, Karen. I was referring to Warren Price. The idea was that he’s after me and anyone close to me. I was hoping he’d be watching more closely. We didn’t draw him out.’
    She looked crestfallen. ‘No, sir.’ Clearly she was hoping he’d had some ulterior motive for those jogging sessions. As it happened she wasn’t far wrong – but the truth would make her even less happy …
    The dead woman had dyed hair and a lined face. Sixty at least, he thought, possibly older. Her clothes were good quality. She was wearing a green cape and a high-necked sweater. There was something white stuck to the soft angora of the cape. He could see it was a label curling on the woman’s chest. Someone had overlooked it.
    ‘Gloves,’ he ordered.
    Karen provided them.
    He set his jaw. This was serious stuff. Murder was as serious as it gets.
    Carefully and without allowing the sticky backing to come away or adhere more strongly, he peered at the writing on the label.
    ‘Ah! Looks as though we have a name.’ Holding her lapel between finger and thumb, he turned his head sideways so he could see better. ‘Lady Templeton-Jones. Well, that’s something to circulate. Some old family must be missing her. It should be fairly easy to learn about her last movements.’
    Basically, he was lying. In Steve Doherty’s experience, nothing was ever easy in police work. He didn’t expect it to be so now, but there are always exceptions to the rule.
    He stared at the soft, round face, the hair, the clothes  … especially the clothes. There was something about them that did not ring true.
    ‘Karen. You’re a woman. What is it about these clothes?’
    Karen’s slim shadow fell over him. He could hear her breathing and felt her eyes boring into the back of his head before falling on the woman.
    She shrugged. ‘They’re very good quality, sir.’
    He grunted. ‘I may be out of touch, but to my mind titled county ladies of this age tend to wear tweeds and brogues.’ He indicated the label that had curled up again. ‘I can’t help thinking  …’ He didn’t finish his sentence. ‘Never mind. It’s just my age. Call it Jane Marple syndrome.’
    Karen frowned. ‘Who is she?’
    He shook his head. ‘You never  read Agatha Christie books in bed?’
    She smiled. ‘No. I’m usually doing other things.’

Chapter Twelve
    The area outside the building had been cordoned off along with each end of the alley. Armies of interested tourists, shoppers, and tradesmen pausing for a quiet smoke, had gathered to gawp. An army of necks were craned in a crush at corners overlooking the site. They stared at him and he stared right back then took a left. The cobbles were uneven and still slippery after the rain. The moss growth surprised him considering the amount of footsteps that trod over it each day.
    He walked slowly, his eyes flicking from side to side though he didn’t expect to see anything. Items of any interest had already been bagged and tagged. He made his way back up the slope.
    On reaching the crowd of onlookers, he paused on the periphery, listening to their comments.
    ‘Someone hung themselves.’
    ‘I hear it was murder.’
    ‘No. Not in God’s little acre. Things like that don’t ’appen ’ere.’
    Doherty smiled to himself. Once a Bathonian, always a Bathonian, and no matter what part of the city you were from, there was no city like it in the whole world.
    A slight movement made him look behind him. A man was coming out of one of the lock-ups. The shop advertised old maritime memorabilia; a subsection of antique collection,