Ghosts in the Guest House

Here is the opening to Book 3 of the Cleo Marjoribanks Murder Mysteries.....

'Thank gawd we came Business Class and were first off the plane,' I commented as we reached a crowded Passport Control.  'I thought Arrivals at Gatwick was bad enough.'

'Come on, love, EU Passports over here.' David touched my elbow and guided me in the right direction.  What would I without my friendly cop?  He is a Detective Chief Inspector in Hampshire, where we live.

We had just flown into Malaga for this well earned holiday and, of course, to get away from a wet English summer.

'I'm still not quite sure how it's happened that you got away.  Especially now that the murderous culprit is behind bars.  Didn't the Super want you to stay for all the Whoop-de-do?’

DCI 'Steaming' Kettle sighed and repeated - for the umpteenth time, 'That's all over bar the paperwork.  I've done my lot, now the rest of the team can get on with theirs.  There's nothing more for me to do.  And I'm owed holiday time.  Just be thankful that no one got knocked off just before we left.  Go on, your turn.'  He shoved me forward towards the booth to show my passport. (Wondering why Kettle has the nickname of Steaming?  Think about it.)

It doesn’t seem like it was only a few weeks ago that someone killed three people and abducted me.  The plan was to kill me but the cavalry arrived in time.   This clever clogs had killed three victims in three different ways. 

Once we'd collected our suitcases we headed for the car rentals area to deal with paperwork and collect the keys for a silver Mercedes Benz C220.

I gave them to David and he gave them back.  'You drive, Cleo, I'll navigate.  If you try to find the way we'll either end up in Madrid or Gibraltar.'

Bloody cheek! I sighed.  'Okay, but don't criticise my driving.'  Not that he's ever done so in the past but there's always a first time.  Anyway, we got to the hotel in one piece with no wrong turnings.

The welcome was terrific.  No sooner had I stopped the Merc at the foot of a flight of steps leading up to the front door than a fit young man ran down them to collect our cases.  And standing in the doorway was a very impressive man with a pencil thin moustache and one of them tufts of beard on his chin.  Reminded me a bit of Peter Cushing.  'Reckon he's the owner?' I whispered to David.

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