Music to Die For (The Falconer Files Book 6)

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘It looks rather like this place could have come down the family,’ said Falconer, still staring around him like a prospective burglar. I bet it’s stuffed with antiques.’

  ‘You could be right, sir, and one of them’s just gone out into the garden,’ replied Carmichael, with a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘Ha ha, very funny, Sergeant. I’m doubled up with laughter – not. Hush up, I think I can hear movement upstairs.’

  And he was not mistaken, for almost immediately the robust figure of Vanessa Palfreyman clumped down the stairs towards them. From the gloom of the hall she looked more like a man than a woman against the light from the landing.

  ‘Wouldn’t fancy meeting her on a dark night,’ hissed Carmichael out of the corner of his mouth, and Falconer quite rightly ignored him, and stepped forward to greet their next interviewee.

  Vanessa escorted them into a very old-fashioned room that, in a smaller and more humble dwelling, would have been called a parlour. Referring to it as the morning room, as it caught the early sun, she bade them sit down, and asked them if they would care to partake of any refreshment.

  ‘No, thank you very much, Miss Palfreyman. We’re just following up on our very brief meeting last night, at The Grange. There are a few questions that we need to ask you,’ the inspector said, and then, when her face showed alarm, added, ‘They’re the same questions we’re asking everyone who was there. There’s nothing to be alarmed about. These are just routine enquiries.’

  This seemed to reassure her, and she settled more comfortably in her chair, looking at him expectantly. ‘Fire away, then!’

  It was getting very tedious now, but Falconer just had to grind out the same old questions, to learn the same old things: that everyone in the band had reason to dislike Dashwood, and that he had nearly been the means of said band’s destruction.

  While Carmichael slavishly took notes, Falconer let his attention wander, and looked around the room, surreptitiously admiring the fine old Adam fireplace, the ormolu clock on the mantelshelf, the pair of Sevres vases at either end of it, his attention finally being dragged back to what Vanessa was saying by the words, ‘… so she was particularly out for his blood.’

  ‘Would you mind repeating that, Miss Palfreyman,’ he asked politely, receiving a knowing glare from his sergeant, who had realised he wasn’t really concentrating, and was feeling slightly resentful that he had to keep on scribbling, no matter what.

  ‘I said it was Myrtle Midwynter who really had her knives out for him. He criticised her, I believe, more than anyone else. Always pulling her up for playing out of tune, or not noting the key signature. The last straw for her was when he had a go at her for not being able to read the alto clef, which appeared in her part for the new piece. He even hinted that her teacher was a charlatan. Yes, I think she hated him more than any of us, and so she was particularly out for his blood. I think that’s what I said last night, isn’t it Sergeant?’

  ‘Word for word, Miss Palfreyman,’ said Carmichael, taking another sneaky peek at her. She was tall for a woman, he had noticed before: probably about five-foot-nine, and she was very well-built; well-covered was a slightly more feminine way of putting it. She had short-cropped, dark hair which was just beginning to show signs of grey at the sides – certainly no spring chicken anymore – and still living at home with Mummy and Daddy.

  Mind you, in his opinion, it would be a brave man who took on a woman like this. Perhaps if the man had a penchant for Shire horses … Carmichael had to leave that thought unfinished, but he knew one thing well enough – he certainly wouldn’t have wanted to pay the dowry on that one! Although he’d certainly make a good profit if he were to sell it by the pound. (warning: non-metric author at work!)

  When they left The Old Manor, about ten minutes later, Falconer’s first words were, ‘I heard what you said to me as she was coming down the stairs, and it was all I could do not to burst out laughing. You’ll have to suppress any similar remarks …’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘No, I’m not looking for an apology. What I was going to say was, in future, wait until we’re finished, then I can laugh to my heart’s content without hurting anyone’s feelings.’

  ‘OK, sir! Will do! So that’s another one who neither visited him nor saw him between Sunday and Friday. Do you think they’re all telling the truth?’

  ‘At least one person saw him during that time, Carmichael – his murderer. It is possible, though, that he was murdered on Sunday. Until I get more detailed information from Doc Christmas, we’ve got to leave the window of opportunity wide open,’ were Falconer’s final words on the matter, as they drove just a few yards to The Old Bake House, in search of Lester Westlake.

  V

  Lester Westlake answered the door dripping wet and with a towel round his waist. ‘Sorry, gents, I was in the Jacuzzi when I heard the doorbell. I haven’t got the room or the dosh for a proper swimming pool, so I just turn the old temperature down in the summer months, so that I can still get a nice, wet cooling off,’ he explained, fastening the towel a little more securely.

  Falconer heard Carmichael mutter, ‘Lucky sod!’ but ignored it, and determined to have another word with him when they’d finished here. Mr Westlake would probably have taken it as a compliment, had he heard it, but that was not the point. Imagine what would have ensued had Vanessa Palfreyman heard his hissed comment when she came down the stairs. She’d have been so insulted that she wouldn’t have said a word to them and she had at least independently given them the information that Myrtle Midwynter had a particularly strong dislike of Dashwood.

  ‘Keep it buttoned, Carmichael,’ he hissed, as they followed Westlake into his back garden, thus breaking his own rule unthinkingly.

  ‘Help yourselves to a lounger, gents, or would you rather I got you out some rather more upright seating?’ asked the saxophonist, the wet hairs on his chest glistening in the bright sunlight. His garden faced south-east, and was a real suntrap.

  Carmichael was already down on a lounger, but Falconer gave him a glare, and asked if they could have something a little more conventional to sit on while they questioned him. When Westlake went off to fetch some ordinary folding garden chairs, the inspector looked at his sergeant, and asked, ‘And just how do you think you’re going to be able to take notes from that position, may I ask you?’

  ‘It is a bit silly, I suppose, but I just wanted to see what it felt like, to lie on a sun lounger in my summer gear, beside a real Jacuzzi. Yes, sir, I’m just getting up. It’s just that there’s so much length to actually get up, that it takes a bit longer than you’d expect, and this lounger’s a bit of a tricky one to get out of.’

  Westlake returned with chairs, having also taken the time to pull on a tee-shirt and shorts. ‘Here we are gents – two prim and proper police chairs. And I also got some togs on. It doesn’t seem right to be interviewed wearing just a towel, does it?’

  ‘You mean you had no drawers on under that towel? asked Carmichael, scandalised, and not for the first time that day.

  ‘I most certainly did not! I’m not overlooked, and I wouldn’t mind if I were. Wearing swimming trunks in the hot tub feels so wrong you wouldn’t believe it.’

  ‘No, sir,’ replied Falconer, leaving their interviewee to wonder what exactly Falconer was saying no to, but the inspector knew. He wouldn’t get into a Jacuzzi without wearing swimming trunks, even if the Jacuzzi was an inside one and there was absolutely no chance that he could be caught out by unexpected visitors.

  ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions about the late Mr Dashwood, if you’d be so kind as to indulge me. How did you and he get on?’

  ‘Like a couple of fighting dogs. And when he found out that I’d probably have to miss rather a lot of rehearsals, he’d most likely have hit the roof. It wasn’t so bad, when we only met once a month, and I could fit my work round it, but with them being once a week – well, fat chance!’

  ‘And what exactly is your work, Mr Westl
ake.’

  ‘I don’t like to talk about it,’ Lester answered, becoming rather flustered.

  ‘Anything you tell us will be in the strictest confidence, I assure you.’

  ‘It mustn’t get out, if I tell you. I don’t want the whole village to know what I do for a living. I make good money, I’ve got a nice house and a nice car, and I want things to stay as they are. People envy me my lifestyle. If they found out what I did for a living, though, I’d become a laughing stock overnight.’

  ‘Unless it’s pertinent to the outcome of our enquiries, the information will be safe with us. It will be looked on in a very unfavourable light if you refuse to tell us,’ Falconer informed him.

  Westlake lounged for a few moments in silence, pondering his quandary. Even in a tatty old tee-shirt and frayed shorts, he looked like a Greek god lying back on a sun lounger with his deep tan, and his no doubt expensively barbered locks.

  ‘All right! I’ll come clean, but only if you don’t tell another soul.’

  ‘That’s not how we work, sir; but go ahead,’ Falconer encouraged him, ambiguously.

  ‘I’m a male escort. I escort ladies to parties and functions, if they haven’t got a partner, and I get paid for it, and very generously.’ Noting the gleam in Carmichael’s eye, he added, ‘And if there are any ‘extras’, that’s between me and the lady, and nothing whatsoever to do with the agency, and it’s not a criminal offence, as far as I know.’

  ‘Thank you very much for your candid explanation, Mr Westlake. Now, let’s get back to Mr Dashwood.’

  ‘Silly old fool told me I ought to stick a pair of socks in the bell of my instrument, because it was too loud. He also told all of us we ought to get back to having lessons, and needed to spend a whole lot more time practising. I’d just about had it with him, and I was going to leave after the charity performance.

  ‘I know we’ve been together a long time, but what we’ve been doing lately was not what I expected from being a band member. We used to have such good times, and then that pocket-dictator comes along, and turns everything from a fun evening, once a month, into a weekly trip to hell. Nah, I’d had enough of it, and was going to pack it in.

  ‘Old Harold used to try to cheer me up – he’s one of the good guys, ex-soldier and all that, but it didn’t make any difference, I couldn’t stand it any longer. And before you ask, no, I didn’t see Dashwood between Sunday and Friday. I knew you were going to ask that, because old Harold gave me a bell after you’d left his place.’

  And that was all they got from Mr Westlake, amateur saxophone player, and professional gigolo!

  Chapter Twelve

  Saturday 17th July – lunchtime

  I

  ‘Come on, Carmichael. Let’s go and get some lunch. I’m all hot and bothered, and starving and parched as well. That young pup didn’t even offer us a cold drink. Thoughtless little upstart,’ said Falconer in an aggrieved tone.

  ‘You’re only jealous, sir. He’s not that much younger than you, and he doesn’t have to put much effort into escorting ladies, and gets well-paid for it into the bargain,’ Carmichael retorted.

  ‘Shut up, Sergeant. What are the options for lunch in this place? Any ideas?’

  ‘There are apparently two pubs, sir: one at each end of the High Street. There’s The Clocky Hen, at the end we’re about to come out on, or The Leathern Bottle, at the other end. Which one shall we try?’

  ‘Where’s our next call?’

  ‘Dunspendin’, sir, just opposite the Clocky Hen,’ Carmichael informed him, consulting his list of interviews to be conducted.

  ‘Well, we’ll try that one first then, shall we?’ asked Falconer.

  ‘If you say so, sir.’

  Falconer found them a space in the somewhat crowded car park, and they headed towards the entrance. As soon as they’d passed through the doors, Falconer knew he couldn’t eat there. It was crowded beyond belief, with a lot of people who looked like bricklayers, and members of other blue-collar callings; it smelled appallingly of body odour and stale beer, and although smoking had been banned in public houses, there was a distinct whiff of marijuana in the air.

  Turning to Carmichael, who was surveying the heaving mass of people, he said, or rather, he shouted, so that Carmichael could hear him above the thumping of the jukebox, ‘I’m leaving, and I’m leaving now,’ and he about-turned, and exited, relieved to see that, as he approached the car, Carmichael was only a few steps behind him.

  ‘It was a bit too hot in there,’ the inspector explained, as they headed down the High Street towards The Leathern Bottle, ‘and I didn’t see a garden.’ Thus did he cover the feeling of revulsion that had swept over him as he had entered The Clocky Hen. It was too much like finding all the cons he’d ever arrested, all gathered in one place, waiting and ready to give you a nice ‘thank you’ party, for all the times he’d arrested them and put them behind bars. Not that crime was exclusively a working-class thing, but in his opinion, people from that walk of life were more likely to give their opinion of you with a knuckle sandwich, rather than with words.

  II

  When they got to The Leathern Bottle, there did prove to be a few tables and chairs down the side of it, set beside the wall of the hairdresser’s next door, but Falconer chose to go inside first – to have a look at the menu, was his excuse.

  The interior of the pub was certainly much less crowded, and it was cool and quiet. ‘This’ll do me, Carmichael. Shall we go to the bar and order something to drink, then have a look at the luncheon menu?’

  Having ordered a pint of lemonade each, for which Falconer paid, (‘Thanks very much, sir.’ ‘Don’t mention it, Carmichael.’), they retired to a table to choose their food. ‘We’ll ask for separate bills for this,’ decided Carmichael.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I eat so much more than you, my lunch will probably cost twice what yours does. I have been known to have double portions, if it’s pub grub. Nobody feeds me right but Ma and Kerry.’

  Falconer ordered smoked trout and new potatoes with salad, Carmichael, a double portion of burger-in-a-bun with chips, and a side order of four slices of white bread and butter, and a bottle of ketchup – he might not use the whole bottle, but, when it came to Carmichael, it was a case of ‘better safe than sorry’.

  As Carmichael was mopping the last traces of ketchup from his plate with a smidgeon of bread, he reminded Falconer about his proposed change of attire. ‘Don’t forget to change into your old trousers before we leave. You said you had them with you in the car.’

  ‘Thanks for that, Carmichael, but shall we have a coffee before we go? I don’t feel as if I’ve had a sufficient break yet.’

  ‘Fine with me, and while we’re drinking them, I’ve got something to tell you that I found very interesting.’

  Coffees served, Carmichael set off on his story. ‘Do you remember the church for that weird sect, in Steynham St Michael?’ [5]

  ‘I think so,’ answered Falconer, furrowing his brow in an effort of recall.

  ‘It was the Strict and Peculiar Baptist Church,’ offered Carmichael, as an aide memoire.

  ‘”Strict and Particular,” you doughnut, the inspector corrected him, now remembering perfectly well the dilapidated little building with its sad, neglected cemetery, its headstones noting the passing of many generations of the same local families. ‘What about it?’

  ‘They’re going to renovate it, as some sort of historical exhibit. Some committee’s been collecting for it for some time, and they’re going to start work in a few weeks. It’ll take ages, of course, but the thing that interested me, was the fact that – do you remember that they had a great wooden cross, that the congregation used to take it in turns to lug through the streets of the village on Good Fridays? In the olden days, of course.’

  ‘I seem to remember something like that being said. So what?’

  ‘So, they’re going to move the cross, for safe-keeping, to the church in Castle Farthing. I kn
ow we haven’t, as yet, got another regular vicar, but it’s always kept locked, except for when there’s a service or something there, although you can always get the key if you want a look around, from the village shop – Allsorts: you remember.’ [6]

  ‘Of course I do, but why move it at all?’

  ‘Because the old chapel will be wide open when they start working on it, and anyone could get in and nick it. It’s a valuable local religious symbol.’

  ‘But who on earth would want to steal a bloody great wooden cross?’

  ‘Builders, perhaps, for nice beams above a fireplace in a renovation job. Kids, just for a lark. It could even be kidnapped – or would that be cross-napped? – and held for ransom. Leave anything open and accessible, and someone will have it on their toes and away with it, these days.’

  ‘I suppose so, Carmichael, but what makes you so excited about them moving the cross to Castle Farthing?’

  ‘I want a real close look at it. It’s a bit of real local history, and I wouldn’t mind taking a couple of photos of it, so that the boys remember its history when they grow up.’

  Carmichael could be unexpectedly sentimental at times, and seemed to be interested in so many different aspects of his adopted village.

  ‘Oh, and don’t forget that I asked you to be godfather to the boys, sir. Kerry’s come round to the idea, so we’ve started the process,’ the sergeant prompted, the mention of his step-sons bringing this subject to mind. [7] ‘We’re getting on OK with the adoption papers, and once that’s finalised, and their names are changed, we’re going to arrange the ceremony, and get a locum vicar to come and do the service in Castle Farthing.’

  ‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ stated Falconer, with a sudden hunted look in his eye. ‘I’ve finished my coffee, so I’m going out to the car to get my ‘old Harrys’ so that I can be wearing them if we meet any more members of the canine species. There’s at least one more to come, as the Midwynters have got that sniffy monster, Acker.’