Music to Die For (The Falconer Files Book 6)

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘Mr Dashwood said some very cutting things about my performance on the violin, but he did also give me the opportunity to play ‘first violin’; something I’ve coveted for years, so I can’t say I bore him any particular personal grudge. He was awfully rude to the others, of course, and about the band in general, and some members were getting quite worked up about all the changes.

  ‘Edmund Alexander behaved in a very civilised and nonchalant way when he was suspended as practice pianist, and with great dignity, when he was replaced as church organist. I think underneath, though, he was devastated. Apart from looking after his beloved garden, and caring for his parents, music is the love of his life, and he’d had it torn from his grasp, by an ill-mannered, arrogant in-comer.

  ‘He must have been harbouring such resentment towards the man, that I’m surprised he didn’t have a minor celebration when he was murdered. Oh dear, I mustn’t say things like that to you, must I? It’s only speculation, after all, and only my personal opinion. Strike that from the record! Sorry, m’Lud! I must get back to what I actually know.

  ‘He had a terrific go at Gayle Potten about the way she dressed for rehearsals; more or less said she dressed like a slut, or a prostitute, and told her to get her body covered up in a more seemly manner before the next practice. That’ll have hurt her pride. Harold Grimes, of course, worships the ground she walks on, and feeds her all this guff about how beautiful her body is, and things like that which have given her an inflated idea of her own attractiveness.

  ‘What was that, young man?’ Her question was addressed to Carmichael who had spoken, but very quietly, unable to help himself, but hoping not to be heard. ‘She ought to what?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I said she ought to be made to wear a burkha. I shouldn’t have said it, but when she answered the door to us, she was practically naked, and she’s so fat and saggy. It made me feel quite ill, having to look at her, with almost nothing on.’

  ‘That’s quite all right, Sergeant. In many ways, I agree with you, but I wouldn’t dare say anything in front of Harold. He adores her, and wouldn’t have her any other way. Now, who else has he been particularly rude to? Oh, just about everybody had their hackles raised when he was around. Why, I even had a visit from Cameron McKnight – you know, the one who used to be,’ (she relished these last three words) ‘first violin. Pleading with me, he was, to go back to how things were, but I was having none of that. I’d been offered a chance, and there was no way I was going to turn it down, not after wanting it, and waiting for it for so long.

  ‘But to answer your question in full, I would say, with a certain amount of confidence, that every member of our band hated him, and he won’t be missed by any of them. There, will that do?’

  ‘Admirably, Mrs Radcliffe. Your information has been most interesting, and we’d like to thank you, not only for your time, but for the delicious afternoon tea, too. It was most appreciated. And now, we’ll let you get back to your gardening in peace.’

  II

  Their next, and penultimate, call was only next door at Thistle Cottage, and Mrs Radcliffe begged them not to bother moving their car, as it wasn’t in the way in her drive, and it hardly seemed worth starting the engine for such a short trip. So they left it there.

  The door of Thistle Cottage was opened by what at first sight looked like a child, and an adult who seemed to be rising from a crouched position by its side. Before he knew what was happening, the rising form resolved itself into a fully-grown deerhound, and had jumped up to rest its vast paws on Falconer’s shoulders, and was proceeding to lick his face with evident enjoyment. If there had been any spots of jam on his chin from his recent repast, there were certainly none, now.

  ‘Get down, Maurice! This minute, I say! Bad boy! Leave the poor man alone!’ The child was suddenly a woman, if a very petite one. She was only just over five feet in height, and must surely have taken a dress size 8 and had thick, highlighted hair that had bleached slightly in the recent sunshine.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she apologised. ‘It’s just that he’s so friendly, and I bought him for a bit of protection, out here in the country, all on my own. If anyone ever broke in, he’d probably lick them to death rather than act like a guard dog.’ Casting her gaze down to the dog, she said, ‘You’re a soppy old Maurice, aren’t you?’ and patted his head, making him whine for more attention. ‘You’re going out in the garden while I deal with these gentlemen. Come on, and I’ll throw your stick for you. That always works,’ she called over her shoulder to her two visitors.

  She had addressed this final remark to them, as she left the doorstep. ‘He never seems to realise that I’m only throwing it once, so I can close the door on him and get a bit of peace. He really is a silly old Maurice. You go on into the sitting room – it’s on the right – and I’ll be back in just a minute.’

  In her absence, Falconer, after drying his face with his handkerchief, and grimacing in disgust, asked, ‘Why does just about every other household in these damned villages own a pooch?’

  ‘Company; protection; exercise; something to love …’

  ‘All right, Carmichael, I get the picture, but I’ll tell you something.’

  ‘What’s that sir?’ asked his sergeant.

  ‘I’m just bloody glad I’m not a postman. My lower legs would have been bitten to ragged, bloody bones by now.’

  They learnt nothing new from Wendy Burnett, who professed not to have liked Dashwood, but only because he had suggested that she have an egg cup of water on the floor by her feet in which to rest her reed when she wasn’t playing, so that she didn’t have to keep it in her mouth to keep it moist. ‘I quite hated him, though,’ she concluded, ‘because of what he did to the others, and to the band. He ruined it, and after a whole decade. I think that’s evil!’

  III

  Falconer’s ring at the doorbell of The Grange was answered by a call from inside. ‘Just hang on a minute, while I get Acker corralled in the dining room.’ The voice was Myrtle’s, and she must have known it was them.

  ‘All clear!’ she informed them, opening the door just a few moments later, and ushering them inside. ‘We’ve made a decision about the band,’ she informed them as they sat down, thinking they might be interested, after all that had happened. ‘We’ve decided to practise on the second and fourth Fridays of the month, but to have the meal after we’ve played, and put in a bit more practice in between.

  ‘We may have hated that man, but it looks like he taught us something before he got his comeuppance, but I’ll never forget all those insulting remarks he hurled at me, about my skill as a musician. They were unforgiveable! But at least something good may have come out of it, although that’s almost impossible to believe. I think that if he’d lived to stay on as Musical Director, we’d just have closed down the whole thing, which would have been a pity. I still hate the vicious old bastard, though, even with him being dead.

  ‘No, I think that things are only looking up, band-wise, because he is dead, and I suppose, in some perverse sort of way, we ought to thank the person who did away with him, because they did us all a favour. Now, what can I do for you, gents? Something to drink – a little cocktail, perhaps, as we’re approaching the cocktail hour, or at least we are, in the world I live in.’

  ‘No thank you, Mrs Midwynter. We just wanted a quick word with you and your husband, to confirm what you told us last night, and to ask you to pop into the station in Market Darley sometime soon, so that you can sign your statements, which will be ready and waiting for you,’ Falconer explained.

  Myles was summoned, and Carmichael was again horrified when, wearing only an apron, as he had been outside lighting the barbecue for another al fresco meal, he strolled to the far side of the room and straightened a picture that was hanging crookedly on the wall. Carmichael had had his fill of buttocks for the day, and was beginning to see Swinbury Abbot as a den of iniquity.

  First there had been Gayle Potten, wearing two tiny items that could not be di
gnified with the name garments, then Lester Westlake, wearing only a towel, having been sitting stark naked in his Jacuzzi, and now this, a man whom he considered quite elderly, wearing only an apron, and with guests present, showing off his saggy old buttocks to all and sundry. It really was too much!

  Nevertheless, he got out his notes from the previous evening, and diligently went through them at speed, but there didn’t seem to be anything they could add to what they had already said, so the visit was a very short one, and they stood ready to take their leave after only about ten minutes, and very relieved indeed was Carmichael.

  ‘I’ll show you out,’ offered Myles, conscious of his duty as host. He went on ahead of them, and the sergeant kept his eyes firmly fixed floorwards, opining that the flooring was a much better aspect than what lay ahead of him at just below waist height. He could have been more on guard, though, for when Myles opened the door, and Falconer stepped out into the hall, a furry bundle, which had obviously smelled him, and must have been lying in wait, made a bee-line for the inspector, and gave him a sharp nip on the left buttock, before tearing off towards the kitchen. Falconer could almost hear the dog’s laughter, as it retreated to a safe distance.

  ‘Myles! Did you let him out of the dining room on your way through?’

  ‘Well, he was whining, and I thought he’d been shut in by accident, didn’t I?’

  ‘You fool! I’m so sorry, Inspector. Would you like me to take a look at it?’ she asked, with a wicked twinkle in her eye.

  ‘No thank you, Mrs Midwynter. I shall have the police doctor look at it, in case I need a tetanus jab, or something. Good evening to you both!’

  When they were out of sight-line, Falconer turned and tried to look over his shoulder. ‘Are my trousers torn?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Carmichael confirmed, ‘but at least they’re your ‘old Harrys’, and not a good pair.’

  ‘Is there any blood?’ the inspector asked, anxiously.

  Folding himself in half, Carmichael applied his eyes to the offended area, and confirmed that there was no sign of bleeding. Yet!

  ‘Thank God you got me to change into these old trousers for this afternoon. If there’s no blood, I won’t have to show my bottom to Christmas, which is just as well, as he’d never let me hear the end of it. We’ve still got to go back to the office, to take an overview of what we’ve got, but I’ll tell you one thing, Carmichael.’

  ‘What’s that, sir?’

  ‘The first thing I’m going to do, when I get in, is have a nice, long, hot shower. My whole body seems to have been covered in dog lick, and my rear end seems to have suffered an extremely undignified experience at, if you’ll excuse the mixed metaphor, the hands of a dog’s teeth.’

  ‘Good idea, sir. And it might be a good idea to repair the hole in your trousers, because we’re sure to need to speak to some of these people again and, with your luck, it’ll only be the ones with dogs,’ were Carmichael’s final words on the matter.

  IV

  It was early evening before they got back to the station, and Falconer removed the trousers he had donned that morning from the boot of his car, and took them upstairs to the office, to change into them His ‘old Harrys’, he’d have to take home with him that evening to repair them and run them through the washing machine. They were too soiled with memories of today for him to be able to face putting them on again without them being surrendered to a good hot wash.

  ‘Right, Carmichael!’ he said, safely back in unsullied strides, ‘Let’s look at them all – means, motive, and opportunity, and list the inter-band tensions as well, to see what bearing they might have on the case, if any. Still, at least we’ve had a deal of ‘Grass Thy Neighbour’, and we’ve only just finished round one.’ Here, he gave a tiny smile of satisfaction.

  ‘Motive first, I think. Did they all have a motive to murder Dashwood?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ answered Carmichael.

  ‘Did they all have the means?’

  ‘Yes, sir, after what Mr Grimes told us about forgetting to lock up the church on Sunday.’

  ‘Did they all have opportunity?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I say, this isn’t getting us very far, is it?’

  ‘Not really. Do you want to call it a night, and sleep on it? We’ll be fresher in the morning, and we can look through those inter-band tensions then.’

  ‘But it’s Sunday tomorrow, sir.’ Carmichael looked concerned.

  There’s no such thing as a Sunday off when we’re in the middle of a murder enquiry. We’ve been working together long enough for you to know that.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Just get yourself off home, and let Kerry do the feeding of the five thousand,’ Falconer concluded, dropping a sly wink in his sergeant’s direction, so that he’d know he was only joking.

  ‘Good idea, sir. What with the heat and everything, I’m fair cream-crackered.’

  ‘Me, too. And I’m infected with dog-lick. Ugh! Let’s get out of here, and start again in the morning. Will your car be running by then?

  ‘I should think so. The new bloke at the garage said he didn’t think it was anything serious, and he should have it ready for me to collect tonight.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll see you at the office.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sunday 18th July

  I

  Carmichael’s car was, indeed, back on the road for Sunday morning, and both men arrived at the police station within ten minutes of each other, just after nine o’clock. They had agreed a slightly later start to the working day, as it was, for a great many others, a traditional day of rest.

  As Carmichael entered the office, Falconer glanced up at him briefly, then looked back up, to make sure that he could believe his own eyes. Instead of yesterday’s colourful Caribbean glory, today, Carmichael was dressed exclusively in black. His tee-shirt was short-sleeved and black; his trousers, a pair of jeans that Kerry had cut off at the knee and frayed, were black; his baseball cap was black, and so were his sunglasses.

  ‘Good God man, are you trying to scare the life out of me?’

  ‘What do you mean, sir?’ asked the sergeant, bewildered.

  ‘Well, yesterday, you looked like an escapee from the Notting Hill Carnival, today, you look like the Angel of Death just about to leave for his summer holidays.’

  ‘It’s not on purpose, sir. Kerry just thought I was a bit too colourful yesterday, and so she left these togs out for me, to give me a more sober appearance, given the gravity of our work, like.’

  ‘Well, tell her, in future, that a variety of muted colours would do the job better.’

  ‘Will do, sir.’

  ‘OK! Let’s get going, then.’

  Preferring to work in the old-fashioned style he was used to, Falconer scorned the new see-through boards they had been allotted in this new station, and used instead good old pen and paper until he was ready to transfer anything of importance on to what he referred to as ‘the graffiti window’.

  From the old supplies, he had discovered an elderly roll of flip-chart paper, and spread out a length of this on his desk, which was always so tidy that there was room for this sort of caper.

  ‘Now, come over here, Carmichael, so that we can put Dashwood in the middle and spread all those who could’ve done it round him. I usually do this sort of thing at home with index cards, but this seems more the thing to do with this particular case. Then we’ll start making connections, and sort out what else was going on between these people. You know how it is, if you’ve got a lot going on in your life that isn’t so good? One tiny thing can trigger off a huge temper, or even violence – ‘the straw that broke the camel’s back’ sort of thing.

  ‘We’ll include the vicar in this, and Grace Alexander. Who can tell what a mother may be capable of, when her son has been treated really badly?’

  Quickly noting the names down with a marker pen – quickly, but neatly – they were soon at a stage where lines
could be drawn, linking the players together in other ways, that did not involve Dashwood.

  ‘Let’s not bother linking them all to the victim. We know that none of them was at all fond of him. Let’s just draw the lines between other members. If you get out your notes from yesterday, Carmichael, we can go through them, one by one, and see what we come up with.’

  Carmichael moved his chair round to the front left corner of Falconer’s desk, took out his notebook, and started flipping through it, to find his notes from the previous day. ‘We went to Tile Cottage first, sir, to see that Caroline Warwick.’

  ‘She was a strange, colourless character if ever I’ve met one. You leave her cottage, and it’s so characterless and bland, that the memories are almost in black and white,’ Falconer mused, remembering the drab interior, that spoke more about an empty house, than an inhabited one.

  ‘She said her husband had an affair with Gayle Potten, and then, when he was found out, high-tailed it off, and left the both of them,’ Carmichael offered, deciphering his own idiosyncratic form of shorthand, never dreaming that Isaac Pitman would be spinning in his grave if he could see it.

  ‘Peter!’ Falconer exclaimed. ‘His name was Peter!’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, nothing! I was just seeing if I could remember, after that whole raft of interviews we carried out yesterday. So Ms Warwick isn’t very fond of Ms Potten, then. Draw a line to connect those two.’

  ‘Next, it was Gayle Potten’s, sir.’

  ‘She poses for dirty pictures for Myles Midwynter.’