Glass House (The Falconer Files Book 11)

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘I thought I’d go out of my mind, and took to seeking sanctuary in the little yards that lie behind the shops in the main streets with my paper. At least things weren’t so loud there, and I could hear myself think.

  ‘Then it stopped, and they moved in, and I thought I’d finally get my peace and quiet. The next thing you know, the maniacs have installed a whole herd of peacocks – I’m afraid I don’t know the collective noun for the birds, but ‘herd’ does it for me.

  ‘All we’ve had ever since is their incessant cries, which sound like cries for help. I don’t know if the noise abatement officer can help, or even if they’re considered pets.’

  ‘I’m sure that Mr McMurrough and Mr Radcliffe have also suffered from loss of sleep. They certainly had bags under their eyes when I last saw them. I’ll have a word when I next speak to them about what their plans are for the creatures and, may I suggest that, in the meantime, maybe you start wearing earplugs. I know it’s not the ideal solution, but you might get a little more rest.’

  Falconer was as sympathetic as he could be, but couldn’t deny or confirm whether keeping peacocks could be classed as a criminal offence.

  ‘Do you know, I never thought of that. It would be a sort of interim stage wouldn’t it? Lucille, you can nip out to the pharmacy in Market Street as soon as these gentlemen are on their way, and buy us a couple of pairs.’

  The inspector drained his cup, at the same time noticing that Lucille Sutherland was looking, in what appeared to be fascination, in Carmichael’s direction. He turned his head, to see what had caught her attention so, and his expression froze.

  The younger man had availed himself freely of the available refreshments, but without prior warning about Lucille Sutherland’s home-baking. He had encountered problems with both offerings, but had sat in silence, quietly fighting them, to try to extract some sort of nourishment.

  His shirt front and lap were covered in rather large crumbs – some of which were more akin to lumps – of rock cake. The lady took their name as their nature, and cooked them accordingly.

  The treacle tarts, he had had much more difficulty with, as she only ever added the minimum of breadcrumbs, leaving the golden syrup still runny. He had evidently tried to eat one of these first, and a number of pieces of rock cake were stuck to his chin and one cheek; his tie was also a nest, this time for currants from the rock cakes, and his hands were stuck together with the golden trap.

  All in all, Falconer decided, he looked like a child who has had a very messy teatime. ‘Do you think my sergeant could go somewhere to clean himself up?’ he asked of his hostess, trying to keep a straight face, and noticing that while the wife and he had listened politely to Gerald’s tale of woe, Carmichael had silently emptied both plates. It served him right!

  ‘We don’t have any facilities downstairs like modern homes, but he’s welcome to go upstairs to the bathroom and have a bit of a wash,’ said Lucille, now noticeably trying to suppress a grin of amusement. ‘Go on up and have a bit of a tidy-up, Sergeant.’

  When Carmichael once again resembled a grown-up, he accompanied the inspector to the door of Green Gates, in search of the Smallwoods, and their knock was answered, after only a short pause, by a woman who appeared to be in her thirties – so, she was not out at work.

  Once inside, both were examined minutely by the nose of a small – but not as small as Carmichael’s two – dog, which they were informed was a Shih Tzu who went by the name of Darling.

  ‘I’ve been passionately fond of dogs for years,’ explained Darling’s owner, ‘and I finally took my courage in both hands, resigned from my day job, and bought a bitch for breeding.’ Carmichael winced at the word ‘bitch’. Earlier, at the Fairchilds’ house, his face had almost gone into spasm at the bad language of Rufus, the only family member at home. He did not approve of what he referred to as ‘cursing’.

  ‘She’s just come into her first season, and I had arranged for a stud to come and cover her this morning. That’s why I didn’t intend to go to the party at Glass House last night – I felt I needed to keep an eye on her and keep her company – and why I’m so furious with the couple who live there.’

  ‘Do go on,’ Falconer encouraged her. Carmichael had abandoned his note-taking in favour of playing with the little animal, and the inspector coughed pointedly to recapture his attention.

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘My husband is away on business at the moment, so it was just the two of us yesterday – Darling and I, you understand. I went upstairs for a shower to try to cool down, as it was such a hot day, and when I got back downstairs, that foul miniature sausage dog that they’d just acquired had managed to get into my garden under the fence, and was having his wicked way with my poor darling Darling.’

  That was one ‘darling’ too many for Carmichael, and he had to stop for a minute, to rest his pen, while he sorted it out in his mind.

  ‘It was mid-evening by then, and I just grabbed him and marched round to the party – I was invited, after all, so I wasn’t gate-crashing – but that was exactly what I did. I fair crashed through the side gate, having got no answer at the front door, located the owners over at the barbecue, just dumped the dog down, and vented my spleen on them.

  ‘Of course, I let the stud come this morning, but if she has a litter of cross-bred pups, I shall be consulting my solicitor as to whether I have any come-back under the law. This is my job now, and the pups will provide my only income. It was a risky business in the first place, and with this sodding sausage-shaped seducer, I could be in hot water, money-wise.

  ‘I won’t even be able to advertise their imminent birth, so that I can get pre-whelp orders, unless the vet’s got a scanner that can distinguish whether she’s carrying Shih Tzu or cross-bred pups.’

  ‘You have all my sympathy, Mrs Smallwood. So you weren’t at the party very long, then?’

  ‘Only a few minutes. Just long enough to drop off – literally – the canine equivalent of Casanova and have my say, then I stalked back here and had a good cry, hoping my poor Darling wasn’t yet pregnant.’

  Next door, at Fairview, the Trusslers were obviously out at work, as was their next target, Mr Eastwood, who resided at River View in Market Street.

  ‘We’ve only got three more to do today,’ announced Falconer, ‘if we don’t go back to any who were not in and, if they’re at work, we’d have more chance of catching them on a Saturday morning than we would on a Friday afternoon.

  ‘There’s a pub down the other end of the High Street with an all-day licence. Shall we call in there first, to see if we can’t get a cup of coffee to warm us up? This rain really makes you feel chilly, doesn’t it? We can cross over to the other side by the footbridge halfway down.’

  Carmichael accepted the offer with alacrity. He might not long ago have had a cup of tea, but another drink was always acceptable to him, no matter how soon after the last.

  The pub was The Goat and Compasses, and they did serve coffee – freshly filtered – so the two detectives took a seat in the nearly empty bar and prepared for a short break, both physically and mentally, from their questioning.

  ‘Do you know how pubs with this name came by it?’ asked Falconer, always willing to share the bits of junk and trivia that built up in his head.

  ‘Can’t see any sense in the name, myself. What on earth’s a goat going to do with a compass, let alone a set of them? Seems daft to me.’

  ‘That’s because originally there was no goat, nor any compasses. Neither of them existed.’

  ‘How’s that, then. How could it have got its name if the two things mentioned in it didn’t exist?’ Carmichael’s interest had been sparked.

  ‘Because the name is actually a bastardisation, over time, of “God encompasseth us”,’ explained the inspector, smiling happily, as light dawned for his sergeant.

  ‘That’s amazing, sir. I’d never have guessed that in a million years. How do you know things like that?’

  ‘
I guess my brain’s just a hoarder. I can’t seem to throw anything away, and the damned thing’s full of such useless facts.’

  ‘Fascinating, I’d say. Don’t knock it.’ Carmichael was, as he would have described it himself, ‘well impressed’.

  It had only been spitting when they entered the pub, and the rain had completely stopped by the time they came out and headed for Old Darley Passage, which they knew led to Darley Old Yard, one of the places to which Gerald Sutherland admitted he had fled from the noise next door.

  Their initial port of call was at the first of a pair of small semi-detached houses which proclaimed itself to be ‘2B’, where they hoped to find one Mr Westbrook. He, unfortunately, proved to be another potential witnesses who had a job and was, consequently, not at home halfway through a Friday afternoon, and apparently didn’t even knock off early for the weekend.

  ‘Bet you a fiver he’s self-employed,’ said Carmichael, out of the blue.

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Simply because he hasn’t come home early. If you work for yourself, you put in all the hours available, because you don’t know when the work’s going to dry up and leave you without an income.’

  ‘Now you’re the one with the interesting facts. Where did you get that one from?’

  ‘My brothers,’ replied Carmichael, with a grin.

  ‘I should’ve known. Let’s try next door. Good grief, look at the name sign for this one – “Or Not 2B”. I’ve never seen anything like that before.’

  ‘Very Shakespearian,’ commented Carmichael, causing Falconer to give him a thoughtful stare. He wouldn’t have considered his sergeant to be a man who would take any notice of Shakespeare’s works, but he must be wrong.

  ‘Did Hamlet at school, sir. And me mum loves the plays. Remember, my middle name’s from Twelfth Night, then there’s my siblings.’

  Very unusually, ‘Davey’ – an adopted forename for an easier progress through life – Carmichael had siblings named Romeo, Hamlet, Mercutio, Juliet, and Imogen. There was also a Harry, which was presumed to be an homage to one of the Henry plays, and his own given forenames were Ralph (pronounced ‘Raif’) Orsino.

  That, at a quick check, covered Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet, Twelfth Night, and The Taming of the Shrew.

  ‘However could I forget?’ replied Falconer, ‘Having been at your wedding and Harriet’s christening, they are etched indelibly on my memory, now that you mention them.’

  They suddenly realised that they were standing in front of a still-closed door, and that, after all this time, it was unlikely to be answered. They had another no-show to add to tomorrow’s list. ‘Come on, sergeant, let’s try across the road, and see if we have better luck there.’

  They certainly had more luck, but there was no definitive answer to whether it was good or bad. The door to Lane House was answered by a man in scruffy and food-stained clothes, who seemed to be hanging on to the door itself to keep upright.

  ‘Mr Worsley?’ enquired the inspector, not making any rash judgements about the figure that confronted them.

  ‘Thassright,’ replied the man. ‘Wha’ c’n I do fer you gen’lemen?’

  That was plenty for Falconer to judge from, and he judged that the man whom they wished to question was undoubtedly very drunk, and had already reached the slurring and staggering stage.

  Carmichael had also come to the same conclusion, and thought that they were unlikely to get anything of import out of him in this state.

  ‘D’you wanna c’me in?’ asked the man, who had begun to sway and grin inanely at them.

  Carmichael stepped bravely into the breach, took Darren Worsley firmly by an arm and marched him into the house, eventually depositing him in what looked like the comfiest chair in a very mixed bunch.

  The place was a mess, with discarded containers from takeaways mixed with empty drinks glasses and newspapers everywhere. There were several beer cans over near a wastepaper basket, a nest of wine bottles on the floor, and an open whisky bottle on the coffee table.

  ‘Take a sheat and shtate yer bis’n’ss,’ the man slurred, closing one eye to bring them more sharply into focus. I was jus’ hav’n’ a li’l snifter. D’yer wan’ one?’

  ‘No thank you,’ replied Falconer, then determined to state his business, in the hope that the man could still recall the previous evening. ‘I understand that you attended a house-warming party at Glass House yesterday,’ he began.

  ‘Where? Don’ know wha’ yer talkin’ abou’,’ their potential witness replied, pouring himself a further three fingers of spirit.

  ‘Used to be called The Orchards,’ added Carmichael helpfully.

  ‘Home o’ tha’ stinkin’ unfaithful bastard Radcliffe. Dumped me, yer know. Jus’ when things were goin’ well. Took off with tha’ snotty little guttersnipe McMurr-urr-urrough, an’ lef’ me high ’n’ dry.’

  ‘You used to be Bailey Radcliffe’s partner?’ asked Falconer, aghast that this seemingly alcoholic wreck could ever have had anything to do with the fastidious Radcliffe.

  ‘Wor? You di’n guess I was an “iron” too?’

  ‘What’s an iron?’ asked Carmichael, in all innocence.

  ‘Iron hoof. Poof,’ Falconer informed him, sotto voce.

  ‘I wasn’ always li’ this, yer know. I used to be respect … respect … shober, yer know.’

  ‘And can you, then, tell me what you remember from yesterday evening at the, er, The Orchards?’

  ‘Did I go there?’ Worsley’s face screwed up with the effort of memory.

  ‘Ah, we’ll come back another time, sir. You seem rather tired today. We’ll leave you in peace to have a rest, and come back tomorrow morning.’ There was no point in wasting any more time on this lush. He wouldn’t talk any sense until he’d had a chance to sleep off his binge.

  ‘Lovely to shee you. Come back anytime. I’ll be ’ere. Go’ nowhere else to go.’ Worsley waved a limp hand in farewell, and applied himself to his glass again. For now, he was a lost cause.

  As they walked back to the car, Falconer was in thoughtful mood. ‘I can hardly believe that Radcliffe was a previous partner of that drunken sot,’ he said judgementally.

  ‘He probably wasn’t always like that, sir. Maybe the break-up turned him to drink.’ Carmichael was more forgiving.

  ‘And maybe it didn’t. Maybe it just exaggerated an already bad habit.’ Falconer was not letting up: he’d taken a scunner to Worsley, and would not be deflected from his newly formed opinion.

  ‘This afternoon’s been a total waste of time. Hardly anyone in, and the only one we got to talk to couldn’t talk back and make any sense. In fact, the whole day’s been a bit of a washout. Nobody saw or heard anything, apparently.’

  ‘Or so they say, sir. And we have collected a load of grudges against the couple,’ the sergeant said soothingly.

  ‘They wouldn’t do that if they were responsible for the attacks.’ Falconer was determined to be pessimistic.

  ‘Or maybe they’re just double-bluffing us, sir.’

  ‘Hey, you could be right. Maybe it was one of the people we’ve spoken to. And if it’s not, perhaps it’ll turn out to be one of the ones we interview tomorrow morning.’

  Carmichael’s quiet words had worked, and he was now turned more towards optimism. His glass was half-full again, instead of half-empty, which was more than could be said for Mr Worley’s – that was almost brim-full after yet another refill.

  Chapter Eight

  Fairmile Green

  Chadwick slammed down the phone in its cradle and cursed. ‘Shit!’

  ‘What’s up, Chadders?’ called Bailey’s voice from the kitchen.

  ‘Bloody technical problems at the studio. Tonight’s recording’s had to be cancelled, and rescheduled for tomorrow evening. Damn and blast it! I’ve spent most of the day learning all the facts and figures and getting myself into the right frame of mind to do a real humdinger, and they cancel at the last minute.’

  ‘W
ell, you won’t have forgotten everything by tomorrow evening, will you? It’s not the end of the world.’

  ‘Yes it is. I’m bored, and you know how I can’t stand being bored. And I even went in earlier to talk to the team about some of the stuff I wanted to do ‘off the cuff’. There certainly weren’t any technical problems on the dry run.’

  ‘I know you went in. I was the one who took you over there, then went back and picked you up later. I didn’t think you’d even bother coming back.’

  ‘Just as well that I did, as they’ve cancelled the whole bloody thing. I’d have been left at a right loose end there, otherwise. I know! We’ll go down to the pub. We were too late to go the other night, so we’ll go tonight. Now people know I’m here, actually living in the village, there should be quite a gathering of the fans – geddit – gathering of the fans, instead of clans?’

  ‘Oh, I get it all right. You need an infusion of adulation, and you’re not going to get that at the studio now, so I’ve got to be dragged out to the village pub so that you can go in search of people who’ll be prepared to spend all evening worshipping their current televisual god.’

  ‘Got it in one. Remember, it’s all about me.’ Radcliffe had hit the nail right on the head, as far as McMurrough was concerned ‘I’m going upstairs to put on something lovely,’ chirruped the Little Princess, and minced out of the room.

  ‘Well, I hope you don’t expect me to change just for the village pub, ’cause I won’t,’ Bailey called after his figure, which was now disappearing up the stairs. ‘And when I got back from the shops earlier, who the hell were you on the phone to? You looked like the cat that’d got the cream!’

  ‘Can’t remember,’ shouted back Chadwick, but he smiled a secret smile. Some things a girl just had to keep to herself.

  On the second step, the phone rang again, and he backtracked to answer it. The call was for him and did not last long, but his Cheshire cat smile got even broader as the call progressed. By the time the call ended, he looked like he’d won a multiple rollover on the Euro Millions lottery. Everything really was coming up roses.