Glass House (The Falconer Files Book 11)

by Andrea Frazer

  When he wafted downstairs later, Bailey suppressed both a shudder and a chuckle. ‘What in the name of God are you wearing, young Chadders?’

  ‘A kaftan and loons,’ replied the younger man – there was nearly thirty years between them.

  ‘Why loons, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘Because retro is highly trendy now.’

  ‘Look here, I remember loons when they came round the first time, and they weren’t trendy then. They were a pain in the butt, with those hugely wide leg bottoms that could find any puddle within a hundred yards and take a drink from it.’

  ‘Shut up, granddad, and get with it. These are absolutely the newest craze.’

  ‘In your dreams, soft lad. You look like a superannuated hippie who’s managed the impossible and travelled in time.’

  ‘Not enough time to actually catch you looking young. And anyway, I’m allergic to dinosaurs.’

  ‘Cheeky young pup. I’ll box your ears for you.’

  ‘Syrup, Bails.’

  ‘Syrup of figs, my big fat hairy arse, you lying hound. My toupee is perfectly straight. I’ve just checked it in the mirror.’

  ‘Hey, it’s coming on to rain,’ called Chadwick, looking outside. ‘Let’s go mad and wear our Mickey Mouse rain capes. You remember? The ones we bought in Disneyland Paris when there was that awful storm.’

  ‘Do we have to?’

  ‘Of course we do. We’re the nearest thing to royalty this village has got.’

  The Goat and Compasses had very few customers when they arrived. Not only was it quite early in the evening but, on a Friday, many of the regulars went into Market Darley in search of more lively night life.

  No one, at this time, recognised McMurrough, and he sat on a stool looking gloomily at the optics, when the door opened and admitted his ex, Gareth Jones, late home from work and stopping off for a well-earned pint.

  He stopped in his tracks when he saw who was sitting at the bar, and exclaimed, ‘Can’t I go anywhere in this village without seeing you?’

  ‘Well, you did come to my house yesterday for a party. You can hardly expect not to catch at least a glimpse of me in my own home.’

  ‘That’s fair enough, but what’s a celebrity like you doing wasting his time in a dump like this? I’d have thought you’d have somewhere much more glamorous to have a drink in.’

  ‘Watch it, Gareth,’ warned the landlord, as Chadwick replied,

  ‘You bitch! I’ll drink where I sodding well like. I don’t need your permission to visit my own local.’

  ‘It used to be my local, but if you’re going to start coming here regularly, I’m going to call in at one of the other villages if I want a drink on the way home from work in future. I don’t want to keep bumping into a cheating bastard like you.’

  ‘That’s mutual, Gareth, I can assure you. You go where you want, but I reserve my right to visit my local pub for a drink when we don’t fancy driving.’

  ‘I’m just surprised you haven’t hired a chauffeur by now, or is that your new bloke’s job? No, I forgot – he’s as old as the hills, isn’t he?’

  ‘You mind your mouth, Jones, or I’ll relieve you of a few teeth.’ This was from Bailey Radcliffe who, up till now, hadn’t even turned round.

  ‘You and whose army, old man?’ taunted Gareth.

  ‘That’s enough of that. I’ll have no rough stuff in my establishment. I suggest you have your drink at home, Gareth. These two gentlemen were here first,’ called out the landlord, wanting to get in his two-penn’orth before there was a physical fight.

  ‘Oh, that’s right, throw me out. I suppose they’ve got more in their wallets than me.’

  ‘You know that’s not the reason. I’m a fair man, and if you’d been here first, I’d have asked them to leave. Now be a good chap and cut along, now.’

  Gareth Jones stormed out of the pub and set off, in a foul mood, for Old Darley Passage and home. That unpleasant incident had certainly not made his day.

  As the evening progressed, quite a few more customers turned up, and they were fans of The Glass House and Chadwick’s Chatterers, so McMurrough got his circle of admirers, and was happy again.

  Bailey was, in all honesty, bored. He’d witnessed too much of this to think it a good thing, as Chadwick’s ego was ever-expanding, making him, after such a session, almost impossible to live with.

  ‘I think I’ll toddle on home, now,’ he announced, interrupting Chadwick’s assembled fans.

  ‘I’ll see you off,’ replied Chadwick. ‘Just wave you down the street.’

  ‘That’s very sweet of you.’

  ‘I know, but I just wanted to prove to you that I could walk away from an adoring crowd. I’ll be back in a minute everyone. Powder your noses or get another round in – whatever. I won’t be long.’

  The couple exited the bar arm in arm, Chadwick looking back and blowing a kiss to his fans. ‘See you in no time at all,’ he called after them, as they went out into the High Street.

  And he was. He was gone less than ten minutes, during which time his fans had hardly noticed the passage of time, as they enthusiastically discussed their favourite scenes from their beloved one’s career, and got another round in.

  ‘There, you see, I’m back already,’ he said as greeting. ‘Back in a jiffy, just like I said,’ and he settled down in his seat at the head of the table ready, once more, to give audience to his faithful.

  Market Darley

  Harry Falconer had been dozing under the uncomfortably furry – at this time of year – blanket of five cats, when his landline phone rang at half-past eleven. Coming fuzzily back to consciousness, he batted the cats away and picked up the handset, to find Bob Bryant, the desk sergeant, at the other end of the line.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you so late, but there’s been a death in Fairmile Green, and I knew you’d be interested, as you’ve already had dealings with the victim. You might want to give Carmichael a ring as well.

  He did this without delay, and immediately went out to his car, feeling vaguely depressed.

  Fairmile Green

  On the drive over to Fairmile Green, Falconer’s mind went over and over what he had just been told. Bailey Radcliffe’s body had been found floating in the waters of the Little Darle in the middle of the village. And it had been Chadwick McMurrough who had found this horror.

  It gave so much more importance to what they had found out during their visits today, and Carmichael had been right – they really did have a lot of motives and, if he wasn’t mistaken, there’d be a lot more before this investigation was over. He was, of course, assuming that Bailey Radcliffe had been murdered, and not just suffered a fatal accident.

  As the nearest to the village, he was the first to arrive on the scene. Carmichael had further to come from Castle Farthing and Doc Christmas, the FME, even further, from Fallow Fold – a good ten miles.

  He parked his car outside the craft shop in the High Street. At least with the twin roads being so wide, there were no double yellow lines to worry about. He left his car just opposite a small group of people who had gathered beside the infant river, and appeared to be staring at something that was lying on the bank.

  They were. The crowd parted as Falconer arrived, holding out his warrant card for inspection by anyone who had not yet received a visit from him, and he became aware of the soaking wet body of a totally bald man, lying just short of the second footbridge down from the pub.

  By his side knelt a tragic figure, sobbing piteously and clutching what, at first sight, looked like a guinea pig, but which proved, on closer inspection, to be the dead man’s toupee, which had never fooled anyone before, and certainly wouldn’t now.

  ‘I didn’t know what to do about it,’ said Chadwick in strained tones, holding up the bunch of ‘real human hair’ that had once adorned his partner’s head. ‘It looked so pathetic, just floating there that I had to fish it out. It was part of who he was, and I couldn’t just abandon it. I can’t believe I’ll never
see his beautiful brown eyes smiling at me again. We had so many plans.’

  Falconer had already taken in the scene when Carmichael arrived. The sergeant must’ve driven like the very devil to have made it so quickly to Fairmile Green. ‘If you don’t mind, sir,’ the inspector said to McMurrough, ‘I’ll get my sergeant to take you home, and I’ll come along to talk to you later.’

  Carmichael, who had just got out of his car, was quick on the uptake, and came over to collect the bereaved. ‘But I can’t just leave him here,’ wailed Chadwick, resisting Carmichael’s hand on his arm.

  ‘He’s gone, sir. He’s not here any more. You won’t be leaving him. He’s already left.’ Falconer said this gently but decisively. The last thing he needed was the recently bereaved, when the cold, clinical eye of Philip Christmas, the medical man, was assessing the scene. His professional detachment would probably send McMurrough over the edge, he thought, as he watched the two men walk away down the road.

  Doc Christmas joined him about ten minutes later, as eager as a puppy to be let loose on the body. ‘Good evening, Harry. What have you got for me this time? Anything interesting?’

  ‘Were you told this was the partner of Chadwick McMurrough?’

  ‘I was. I’m hoping to meet the star myself. I’m sure we can come up with some excuse, even if it’s just asking him if his partner took any regular medication.’

  ‘You are blatant, aren’t you?’ Falconer was flabbergasted.

  ‘I’m no different to your average celebrity-hunter,’ he replied, coolly, but with a small grin to show that he appreciated the black comedy of the situation – a man of his standing and education chasing after meeting a chit of a boy, with nothing but outrageous clothes and a similarly outrageous personality in his favour.

  ‘Would you like to examine the body, now?’ asked Falconer, flashing his eyes at the doctor, to show he understood the meaning of his quick grin.

  Christmas was already on his hands and knees beside the earthly remains of Bailey Radcliffe, his hands at the back of the dead man’s head.

  ‘There’s a lump I can feel here the size of an egg – a sure sign of trauma from a blunt instrument. It’s too dark here for me to take a proper look, so I’ll have to wait till I get back to the morgue to take a proper look, but I’d say we were looking at a murder.

  ‘If someone belted him on the back of the head and rendered him unconscious, it wouldn’t take long, or much effort, to tip him into the river and hold his head under the water. Unconscious people tend not to struggle.’

  ‘But no one had anything against Bailey Radcliffe to my knowledge, and all of the other attempts have been made on Chadwick McMurrough,’ countered Falconer.

  ‘Nevertheless, it’s Radcliffe body that has been pulled out of the water. I’ve noticed the lighting isn’t very good along this street. They haven’t got the sodium lamps we have in the towns, they’ve still got the dim, old-fashioned ones. Has it crossed your mind that it may have been a case of mistaken identity?’

  ‘Well, poor lighting aside, they both seem to have had on identical rain capes. If someone saw McMurrough go into the pub – maybe he went in behind Mr Radcliffe – then maybe they just assumed it was he who had come out,’ interjected Falconer.

  ‘What with the steeling of the nerves to carry out such an attack,’ continued Doc Christmas, ‘they must have just taken it for granted that it was McMurrough that they’d clobbered and, by the time they’d turned him over to get him submerged, there was simply nothing they could do about it. It was far too late to think of something like that – simply no way back, especially if whoever it was, was worried he – or she – had been seen.’

  ‘So if I consider the theory of mistaken identity,’ said Falconer, with calculation in his voice, ‘then someone’s still got it in for Chadwick McMurrough.’

  ‘Surely not so soon after this happening?’ Doc Christmas was horrified at such a thought.

  ‘I don’t know. The earlier attacks were crude and ineffectual, but that was more luck than judgement. And whoever it was, had to get into the house to set some of the traps. That takes some nerve. I reckon we’ll have to tell Mr McMurrough to keep a sharp eye out, trust no one, and we’ll make sure that a patrol car passes the house at least once an hour.’

  ‘Is there no one who could come and stay with him for a while?’ The FME was beginning to sound like a mother hen.

  ‘Actually, his mother doesn’t live too far away. I’ve actually met her. Perhaps he’d consider asking her over to stay with him for a while. At least we can keep her off our list of suspects. I’ll be off down there now, and suggest the idea when I get there,’ the inspector declared as he walked across to his parked car, on his way to join his sergeant.

  The door of Glass House was opened to him by a somewhat calmer Chadwick McMurrough who was now in dressing gown and slippers, evidently fresh from the shower.

  As he ushered Falconer into the living room, he became aware of two things. One, was the figure of an immaculate young man, quite at home in one of the big armchairs. The other was a strong scent of cigarette smoke in the air. Carmichael was nowhere to be seen, which was a bit puzzling, but he kept his peace.

  McMurrough immediately sprayed an air freshener towards the ceiling, and said, ‘Sorry about the fug. I haven’t smoked for ages, and then I remembered, from last night, that Robin did – this is Robin Eastwood, by the way, from Market Street – and I knew I needed to have some company, otherwise I’d go off my head.

  ‘I gave him a ring and told him what happened, and he very kindly turned up with a bottle of very good malt and three packets of Benson and Hedges. We met at our barbecue house-warming, in case you’re wondering.’

  ‘Fags for the faggot,’ interjected Eastwood lazily and, unexpectedly in Falconer’s opinion, the young householder didn’t take offence, even though they had known each other only since the previous evening.

  Falconer held out a hand in greeting, only to have own grasped in what felt like the body of a damp, cool fish. ‘I called at your house earlier today to speak to you,’ said Falconer, ‘But you were out.’

  ‘That’s work for you, but there’s no rest for the wicked, is there?’ Eastwood replied smoothly.

  ‘And what do you do?’

  ‘Oh, this and that. You know – whatever it takes to keep a roof over my head and food in my belly.’

  Falconer didn’t consider that sixty fags and a bottle of malt actually came under the heading of ‘keeping body and soul together’, but he made no comment. ‘Can you tell me how you came to find Mr Radcliffe’s body?’ asked the inspector as gently as he could.

  Chadwick’s eyes welled with fresh tears and he made a visible effort to pull himself together. Mr Eastwood kept himself busy with lighting another cigarette and pouring the both of them a fresh drink.

  ‘Bailey went home early because I think he’d had enough of my fans and their fawning ways.’

  ‘I thought you were recording a programme tonight.’

  ‘That’s just it. I was supposed to be, but I got a call to say that it had been delayed till tomorrow evening because of some sort of technical problems, so I suggested we went down to the local. I was bored, you see. Bails knows – knew – how bad for me that was.

  ‘Anyway, I think he’d had enough,’ he continued, taking another cigarette from the pack offered to him, and lighting up unthinkingly and, after a long drag, appeared ready to continue with his story.

  This, however, was postponed by the entry of Carmichael and a tiny Dachshund, holding a stick between them. Falconer had been aware that there was something missing when he had first arrived, and that that something was his sergeant, but the cigarette smoke and the presence of Robin Eastwood had completely knocked him off track.

  And the appearance of Carmichael, attired as he was tonight, had a similar effect. He hadn’t been able to see him clearly before because of the poor street lighting, and he was somewhat distracted with the corpse. For a moment or
two he was speechless.

  ‘Hello, sir. I’m just keeping Dipsy from under anyone’s feet,’ he said, grinning with pleasure at his new canine companion.

  ‘Good for you Carmichael,’ the inspector managed to croak, having recovered his voice. ‘Perhaps you could take him back where you’ve come from, so that you don’t interrupt Mr McMurrough, who is going through the circumstances in which he found the body of his partner.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. Come on Dipsy, boy. Let’s go back into the other room and play fetch again.’ Really, Carmichael was as easy to amuse and distract as a puppy. ‘Then get yourself back in here to take notes, Sergeant,’ he shouted after Carmichael’s departing back.

  ‘Mr McMurrough?’ Falconer urged his witness, as his colleague re-entered the room and made himself nearly invisible in one of the feather-stuffed armchairs and tried manfully to take notes from this ludicrous position.

  ‘OK, where was I? That’s it – Bailey left early, and I told the fans at the table that I’d just wave him off. It seemed only polite, and it gave me a minute or two away from the incessant questions.

  ‘I went back into the pub, and I didn’t leave until closing time. I was walking down the High Street, on the river side rather than that of the shops, when I saw something floating in the water.

  ‘I had no idea what it was, but it looked like a small animal, and I thought I’d better try to get it back to dry land. I’d had a few sherbets by then, and I wasn’t really thinking straight.

  ‘But, as soon as I caught hold of it, I could see exactly what it was. Then I became conscious of Bailey, lying face down just a few feet away. When I had a proper look, it looked like his wig had caught on a branch of wood, but his body hadn’t floated further downstream because it was caught up on a dumped supermarket trolley – and there isn’t even a supermarket in the village.’ This last was said in utter disbelief that someone would go to the trouble of bringing such a thing to Fairmile Green just to throw it in the Little Darle.

  ‘Can you believe someone would throw something like that into a tiny rivulet like that? There’s nowt so queer as folk – not even queers, Inspector.