Glass House (The Falconer Files Book 11)

by Andrea Frazer

  They were ushered into a fairly small sitting room, rather overcrowded with a three-piece suite and a dining table and chairs, quite similar in size to the one in the Catcheside house, although the colours were nowhere near so hectic.

  ‘I did meet the man, but only the once, at their barbecue party the other evening,’ Dean offered.

  ‘Did you also meet his partner, Chadwick McMurrough, your local celebrity,’ asked Falconer with a twinkle in his eye at this sarcasm.

  Dean’s face suddenly fell, and his eyes began to swivel from side to side. ‘I’m afraid I’ve known him for some considerable time,’ he replied, with a catch in his voice.

  ‘How come?’ asked the inspector, immediately intrigued.

  ‘We went to school together.’

  ‘That must have been nice for you.’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘He was a bully; a really persistent bully, and he made my life a misery for years.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he could. Basically he picked on anything that wasn’t in line with what he saw as normal – hah! That’s a laugh, considering how “un-mainstream” he is, now he’s out of the closet and flaunting his sexuality on television to the great British viewing public. He picked on me because of my red hair and freckles.

  ‘He must’ve called me every name under the sun, with “ginger” tacked on the end. And he wasn’t just a mental bully either – he was a physical one, too. Chinese burns were his favourite torture. I suppose they didn’t take a lot of effort for the enduring pain they produced.’

  ‘Yet you went along to the party?’ Falconer was surprised, not only at the amount of trepidation even the thought of the other man produced, but at the fact that this one had plucked up the courage to attend their house-warming gathering.

  ‘I felt I might get the opportunity to talk to him man to man, and get rid of my phobia about him.’

  ‘And, did you?’

  ‘I lost my nerve. I didn’t stay long at all; just long enough for one drink, then I slunk off into the night like a kicked puppy.’

  ‘And where were you last night, between the hours of ten and eleven o’clock?’

  ‘I was here, watching television.’

  ‘Can anyone confirm that?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I don’t have a girlfriend at the moment, and there were no phone calls or visitors to verify that.’

  ‘We might need to speak to you again, Mr Westbrook,’ announced Falconer, gone formal again. ‘Thank you for your time.’

  At Or Not 2B Gareth Jones was also at home to unscheduled callers. ‘You’re lucky to find me in,’ he told them. ‘I’m not long home – worked all morning on a rush job, and didn’t get back here until nearly two.’

  Carmichael gave Falconer an old-fashioned look about his previous regret at not getting to the village earlier. This time he took the lead. ‘Perhaps we could come in and have a word with you about the unfortunate death of Mr Bailey Radcliffe.’

  ‘Certainly. Tragic, that. I only saw him last night.’

  ‘And how did that come about?’ It was still Carmichael in the driving seat.

  ‘On my way home from work. I thought I could just do with a pint or two after the long week I’d had, with Saturday morning still to come, but when I went into the pub, the first thing I saw was Chadwick with Radcliffe.’

  ‘Did you speak to them, sir?’

  ‘Not what you’d call a conversation. I made a few comments that weren’t exactly complimentary, then the landlord asked me if I’d mind shutting my gob and getting out of his pub. I, of course, was only too glad to oblige. Better a couple of beers here, in the comfort of my own home, than a drink there, with those two, rubbing my face in what they’d done to me, turning my life upside down like that.’

  ‘You mean your break-up with Mr McMurrough?’

  ‘That’s right. I know he’s a bit of a mincing nancy, and I don’t look, at first glance, to be a poof, but we’re the same under the skin. We were together for nearly a year, all through his time on The Glass House, then he got this two-week contract for a bit part in Cockneys, and suddenly he got all cagey, staying out late after rehearsal and filming.

  The next thing I know, he’s dumping me, and expecting me to find somewhere else to live. It’s lucky this place was available immediately, otherwise I’d have been on the street. My parents haven’t spoken to me since they found out which side I batted for, and my sister hasn’t got room for me to stay with her. Luckily, he stumped up the deposit, or I wouldn’t even have got this.’

  ‘So, he really did turn your life upside down. It must have been a bit difficult to swallow.’ Carmichael could really have been a little more careful with his wording, given the circumstances, Falconer thought with an uncomfortable smile.

  ‘Look, I’m resilient, and I still had my work. All it meant was that I had to have a few business cards reprinted.’

  ‘What exactly do you do?’ Here, Falconer spoke for the first time.

  ‘I’m self-employed; an electrician, so if you ever need any work done – no job too small – give me a tinkle. I’ll give you my card.’

  It was now Falconer’s turn to give Carmichael one of his old-fashioned looks, which said ‘now that’s a very interesting piece of information, that is’.

  ‘But he deprived you of a rather moneyed and pampered future, didn’t he?’ Falconer wasn’t going to let go that easily.

  ‘Oh, I’ve got my insurance. I’ve got loads of photographs, and even some recordings I did with my little cassette recorder, and bits of video on my smartphone. If I go to the press – which I will, when I’m ready – then I can really cash in. And his time in the public eye won’t last long. That sort of star fades quite quickly, in my opinion.’

  ‘But he’s got his own chat show, now.’

  ‘Yes. I must admit, I didn’t expect that to happen.’

  When they were outside once more, Falconer sighed and said, ‘Well, that gets us exactly nowhere. Either of those two could have done it if it’s a case of mistaken identity. They’ve both got an axe to grind, as far as Chadwick McMurrough goes, and Jones is actually an electrician.’

  When Darren Worsley opened the door to their ring, he was, once again, holding on to it for support. ‘Oh, it’sh you two again. Would you like a li’l drinky-poos, seeing ash it’sh the weekend?’

  ‘That’s quite all right, Mr Worsley. I don’t think we’ll come in today. I am, however, going to send one of my uniformed officers round to take you for a little ride. Is that all right?’

  ‘Lovely. Ocifer. Li’l outing on a Sat’day. Jus’ the ticket.’

  ‘Goodbye then, for now.’

  As he closed the door on them, Falconer made a quick call to the station, ascertained that PC Green was out on patrol, and asked for him to be directed to Worsley’s address, to take him in as one of Her Majesty’s temporary guests.

  A few hours cooling his heels in a cell should sober him up nicely. Then they could interview him with a guarantee of a little more success than they’d had the day before.

  Chapter Ten

  Fairmile Green

  Almost from force of habit, they found themselves outside Glass House, and decided that they might as well get their call over there first, as they knew Chadwick McMurrough had a rescheduled recording tonight and might even be already out. They needed to ask him about Bailey’s will and who actually owned the house.

  They’d had every intention of calling in at The Goat and Compasses before visiting this end of the village again but, somehow, the idea of a drink at the end of their last interview of the day proved more enticing than a coffee in the middle of the interviews, and so had headed south towards the property where they had made so many calls recently.

  They were lucky in that McMurrough hadn’t yet left, but Eastwood had, and he invited them in. He still didn’t seem too heartbroken, but then he would have had to psych himself up for the delayed recordin
g of his chat show later, and it was not surprising that he had worked hard to stay calm. He must be well on his way to being a professional by now.

  ‘Go on in, and I’ll put some coffee on,’ he suggested, waving them into the living room, as he headed for the kitchen.

  Falconer immediately sat down in one of the plumpfy feather-stuffed armchairs, but Carmichael was more restless, and wandered around in a desultory way. He was over by the desk when he suddenly stopped and acted rather like a pointer dog, riveted by something that he must have seen on the desk top.

  ‘Sir,’ he hissed urgently. ‘Over here. I don’t want to touch it or move it.’

  With a rolling of his eyes, Falconer struggled to his feet out of his enfolding nest, and wandered over towards his sergeant. ‘Look at this, sir,’ whispered Carmichael, pointing at a letter that was sitting, face up, beside the lap top.

  It was a letter from the company responsible for the soap Allerton Farm, confirming a telephone conversation with Chadwick the day before, and offering him an appointment with their head of casting.

  Both of them realised the importance of never having seen this piece of correspondence, and just had time to throw themselves down into chairs before Chadwick returned bearing a laden tray.

  ‘I was a bit weird last night,’ he said, without preamble. ‘It was the shock, but I’ve had time to think since, and the only person I can think of who might have had it in for Bailey was Darren Worsley. And sorry I had Robin here earlier.’

  Returning to the subject of Darren Worsley, he said, ‘Those two had even bought a house together, you know. When Bailey left, he put the property on the market and, even though it was in only his name, he shared the proceeds with Darren: said it was the least he could do after making him homeless.’

  ‘And did you buy this house together?’

  ‘No. I paid for this, so I had something to show, if my career went pear-shaped.’

  ‘And do you know how Mr Radcliffe left his assets? Had he made a will?’

  ‘I don’t really know. I’ll have to go through his stuff to see if I can find one. If not, I’ll give his solicitor a tinkle to see what’s what.’

  He had already poured the coffee, and now handed them their cups, indicating that they should help themselves to milk and sugar.

  ‘That idiot didn’t even recognise the opportunity he had to put down a deposit on somewhere else,’ he continued, returning to Worsley again with scarcely a break. ‘From what I’ve heard on the grapevine, he’s just drunk all the money away, living his life in a sea of self-pity, making up grandiose plans about what they would’ve done with their lives if I hadn’t come along and stolen Bailey from right under his nose.

  ‘Load of codswallop. He was already a lush. He hadn’t worked since just after they moved into the house, and he started drinking in the mornings and was already half-cut when Bailey got home from work. He had no ambition beyond living off someone else’s success, and Bailey is really – was really good at his job.’

  Here he stopped, as Carmichael finished loading sugar into his cup. ‘So you really do always take that much sugar?’ he asked, remembering the last drink the sergeant had taken in the house, and looking horrified.

  Carmichael nodded, sipping at the hot beverage.

  ‘However do you taste the coffee?’ Chadwick asked.

  ‘Oh, I manage,’ replied Carmichael good-naturedly, before returning to the notebook he had got out of his pocket as Chadwick was pouring the drinks.

  ‘God, I still can’t believe he’s gone. I’m sorry, but I just can’t afford to get upset today. If you want to talk about Bailey in any depth, I’m afraid you’ll have to come back tomorrow. I’m not being difficult, honestly. I just have a responsibility to the studio and production crew to turn up fit for work.’

  Although he had expressed surprise at Carmichael’s sweet tooth, his speech was almost as if it was on automatic pilot, and he seemed a bit distracted. He had, however, had his partner murdered the previous evening, so it was hardly surprising that he couldn’t concentrate very well.

  Realising that this was all they were going to get, Falconer waited for Carmichael to stop his scribbling, then they drained their cups to the dregs and stood to leave. ‘Thank you for your time, sir. We really appreciate it, and will be calling on you again. If you think of anything else, please don’t hesitate to give us a ring.’

  ‘Please catch whoever did this. I thought I’d have done anything for publicity, but this is just a step too far,’ he said as he saw them out.

  Once outside again, they decided to start where they had the day before, and turned their steps towards Woodbine Cottage. ‘What did you make of that letter, sir?’

  ‘It looks to me like he’s looking to further his career beyond a chat show. Trying to get into a soap is as good a way as any to get started in the acting trade, and he has been in Cockneys. Even if it won’t lead to the Royal Shakespeare Company, there’ll always be a part in panto waiting for him, and as many supermarket openings as you could shake a stick at. He’ll not go short if he takes that route.’

  ‘Suppose so. He doesn’t strike me as someone who would want to get into serious acting.’

  ‘Hardly. He’s more the outrageous sort. I don’t think the Farm’s had a queen yet. He should be like a breath of fresh air blowing through the beautiful countryside up north.’ Falconer was already convinced, and thought that the head of casting on Allerton Farm would be too. It was too good and too current an opportunity to miss.

  What they assumed to be Mrs Fairchild opened the door of Woodbine Cottage to them today, checked their credentials and asked them in with a little moue of distaste, as she said, ‘I suppose it’s about the death of him down the road – not that he’s any loss to anyone except that other freak that lived with him.’

  ‘I presume you’re referring to the murder of Mr Radcliffe from Glass House,’ said Falconer, in a cold tone. He had not looked forward to returning here, after meeting this woman’s son the day before.

  ‘I never even spoke to him,’ she continued, eventually pointing to a man in a chair by the fireplace. ‘This is my Roger. He and I don’t hold with all that unnatural stuff. Against nature it is.’

  ‘An abomination before the Lord,’ chipped in Roger.

  ‘Are you religious people?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘Not so as you’d notice, but we know what’s right and what’s wrong.’

  ‘And something that was wrong, as far as we were concerned, was that mincing queen McMurrough winning The Glass House.’

  ‘Your son was in that, wasn’t he?’ asked Carmichael, just for something to say.

  ‘That’s right,’ confirmed Mr Fairchild. ‘Did you see him?’

  ‘No, we talked to your son yesterday,’ replied Falconer, just to straighten matters out. He didn’t want to get embroiled in deep discussions about a puerile television reality show which he had never seen, and in which he had no interest whatsoever.

  ‘You’ve spoken to Rufus?’

  ‘Briefly. Yes.’

  ‘He never said nothing. RUFUS!’

  She yelled this last at the top of her voice, and there came the sound of footsteps thundering down the stairs, a call of ‘I’ve got a college workshop,’ before the front door slammed, and the sound of a moped disappearing in the direction of Market Darley could be heard.

  ‘Little sod never said a word about you coming here yesterday,’ commented his father, trying without much success to light an evil-smelling old pipe.

  ‘He’s doing a drama course at college, you know,’ put in the little sod’s mother, a proud smile now decorating her chops, but her countenance darkened again as she added, ‘He should’ve won that show, you know.

  ‘I reckon that young pervert must’ve had something on someone in the production crew, and been blackmailing whoever was responsible for spinning the editing, making it in his favour, and against our Rufus.’

  ‘We spoke to that McMurrough freak at
their so-called party – briefly,’ contributed Roger, once more re-joining the conversation, now that his pipe was puffing out plumes of vile-smelling smoke.

  ‘But he just insulted us and walked off. We went off and had a good old moan with Nerys and Vince – them from two doors away,’ Rita informed them, as they both started coughing.

  ‘So you never actually spoke to Mr Radcliffe?’

  ‘That we did not!’ declared Mr Fairchild, with a flourish of the stem of his pipe to emphasise his negative statement.

  ‘Then we’ll be off and leave you in peace. We’ll see ourselves out,’ Falconer assured them, adding under his breath to Carmichael, ‘Before we choke on that foul smoke and the even fouler atmosphere of hatred.’

  ‘What a delightful couple,’ declared Falconer, as they walked to the house next door, ‘Not.’

  ‘Shows just how far our society hasn’t come in accepting people that just don’t fit the usual mould. Thank God they weren’t Caribbean, or they’d probably have fire-bombed the house.’

  ‘It would’ve been a lot less trouble for us,’ judged Falconer, drily and selfishly.

  ‘You don’t mean that, sir.’

  ‘Of course I don’t. The only thing I really can’t stand, though, is bigots. I feel dirtied, as if I need a damned good scrub down in the shower.’

  ‘Ditto, sir.’

  So far they had both had an open mind over the Innocents, having not yet met them, and having forgotten what had happened to their cat.

  Anthea Innocent opened the door to them and, when she found out who they were, went right off the deep end. ‘He ran right over poor Cuddles’ body – completely squashed her – killed her instantly, and now he’s dead, and never punished – I suppose there’s nothing you can do about it. Animals simply don’t have rights in today’s society.’

  ‘Calm down, Mrs Innocent,’ Falconer soothed, as a man came into the hall right behind her and put his arm round her waist.

  ‘Now, don’t you go upsetting yourself all over again, Anthea,’ he said. ‘We’ll get straight back on the horse and get a cute little kitten. We’ll find one somewhere, and you can have another little sweetie to dote on. Who are these gentlemen? We don’t buy at the door, you know. There’s a sign on the gate.’