‘You really think he’s going to do it?’
‘He’s probably sorting his archive as we speak, and considering which tabloid would pay the most. It wouldn’t surprise me if he put it up for auction between the lot of them. You know what they’re like for a story like that.’
At that point, Bob Bryant entered the cell and said that Superintendent Chivers had made one of his surprise Sunday visits, and would like a word with Falconer.
Muttering brimstone and fire under his breath at this interruption, Falconer rose and apologised to Worsley for the hiatus in the interview, then told Carmichael to get off and find himself some coffee, and that he’d meet him back in the office before they returned to the cell.
Sitting smugly behind his desk at the thought of this bandit raid on the investigation, Chivers fixed Falconer with a beady eye, and asked, ‘Well? Have you made an arrest yet? Worked out who did it? It’s about time. I hear you’ve got someone in the cells. Is that our man?’ He had arranged to do a press conference, and greedily anticipated having a suspect well in their sights before he appeared before the reporters and cameras. How he loved a bit of very public showing off.
‘I don’t think so, sir.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘I don’t believe he was in any state at the time the victim was attacked.’
‘Who exactly is this fellow in custody?’
‘He’s not exactly in custody – he’s in for questioning. He’s a habitual drunk. And I brought him in to sober him up so that I could question him properly. As to who he is, he’s the ex-partner of the deceased.’
‘Another bum boy, then. Just how many of them are there in this blasted village?’ He knew he’d have to be a bit more nice-mouthed when he faced the mob, but he didn’t see why he shouldn’t be his normal prejudiced self inside his own office.
‘I think that’s rather less than politically correct, sir,’ said Falconer, wincing slightly, as if he expected to be hit.
‘I don’t give a flying fig about what you think. If he’s the ex-partner of the deceased, then you can arrest him. That’s enough circumstantial evidence for me, if he doesn’t have a watertight alibi. Does he?’
‘No, sir, but he couldn’t have done it …’
‘Couldn’t have done it, my arse. Arrest the man and find the evidence later.’
‘But …’
‘Do as I say, Inspector, or it’ll be the worse for you and your career.’
Falconer left the office thinking that God was supposed to be in a good mood on Sundays, and feeling desperately uncomfortable about having to arrest Darren Worsley. He had a gut feeling that the man had had nothing to do with Radcliffe’s demise, and he had been ordered to act against his better judgement.
They drove in their separate cars to Carmichael’s house in Castle Farthing, and the inspector found that he was quite looking forward to having a meal cooked for him on a Sunday, and, oddly for him, the company, although this latter was just to take his mind off what he had just done at the station.
He could smell the cooking from outside, and was looking forward to greeting Kerry and his godchildren, when he suddenly found himself on his back on the floor, his face soaked, and his view obscured by a familiar muzzle, as he also became aware of two large paws planted firmly on his chest.
There was no way he could get up, and he was forced to lie there while Kerry informed them, ‘Mr Moore dropped Mulligan off this morning, to give them more time to pack. I said you wouldn’t mind.’
‘That’s fine. As I always say, the more the merrier,’ replied Carmichael, tugging fruitlessly at the dog’s collar.
Falconer squirmed beneath his canine burden, but could do nothing effective against such a bulk. ‘Will someone get this brute off me?’ he pleaded, quite winded from his fall.
The children had evidently arrived to observe the fun, and he heard Dean say, ‘Look at Mulligan kissing Uncle Harry!’
‘He loves you, Uncle Harry,’ added Kyle, for good measure.
Carmichael gave another tug at the collar and came over all literary. ‘I believe he’s loving Uncle Harry “not wisely, but too well”.’
‘What does that mean, Daddy?’
‘Will you get this brute off of me before I either drown or suffocate?’
‘I’m doing my best, sir, but he’s not being very co-operative.’
‘He’s crushing the life out of me.’
‘Oh, leave him to me,’ sounded Kerry’s voice, wearily. ‘Come on, Mulligan – cheese.’
The dog’s ears pricked up, and he immediately bounded away to the source of this irresistible promise. He loved a bit of cheese, and had been able to recognise the word since he was a puppy – as in not quite so large.
As Mulligan slobbered at a small pile of grated cheese on the kitchen floor, Falconer’s saviour added, ‘That’s all it takes. I always use cheese when I want his full and undivided attention. It works like magic.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ said Carmichael.
‘That’s because you never pay attention or listen to what I say,’ replied Kerry, with a superior tone. ‘Come on, Inspector Falconer, let’s get you cleaned up and sat down with a cup of tea in your hand. I can safely leave the food to its own devices for a while.’
With Mulligan calmed down and cheese on hand in case there were any further outbreaks of over-enthusiasm on the dog’s part, they all enjoyed a very well-cooked Sunday roast, and Falconer felt himself really unwind for the first time since the beginning of the case.
The day passed very pleasantly, marred only by Mulligan’s insistence on lying on Falconer’s lap, where there was not enough room to accommodate the whole dog. The brute had also enjoyed the leftovers from their roast meal, and, occasionally – much too often for Falconer’s liking – a pungent cloud arose from his back end and made his beloved choke on the fumes.
Mulligan eventually compromised on his position, with the inspector sat on one end of the sofa, with Mulligan’s head in his lap, the rest of the besotted animal taking up all the space left on that particular piece of furniture.
It was only the tinkling of the inspector’s mobile phone that finally roused the dog, for he didn’t like the ringtone, and finally got down on the floor and settled in front of the fireplace.
It was such a relief not to be covered in the top half of the ever-so-slightly pungent heap of fur, and Falconer was very grateful, as his legs had been numb for hours, and it was nice to get the opportunity to massage some feeling back into these, hitherto useless, limbs. It was about eight o’clock and, at almost the same time, Carmichael’s landline rang. One call was from Chivers, the other from Bob Bryant. There had been another murder in Fairmile Green.
Fairmile Green
This time they parked outside River View in Market Street, which was the very smartly furnished and decorated residence of Robin Eastwood. The place was unrecognisable from their last visit there. They also took note of quite a pack of vehicles outside Glass House. The press were doing their best to be ready to catch any pearls of wisdom that dropped from their current young hero’s lips.
River View, they found, had been thoroughly turned over. The furniture was overturned, drawers pulled out, cupboards ransacked, and there was paint sprayed in meaningless squiggles all over the walls and the expensive rugs which were scattered over the parquet floor. It was a very sorry sight that greeted them.
‘Where’s Eastwood?’ asked Falconer, hardly able to believe that someone could do so much damage to what had been a beautiful room, although experience told him otherwise. Somehow, though, it was behaviour he thought of more in relation to the towns than the villages. This was fairly unusual, so far out in the sticks.
PC Merv Green was guarding the place while he waited for a SOCO team, and replied, ‘He’s in the bedroom. He must have been having an early night or something when this joker broke in.’
‘At this time? More likely he was changing clothes or having a shower,’ put in Carmicha
el, anxious to make a contribution.
‘Well he obviously didn’t disturb whoever it was, or his body would be down here. All this must have been done after he was killed. It looks like pure spite to me,’ added Falconer. ‘Let’s get upstairs and see what’s what.’
Eastwood was lying on the floor at the foot of the bed, with a large knife protruding from his abdominal area, a fair amount of blood on his body. He was buck naked.
‘This is a pretty kettle of fish, isn’t it? Who found the body?’ Carmichael shrugged his shoulders, and the inspector called downstairs, ‘Merv, who found him?’
‘His business partner,’ called back Green. ‘He wanted to consult him about a client tomorrow, and he’s a key-holder in case of emergency, so he let himself in, and found all this waiting for him. I had to let him go for family reasons, but I’m pretty positive he wasn’t involved. His business is in the village, though, so he shouldn’t be too difficult to track down.’ Although this was unorthodox behaviour, Falconer let it go for now, praying that it wouldn’t come back to bite them on the bum.
‘Have we got fingerprints and photography people on their way? The usual mob?’
‘A full team, sir.’
‘What about Doc Christmas?’
‘I can see him just pulling up outside, sir.’ Green’s voice was already getting hoarse with shouting.
‘Send him straight up, will you, please?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Christmas joined them within a couple of minutes, suitably dressed in his now-trendy forensic ‘onesie’, and gave them one of his Paddington stares. ‘Are you starting one of your massacres again, Harry? You’ve done this to me before. Not content with one body, you feel you have to go on until you’ve got a full set. Rumour has it that you’ve started on the gay population now. Is this true? It’s going to do nothing for our relations with the pink community.’
‘Knock it off, Philip. That’s simply not funny, although it is true that both victims have been homosexual; not that they knew each other, so I don’t see that there’s any connection.’
‘OK, keep your hair on. And I couldn’t even have said that at the last crime scene, or you’d have been down my throat before I could defend myself.’
‘I’m sorry, Philip. I had a lousy morning, then I spent the day at my sergeant here’s house, and had a thoroughly relaxing afternoon, then the phone rang, and all hell has been let loose. I didn’t mean to get at you. It’s just me feeling sorry for myself, as well as the poor bugger I had to arrest this morning, on some stupid whim of Jelly’s.’
This being the widely used reference to Superintendent Chivers, Doc Christmas knew exactly who he meant. ‘Has he got a bee in his bonnet again?’
‘Yes, and he won’t listen to reason. Anyway, it’s a long story which I won’t bore you with now. Take a look at this one and give me your professional opinion.’
‘Pretty obvious isn’t it, at first glance. He’s been stabbed in the guts, and has died, probably from internal injuries, I’d say. No, no defence wounds on the hands, so he wasn’t expecting an attack. It all looks pretty efficient to me, and you know I can’t go any further than that until I’ve done the post mortem. He’s not warm, though.’
‘No? So you couldn’t estimate time of death?’
‘Not without further investigation. Sorry.’
‘We’ll take a last look around here then, and get back to the station. I’ll await your report and the one from forensics when they’ve been over the place with a fine-toothed comb. Come on, Carmichael. I need another word with Green.’
What he needed from Green was the name and address of the professional partner who had discovered the body and the vandalism at the house. If he’d been here before, he might be able to tell them if there was anything missing.
He also needed the name of the next of kin so the body could be officially identified. If Eastwood’s business partner couldn’t say whether anything had been taken or not, the next of kin might be able to oblige.
As they left the house, Carmichael asked Falconer if he still suspected the neighbours now there’d been another death. ‘I just can’t seem to see any connection between the two men, so it’s very difficult to form any opinion just yet. We need more information before we can start formulating theories,’ he replied in his usual, sensible, dry manner.
‘No gut feelings? No hunches?’
‘Completely out-of-stock in the gut feelings and hunches departments, I’m afraid.’
By the time they got back to the station to write up their notes, it would be too late to interview anyone tonight, but they could start straight away tomorrow with the man who had come across this horror, when he’d probably be in a calmer state than he was tonight, having had time overnight to let the shock wear off a little.
The last thing he’d do that night, Falconer decided, was to let Darren Worsley go home. Although it didn’t look as if the two deaths were connected, he couldn’t have been responsible for this second one, and he was absolutely sure that he’d had nothing to do with the first one, either. At least he could do one good deed today to try to offset his callous behaviour – albeit on orders – earlier on.
Chapter Twelve
Monday
Market Darley
The following morning, there was a preliminary report from the SOCO team, but there were test results to wait for from forensics so it, by its very nature, could not be a full report.
There was also an e-mail from Doc Christmas who, although he had not yet carried out the post mortem, had taken blood samples the previous evening – he was a workaholic, as his wife could testify – and discovered the presence of a sedative in the sample, as yet unidentified, but of interest. He intended to carry out the post mortem that morning, and would send his report as soon as he’d completed it.
‘How very interesting. Do you see this, Carmichael? There was a sedative in Eastwood’s blood stream. Even if he took sleeping tablets, I’d have thought it was a bit early to take them, so I’m suspicious that said sedative was not self-administered. It looks rather like he was drugged before he was killed.’
‘That might account for the lack of defence wounds, too. Maybe he was too woozy to take in exactly the danger he was in,’ added Carmichael.
Falconer looked thoughtful. ‘It will be interesting to see if there are any fingerprints on the shaft of that knife. Well, best be off to see this Mr Dingwall. I rang him first thing, and he said he had to be in the office on time today as he had a client due.
‘I’ve arranged for us to call on him at ten-thirty in his office, which happens to be in Fairmile Green rather than Market Darley, where he lives.’
‘Whereabouts in the village?’ asked the sergeant, not having noticed a solicitors’ office on his previous visits there, although he had not been on the lookout for one, so it was hardly surprising, as such an establishment rarely boasts a garish and eye-catching frontage.
‘It’s in the High Street between the bakery and the craft shop,’ replied Falconer, who had taken the trouble to ask Mr Dingwall, in the pursuit of saving them some time-wasting searching on both sides of the road.
‘We can also call in on Mr McMurrough too, see if he’s remembered anything that could be of use to us – provided there isn’t too thick a crowd of media for us to wade our way through.’
‘And to see where he was last evening.’
‘We didn’t even wait for time of death from the Doc, so I think we’d better wait until we’re informed a little better before we narrow it down.’
‘Why don’t you give him a ring?’ suggested the sergeant. ‘We could do with that bit of information before we go out.’
‘Of course we could. Whatever am I thinking of?’ replied Falconer, colouring up with embarrassment at his own naïveté. Picking up the phone, he dialled Doc Christmas’s number.
‘Hello there, Harry. I was about to ring you myself. I was so excited at what I’d found in the dead man’s blood that I didn’t think
to put in the strange thing about the time of death.’
‘Strange thing? What’s that?’
‘He died in the morning. Somewhere between eight and twelve o’clock is all I can say at the moment. We all assumed he’d died in the evening because he was upstairs, but he didn’t. He’d been lying there all day, so if you’re asking anyone where they’d been at a certain time, it would be Sunday morning, not early evening.’
‘That’s a bit of a turn-up for the books, isn’t it?’
‘It is a bit. Oh, and the sedative was ketamine. I suppose you know it’s used by vets to sedate horses, and in some hospitals, too, but it is also, for some inexplicable reason, used as a recreational drug by young people on a night out, now. God knows why. It doesn’t make any sense, but then, what sense did what young people get up to ever make?’
‘True. I hope this doesn’t mean we’re looking for a murderous veterinary surgeon.’
‘More likely someone who can get their hands on it. I should try your local pushers. And don’t try to tell me that Market Darley and its environs doesn’t have anyone so vile and disgusting, because I simply won’t believe you.’
‘I’m so glad I phoned you. We’re just on our way out, and the time of death is really relevant to the questioning.’
‘You’ll get a copy of my full report as soon as it’s ready.’
‘Thanks a million, Philip.’ Putting the phone back into its cradle, Falconer turned to his sergeant and said, ‘Well, that little bit of information certainly stopped us from getting egg all over our faces when we call on McMurrough.’
‘I’d say, sir.’
Fairmile Green
They were able to park right outside the solicitors’ office, and Clive Dingwall’s client had already left when they entered the premises of Dingwall and Eastwood, to be ushered through to the remaining partner’s office by the receptionist.
Dingwall proved to be a man in his late thirties with a prematurely bald head, which he disguised by shaving off the rest of his hair to give a more uniform look. He evidently didn’t want to be referred to by the disrespectful nickname of ‘chrome dome’.
Glass House (The Falconer Files Book 11) Page 15
