Choked off (The Falconer Files Book 2)

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘I got it wrong, didn’t I, Leeza?’

  ‘’Ow did yer get it wrong? It was simple, wonnit? Leg wax then fake tan.’

  ‘I did it the wrong way round, didn’t I?’

  ‘The wrong way round?’

  ‘Yeah. I had the fake tan first, then, when they done the waxing, I got all these pale stripes on me legs. I look like a right freak in shorts.’

  ‘Yer daft cow, Trace! What about the Brazilian? Yer can’t have mucked that up.’

  ‘I did, though.’

  ‘’Ow?’ [These two didn’t need a headache, to beg the administration of a couple of ‘aspirates’.]

  ‘I forgot what it was called, mumbled something about maybe it were something Mexican, and the next fing I knew, she’d waxed me top lip white, and made me look even more of a freak. I left then, before I could make fings even worse.’

  ‘You stupid cow!’ I fought there was sumfink funny about yer face.’

  ‘Well, I ʼad to put make-up on, didn’t I, so as to ʼide the white bit? Otherwise, I’d ʼve looked like a bloke wiv a very pale moustache. Sorry, Leeze.’

  ‘What am I gonna do wiv yer, Trace? How’re we gonna find someone fit and loaded, wiv you looking a right stupid bitch?’

  At this point, Marcus’s chivalrous gene fired up, the rest of him forgot his age, and he rose and approached their table.

  ‘Good evening ladies,’ he opened, capturing their attention. ‘I, ah, overheard a little of what you were saying, and I just wanted, ah, you know, to let you know that I’m free.’

  ‘I’m not surprised, Granddad. You’re well past yer sell-by date,’ the one called Tracey responded, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

  ‘An’ you’d better watch out yer don’t go past yer use-by date, as well,’ added the one called Leeza, not wanting to be left out, ‘or even the worms won’t look at yer!’ and the two of them started laughing mockingly, pleased with their own wit and youth. Marcus swept up his glass from the table and approached the bar for a refill.

  ‘Common little guttersnipes,’ he thought, ‘not at all like the inhabitants of this fair village.’

  II

  Instantly pushing the afore-going incident to the back of his mind, he thought again about earlier. Had he seen whom he thought he had seen? And who was the woman with the honey-coloured hair? He’d have one more drink, he decided, then go home and get an early night, for the Festival opened tomorrow morning, and he wanted his perceptions and his wits to be as sharp as possible.

  When Minty left the village hall she didn’t head straight for home, but turned right, off the Market Darley Road and into Stoney Stile Lane, making for Blackbird Cottage. Word had got round, as it does in its mysterious way in a village, that Serena Lyddiard had hurt her ankle, and Minty thought it only neighbourly to see if there was anything she could do to help: a little shopping or light housework, time permitting (especially over the weekend, when she was supposed to be on duty in her own house).

  She waited for quite some time after ringing the bell and belabouring the knocker, and was just about to turn away, disappointed, when the door slowly opened to reveal Serena, her right ankle and foot swathed in bandages, and a pair of old-fashioned crutches tucked under her arms.

  ‘Well, you poor old crock, you won’t be back at work at that nursing home for some time. I can’t see you helping the old dears around when you can’t even get around yourself.’

  ‘Hello, Minty, do come in. Only, if you want tea or coffee, I’m afraid you’ll have to make it yourself. I’ve managed to make myself a flask, but I can’t face standing on this ankle any more at the moment, and I must sit down again.’

  ‘Don’t worry yourself.’ Minty ushered Serena back to her armchair and headed straight for the kitchen. ‘What’ll it be? Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Oh, tea, please. I’ve got coffee in my flask, but tea just doesn’t seem to survive so well if you bottle it up.’

  ‘Quite right! What exactly did you do? It looks rather nasty, the way you’re hobbling around.’

  ‘The usual silly thing. I wasn’t even dancing. I just turned suddenly, and forgot to take my leg with me – then it was “ow”! – and no more dancing for Serena Lyddiard.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Minty exclaimed. ‘Are you sure it won’t be better by Sunday afternoon?’

  ‘Not a chance. It’s going to take some time for this to heal, and I’m just going to have to sit here and put up with it. I haven’t really got a choice, have I?’

  ‘I see what you mean. Is there anything I can do for you – anything that’s really urgent, like no loo roll, or something?’

  ‘Nothing like that, but I did leave a message on Fiona Pargeter’s answerphone. Perhaps you could just nip round there on your way home and let her know I’m fine, and not to bother coming round, what with the opening of the Festival tomorrow and all that.’

  ‘No problem. I’ll pop round as soon as we’ve had this tea. Never fear, Minty’s here!’

  III

  Although Minty had vowed, just that morning, that she would never touch another drop of alcoholic liquor, after speaking to Fiona and being the ear-piece for yet another of her bitching sessions about practice time at the hall, she turned towards The Inn on the Green.

  As she walked down the High Street, preparatory to turning left into School Lane, she saw Sadie Palister, also, presumably, on her way to the village watering hole, and she slowed until they could make the last few steps of the journey together. As they approached the pub, Marcus Willoughby exited it, nodding his head slightly in greeting as he passed them.

  Both of them slowed their step a little, and they turned to look at each other.

  ‘I think we need a little talk,’ Sadie opened. ‘I need to tell you something and, by the look of you, you’re going to tell me exactly the same thing. Let’s get settled inside, and I’ll start the ball rolling.’

  Once seated at a corner table slightly removed from the other drinkers and, therefore, semi-private, Sadie kept her word, and began to speak in a low voice. ‘I know that man’s face. I just know I’ve seen it somewhere before. I couldn’t think where from, but then something clicked when I got home, and suddenly I needed some Dutch courage before tomorrow, in case history repeats itself.’

  ‘I knew his face as well, and there’s something nagging at the back of my mind that I can’t quite get hold of.’

  ‘You said you’d taken part in Artists Trails before. Did you ever have a little card left beside one of your paintings? Not quite a business card, more like an old-fashioned visiting card?’

  ‘Yes! I did!’

  ‘And did your work get a spiteful and severely critical review in the local rag shortly afterwards, with no name attributed to it?’

  ‘Yes! But I can’t remember what was on the card. Whatever it was, meant nothing to me. I assumed it had been left behind by accident, and just shoved it in the bin.’

  ‘What it had on it were three initials, right? – “AAL has visited you”. No address or job description, just the three initials.’

  ‘Yep,’ said Minty, ‘I can sort of see it if I think back hard enough, but have you got any idea what they stand for?’

  ‘I certainly have! They stand for “Anonymous Art Lover!”,’ Sadie spat, with contempt. The card was a pompous little gesture by one of the journalists on the local rag. Thought himself on a level with famous food critics, and always viewed anonymously – no interviews, just a write-up in his usual poisonous vein. Just as well really. If he’d spoken to any of the artists, me included, I’d have smashed his face in for him. I told you I’d been given a rough ride, when I showed you that little sculpture of mine – you remember?’ Minty nodded her head, this recollection of her drunken evening unexpectedly vivid.

  ‘Now, Minty, I know you haven’t done a Trail in Stoney Cross yet, but cast your mind back to your old house. Just think of his ugly mug, and see if you can place him on the day you found that little card.’

  After a few momen
ts of silence and a screwed-up face, Minty yelled, ‘Yes!’ and then ducked her head as some of the other customers looked towards their table. ‘He asked me for a glass of water.’

  ‘That’s right, me too,’ whispered Sadie. ‘That’s the little creep who stitched up – I presume – both of us. I didn’t sell anything for months after that, and here I am – here we both are – letting him into our homes again to have another pop at us. I didn’t know what to do about it, so I thought I’d get myself a bit of Dutch courage and a think, and then I ran into you, and when we both reacted to seeing him, I realised that we were in the same boat. Have you got any ideas?’

  Minty screwed up her face again, and commenced one of her ‘deep thinks’. ‘I suppose we could shove up the closed sign or lock the door – or simply hide,’ she suggested, weakly.

  ‘A bit eccentric if there are other viewers in the house, don’t you think?’

  ‘Point taken! But, Sadie, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God …! Your statue – “Art Critic”. You’ve got to hide it – you simply have to, or he’ll have a hissy fit and absolutely crucify you.’

  ‘The statue stays,’ Sadie pronounced, and drained her glass, sounding braver than she felt.

  IV

  Back in The Old Barn, Marcus Willoughby sat at his desk surrounded by boxes of books, and made a few notes on his first impressions of Stoney Cross. He had already decided that he would enjoy living here, and he would certainly have some fun with his broadcast, with regard to the forthcoming Festival. He pursed his rather thin lips in spinsterish spite, as he added a few more jottings to his already growing collection.

  A tap at the French windows distracted him, and he turned to see the pale orb of a face pressed against one of the panes of glass, which, on opening the doors, resolved itself into that of the girl from the pub – the one with the strawberry-blonde hair – the one he remembered was called Leeza.

  With no idea what she wanted with him, he opened the doors and merely stared at her, then asked, ‘What?’ in a rather authoritarian voice. She’d already mocked him and made a fool of him. What more could she want?

  ‘Look, I’m most awfully sorry for what I said earlier …’ she began, and he simply stared at her in disbelief.

  ‘What the devil’s happened to your voice?’ he asked, aghast. In The Inn she had sounded so common. Her voice was soft and refined now, with no trace of the dreadful accent of earlier. In fact, she sounded as if she could have gone to the same school as Araminta Wingfield-Heyes.

  ‘Just a cover my friend and I always use when we think we’re being listened to. I’m sorry if we hurt your feelings, but sometimes it’s rather fun just to run off at the mouth and see what happens.’ (What was it with this village and improvised drama? he asked himself.) ‘There’s no real offence intended, we were just trying to restore privacy to our conversation, and you must admit that tonight’s effort was a belter.’

  ‘I rather suppose it was,’ Marcus admitted.

  ‘And I do really need to talk to you. It’s of the utmost importance. If you can forgive me for earlier, and just spare me a few minutes, I should be eternally grateful.’

  ‘Of course, of course. Do come in.’ Marcus was intrigued. ‘There’s space on the sofa, if you’d like to explain yourself a little further, and tell me what all this has to do with me.’

  ‘I just want to ask you a few questions – make sure my deductions are correct.’

  ‘Your deductions? Fire away!’

  ‘Did you father a daughter in 1985?’

  ‘I really don’t see what business that is of yours, young lady!’ Marcus almost spat, his face creased in a frown of indignation.

  ‘And did you used to be called Norman Clegg?’

  ‘How dare you …’

  ‘I just wanted to be sure before I said anything, because I’m your daughter.’

  Marcus’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. How on earth did she know all this?

  ‘That information is not for public broadcast, young lady. I don’t know how you have come across it, but I shall deny it absolutely if you say anything about it to a third party.’

  ‘I have the information because I’ve been trying to find you for years. Changing your name didn’t help much, but I got as far as Carsfold this afternoon, and turned up on your ex-doorstep. I was directed to Stoney Cross by a neighbour, and thought the pub was as good a place as any, to get a lead on where you had moved to. As it happened, you fell right into my lap – that was just good luck. After I’d seen my friend off, I had one more drink and strolled up here, having gone out the back way and seen where you’d gone to ground.’

  ‘If you’re my daughter, when were you born, and what’s your mother’s name?’ Marcus could be cunning when he wanted to, and wasn’t going to be bled for a penny, if he could help it.

  ‘I was born on the twenty-first of September, nineteen-eighty-five, and my mother’s name is Jennifer Linden; always referred to as Jenny, I’ve been given to understand.’

  She’d got him, and, admitting genuine defeat, Marcus held out his hand shyly and said, ‘Delighted to meet you, young lady. It would appear that I am your father,’ then, throwing caution to the wind, he enveloped her in the sort of hug worthy of a long-lost parent.

  ‘Delighted to meet you too … Dad. My name’s Summer Leighton.’

  ‘What a lovely name. So pretty, just like your … Just like your mother.’ His voice softened. ‘Will you be staying around so that we can get to know one another?’ he asked nervously, stepping back from her and hoping fervently that the answer would be ‘yes’. He had never actually wanted her to be adopted, and a sudden thrill rang through him at this belated reunion.

  ‘I’ve got to get back home for a bit. I’m sorry, but you took some finding. I’m off tonight, but I’ll give you all my contact details if you’ll give me yours. I’ll be in touch, and I promise I’ll be back here in a few days’ time – I’ve got some loose ends to tie up before I can spend some quality time with you. And I still haven’t found my mother. She seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth the moment I was born.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about that,’ Marcus reassured her. ‘We’ll solve that little problem together, you and I.’

  V

  In Blackbird Cottage, Serena Lyddiard sat and looked mournfully at her bandage-swathed ankle. She’d been looking forward so much to performing again – dancing, instead of cleaning, feeding, and hefting around elderly, sick bodies. Granted, she only needed to work part-time, but dancing was her first love, and she had remained true to it throughout her life. So many things had been spoilt for her that she should be used to it by now, but still, she felt the loss of her little public ‘treat’ keenly, and sighed at this most recent defeat.

  The last of the light faded away over the village of Stoney Cross, a fitting finale to what had been a spectacular sunset, a virtuoso performance, with its pinks, yellows, blues and purples, that had gone entirely unnoticed by an audience distracted by everyday trivia and their own little problems. Thus is beauty overlooked every day, nature’s splendours ignored, as the people below, scurrying little ants, go about their business without a thought to the wonders that surround them.

  Chapter Five

  The next few days in Stoney Cross were fairly eventful, with several unpleasant episodes to mar their passing. These, almost certainly were due to the residents’ highly emotional involvement in the Festival, and with Marcus Willoughby playing the part of catalyst. Apart from the usual petty rivalries displayed at such an event, some encounters and conversations were definitely worthy of note.

  Saturday, 5th September

  I

  At The Old Mill, Minty had not slept well, and although her home was spotless, her massive works of art well-displayed, she, herself, was a wreck. She sat on the bottom step of the flight of stairs up to her mezzanine bedroom, drooping with tiredness from her restless night, and screwed up to fever pitch, lest someone should come through the door to v
iew her works – lest it be him.

  On one occasion, and probably today, that person would be Marcus Willoughby, and he had already savaged her work once. That he was a Philistine who simply didn’t understand what she did, she was absolutely sure – absolutely sure also, that, even given the chance to explain what she was trying to say in her paintings, it would not change his opinions one whit. If he didn’t show a little more mercy this time he could finish off her career, and it had been going so well, with the exception of that little blip, when he had, in the persona of ‘AAL’, mauled her work in the Carsfold Gazette.

  II

  In The Old School, Sadie Palister was in a similar, if not worse condition. She sat hunched up at her kitchen table over a cup of strong black coffee, her mood flitting between resentment at what AAL had written about her in the past, anxiety about Marcus viewing her more recent works and venting his spleen on them again, this time on the radio, and a thrill of sheer terror mixed with exhilaration, as she imagined him coming across her ‘special’ piece – ‘Art Critic’.

  If he was going to rubbish her works and talent, she might as well give him a great big bone to chew on; a giant rubber bone for him to worry at to his heart’s content. Just imagining his face as light dawned as to its inspiration, she gave a nervous little giggle, and became aware of a cold slick of perspiration, the product of fear, on her forehead and top lip.

  Let him come! she thought. I’m an artist, and he’s just an uncultured little prick, trying to bolster up his ego by shredding other people’s reputations. His mean-spirited little outbursts only displayed his jealousy of others, because he didn’t have an artistic bone in his body. What a poseur! Sadie lit a cigarette, her first in three years, and prepared for battle.

  III

  The Festival had opened at nine o’clock, and by half-past, Marcus was in the village hall inspecting the visual exhibits. He would attend the musical and literary performances the next day, calling in on those participating in the Trail on his way into the village, thus giving him time to fully digest what he had experienced, and plenty of opportunity to get a nice little piece done for this week’s programme.