Choked off (The Falconer Files Book 2)

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘Let me see, he had a go at commuters who deserted the village and its facilities during the week.’ She marked off another finger, and continued, ‘He absolutely hated weekenders who brought all their provisions with them, and contributed nothing. He said they just used the villages as playgrounds for their second homes.’ Another finger was moved down. The fourth of her fingers went down as she added, ‘And he absolutely hated what he referred to as ‘incomers’, as if it were a sin ever to move from one’s place of birth.

  ‘He had a real brass neck, considering that he’s not from around here, and he bought The Old Barn, an obvious conversion, if ever I saw one. And the thought of him coming here and slating my work again was just ghastly. Imagine how much worse I felt when he actually moved in. I couldn’t believe it! I knew I should have to move, sooner rather than later. Talk about rubbing my nose in it. And then I realised that I couldn’t be the only one, by far, who felt like that about him. He must have made loads of enemies, the way he rubbed everyone up the wrong way.’

  Here she paused to gather her thoughts, and Falconer sent her off, back on to the main track, for the information for which he had been waiting. ‘And what exactly was this “very stupid thing” that you did?’

  ‘Oh God, I still can’t believe that I actually did it. Sorry, sorry… It was late Sunday night – well, to be more accurate, about half-past-one on Monday morning – and we’d all been in the pub, trying to drown our embarrassment. I was worked-up about losing customers again, and when I got home, I’m afraid I polished off a whole bottle of wine. Oh, not in one go, you understand, but slowly enough to keep me upright, and sufficient to make me bold and reckless.

  ‘By the time I’d finished, I’d decided that someone should teach that revolting old man a lesson, and that that person should be me. I’d changed into my pyjamas when I’d first got in, and they happened to be black, so without another thought, I slipped on a pair of black shoes, put on a black headscarf – oh, it does sound ridiculous when I say it out loud! Then I crept along to The Old Barn and, with one of the knives I use for trimming my canvases, I scratched the words “world’s biggest prick” on the bonnet of his car, hoping, drunkenly, that he wouldn’t mistakenly take it as a compliment. I must have been inspired by Sadie’s piece of sculpture.’ Here she blushed, and hurried on, ‘It was quite difficult to see what I was doing; it was rather foggy. But I managed all right, in a sort of inebriated way.’

  ‘Did you notice whether the car’s tyres were flat – had been slashed – at the time?’ Falconer asked, giving rise to a look of confusion at this apparently irrelevant question.

  ‘Did I notice what? No, of course I didn’t. I wasn’t in a fit state to notice anything. I was shit – sorry – terribly scared that he’d come out and catch me, because there was still a light showing at the side of the house, and I had visions of him hauling me off to the police station, drunk and guilty of criminal damage. The car could’ve been up on bricks, for all the notice I took. I was in a complete flap, but couldn’t seem to stop myself.’

  Carmichael’s pen ground to a halt shortly after she had finished speaking, and Falconer rose to take his leave, thanking her for being so honest with them. That was two, now, who had harboured a grudge against Willoughby, but their stories had a ring of truth about them. Unless, of course, they were in it together, and both the murder and the two acts of vandalism had taken place at the same time.

  Falconer had the idea that they would be returning to The Old Mill before long, when its occupant was a little less stressed. It was just possible that, if she was not the murderer (or should that be ‘murderess’?), then she might have been scratching her little message when the real killer was actually on the premises, perhaps still inside the house, unable to escape because of her presence. Minty might have been in the same situation that he had just described to Sadie.

  IV

  Their next port of call was The Vicarage, to get the precise details of their previous family loss. If Willoughby had been responsible for the death of their young niece, then here was motive indeed. In fact, they seemed to be drowning in motives. Marcus must have been the most unpopular person in the village, if not the county. He ended his thought thus, remembering how Marcus’s work had given him a much wider audience than most people had access to, to insult and infuriate.

  Adella Ravenscastle opened the door to them, and led them into her husband’s study, where he was still at work on his sermon for the next morning. ‘Time to take a break, Benedict. We have visitors. Inspector Falconer and Acting Detective Sergeant Carmichael,’ she announced, indicating their presence just behind her. ‘I’ll show them into the sitting room and make some tea, and you can go through with them to see how we can be of help.’ Her words were confident enough, but there was the tiniest tremor in her voice, as if she had guessed what was coming, and wasn’t looking forward to it one little bit.

  Falconer didn’t beat about the bush, and as soon as they had sat down opened his questioning with, ‘I understand that a young relative of yours was killed in a road accident, and that the driver of the car – the drunk driver of the car – was Marcus Willoughby. Is that correct?’ He had gone in hard in the hope that, with little time to gather his thoughts together, Rev. Ravenscastle would be less than composed in his answers. But he wasn’t to get away with it that easily.

  ‘As it was the daughter of my wife’s sister, I really think we should wait until she re-joins us, don’t you?’ [ As that same late, great comedian, previously paraphrased, would have said, ‘There’s no answer to that!’] And so they sat, in an uncomfortable silence, Falconer seething that he had lost control of the situation before he had had the chance to exploit it. Carmichael, untroubled by the wait, doodled Mickey Mouse faces in his notebook and thought about all the wonderful plans that he had for his future. Falconer’s mind also drifted away from his present ire, and he thought of Serena again, and realised he was getting just a bit distracted, and really needed to concentrate on the job in hand.

  Adella Ravenscastle broke their reveries when she entered with the tea tray five minutes later, the kettle having taken an unusually long time to boil. Setting it down on a low table, she urged her husband to be ‘mother’, and asked how they could assist the officers, a challenging glint in her eyes.

  ‘I’d like you to tell us about the accident that led to the death of your niece, please, Mrs Ravenscastle. I know this must be an uncomfortable and upsetting subject to you, but the details may prove relevant to our current investigations, making it, therefore, a necessary evil.’

  ‘I don’t see what relevance it can possibly have. It was a long time ago, and the driver went to prison for what he had done.’

  ‘That driver – that drunken driver – being Marcus Willoughby,’ Falconer stated baldly.

  ‘That is correct but, in the eyes of the law, he has been punished; about the eyes of God, I make no comment, that being between his soul and his Maker,’ she answered stoically.

  ‘That may be so, but I shall still need to know the details, and what you thought of his punishment – in the eyes of the law,’ Falconer parried.

  ‘His punishment, here on earth, was paltry in the extreme, but I have faith that he won’t get off so lightly when he stands in judgement before He who sits upon the throne.’ Thirty-fifteen to the vicar’s wife – Falconer’s serve. He was deprived of the opportunity, however, as Benedict Ravenscastle, in the role of umpire, butted in, and suggested that, as talking about it would be too distressing for his wife, maybe she could be excused, to let him tell the sorry tale. Boy, could this vicar change his mind! First, they shouldn’t discuss it without her, now they couldn’t discuss it in front of her. What was he playing at?

  Falconer, having been aced, didn’t feel it suitable to press his case too hard at this stage of the investigation and dropped his hard-ball attitude, but gave in with bad grace. Adella Ravenscastle got up and left the room, twitching the cover off a bird-cage near the door on he
r way out.

  ‘It was November the fifth, 2001,’ the vicar began, only to be interrupted by a coarse voice from the other end of the room.

  ‘Uckoff!’ it declaimed. ‘Uckoff! Uckoff! Uckoff!’ All eyes turned in the direction of this unexpected contribution to the proceedings, Carmichael’s eyes sparkling as they alighted on a parrot.

  ‘It’s only Captain Bligh,’ the vicar explained. ‘I was left him by an old gentleman in my previous parish, and I hadn’t the heart to have him put down. They live to a terrific age, you know.’

  ‘Uckoff!’ rang out again from the cage, followed by what sounded like a very oily human chuckle.

  ‘Don’t take any notice of him. It’ll only encourage him,’ Benedict advised, comprehension dawning on him as to his wife’s last action before leaving them. She had done it on purpose, the naughty girl, though he couldn’t blame her. The bird could stay uncovered for the rest of this interview as far as he was concerned. He knew the police had a job to do, but it didn’t seem right for them to come here, after all this time, and rake it all up again. It would have been Maria’s eighteenth birthday tomorrow, had she lived, and they had already made plans to spend the day with Adella’s sister, Meredith, and take flowers to the grave to mark the occasion.

  ‘To continue,’ he resumed, ‘we were all – Adella, myself, Meredith, her husband, and Maria – we were all going to the firework display in the town where my sister-in-law’s family live. We’d almost got to the green, had just one more road to cross, when someone – obviously not from the display team – let off a rocket. A poor thing it was, but it was enough to get Maria excited. She thought the display had started without her, and that she was missing it, so she darted straight over the road towards the display area. Of course…’

  ‘Uckoff! Uckoff!’ That bird couldn’t leave it alone. It was determined to undermine Falconer’s authority, and destroy the sombre atmosphere.

  ‘I expect he’s jealous because your plumage is more colourful than his,’ the vicar said, with an absolutely straight face. ‘Shut up, Bligh! Can’t you hear I’m talking?’ he shouted, turning his head slightly to one side, for he could not, even in these circumstances, fail to see the funny side of the situation.

  ‘Uckoff!’ Captain Bligh replied, then he again added his almost human chuckle.

  They’re in collusion, Falconer thought. I don’t know how they do it, but that bird knows exactly what it’s supposed to do, and it’s enjoying doing it. He longed for some superglue for its beak. That’d shut the damned thing up, no problem.

  ‘Sorry about that. Now,’ he paused, ‘oh yes – but, unfortunately, she never got to the other side of the road.’ The recollection of this event sobered the vicar, and he continued, in a more subdued manner, ‘There was absolutely nothing that any of us could have done. She shot off so quickly. There was a screech of brakes, a thump, and our darling niece was dead. What more can I say?’

  ‘Arse!’ The parrot had found a new sound to play with, but Falconer had decided to ignore it completely, and not be side-tracked by its interruptions.

  ‘Did you or your wife ever harbour feelings of revenge?’ he asked, without much hope of a positive reply.

  ‘We prayed for his soul, Inspector, and the gift of forgiveness, so that we could be at peace, but we’re both still dreadfully upset by it, and, since that man came to the village, Adella’s been having nightmares again. We’re both good Christian people, but it’s one thing to hate someone, and quite another to actually take a life.’

  ‘Can you tell me where you were on Sunday evening last?’ It might be a bit of a give-away (again!), but he doubted the vicar would notice, so distracted was he by memories, and Falconer didn’t think the reverend gentleman would talk about his interview with them to another soul.

  ‘I went out for a while.’

  ‘And why was that?’ Falconer had just noticed that Carmichael was no longer taking notes, and had deserted his duties to gaze enviously and with awe at the foul-mouthed parrot.

  ‘Uckoff! Arse!’ The inspector knew instinctively that the bird was playing up to an attentive audience, and summoned his (acting) partner back to his duties with a ferocious frown.

  ‘There was a bit of a disturbance at the church,’ Benedict answered him, undeterred. ‘Nothing of much note, just something that I had to sort out.’

  ‘Something we should know about? I think you’d better tell us anyway, and leave it for us to decide,’ Falconer advised, stressing the ‘us’ and glaring afresh at Carmichael.

  Looking somewhat uncomfortable at this turn of events, the vicar related his encounter with Marcus in the church, excusing the man’s behaviour because he was ‘in his cups’.

  ‘Willoughby? Again?’ the inspector cut in. ‘And how did this make you feel, considering how another of his little binges had previously affected your family?’

  ‘It’s not my place to be judgemental. Now, if that’s everything, I do have a sermon to finish.’ He was giving them the elbow; the old heave-ho.

  ‘As it will not concern the events surrounding your niece’s death, I wonder if we could ask your wife a question before we go?’

  ‘If what you say is truthful, I see no reason why not.’

  As the Rev. Ravenscastle opened the door, the black-and-brown shape of a Dachshund scuttled into the room, bared its teeth, attempted to widdle on Falconer’s favourite trousers, and, not succeeding, grabbed the material in its mouth and proceeded to growl as ferociously as such a small dog can.

  ‘Hello, little doggie!’ Carmichael cried with delight, reaching down to pet the animal’s head, only to have his hand snapped at, and receive a diabolical glare back.

  Little doggie, my arse , Falconer thought, longing to kick the little sod where it would have difficulty licking, given the elongated shape of its breed, but having to content himself with a slight shake of the leg and a sick smile.

  ‘Just ignore him, Inspector. It’s only our little Satan. He wouldn’t hurt a fly, would you, my little hoochie-coochie?’

  Cheeky old bugger, Falconer decided, envisaging a scene where he got the vicar in a dark corner and scragged him, as Adella was summoned back to the hall, her grim expression dissolving into barely repressed amusement at the sight of his predicament.

  I wonder if you could tell me where you were on Sunday evening and during the early hours of Monday morning?’ he asked, his face a mask of innocence, expecting to get confirmation of her husband’s story.

  ‘I went out for a little walk to clear my head,’ was her unexpected answer, and when asked to clarify this statement, she merely added, ‘I had something to do, and I wanted to do it there and then, while it was still uppermost in my mind.’

  She refused to give any explanation of her cryptic remarks and, short of arresting her, which was a ludicrous idea, they had to leave it at that. As they walked down the hall and out of the front door, the derisive sound of, ‘Uckoff! Arse! Arse!’ floated after them; a final oily chuckle providing the full-stop to punctuate their uncomfortable stay in The Vicarage.

  Closing the door firmly, Benedict turned to his wife and said, ‘Damned good idea of yours to take the cover off Captain Bligh’s cage, but you are a very naughty girl, aren’t you?’

  ‘I know Benedict, but you wouldn’t have me any other way, would you?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t, and you spiked their guns good and proper. Good girl!’

  Walking down the path and out on to the pavement, Falconer berated Carmichael for his unprofessional dereliction of duty, and roundly cursed ‘that bloody bird’, as he referred to it.

  ‘Sorry, sir, but I’ve never seen a real live parrot before – only on the telly. I wanted to have a closer look. I reckon me and Kerry could do worse than have one of those for a pet.’

  ‘Heaven help you if you do. You’ll never get a word in, with a feathery little sod like that. Why don’t you do something normal and get a cat, or a dog? And what’s all this about “me and Kerry”?’

>   ‘Don’t know about a cat, sir. They sort of give me the creeps – make me think of witches and that.’ He was totally unaware of the hostile glare his superior threw at him at this terrible slur on the domestic feline species, and continued, oblivious, ‘Dog wouldn’t be too bad, if that sweet little doggie from the last place was anything to go by. And as for “me and Kerry”,’ Carmichael tapped the side of his nose with his right index finger, and refused to say another word, as they walked towards Falconer’s car, which they had picked up en route from The Old Mill to The Vicarage.

  V

  Retracing their route, they arrived at The Old Chapel just as Christobel and Jeremy Templeton had finished their lunch, and were immediately shown into a large living room, decorated and dressed in a very feminine fashion, no doubt the influence of the lady of the house.

  They had no sooner sat down, having refused Jeremy’s offer of coffee, when Christobel gave a little moan and, when they looked over at her, was found to have her eyes filled with tears which were on the point of spilling down her cheeks.

  Falconer eyed her with concern, asking her if they had called at a bad time. It was Jeremy who answered, however, pointing out that his wife had suffered a severely humiliating episode at the Festival performance, and had barely begun to get over that, when that ‘blasted radio programme’ had plunged her back into a deep depression. At that point, Christobel rose from her seat and rushed from the room sobbing, and they could hear her hurried footsteps on the stairs as she fled to somewhere more private, to be alone with her misery.

  ‘That bloody man!’ exclaimed Jeremy. ‘I could’ve wrung his bloody neck for him!’ He followed this outburst with a crestfallen look and, ‘I say, I’m most awfully sorry. I didn’t mean that literally. It’s just the way he treated poor little Chrissie’s effort makes my blood boil.’