As for opportunity, he had just noted the tyre-slashing incident, so that wrapped that one up nicely. Now, moving on …
Araminta Wingfield-Heyes had been the next to receive a visit. She had seemed very upset about what she had done to Willoughby’s car, but that might just have been an act. He knew little about artists’ tools, but he was willing to bet there was something heavy – either something to do with frames, or a stone pestle and mortar to hand, perhaps for grinding up paint (he was in complete ignorance here and clutching at straws). Even if it was not connected with art, there was probably something that could have been used. She had a car, so what was wrong with her having a jack or a tyre iron?
She had also received, in the past, a scathing review of her work which had affected her sales – so, ditto for Miss Wingfield-Heyes on motive and opportunity. How those two hadn’t bumped into each other, he didn’t know. He could only guess that their timing was slightly apart, and that the fog helped to conceal what the eye wasn’t supposed to see.
He considered next the Reverend and Mrs Ravenscastle. There was a damned good motive there, but first things first. He liked to work, as he did everything else, methodically and in order. Means first, and his thoughts were drawn to the number of heavy crucifixes which could be found, not only in the church (for it had a small lady chapel as well), but in the vicarage itself. That would cover both of them.
Motive was obvious. Marcus had caused the death of Mrs Ravenscastle’s niece – a ten-year-old, he recalled, happy and excited because she was going to watch the fireworks display, her whole life ahead of her, brimming with promise. What must her death have done to Mrs Ravenscastle’s sister, and also to the Ravenscastles themselves? Here was a very meaty motive indeed, and he would probably have to bring them in for questioning – separately, of course. Who knew what dark thoughts of revenge lay festering in the hearts of even the most God-fearing and pious of people?
And there was that blasphemous outburst of Willoughby’s in the church, after he had left the pub on Sunday night, to take into consideration. That must have left the reverend gentleman steaming mad, that Willoughby behaved in such a way in his church, after what the man had already done to his family.
That they had both been out of the house on the night in question had been freely admitted. And during the period of time in which the murder was probably committed. Because of the way the information was offered, they couldn’t alibi each other like Peregrine and Tarquin, but he had no idea how strong they would be under interrogation. It must take a core of steel to live the life they lived, being so patient, considerate and forgiving. Falconer knew he couldn’t have hacked it as a vicar. He’d have throttled someone within his first week in a parish.
His thoughts and his pen turned now to Christobel and Jeremy Templeton. Christobel was as skittish as a kitten, and seemed fragile and introverted. But looks could be deceptive, and the whole little world that her husband had encouraged her to build to boost her self-confidence had just come tumbling down around her ears. She didn’t need to wait till Friday to know what Marcus would say about her verse.
That husband of hers was fiercely protective of her, as well. His anger at what had happened was plain to see. Did that anger turn to violence, to protect her? Of course! Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Who could possibly have known that Willoughby had already recorded his programme – or as much of it as he had been permitted to – and that it had already been submitted to the radio station? In fact, who had done that? It must have been the murderer, and that person must have known exactly what he or she was doing. Another question for his merry band of suspects.
Here he was, in the middle of an investigation, and so distracted by his feelings for Serena, that he had not been thinking properly. Whoever killed Willoughby must have stopped the recording, done whatever was necessary (he had no idea what, and would have to find out – yet another phone call!) to forward it for broadcasting, and it would appear that it had been taken at face value, and not been listened to before it was broadcast. How macabre that had been! He’d speak to the controller of the radio station after he’d finished his notes.
He had one more criterion to fulfil before he finished with the Templetons, and he bent once more, to his task. Opportunity was an easy one. Either of them could have slipped out of the house, and if the other had noticed anything, would probably feel that it was justified homicide and would cover for the other partner.
There was definitely something going on between the Marklands, too, he had decided. The wife seemed very jumpy and tearful, her husband constantly on the point of losing his temper. It may not have anything to do with the case at all, but his instinct told him that it had, and he would have to dig a little deeper there to get to the bottom of it. As far as means, motive and opportunity went, however, he was stumped for the time being, and his pen started a new section, this time for the Westinghalls.
Hugo seemed a mild, good-humoured man who was happy with his lot, although writing romantic fiction did not seem, to Falconer, something that he, himself, could get much satisfaction out of. In some way, it didn’t seem manly, and he was big on manly, due to his military background. Hugo was obviously making some sort of a living at it, however, if he managed to support a wife and two children. But his wife seemed to have made a bit of a fool of herself. Could the deflation of her ego, making her feel of so much less worth than her husband, have driven her to murder? No evidence as yet, m’lud, but she was definitely worth keeping in mind with the others he had selected as having potential for the role of ‘first murderer’.
Ditto, he supposed for Lydia Culverwell. She lived on her own, so there was no one to say whether she had left the house that night with murder on her mind. He really had been very sloppy with his interviewing technique, and upbraided himself for such dereliction of duty. Well, it wouldn’t happen again, not with a date with Serena on the horizon; and the sooner he solved the case, the sooner that would happen.
At Starlings’ Nest, he had been astounded to hear that Delia Jephcott had once been married to Willoughby, even if it had been years ago. She might have felt desperate to suppress the truth, maybe feeling that Mr Rushton, several years her junior, might up-sticks and leave her, after such a heinous suppression of her past. She had not seemed particularly bothered about it now, but she had evidently ‘fessed up’ to Rushton, and he must just have taken it in his stride. But exactly when did she tell him? That would be a very interesting thing to know.
The gays – no, strike that – the guys at The Inn had said that their guest, Summer Leighton, had referred to Willoughby as her father. What if the girl was the fruit of the marriage between him and Delia Jephcott? Maybe Delia had told her partner only half the story. If the girl had been given up for adoption, it was obvious that she had traced her father. What if she was now on the hunt for her mother? Some women were a bit odd about children they had given up for adoption. Perhaps Ms Jephcott was one such woman, and would go to any lengths to conceal her parenthood. Here was food for thought indeed.
That just left him with Miss Horsfall-Ertz to consider. She may have got herself into a parlous state, but she was still broken-hearted at the death of her dog under the wheels of Willoughby’s car. Was she capable, at nearly eighty, of taking a heavy implement, and bashing a man’s head in with it? It was certainly not beyond the bounds of possibility, for she was no wisp of a woman, and, despite the arthritis, he realised that strong emotion can engender surprising physical strength in those who feel it.
That was about it then, for now. They had called on Serena last, but she had not been involved in the Festival at all, due to her injury, and she said she had never come across Marcus before – thank God she was free from suspicion, and he could live in hope that a drink might lead to a more meaningful relationship.
As he put down his pen, two things happened simultaneously. His computer indicated that he was in receipt of an e-mail, and the telephone on his desk gave just a single rin
g, indicating that Bob Bryant from the front desk wanted to speak to him.
It seemed always to be Bob Bryant on the desk, he thought, whatever time of day or night it was. There was some joking amongst the younger uniforms, that he had been there since the station was built – in fact, that it had been built around him – sometime about nineteen hundred, and that he was one of the Eternals, just passing time unobtrusively, until the end of the universe. But Falconer thought it more likely that he just didn’t have much of a home life, and preferred to be at the station.
Lifting the handset, he learnt that Peregrine McKnight was on an outside line, wanting to talk to him urgently and, as he waited for the call to be put through, he idly wondered what he could possibly have to tell him, calling for Carmichael to come and check his computer. It had not yet been twenty-four hours since he had spoken to David Porter but, if his luck was in, he might have come up with something already.
II
Peregrine’s voice sounded in his ear, shrill with concern. ‘That Summer Leighton never came back last night – you know, that girl you wanted to speak to? We’d given her a latch key when she checked in, so we just went to bed when we’d done the rest of the locking up, but when I went to her room this morning with a cup of tea, the bed hadn’t been slept in, and I don’t know what to do about it.’
‘Rule number one,’ advised Falconer, ‘is don’t panic! She’s an adult, and I think you said that she was going to see her brother.’
‘I’m not completely sure what she said, now. She sort of called it over her shoulder. It might have been her brother, but now that I think about it, I really don’t know any more.’
‘Have you got a home address or a telephone number for her – preferably mobile?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. No. After everything that happened after she arrived on Friday, it simply slipped my mind. And she was off and out before I got a chance to talk to her, yesterday.’
‘How very careless of you!’ Falconer was definitely not impressed with this sloppiness on the part of a landlord, especially with respect to fire regulations. ‘Let’s see, she’s actually been gone, and completely out of contact now for, what? – a little over twenty-four hours? Look, let me know, in the meantime, if she shows up. If not, I’ll call over and take a look in her room, see if she’s left us any clues. But I don’t want either of you going in there. Do I make myself clear?’
‘As crystal, dear heart,’ on which dubious endearment Falconer put the phone down.
As he replaced the handset, Carmichael was standing beside him, like a pointer dog indicating the kill. His left forefinger was extended towards the screen of Falconer’s computer, an expression of smug intelligence on his face.
The inspector had been right, and the e-mail was from David Porter. The particularly juicy item that was on his screen at the moment was a photograph of Marcus Willoughby, his arm around the shoulder of Camilla Markland, her slightly vacant (and clearly drunken) face smiling up at him adoringly. What a find!
‘She lied to us, sir! She said she’d never met him before!’ Carmichael was righteously indignant.
‘How perceptive of you, Sergeant, and do you realise what this means?’
‘That it could be the cause of all that bad atmosphere in their house, yesterday.’
‘You are getting good, it certainly could. But was this their first meeting, or was it a sort of reunion?’
‘Don’t understand, sir.’ Carmichael was certainly having to run through his repertoire of expressions this morning, and the face of the moment was ‘puzzled’, or ‘hideously gurning’ depending on how well you knew him.
‘I’ve just had a call from Mr McKnight at The Inn on the Green, and I might be putting two and two together and getting five but … Let me explain. This girl, Summer Leighton turns up in Stoney Cross and ends up finding our charmer, Willoughby, dead. That was Friday afternoon.
‘On Saturday morning she leaves the pub, seemingly calling out that she was going to see her brother. Mr McKnight has just informed me that she never returned to The Inn last night. Yesterday, we find out that Ms Jephcott was married to Marcus – ‘twenty years or more’ ago. I had already surmised that, if this Summer Leighton had traced her father, maybe it was her mother rather than her brother that she was going off to see. And I was about ready to put Ms Jephcott as a possibility in that role.’ It was all a bit muddly, as he listened to himself, but he knew what he meant, and so did Carmichael, he hoped.
‘Now, you show me this picture, and I wonder if perhaps Madam Markland knew him from the past. First, Miss Leighton’s father is murdered, then she disappears. I think we can also put la Markland in the frame, tentatively, as possibly being her mother. So, what have we got here?’
‘A problem?’ Carmichael was definitely not getting it.
‘One of two stories. Think, man! Was Willoughby murdered out of pure hatred, for what he did professionally? Or was he murdered because he could reveal a past that someone wanted to suppress?’
‘Dunno, sir. I give up.’
‘It’s not a riddle, Carmichael. I want your opinion on which scent we ought to follow.’
‘Still dunno, sir.’
‘All right, at ease! Print me a couple of copies of this picture. We’re going to have to go back to Stoney Cross to have a look at Miss Leighton’s room at The Inn. We might as well take a copy of this picture with us, and just call in on the Marklands and that Jephcott woman again. They won’t be expecting us, especially on a Sunday. There are two possible mothers in that village, and they ought not to be overlooked. And we ought to have another word with those other two women – Palister and Wingfield-Heyes, while we’re there. Either of them, or even both of them, could have done anything, when they were all hyped up and on the lash.’
And, God dammit, he’d have to speak to the radio station before he went any further. He needed to know how much expertise was needed to end and send the recording of Marcus’s programme. Could it be done by someone who’d never done it before, or would it need expert knowledge? He had no idea, and picked the phone up to remedy this omission in his education.
And, good grief! Falconer realised that he and his acting sergeant were going out in public together, and surveyed Carmichael’s attire accordingly. He knew it was supposed to have been his acting sergeant’s day off, and he had agreed to come into the office and work overtime for no remuneration, but now they had to go out, Falconer looked at the young man’s clothes in a completely different light. Anyone who hadn’t already met them might think he was supervising Carmichael on the rare treat of a day out. Was, in fact, his carer. What that would do to his street cred, he dreaded to think.
III
The answer he had received from the radio station had got him no further forward than he was before. Someone who knew what they were doing with this particular software would have had no trouble at all. On the other hand, someone who had never used it before could have followed the step-by-step instructions, and have achieved the same end. He’d have to have been particularly cold-blooded, however, to have worked at that computer while Marcus lay dying or dead in the office chair beside him.
At this added frustration, Falconer arrived at The Inn on the Green in a fairly foul temper, not helped by Carmichael burbling happily from the passenger seat about how great life was now that he had someone to share it with.
Both Peregrine and Tarquin were ready for him, and Tarquin showed them Summer’s car, still parked behind the pub in the rear car park, then Peregrine led them upstairs to the room she had booked, but only slept one night in. There wasn’t much to be seen of her occupancy after such a short time, and it did not take them long to go through the few things in her holdall, and the toiletries left in the shower room, (for all the rooms were ‘en-suite’).
Falconer was not going to be beaten that easily though, and he lifted the pillow from the bed to check beneath it, then stripped the duvet from it, to check under that. Next, he lifted t
he mattress and – bingo! There he found a black leather-covered diary, a pink Filofax, and an envelope.
The black diary was Marcus’s, and the little minx must have pocketed it when she found his body. She was cool enough to do that, before she ran back to the village, screaming blue murder. The pink affair was Summer’s own, personal diary. At a quick flick through, both of these recorded the coming together of father and daughter, and gave the name of her mother – Jennifer Linden, known as Jenny.
Which didn’t offer much help – who the hell was Jenny Linden? How much easier it would have been, Falconer thought, if the mother had had the forename Delia, or Camilla. The contents of the envelope did nothing to enlighten him, either. This was a photo-copy of a birth certificate for someone called Polly Linden, not Summer Leighton, and the mother was listed as Jennifer Linden, the father as Norman Clegg. Who, in the name of blue blazes, were these two people? And, how did they fit into the case? – if indeed they did. Perhaps all this business about finding long-lost parents was just a mare’s nest. On the other hand, Summer was definitely (possibly) missing, maybe abducted (or even dead), and must be treated as such, after a lapse of twenty-four hours since she had last been seen. Falconer was getting confused, with two other names entered on the race-card.
The other piece of paper helped slightly. It was a copy of an adoption certificate, for Polly Linden, a six-week-old baby, whom the adoptive parents had renamed Summer, their surname being Leighton. At least that tied up!
Feeling completely arsed-about by events, Falconer took out his mobile phone and prepared himself to speak to Detective Superintendent Chivers – on a Sunday! He wouldn’t be best pleased, but the inspector needed his permission for staff to conduct a search of the surrounding area, and to make house-to-house calls. This couldn’t be handled by just Carmichael and himself, and he wouldn’t get any thanks if he didn’t call this one in now, either.
Choked off (The Falconer Files Book 2) Page 16
