Choked off (The Falconer Files Book 2)

by Andrea Frazer

  David Porter, however, had news of his own to impart. ‘You know you were asking me about Marcus Willoughby?’ he asked, not realising what an impact the information he was about to offer would have. ‘I’ve known him since school-days; we are – we were – of an age. Did you have any idea that he didn’t used to be called Marcus Willoughby – that that was a pseudonym only?’

  Falconer nearly dropped the phone. ‘What?’

  ‘That’s right. He was a right arsy little bastard at school, full of cheek, and boy, could he hold a grudge. Universally disliked would be about right. I only gave him a job “for the sake of auld lang syne”, and, as I told you, I’ve lived to regret my nostalgic generosity, for he was nothing but trouble, even after all these years.’

  ‘What was he known as at school?’ Falconer took a chance. ‘It wouldn’t perhaps be Norman Clegg, would it?’

  ‘Now, how the hell did you know that? And don’t say it was just a shot in the dark, because that’s impossible.’ Porter had had his thunder well and truly stolen, but had realised, at once, that this must have some bearing on the man’s demise.

  ‘I can’t tell you at the moment. It’s privileged information, but be assured that you’ll be the first to know, when I’m able to disclose it.’

  ‘I’d better be, Falconer. I’d better be. Oh, and by the way, I’ve spoken to the local radio johnnies, and they’re going to put a bit into the news tonight – asking the missing girl, or anyone with information on her whereabouts, to come forward, etc., etc.’

  Offering his thanks for Porter’s efforts with local radio, and promising to ring again later, to confirm that he definitely needed the newspaper article, he ended the call, and marched purposefully towards the car, not daring to look Carmichael in the face, for fear of what he would see there.

  VIII

  The short drive from The Inn to Blackbird Cottage was undertaken in absolute silence. Falconer dared not speak, from embarrassment that Carmichael had realised his intentions in making this visit at all, considering Serena had had nothing to do with the Festival. Carmichael was quiet because he had discovered a chink in his superior’s normally impregnable armour, and was diplomatic enough not to cause him any further embarrassment by bringing up the subject.

  (There definitely was more to Carmichael than met the eye – an opinion that Falconer had formed earlier in their relationship, and was now in the process of confirming, after his acting sergeant’s behaviour during interviews with traumatised ladies.)

  There was no car in the drive as they drew up outside the cottage, and that was a huge disappointment to the inspector. It looked like he’d got himself all hyped up to speak to Serena, only to find out that she wasn’t there. Taking no chances, however, Falconer rang the doorbell and had his way with the knocker, while Carmichael went round to the back, to make sure she wasn’t in the garden, the car just having gone for a service, or something prosaic like that.

  She wasn’t, and it hadn’t, or didn’t appear to have. There was no window in the small garage, so there was no way of telling whether she had just put her car away, as she had felt unable to drive it safely with her injured ankle, or actually gone out. Squinting through the windows bore no fruit either. The cottage was locked up, all the windows closed, and with the look that all houses have when their inhabitants are not there – inscrutable and secret. ‘Maybe a friend called round – on foot, I mean – and took her for a drive, sir? Perhaps she needed some shopping, and her friend took her into Carsfold to do it?’

  Carmichael was doing his best to relieve the anxious expression on his superior’s face, but his suggestions didn’t seem to be helping much. ‘Sorry, Carmichael. What with a murder and a disappearance on our plates, I can’t help feeling pessimistic today, and visualising the worst possible scenario. Don’t worry – it’ll pass. Let’s go round the back together and have a good look, at least do what we would have expected a uniform to do. We can always come back tomorrow, have a look inside, and ask her if she saw anything of Miss Leighton.’

  ‘And at least we know who Norman Clegg is – or rather, was, so that’s one mystery cleared up, sir,’ Carmichael offered, in an attempt to steer Falconer towards counting his blessings and not his curses.

  ‘You’re right, but that doesn’t get us any further forward with finding out who Jennifer Linden is, does it?’ Falconer was resisting his colleague’s efforts, and was in danger of falling into a sulk, like a child deprived of an expected treat.

  ‘And we’ve got the murder weapon now.’ Carmichael wasn’t giving up without a fight.

  ‘I know, but I’d put my shirt on it having been wiped clean of any prints.’ Come to think of it, he’d like to put Carmichael’s shirt on something, too – preferably a bonfire! ‘Come on, I’ll drop you back at the station so you can collect your car. I’ve had enough for one day, and I’m sure you’re eager to get yourself ready for your visit to your lady love.’

  ‘Don’t forget the kids, sir. They’re just as important to me. As far as I’m concerned, they come as a package, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.’

  Just for a moment – a very short moment – Falconer felt very jealous.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Monday, 14th September

  I

  Monday morning found Falconer late into the office, and Carmichael was already at his desk hard at it, when he arrived. ‘Morning, sir. Get lost on the way in?’ the acting sergeant offered jovially. He’d obviously had a good night. Falconer had not had that advantage. He had been haunted by nightmares of Serena, dead, kidnapped or in danger, and he had woken every hour or so, in a cold sweat, relieved to find it was only a dream, not a reality.

  ‘Good morning, Carmichael. No need to ask how your evening went.’

  ‘Reports are all typed up and on your desk, from the house-to-house yesterday.’

  ‘Anything in them?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. They were addressed to you, so I didn’t look at them.’

  Was there anyone so honest (or so uncurious) in the whole of the constabulary as this man?

  Falconer reached for his phone, checking a number in a file in his desk, and began to make enquiries about Marcus Willoughby’s telephone account. He had taken a while to clear his mind when he had got home the previous evening, and had realised that this information may be very useful to them.

  They now knew who Norman Clegg was, but they had yet to find Jennifer Linden. Not only had she known Marcus Willoughby (Falconer could not bring himself to use any other name, so used had he got to using this one), and known him intimately, but she was also the mother of the missing girl. She might have information that would be vital to both cases. She might even have Summer Leighton staying with her – this whole second case could be that innocent.

  If Summer had meant she was going to see her mother when she called out as she left The Inn, they could be sitting together now, drinking tea, none the wiser about all the kerfuffle the younger woman’s absence was causing. There was no guarantee, after all, that the mother actually lived in the area. Summer might have left without her car, because she was being given a lift. She could have been picked up from Stoney Cross, and be anywhere by now.

  So far, her disappearance had only been broadcast on local radio stations, and should be in the local paper today. If she wasn’t found before this evening, however, news of her disappearance would be, not only on the local television news, but on the national news as well. If she still hadn’t turned up, there was at least a possibility that this would tip Summer the wink that she ought to announce her whereabouts.

  And, if that didn’t get any response from the missing girl, it would probably bring people who knew her out of the woodwork, and they could find out where she lived. She had taken her handbag with her, and Peregrine had failed to take any details, so they didn’t even know her address, yet. Why couldn’t she just have written it in her diary, like everyone else did? The worst-case scenario was that they found her dead, and h
e did not relish the added complication of a second murder investigation.

  Marcus’s itemised telephone bill would at least show them the numbers he had called, and one of them might have been Summer’s mother. He had no idea on what terms they had parted, or why she had put up their daughter for adoption in the first place, and he saw no point in wasting time on guesswork. And if that didn’t produce results, it might get them on to somebody who had known Marcus at the time Summer was born – someone who might know more about the prevailing circumstances than he did, at the moment.

  His reverie was interrupted by an internal call from the inevitable Bob Bryant, to say that there was a young lady to see him, and that he had put her in an interview room.

  ‘What name did she give, Bob?’

  ‘Bit of a mouthful, sir. She said she was Miss Araminta Wingfield-Heyes – mean anything to you?’

  ‘Sure does! Thanks Bob, I’m on my way.’ This was a bit of luck, her coming into the station so promptly – it was only just gone nine. He could get his few questions for her out of the way, and be able to give his complete attention to how to move the cases on.

  II

  He found Minty sitting in the dingy room, playing with a plastic cup of (plastic) tea, and reading the graffiti carved into or written on the table in front of her, her head turned to one side so that she could decipher one of the comments which was at an awkward angle. Her face, when she turned it towards him, was smiling, and just a little bit excited. ‘I think I’ve remembered something, Inspector, but I don’t know if it means anything.’ Where had he heard that before?!

  ‘Try me, and we’ll see.’ This was music to Falconer’s ears. The quicker he could get things wrapped up, the quicker he could arrange to take Serena out. If he could tidy the murder away, and Summer’s disappearance went bigger, maybe even with a ransom note (but to whom, he could not imagine, knowing so little about her), it would probably be handed to someone of a higher rank, and he would be free to do what he wanted for a while, God willing. He didn’t even want to consider how much time he would be tied up for, if her body was found.

  Minty tried him. ‘I was talking to Sadie yesterday after you’d been to see her, and she told me about the car she’d seen.’

  ‘Yes, go on,’ Falconer prompted, as she’d paused momentarily.

  ‘It’s just that I’m sure and certain that I heard a car as well, just as I was getting back to my own house, after – you know what.’

  ‘And you reckoned that was about one-thirty a.m., if my memory serves me correctly.’ Falconer was excited too, now. The information she was about to give him might be crucial – and he damned well hoped it would be – so much depended on it, including his future happiness. Let the case end! He’d had enough of it!

  ‘That’s right – when I got in – about then. The funny thing was, even though I heard it coming in my direction – it sounded as if it was in a very low gear. Because of the fog, I suppose – it never actually passed me.’

  So those two drunken women, both bent on doing Willoughby a bad turn, had been sneaking around in the dark, one after the other, and so close together in time, that they had both heard the arrival of the murderer’s car? Falconer wondered if they’d worked it out yet, and if they hadn’t, how they’d feel when they did. A few minutes later for either of them, and they might not have been here to tell the tale. It really was a wonder they hadn’t blundered into each other in the dark, and scared the living daylights out of one another.

  Realising that he had been distracted by these thoughts, he continued, ‘And it was definitely coming from the direction of the High Street?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’d stake my great-grandmother’s life on it,’ she claimed, with a little twinkle at him, to reassure him that she was only having her little joke.

  ‘So, it never passed you? It couldn’t have been far enough down the High Street to, perhaps, have turned down School Lane, could it?’

  ‘Absolutely not! The engine was definitely turned off. The noise just stopped, before it got to me. I’d even staggered right to the edge of the hedge and stopped – you know the pavement ends after The Old Barn, and doesn’t go as far as my place?’

  ‘Now you come to mention it, I do remember. So, this car might have been driven on to Mr Willoughby’s property?’

  ‘That’s the only thing I can think of.’ Minty’s eyes were still glowing with excitement, at remembering something important. ‘And there was something else, too.’

  ‘What?’ What else could there possibly be, at one-thirty a.m. on a foggy night?

  ‘The exhaust! It was just starting to go, sounded as if it had just blown a little hole in the pipe.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘My Uncle Bob owns several garages now, but when I was young, he only had the one, not having had the chance to grow the business, and I used to spend hours watching him work on cars. I can tell you just about anything that’s wrong with any part of a car, just by hearing it running.’

  What a stroke of luck! Now, all they had to do was to find a local car with a hole in its exhaust, tie it up with a motive, and Bob’s your uncle – or in this case, Minty’s uncle! Yet, this was a little short-sighted of him, he realised, for the murderer could still be someone with an older axe to grind than was to be found in Stoney Cross, but he could hope, couldn’t he?

  Falconer was grinning when he showed Minty out of the police station. He had nearly shaken the hand off her, and just resisted the urge to hug her. He was returning now to his office, to give the good news to Carmichael. He’d have to speak to Ms Palister again, to see if she remembered a slightly blown exhaust, but he could do that later, when he went back to Stoney Cross to see Serena.

  He quailed at the thought of needing to speak to Sadie again. She was quite an overpowering young woman. Young men, he knew how to deal with from his Army days, but women, young or not so young, were still a mystery to him – one which he was hoping to solve in the not-too-distant future, and this thought cheered him considerably.

  He entered the office whistling, an occurrence unique in Carmichael’s experience of the inspector, and it brought his head up with a jerk, to witness this previously unheard-of phenomenon.

  III

  The rest of the morning passed in a flurry of paperwork, as did the most part of the afternoon, checking through the reports from the search team, geeing-up Forensics about the presence (or not) of fingerprints or DNA on the club hammer and fragment of stocking, and going through the results of the house-to-house enquiry from the previous day.

  At four o’clock, when Falconer was just tidying away his desk for departure, having warned Carmichael that they would be making yet another trip to Stoney Cross to visit Blackbird Cottage, his internal phone rang, and he found himself summoned to Superintendent ‘Jelly’ Chivers’ office for an update, and it wasn’t until five o’clock that they were free to leave.

  The cottage was as they had left it yesterday – still no answer to their summons on the doorbell and knocker, the car still not on the drive. A quick peer through the windows provided no answers, and an attempt by Falconer to see if the phone might be picked up, Serena perhaps being merely out of their sight-line, was also unsuccessful. He had never had a mobile number for her, so they were completely snookered for now.

  The time of day had encouraged Falconer to urge Carmichael to take his own car. That way he, at least, would not have to return to the office and, at the moment, the inspector certainly had nothing better to do than to go back to see if there had been any progress made in his (relatively short) absence.

  Carmichael, it seemed, had nothing better on either, and so it was that they re-entered the office to find an envelope on Falconer’s desk, containing an itemised telephone bill for Willoughby’s three short days’ residence in The Old Barn. There weren’t that many calls listed, maybe a couple of dozen or so, but one of them hit Falconer straight between the eyes.

  Serena’s number was staring up at him, called
twice within that time. But she’d said she had never met him before. What was going on? He had to find out! It wasn’t right that the house was empty, her ankle being in the condition it was. He needed to get back out there, to see that nothing had happened to her. How had Willoughby known her?

  Wait a minute, she had said something along the lines of ‘I’ve never met anyone called Marcus Willoughby’. That was an ambiguous remark, in the light of the knowledge they now had, that Willoughby had spent part of his life as Norman Clegg. What if she had known him as Norman Clegg? What if saying she had never known anyone of ‘that name’ was her being economical with the truth, telling only one part of the story? What if he had some sort of hold over her? What if she’d done something stupid? Or even just fallen down the stairs? Falconer knew that most of these questions were ridiculous, and just the result of panic, but his mind was whirling. He couldn’t help himself and called for Carmichael to join him on the return trip to her house.

  Carmichael, however, seemed to ignore his urgent summons, apparently lost in his own thoughts. He was, in fact, still gnawing at whatever it was at the back of his mind – the something that wasn’t quite right, which didn’t add up – and he’d nearly had it then, when he finally became aware of the inspector’s repeated summons for him to leave the station.

  IV

  At the same time that Harry Falconer was going out of his mind with worry, Adella Ravenscastle was approaching Squirrel Horsfall-Ertz’s house, having just returned from a very important trip to Market Darley, and with a strange, quivering lump under the front of her cardigan.

  Squirrel opened her front door and noticed the movement as she greeted her visitor, a puzzled look bunching the lines and wrinkles of her elderly face. ‘What on earth have you got there?’ she asked, her words coinciding with a little whine and a ‘wuff’ from the now squirming cardigan front. Lifting a Yorkshire terrier puppy from beneath its woolly covering, Adella handed it over to Squirrel, a look of triumph on her face.