Carmichael had arrived now, and stood beside Falconer, looming over her, looking as if he might to be about to say, ‘Fee, fi, fo, fum …’ A little ‘argh’ of surprise escaped her lips as she surveyed the pair of them, put two and two together from her experiences of the year before, and stated, ‘You’re police, aren’t you? About that ghastly business on Thursday? Well, I wanted to go home straight away, but Richard – my husband – made me stay another day to see if I could settle down. But it’s simply not going to happen. I want to go home, although even that doesn’t seem safe, now.’
She seemed to have entered into a world that existed only in her head, obviously a product of something that had happened to them before, and Richard Grainger gave her a look of exasperation, then turned to the detectives and held out his hand. ‘Richard Grainger. Pleased to meet you. And this is my wife, Virginia. How can we be of assistance?’
‘DI Falconer and DS Carmichael,’ the inspector introduced them, nodding his head towards Desperate Dan beside him, dressed as if for a village fete fancy dress. ‘I’m just checking on residents to see if they noticed any strangers or anything strange in the vicinity on Thursday morning. Of course, I appreciate that you’re not permanent residents, but did anything odd catch your eye?’
‘Nothing! Nothing! Nothing! We don’t know anybody here, and we don’t want to, now,’ his wife answered for him, with a shudder.
‘Go indoors, Ginny, and I’ll speak to them. Don’t upset yourself again: just go and make a cup of coffee,’ he ordered, handing her a jar of granules from a box on the back seat.
As she walked back into the cottage he began a brief explanation for her – to someone who didn’t know them – extraordinary behaviour. ‘We got caught up in the events surrounding a double murder last year, in Little Marden, down on the coast. Ginny found herself in danger of her life on more than one occasion – I know it sounds rather melodramatic, but it’s true. [1]
‘Anyway, ever since then, she’s been very nervy, and I thought a little break in the country might help her to relax a little, and come to terms with what happened. I must say, this murder at the school hasn’t helped my plan one bit. It was all I could do to stop her bolting instantly, but I managed to get her calmed down enough to stay a bit longer.
‘She found out what had happened at the bake sale, and she was nearly hysterical when we got back here. I managed to calm her down and reassure her that there was no way we could become involved in this, but she’s only managed another night, and she wants to get back home.’
‘If you want to check us out, get in touch with Inspector Plover and Sergeant Ashberry of the Standchester Police, and they’ll vouch for us,’ he offered, as a sort of character reference.
‘I’ll do that, sir, if you don’t mind. It’ll dot another ‘i’ and cross another ‘t’ for us, and we can take you off our list. Have a good journey home.’
‘We will,’ Richard assured him.
‘Yes, but not today.’ Virginia had come out of the cottage to join them again. ‘That hysterical little jag I had just now made me realise what a fool I must look. Murders happen every day, and I don’t get my knickers in a twist about them. Just because there’s been one in the village we’ve chosen for a little break, doesn’t mean I’m going to get involved in anything unpleasant.’
Richard looked at her, his mouth open in surprise. ‘But I thought you were desperate to leave, Ginny.’
‘Here’s my business card, and I’ll write my home number on the back, if that’ll make you feel any safer, Mrs Grainger,’ offered Falconer, anxious to keep everyone on the cast list still in the production, as it were.
‘That would be marvellous, Inspector. Richard can look after that – I’m hopeless at remembering where things are. And I’ve simply got to get my head around the fact that we’re on holiday. Just because something nasty’s happened here doesn’t mean we have to sit in the cottage and worry. We can go for days out, and just ignore what the police are up to. I gather there’s a fantastic stone circle just a few miles away, and there are some monastery ruins just outside this very village.
‘Then, there’s a National Heritage place – Cranleigh Grange, I think it’s called, on the way to a place called Stoney Cross; Ruth Lockwood recommended Castle Farthing as a very pretty place …’
‘I live there!’ interrupted Carmichael. ‘If you visit it, call in on my wife and she’ll give you a cup of tea and a bit of history about the place. And you ought to take a look at Fallow Fold. It’s a lovely winding little village with an absolutely great tea shop – best vanilla slices in the county. And don’t forget to call in at Fairmile Green – it’s got a main street with some interesting shops, and a little stream running right down the middle of it,’ Carmichael continued, always an ambassador for the area he loved so much, and knew so well.
‘I’d love to call in on your wife, Sergeant Carmichael. You’ll have to give me your address. And then there’s a really queer old chapel in Steynham St Michael,’ she continued, back in travelogue style. ‘I read in a guide book for the area that there’s a very old and interesting market cross in Market Darley, and there must be a museum of the countryside somewhere around here.’ Virginia had, apparently, got her mojo back (whatever that means!) and had a small smile of genuine enthusiasm on her face.
‘I’ve been too screwed-up for too long,’ she continued. ‘Let’s get out and about, Richard, and make something of this holiday. The weather’s great, and the countryside around here’s just beautiful.’
‘Anything you say, my love! Anything you say!’ replied Richard, grinning and reaching into the car to remove the first of the boxes from the back seat. ‘I’m sorry we can’t help you, Inspector, but I think you should consider this as your good deed for the day.’
‘I will, sir. Glad to have been of help,’ replied Falconer, his eye already on number four: the next house in the terrace.
The door of number four was opened by a woman of about fifty, with a softly lined face and hair that showed a heavy smattering of grey. She was tall, and remarkably thin, but her face lit up when she smiled, which it did in welcome. ‘How may I help you?’ she enquired, and stood patiently while Falconer went through the inevitable introductions.
She showed no signs of inviting them inside, merely informing them that she had never been to the village before, but had fancied a change of scenery over Easter. She had seen and heard nothing, and knew nothing about what had happened on Thursday, and they were very soon on their way to number three.
Number three didn’t appear to have anyone staying in it at the moment. A quick peer through the net curtain-less windows showed no signs of recent life, and Carmichael made a note to check this with the owners. That left only two more properties before lunch, and Carmichael hoped they wouldn’t take long. The ginger biscuits had worn off by now, and his stomach, which needed a lot of stoking to keep such a big frame upright and vigorous, was making loud plumbing-like noises of anguish and emptiness.
‘Was that you?’ Falconer asked, after a particularly loud and resonant rumble.
‘Sorry, sir. I need something to keep the wolf from the door, before I come over all woozy,’ he replied with a hungry expression.
Falconer stepped a little to one side, hoping that the wolf was not Carmichael. He didn’t fancy being bitten by a colleague, for he had no idea which forms he would have to fill out to report it. ‘We’ll be as quick as we can. If necessary, you can go ahead and order for us.’
The door of number two was opened by a young woman in a nightie, her make-up smudged and her hair in a state of disarray. She didn’t look very pleased to see them. And when she had explained that she and her new husband were on honeymoon, they understood why, and withdrew tactfully, merely noting that their names were Alison and Dick (tee-hee-hee!) Clifton.
‘And don’t you dare say a word about the husband’s first name and honeymoons.’ Falconer warned Carmichael off, before the wheels in his brain could finish turning,
and provide him with a smart but obscene observation.
An elderly man who introduced himself as George Smithers opened the door to them at number one. He and his wife, Kathy, had come to Shepford Stacey because they had lived there many years ago, and had fancied a trip down memory lane. They had bumped into quite a few people they remembered from the old days, some they’d spoken to, and some whose names they could not remember, but whose faces they knew. They were having a grand time, and wished them luck with their investigation, before closing the door on them to get ready for a pub lunch, pub as yet un-chosen.
It was a great pity that Falconer questioned him no further as to who exactly they had seen, in the light of what was to follow.
[1] For more on Richard and Virginia Grainger, see Choral Mayhem
Chapter Six
Saturday 2nd April – lunchtime and afternoon
I
They settled for the Temporary Sign for their lunch, for no better reason than that the car was parked at the rear, in its car park. Robbie Greenslade immediately left his post behind the bar to welcome them, his antennae aquiver, having instantly identified them for who they were.
‘What can I get you two gentlemen? Something to drink, or will you be eating as well?’ He looked like nothing more than a shrew, scenting the air with its whiffling long nose – which his own organ of scent somewhat resembled.
‘A couple of halves of lager,’ intoned Falconer, receiving a nod of agreement from his sergeant, ‘and a look at the menu, if you have such a thing.’
‘I’ll get you the menus now, and I’ll be back in a jiffy with the drinks,’ he chirped.
They were served within ten minutes with their food, Carmichael choosing fish, chips, and mushy peas, with an extra three slices of bread and butter and a big bottle of ketchup. Looking up from his plate, after he had beeped the proverbial wolf on the snout with a metaphorical newspaper, he asked Falconer what he was eating.
‘Gesiers salad,’ he replied, ‘done nice and crispy, the way I like it.’
‘What’s ‘jesseeay’, sir?’ and then wished he hadn’t asked. The very thought of what the inspector was putting into his mouth made his complexion turn slightly green, and he reinvested his attention in the good old British fare on his own plate.
After a good few minutes of steady gastronomic enjoyment on the part of both diners, Carmichael felt comfortable enough with his calorific intake to attempt a little light conversation. ‘I went to a school just like the one here, when I was little. But the seniors’ was a nightmare.’
‘Why was that?’ Falconer was beginning to feel well-fed and contented as well, and thought he might as well join in.
‘My family, as you know, sir, live in Market Darley, and the comp there was full of thugs and villains – and that was just the girls!’
‘Oh, nice one, Carmichael! However did a delicate little flower like you survive in such a harsh environment?’
‘I’m a big lad, if you hadn’t noticed, sir, and I had brothers already at the school, so no one messed with me. They didn’t want the Carmichael brothers on their backs. We look like a bunch of giants, as you found out at the wedding.’
‘True. I’d forgotten how many of you there were.’
After a silence of perhaps half a minute, Carmichael chanced a personal question. ‘Where did you go to school, sir? I know you’ve been in the army, but I don’t really know anything about you,’ crossing his fingers that this impertinence wouldn’t earn him a verbal bollocking.
‘Quick version, Carmichael. There’s no need for me to go into any great detail: prep school as a weekly border from the age of seven, then on to a school not too distant from here as a full boarder. Then I did my degree – it doesn’t matter where, or what in – then ten years in the army.
‘I had a bellyful of that, came out with a bit of a pension, and joined the police force as a graduate on fast-track promotion. The next thing I knew, I was being introduced to you, and a much more colourful daily life, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Carmichael felt honoured that the inspector hadn’t just choked him off and told him to mind his own bloody business. Falconer never mentioned his private life, unless it was something amusing to do with his cats, and Carmichael sometimes found it frustrating working for a cypher. What little he had learned seemed like a treasure chest, after his previous total ignorance of the man’s past. Maybe Falconer was learning to trust him.
When their plates and glasses were empty, and Robbie Greenslade had returned to their table three times to see if everything was all right (snooping, in other words), Falconer suggested that they adjourn to the Ring o’ Bells to see if they could rustle up an after-luncheon coffee. They needed to speak to the Darlings, and it would kill two birds with one stone, as it were. The Temporary Sign hadn’t contained anyone of interest to them, so there was no reason to delay their departure any more than was necessary.
The Ring o’ Bells boasted quite a crowd of lunchtime customers, many of whom looked like regulars who saw this place as a second home. They spotted Mr and Mrs Smithers in the middle of the pub, working their way through fish and chips. Carmichael waved to them, like a child saluting an aunt and uncle.
‘Stop it, Carmichael! They’re suspects, not long-lost relatives.’
‘Sorry, sir. Just being friendly.’
‘Well don’t be. You’re a detective, not a tour guide, although I’d have been pressed to spot that fact about an hour ago.’
Carmichael took this admonishment like a man, still thrilled with what he had learnt about the inspector, and they approached the bar to see if they could obtain coffee.
Ernie Darling suppressed a little sneer as he took their order, obviously putting them down as a right couple of sissies, coming into a pub and only ordering coffee, but business was business, and having checked whether they wanted white or black, disappeared off into the kitchen behind the bar, leaving his wife Margaret temporarily in charge.
Margaret Darling, spotting unknown faces, summed up who they were in an instant. Before she noticed them, she had been necking a large gin and tonic, but as her eyes alighted on them, she gave a little splutter, and turned away to face in the opposite direction, suddenly developing an interest in a conversation that was being conducted between two men sitting on bar stools.
‘You don’t get off the hook that easily, my lady,’ Falconer muttered under his breath, as Ernie Darling returned and handed them two cups of coffee, with little packets of sugar in the saucers, slowly soaking up the coffee he had slopped in them as he carried them through to the bar.
‘Mr Darling?’ he enquired politely, before the publican could slither away, for he had a knowing look in his eye too, now.
‘That’s right. Who wants to know?’ he asked, already looking shifty.
‘Detective Inspector Falconer and Detective Sergeant Carmichael of the Market Darley CID,’ he announced, starkly and to the point. ‘We need to have a word with you and your wife, and if it’s not convenient during opening hours, we’re quite happy to return at a more convenient time. Perhaps we could come to some arrangement now.’
It was nearly two o’clock, and they still had three more visits to make, so an agreement was eventually reached that they would return to the bar at five o’clock or thereabouts, when the doors were closed for a break between lunchtime opening and the evening shift.
As Ernie sidled away towards his wife, Falconer took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. ‘Don’t bother, Carmichael. Not only is it instant, but it’s cheap instant. Tastes more like floor sweepings than coffee.’
‘I’m not as fussy as you, sir,’ declared Carmichael, downing his in one, then making a face that would not have disgraced a gargoyle. ‘You’re right, sir, it does! I’ll take your advice in the future.’
II
As it was such a lovely day they decided to walk to their afternoon destinations, and set off at a leisurely pace down Four Stiles and past The Rectory to F
orsythia Cottage, to meet the members of the Baldwin clan that they had not yet encountered.
With no car to give away their presence on the tarmacked drive, they found themselves privy to an argument that was raging, the sound streaming from the open windows of the ground floor of the property.
It was Stevie Baldwin’s voice that they recognised, and Falconer concluded that she must have the weekends off, as he had not noticed her in the Temporary Sign. ‘I don’t know how you can say such a beastly thing, Gran. I had no axe to grind, and I don’t see why you should’ve. How can you say you’re glad? None of it was her fault: it was just bad luck.’
Another voice said something indistinguishable, at a lower volume, and whatever had been said only helped heap coals on the fire of Stevie’s rage. ‘And you can shut your mouth, too, Mum. If that’s what you think of me, I don’t know if I can stay here any longer.’
‘Now, now, Stevie, darling,’ the other voice rose in pitch, adopting a whining tone. ‘I admit that I spoke in haste just now. You know how much I love you, and little Spike, as does your father, and your gran here. We’re just a bit up in the air, with all the memories it’s brought back. And you can’t blame us if we see it as just desserts.’
‘I think you’re all twisted. I’m happy with my life, even if you don’t approve of some aspects of it. Why can’t you just leave me be? Things could be a lot worse, but you don’t see that, do you? Always harping on about the negative, and never the positive …’
At this point in proceedings Falconer rang the doorbell and silenced any further exchanges. He knew it was only like the bell at the end of a round of boxing, and things would continue when they left, but they couldn’t stand out here all afternoon and wait for them to finish.
Stevie opened the door, her face flushed with anger, and it was with considerable effort that she summoned up the ghost of a social smile. ‘Yes?’ she asked, somewhat abruptly, but was obviously still trying to get her temper under control. When she understood who they were and why they were here, she indicated that they should enter, not trusting herself to speak at the moment.
Pascal Passion (The Falconer Files Book 4) Page 11
