‘But there are two boys, and only one girl. Maybe they’d prefer Daddy?’ suggested Carmichael, prolonging the rally. ( Deuce! – or as Carmichael may have scored it, ‘juice’.)
‘Well, I don’t give a flying fig about which parent they prefer,’ (Advantage Falconer.) ‘I’m the inspector, and I’ve decided we’ll go there and speak to both of them about where they were yesterday evening.’ (Game to Falconer.)
Carmichael grinned, not knowing exactly how he had got his own way, but nevertheless pleased that he had, and corkscrewed his body out of Falconer’s dinky little Boxster, like a ‘slinky’ getting out of its box of a morning in Toyland.
V
The sobbing sound continued, occasionally interspersed with little moans, and words which were not decipherable through a wall, no matter how thin. Virginia was really starting to get worried about her neighbour now. What could possibly have triggered this storm of weeping?
Walking back to the kitchen, she made her decision. Adding a plate of chocolate fingers to the tray, she managed to open and close the front door, carrying her burden on her hip, finally approaching the front door of number four, and ringing the doorbell with her nose. The woman was obviously very distressed about something, and, whatever her shortcomings socially, was probably in need of a good absorbent shoulder to cry on.
Being of a nosy nature, her plan felt like a very satisfying one, and she looked forward to listening to her neighbour unburden herself. With only Richard to talk to for most of the time on this holiday, she felt starved of gossip and general female chatter. Her little excursion of mercy this morning, transporting nourishment and comfort, would do her the world of good.
She had to use her nose on the bell again, being careful not to tilt the tray and spill the tea, before she was heard, and her summons answered. Caroline Course was still dressed in the same clothes as she had worn the day before, but she must have been out of doors sometime since the fire had started, as she smelled vaguely of soot and smoke, and there was a black smudge on her forehead near the hairline, where a smut must have landed and not been noticed.
Her eyes were red and swollen, the whites of them muddied with tiny red veins. Her nostrils were red, her lips, puffy, and, all things considered, with her hair all over the place, she looked a complete mess. Although Virginia had no children of her own, the sheer state of the woman instantly triggered in her a maternal response.
‘You poor thing! Whatever has upset you so much?’ she asked, trying to manoeuvre her way past Mrs Course with her awkward burden. ‘If you’ll just let me by, I’ve got tea and chocolate biscuits with me, and we can sit down and have a nice little chat, then perhaps you may feel up to telling me what’s wrong. Remember: a trouble shared is a trouble halved, and there is a lot of truth in that. Just talking about something sometimes makes it seem a lot better than you thought.’
Mrs Course looked at her as if she were speaking Mandarin. ‘Whatever are you talking about?’ she asked, apparently forgetting that she resembled what Virginia’s mother would have called ‘The Wreck of the Hesperus’.
‘I heard you crying. Through the wall,’ Virginia explained. ‘The walls are very thin, you know, and I thought I’d come round and see if I could be of any help.’
‘I don’t need any help, thank you very much,’ replied Mrs Course in a clipped voice, then spoilt everything by letting a tear trickle down one cheek.
‘Don’t be so silly,’ said Virginia, as bossy as a school teacher. ‘Let me in.’ She finally managed to ‘hip’ her way past the woman and into the living room which, being an opposite design to her own, next door, had the kitchen at the back.
She headed straight for a coffee table, placed conveniently in front of a sofa, with an armchair at either end of it, placed her tray on it, and started to pour tea. ‘If you want sugar, I’m afraid you’ll have to use your own, but the cups already have milk in, and the pot’s still hot. Can I tempt you to a biscuit?’ she asked, holding out the plate to her bemused neighbour.
Mrs Course stared dumbly and incredulously at her, sinking slowly into a chair, and shaking her head at the offer of the plate. Putting down the biscuits and stirring an already poured cup of tea, Virginia came over and actually took the other woman’s hands, so that she could place the cup and saucer securely in them, then sat down herself on the sofa, drawing her dressing gown tightly around her body, as the house was quite chilly. At least she had on her fluffy bunny slippers, and her feet would be kept warm.
‘I’d like you to go, please,’ Caroline requested. ‘I’m perfectly all right, and I don’t need to talk, or to be babysat.’
‘Nonsense! There’s nothing that can’t be put in a better light by a good old kicking-around verbally.’ Spotting a small photograph in a silver frame on a side table, Virginia reached over and picked it up, asking casually if it was her reluctant hostess’s daughter.
‘I thought I’d already told you I had no children,’ she intoned in a flat voice.
‘Are you sure?’ Virginia asked, sounding rather like Harriet Findlater, only the previous morning, asking if Mrs Course was sure that she had never visited Shepford Stacey before.
‘I think I can be trusted to know whether I have any children or not, Mrs Grainger. Now I’d really like you to go.’ Her voice was now cold and distant, but Virginia was absorbed in the photograph. ‘This is a school photo, isn’t it?’ she continued to probe.
‘My niece, I expect. Now would you excuse me a moment while I get my pill from the kitchen?’ she asked, a shrill note creeping into her voice.
Virginia gave a snort of surprise at something she had noticed in a corner of the picture, and finally returned to the here-and-now, glancing, as she did so, towards the door into the kitchen.
It wasn’t a pill at all, that Mrs Course had gone in there to get – it was a bloody great knife, and she was just securing her right hand around it and tucking the long, sharp blade between her arm and the side of her body, pointing it in such a way that, if – no, when – she used it, it would be with an efficient downward stabbing motion.
After maybe a second or two of indecision and surprise, Virginia galvanised her body into action, preparing for flight, for she could not hope to win a fight, not against a weapon like that.
Chapter Ten
Monday 4th April – still morning
I
Falconer and Carmichael had put themselves in the line of fire again in the Borrowdale household, but both parents seemed to have cast-iron alibis, with witnesses as corroboration. Seth had been ale-swigging in the Ring o’ Bells until after closing time, staying on after lock-up, to have a few more drinks with Ernie and one of his other publican mates.
Martha had had a couple of school friends round for a reunion, after many a year of absence, and they had drunk and giggled into the early hours, oblivious of the fire, in the raucousness of their joy at seeing each other again.
In answer to questions from Falconer, yes, Seth could confirm, as could others, that he never left the pub until two o’clock, and that when he got home Martha’s friends were still jawing, so he gave them the old heave-ho and told them not to go anywhere near the fire, as their breath would probably ignite, and he didn’t fancy having to identify their manky bodies the next day. He really should have sued the charm school!
II
Virginia fled through the open door, trying to escape into her own cottage, but she had closed the door behind her and didn’t have the keys, as she was still in her night clothes. She knocked like a mad woman, but not for long, as she heard Caroline exiting her own cottage, and Virginia knew what she would have clasped in her hand, and what she intended to do with it.
‘Richard! Richard!’ she yelled, wishing that she had taken him a cup of tea before embarking on this foolish, and now dangerous, errand, but there was no turning of the door handle, no answering call to confirm that he had heard her, and was on his way. How could he sleep through her knocking and shouting?
Fl
eeing once more, from what had seemed like safety to her a minute ago, she ran into the garden of Copse View, an overgrown tangle of vegetation wreathed in mist, and the smog created by the still-smouldering fire site. She plunged into a forest of shrubbery at the other side of the garden, beyond the conservatory and towards the back, then became as still as a statue as she could manage, and concentrated all her hearing on identifying the whereabouts of her pursuer.
For one horrified moment she thought she had been discovered immediately, then realised that the clicking and clacking she could hear was coming from the pampas grass behind which she sat. She had forgotten how it chattered to itself the whole time, like a crowd of ghosts whispering to each other.
When she was a child, her parents had buried two of the family cats in the centre of a triple crown of such grass in their front garden, and she had imagined that the continual chit-chat was the two cats gossiping, keeping themselves up to date with family news. But this wasn’t the right time for such reminiscences … or maybe it was.
On examination, there proved to be four crowns, planted as if there were one in each corner of a square. This was probably why she had not identified the plants in the decreased visibility – because there was so much of it. If she could only wriggle herself into the middle, she might be safe, but she had to alert Richard somehow, or she’d eventually be dead meat.
She could hear the dreadful Mrs C, still at the boundary of the property, probably relishing the thought that she had her prey cornered. Taking a huge risk, Virginia pushed her way to the back of the garden where there were some sturdy brambles, and shouted Richard’s name at the top of her voice, while ruining the skin on her hands by waving stalks of the prickly brambles around wildly to indicate that this was where she had gone to ground.
The diversion appeared to have worked, for she was able to use the noisy progress of her hunter through the tangle, to cover the noise of her own return to the pampas grass, and the rather tight squeeze between its four clumps.
She settled as quickly as she could, becoming as silent as it was possible for her to be, trying to identify the sounds of the other woman’s search for her, through the constant clicking and chittering of the grass. It wasn’t easy to discern one noise through the other, but she realised that Caroline Course sounded as if she was getting fed up with the brambles, and began to shout at the top of her voice, ‘Nosy! Nosy Parker! Come out! I’m waiting!’
This ought to have frightened Virginia to the very marrow of her bones, but she realised almost immediately that the shouting was actually to her advantage. It told her where her pursuer was, confirming that she wasn’t, say, just a few feet away, and toying with her, and it might alert someone to the fact that there was something very wrong going on. It might even rouse Richard, but she somehow doubted this last.
And then the calling stopped, the noise of the grass interfered with her ability to pinpoint her pursuer, and she got really frightened.
*……*……*
III
On leaving The Vines, the two detectives decided to collect the car and make the other calls on their agenda using the vehicle. It was a very unpleasant day weather-wise, the temperature having dropped quite a bit, and with the smell of smoke and burning still on the air. The car might shield them from smelling like they’d spent the day tending a bonfire, rather than about official police business.
The Baldwins proved to be at home, all four adults and little Spike. This being a Bank Holiday, Frank was present, as he had been on their last visit here, and it was he who opened the door to them, sighing, ‘Not you lot again. Haven’t you stirred up enough shit from the past already?’
‘Not quite, sir,’ answered Falconer, in his official voice. ‘I have a few more questions to ask, and I should be grateful if you would invite us in, so that we may continue with our investigation of what, you have no doubt gathered, is a double murder – yes, it was arson,’ he confirmed, as Frank raised an interrogatory eyebrow at him, ‘and not just some unfortunate electrical fault that caused the fire at High Gates.’
Frank stepped aside and cocked his head towards the living room in resignation, calling out to the rest of his family, ‘It’s the police, to give us the third degree again – or should that be the fourth degree, considering this is the second time you’ve called here and disturbed our Easter weekend?’
‘Two women have died, Mr Baldwin. Don’t you feel you owe them a few minutes of your time to help find their murderer?’ That was a killer blow, and Frank merely sat down in an armchair without another word, as first Stevie, then Patsy entered the room, the latter guiding Elsie, Frank’s mother, by the elbow, towards her special high-seated armchair.
Carmichael removed himself to a high-backed wooden chair, which stood at the front of the room as emergency seating, in the event of a plethora of visitors, and extracted his notebook. Falconer repeated the information he had relayed to the head of the household on arrival, and when he spoke the word ‘arson’ there were audible gasps from all three women.
‘You mean that fire was started on purpose?’ Patsy asked, unable to grasp the fact that there had been a second murder in this boring little backwater. ‘Harriet was killed on purpose? Who on earth in their right mind would want to kill two harmless old women from the local primary school?’ This was not exactly what she had said on his last visit, but it nevertheless showed a softening of attitudes, post-mortem.
Falconer’s universe suddenly shuddered on its axle. ‘Would you mind repeating what you’ve just said, Mrs Baldwin?’ he asked, still computing what her questions had caused to slot into place in his mind.
‘I asked who on earth would want to kill two harmless old women who taught at the primary school,’ she obliged him. For a moment, he sat without speech, introspective: staring at nothing, and combing his memory.
At last he broke the silence, as the piece of jigsaw fell into place, for he had known all along that the explanation for what had been happening here had its roots in the past. ‘When we were here on Saturday,’ he stared at Carmichael, hoping to jog him into looking back in his notebook, ‘you told us about a child who was killed. Could you elaborate on what you said then?’ A second furtive glance in Carmichael’s direction confirmed that he had, indeed, found his notes from their previous visit, and was busy scanning them.
‘It was thirty years ago, and there’s not much to tell, now. A little girl from the school fell over in the playground on a foggy day. Nobody took any notice of her when she tried to get some sympathy and a plaster, so she decided to go home. Only she never got there. She was hit by a car and died later in hospital.’
‘Tell me the name of the little girl, please?’
‘Carole Nicholson,’ supplied Elsie. ‘Pretty little thing she was, too. Her mother never got over it.’
‘Have you any idea what happened to her parents after the death of their daughter?’ He was on to something now, and he knew it.
Frank, Patsy, and Stevie shook their heads, five year old Spike shaking his in imitation, but Elsie answered in the positive. ‘Yes, Inspector, I can tell you at least part of the story, if not all of it.’ All eyes in the room swivelled to look at her.
‘Don’t look at me like that, Patsy. I knew her mother from the Mothers’ Union meetings, and you were too busy with being newly married, and trying to carve a career for yourself at the council. I didn’t always live with you. I did used to have a life of my own,’ she explained to her daughter, with a rather dirty look.
‘She had a nervous breakdown, you know, the mother: never got over it. Then her husband upped sticks and left her, because he couldn’t stand her constant weeping and wailing. He just took off in search of a life out of mourning, and she became even worse after that. I think they put her in a special hospital or a home after that. She stopped washing or doing her hair, or the housework. Damned near stopped eating altogether as well, before someone alerted the doctor, and he went round and eventually called in a second opinion, so
that they could section her.’
‘And to your knowledge, has anyone not local, but familiar, been spotted round here recently?’ he asked. This was a very long shot, but he had to take it, although without hope of getting a bite from such meagre bait.
‘Well, yes,’ answered Stevie, making Falconer almost jump out of his chair with surprise.
‘Who? When? Where?’ he asked, urgently now.
‘At the bake sale. I was in The Rectory washing up, because nearly all the cups had been used, and Harriet Findlater came and sat with me for a while, and we had a little chat.’ Never had she received such rapt attention. ‘She only went back into the sale because she said she saw someone she thought she recognised.’
‘And who could you see? Anyone that might have been in her line of vision?’
‘I wasn’t facing the door, so I couldn’t see. The last people in the kitchen, though, were that couple from the holiday cottages. Someone did tell me their name – now what was it …? That’s it! Grainger.
‘Hang on a minute, though, I’d just been asking her who she thought might have done that to Audrey Finch-Matthews, and whether it could have been anyone with a grudge from long ago, and for a few minutes she got completely immersed in things that had happened donkey’s years ago.’
A nod was as good as a wink to the inspector, and he recalled that the Graingers had been involved in a murder investigation before, and that Inspector Plover had referred to Virginia as a damned nuisance, or something along those lines. What if she was more than that? He knew she’d declared her intention of going home after Audrey’s murder, but there she still was, and now Harriet Findlater was nothing but crackling, with Virginia bloody Grainger just over the road from her.
‘Come on, Carmichael,’ he ordered, abruptly rising to his feet, and directing a, ‘Thank you very much for your time. I hope it won’t be necessary to disturb you again in regard to this matter,’ to the Baldwins, he marched out of the house and unlocked the car, his next destination firmly fixed in his mind, Carmichael scampering along at his heels like an overgrown hunting dog.
Pascal Passion (The Falconer Files Book 4) Page 17
