IV
Virginia continued to crouch as quietly as possible in the shelter of the pampas grass, but the acrid smoke mixed in with the fog was tickling her nose and her throat, threatening to make her either sneeze or cough, and memories of a previous experience of being pursued in a heavy bout of mist made her want to scream from a combination of remembered fear and present terror.
It was, however, an unexpected cramp in her right calf that forced her to give away her position, for, as it closed its talons on her leg muscle, she gave an involuntary cry of pain, and changed her position to drive it away. This had been heard from over by the conservatory, and a low syrupy voice began to coo her name.
‘Vir-gin-ia. Vir-gin-ia. Come on out, Ginny, I know you’re in there, and there’s no escape. Come to Caroline, and let me send you to join Audrey and Harriet. I’m sure you’ll all get on very well together.’
Virginia’s buttocks clenched, lest her bowels evacuate from fear, and settled in silence once more, hoping that the fog would disorientate the woman with the knife, and make her lose her way.
‘Virginia! Where are you?’ The voice was now an impatient hiss, rather like that of an enraged cobra deprived of its prey. It was fog that had been partly responsible for her darling daughter’s death, and its presence now was sending her further down the path of insanity. She would dispose of this woman, but she had no idea of what was beyond that. Maybe she’d use the knife on herself, and they wouldn’t know who had killed whom. She’d just have to be careful that she had the strength to throw the knife in the direction of Virginia’s body, after she had stabbed herself.
The pampas grass continued its sibilant whisper of incomprehensible conversation, and Virginia felt a little better, having placed the direction of the hiss as slightly further away than had been the cooing entreaty.
Suddenly, another voice joined the cast of today’s melodrama, and she heard Richard calling her name, and blundering into the situation, with no idea of what he was up against. He must have heard her calling before she had sought shelter, but his voice did not reassure her. He was putting himself in danger too, and he didn’t know it. He probably thought she had gone exploring, and done what all female leads do in old films: fallen over and sprained her ankle.
What on earth should she do? Should she stay hidden, and let him blunder innocently into the path of a maniac, or should she call back to him, thus giving her position away, and putting herself back in the spotlight. Coming to a sudden decision, she stood up recklessly, and shouted, ‘Richard! Help! Somebody help! She’s mad!’ as loud as she was able.
V
Falconer’s car was flagged down as it was passing The Rectory, the vicar shooting out on to the road to apprehend him. He had the stark choice of mowing down a man of the cloth, or continuing on to where he thought a killer dwelt. It was a tough choice, for he was no lover of the clergy.
Executing an emergency stop in his frustration, he lowered the passenger window, and shouted across Carmichael, an action that not many people would have got away with scot free. ‘What do you want, Vicar? We’re in rather a hurry, so I can’t stop unless it’s absolutely necessary.’ He crossed his fingers out of sight, and hoped the vicar would fall for this one.
He didn’t. ‘I managed to get a number for the Findlaters senior, and I gave them a call. They’re in The Rectory right now, having a cup of tea, and expressing the wish to speak to the senior investigating officer. Ruth and I would be grateful if you could spare them a couple of minutes.’ The man’s eyes told the whole truth. Please come and talk to them so that I can get rid of them, was what he would have asked, if he had been completely truthful.
With no intimation of the life-and-death drama that was being played out just down Forge Lane, Falconer had no choice but to oblige, and he nosed the car on to The Rectory’s drive, and they both got out of the vehicle, to deal with this irritating interruption of the due process of taking a murderer into custody. Maybe!
And it was this ‘maybe’ that allowed the inspector the luxury of the time to stop. He knew he was on to something, but he wasn’t convinced that ‘Virginia Grainger’ was the answer. He just knew that he was headed in the right direction, and that he’d know what he was looking for when he got there.
Inside The Rectory they found Edith and Bill Findlater, stony-faced, sitting bolt upright in the north-facing and rather bleak living room. Even before the niceties of social greeting could be served, Edith, metaphorically, rose like a snake to the attack.
‘What’s this I hear about our house being burnt down, and us only gone a couple of days? There’s just no police presence in rural areas these days. Whatever is the force thinking about, leaving helpless communities like this at the mercy of any maniac who happens to be passing through? Thank God we’re insured, but heaven knows how long this is going to take to sort out. Paperwork seems to take forever these days.
‘Computers promised us paperless offices, and yet everything takes twice as long as it used to before they were even invented. I simply don’t know what the world is coming to. Well, I hope you’re going to do something about it. We can’t afford to stay in a hotel or anything like that. We’re old age pensioners you know. I suppose we shall have to go back to mother’s and stay in that dreary old dungeon of a house of hers, until this is all over.’
‘I’m very sorry about your daughter, Mrs Findlater,’ Falconer interrupted, unable to believe what his ears were hearing, given what had actually happened, and wanting to give them a chance to compute the apparent lack of emotion from her parents, about their Harriet’s horrible end.
‘Oh, she’s not much of a loss. Always whining and grumbling about something, and hanging round the house at the weekends like a bad smell. We had no peace from her. At least we can get on with our plans to move abroad now – nice little apartment we fancy. In Portugal. Better weather than here, and hopefully no nosy neighbours who can eavesdrop on us, because they can’t understand what we’re saying. Ernie and Margaret were friends of ours as well as Harriet’s. They can have some nice little holidays with us when we’re settled, and we can all have a gin and tonic on the balcony and watch the sun go down.’
He tried again. ‘It was a very fierce fire, Mrs Findlater.’ (Bill Findlater just sat with a blank face, apparently tuned to a different station to the others in the room.) ‘I’m afraid your daughter will have to be identified from dental records.’ That ought to bring the old bag up short.
Apparently not. ‘Well, her teeth always were rotten – forever complaining about them, she was – so there’ll be plenty of fillings for the dentist to work from. Shouldn’t be too much difficulty with that.’
Bill Findlater finally looked in Falconer’s direction, and the inspector thought that, at last, he was going to hear some words of grief and appreciation for the poor woman who had just lost her life in an arson attack.
Wrong again! ‘We had an insurance policy on her, you know – a life one. I said it would be a good idea, in case anything happened to her, and she wasn’t around to look after us when we got frail and needed taking care of. Never fancied one of those nursing homes, myself.’
‘Well remembered, Bill. I’d completely forgotten that, with all the rush to get back here. It means we can look at those better-class, more spacious apartments closer to the beach now, and not be too cramped: retire with a bit more style than I thought we would be able to.’
‘Would you like to view the remains?’ asked Falconer. This was an outrageous question, never likely to be agreed to by the powers-that-be given the state of what was left of Harriet, but he asked it all the same, just to see what reaction he got.
‘She wasn’t much to look at when she was alive. I don’t expect she’s any prettier now, but thanks for asking.’
Luckily for all present, the telephone rang at that moment, Septimus Lockwood left the room to answer it, as it was in his study, and the ensuing silence gave them all pause for thought, and for the two detectives to gain
control of their tempers, and try to reintroduce their finer feelings to the proceedings.
Finding this an impossibility, and aware of the expression on Carmichael’s face, Falconer was just about to announce their imminent departure when Septimus came flying into the room, his cassock flapping round his ankles. ‘That was Richard Grainger on his mobile, trying to get in touch with you, or summon help from any quarter available – me, I suppose, at a pinch.’
‘Get to the point, man, and don’t start rambling, or we’ll be here all day.’ As he said this, Falconer felt a frisson of apprehension at what he was about to hear, and adrenalin flooded his system with that jittery ‘fight or flight’ sensation.
‘Apparently the woman next door has gone mad. She’s chased Virginia into the grounds of the empty house next to the holiday cottages, and has hold of her, with a knife at her throat. You’ve got go to there now, before the woman does something irreversible.’
Only a vicar would have expressed the danger Virginia was in using the word ‘irreversible’.
VI
Virginia, having revealed her position, was struggling to free herself from the middle of the dense growth of the pampas grass when, in her peripheral vision, she was aware of a figure hurtling towards her, one hand raised in threat, and holding what she knew was a knife, but could not actually distinguish at such an angle and in the misty gloom of the morning.
She could hear Richard’s cries suddenly cease, and was almost free of the vegetation when she was aware of being grabbed from behind, something cold and sharp being held against her throat, while a singsong voice in her ear crooned, ‘Bed-time, Vir-gin-ia. Time to go to sleep.’ Her throat was as dry as sandpaper, and she could not have screamed had she wanted to.
Letting her body go limp, so that her captor would have more of a struggle to keep her upright, she prayed hard that Richard was doing something useful during his sudden silence. As Course struggled with the sudden extra weight of her burden, there was a loud crashing through the overgrown garden, as Richard headed in their direction, calling Virginia’s name over and over again, out of sheer fright for her safety.
‘Stop right where you are!’ The voice wasn’t singsong any more; it was hard, and cold as the grave. ‘If you don’t stop right there, I’ll cut her throat this minute,’ she threatened.
The sound of movement ceased, but Virginia could tell, even through the rushing panic in her ears, that he was much nearer than he had been before.
‘I’ve stopped. I’ve stopped. What do you want me to do?’ he shouted, his voice hoarse with panic.
‘Absolutely nothing, my dear.’ A playful zephyr disturbed the smoggy atmosphere for a couple of seconds, and he could see their neighbour, her face a crazed mask, standing with Virginia firmly in her grasp, a long, gleaming knife held to her throat.
‘Don’t hurt her,’ he croaked, as loud as his dry mouth would allow. ‘Please don’t hurt her. For God’s sake don’t kill her.’
‘Oh, I don’t think I can promise not to do that. I’ll do what I want with her, in my own time, and be advised: you’ll be next.’
‘Why?’ It wasn’t so much a question that escaped his lips, but a one word prayer.
‘Because somebody has to pay.’ The mad voice was loud and coarse now, and as evil as the devil’s own.
‘Pay for what? If you’re going to kill my wife and then me, at least let us know what we’re supposed to be paying for.’ Richard was playing for time, hoping to inch forward to Virginia’s rescue, but their tormentor was all too aware of what he was up to.
‘My daughter’s death,’ she screamed. ‘And stay where you are. I can hear you moving.’
Virginia gave a little yip of pain, as the tip of the blade was pressed further into her skin. ‘Do what she says, Richard! For God’s sake do what she says!
Chapter Eleven
Monday 4th April – morning
I
Falconer and Carmichael had made a dash for the door, alerting the elderly Findlaters that they may be about to miss something, and they had risen too, intent on following the action wherever it went.
The Boxster shot out of The Rectory’s drive, and turned right into Forge Lane with a squeal of tyres. Neither of its occupants had any idea of whether they would be called upon to use negotiating skills, or brute force, or whether the outcome would be another death, or just an arrest. Everything had sorted itself out in Falconer’s mind now, and all he lacked was the fine print. No doubt Mrs Grainger would be able to provide that, should she survive her ordeal.
The Findlaters followed hard on the wheels of the front car, wanting to be spectators at the end game, and curious to see what was left of their house. Mrs Findlater had even begun to view the fire as a blessing, as they would not have to wait for years to sell the place. The insurance should pay up, and the site could be cleared for demolition and rebuilding. It was all very simple in her mind, the only obstacle to their plans for year round sunshine gone now, along with the house.
Both cars screeched to a halt almost simultaneously, and spouted figures that rushed in two separate directions, the Findlaters to what was left of High Gates, and the detectives towards the rear garden of Copse View, not stopping their headlong rush until they were beside Richard Grainger, who was breathing hard with emotion.
A yell of fury from Virginia’s captor was drowned by shrieking and yelling sounds coming from the other side of the house, and Falconer took pause to comprehend that the reality of the situation had suddenly hit Harriet’s parents, with their first view of their erstwhile home, and gave a wry smile at their distress, the heartless bastards.
Course was momentarily distracted, her head shooting round in surprise at the sudden sound. Virginia wriggled and struggled in her grasp, trying to kick her in the ankles, and Carmichael suddenly burst into voice.
‘Oh my God!’ he shouted at the top of his voice, pointing just over Course’s right shoulder, his face a mask of utter horror.
‘What?’ asked Falconer. But Carmichael was no longer there, the space where he had stood, empty and uninhabited. Instead, he saw the sergeant actually in the air, in the middle of a rugby tackle. Course had fallen for his distraction, even in her crazed state of mind, and she had looked where he had been pointing, giving him just enough time to launch himself in her direction.
Virginia finally managed to free an arm that had been held tightly by Course’s left arm, and elbowed her in the ribs. Carmichael caught her round the legs, as Virginia executed a final twist, and managed to distance her throat from the blade of the knife.
At that point Falconer caught on, and joined the melee, Richard hard on his heels. Between the four of them, they separated Course from the knife, and got handcuffs on her, although it took the efforts of all of them to subdue her. Richard’s first action was to ask Virginia if she was all right, Falconer’s to ask the same of Carmichael, worried that he might have been injured in his free-fall attack.
‘Not so good, sir,’ he replied, curled over into a ball now that the action was over.
‘Was it the knife?’ Falconer asked with concern, worried that his sergeant may have suffered a stab wound in reward for his heroics, and surprised at the level of concern he was feeling. He didn’t want to lose his partner; he was finally getting used to him, and would be at a loss without him. They were developing a style, between them, that seemed to work very well, impossible as this might have seemed, only the previous summer.
‘No, sir. Just a knee in me nadgers. I’m coming into work tomorrow with my old cricket box on. If I don’t take more care of myself, I’ll never be able to produce little Carmichaels.’
‘Good idea!’ Falconer agreed, imagining his partner in the afore-mentioned piece of sports protection equipment and shuddering, but quietly considering that if the gods hadn’t been on Carmichael’s side a few minutes ago, Kerry might have been a widow, and Carmichael wouldn’t even have had the chance to be a husband any longer. And he’d have to get used to a new
partner, which was now quite an alarming thought.
II
Back-up had been summoned, and Caroline Course, now subdued, a husk of the woman she once was, was removed from the scene to Market Darley to await questioning, then assessment by a mental health professional (or a ‘shrink’, as we used to refer to them), and Falconer and Carmichael helped Richard and Virginia back to their holiday cottage. They were both weak, and shaking with shock at what might have been, and the first thing Carmichael did when they got into the house was to put on the kettle.
‘I said we should go home,’ stated Virginia, a little huffily. ‘I said on Friday morning that I didn’t want to stay another night in a place where there had been murder done.’
‘I know you did, Ginny.’
‘And then you persuaded me to stay on.’
‘Sorry, Ginny.’
‘You assured me that lightning couldn’t strike twice, and I believed you.’
‘I didn’t think it could. You’re like a magnet for murder. Oh, Ginny, I could’ve lost you back there.’ Richard finished on a wail, his face crumpling, and Virginia went over and put her arms around him, the two of them now standing in the middle of the little room in a tight embrace.
As Carmichael approached from the kitchen, Falconer cleared his throat, and they took the hint and separated. ‘I can’t seem to find a tray,’ he stated.
‘Oh my God, it’s next door!’ Ginny ejaculated, and her face clouded.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll get it,’ volunteered the inspector, and went off on his small domestic quest.
When he returned, he was carrying a framed photograph as well as the tray, still laden with its tea things from earlier, and handing this latter to Carmichael, who took it in one hand, and set to with the other, to make the chocolate fingers disappear – presto magico!
Pascal Passion (The Falconer Files Book 4) Page 18
