Written Out - A Falconer File Christmas Short Story

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘And you’re what? An elderly lothario who drinks too much? Don’t get ideas above your station. You’ll be for the chop after this edition, whereas I shall sail on undisturbed. I’m permanent.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure of that, matey.’ This last wasn’t so loud, but it carried to the inspector’s ears, and he watched Huggins stalk away in indignation. He stopped by Peter Derby, another of the show’s experts, and they fell into conversation that seemed to be directed at the narrator, who pointedly ignored them.

  After about forty-five minutes, the small crews formed again, and went their separate ways, Falconer and Carmichael sticking with the one that accompanied Charlie Huggins, Peter Potter-Porter, self-styled Golden Boy, with a slight curl of his upper lip, leaving with his own crew, evidently to film the introductory piece before he left the mundane work to others.

  As the afternoon’s rummage visit began at ‘Junk ’n’ Stuff’, the two detectives noticed that the inside of the shop was already decorated for Christmas. They had noticed a few strings of coloured lights winking in the window, but inside sat a real pine tree which would probably last until it closed for the Bank Holidays, as central heating wasn’t an option, given the fact that they had delicate wooden furniture that could dry out and fall apart.

  On the tree were antique decorations that really gave it an air of times past. Some of the pieces were Victorian, others were from the early twentieth century. A set of lights, probably from the fifties and with only twelve bulbs, added to its sense of long ago, as did paper decorations suspended from and across the ceiling. Faux presents surrounded the bucket in which the tree was planted to add to the seasonal atmosphere.

  As the crew entered the premises, Falconer and Carmichael also went inside for a little look around, Falconer keeping out of the way of the film crew, Carmichael bobbing up all over the place in the hope that he might get his mug on the telly. He had just appeared as if by magic, another large pink bubble obscuring half his face, behind Huggins who was doing a piece to camera about a piece of Mauchline ware he had just come across in a box of oddments, when a voice cut across the filming with a very sharp edge to it.

  ‘Look, I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing, but could you please keep out of camera shot. I know you’re being very protective of us, but you’re really not helping things. Perhaps you could be of more use outside. I notice there’s quite a crowd gathering at the window.’

  As he finished, Falconer grabbed his sergeant’s arm to stop him mugging at the camera and led him out of the door. ‘Come along now,’ he said in his best police manner. ‘Clear away and give people room to do their jobs. Nothing to see here.’ Carmichael frowned at the crowd and looked menacing, when he was actually just rather cross about having been ejected from the inside of the shop and having his bubble gum confiscated once again, but the surrounding members of the public took the hint and moved further away from the premises.

  ‘Aw, sir,’ he complained when they were at last alone at the window, ‘I could’ve been on the box.’

  ‘I think if I hadn’t taken you outside, that director would’ve had you removed in a box,’ concluded Falconer, giving him a sardonic smile.

  FIVE

  Emily Jarvis had indigestion. The acid burned up from her stomach, making her feel unpleasantly ill. She had wandered the streets all morning and had not even had a glimpse of a film crew. She had left her antacid tablets at home in a kitchen drawer, and now she was suffering from aching feet as well. As her feeling of injustice mounted, she began to develop a headache, and life definitely seemed unfair today.

  Ignoring the early signs of the Christmas season such as the lights strung across the Market Square, the tinsel and fairy lights decorating shop windows, with even the odd crib scene here and there – how very un-PC – she headed down one of the little lanes where she knew there were likely to be junk and second-hand shops, the owners of which now considered their premises as antique retail centres, given the popularity of such television shows as Get One Over. This should prove rich hunting ground, but again she had no luck, and her temper rose even further as the acid burned a trail from her stomach to her throat.

  Suddenly, just around a corner into another narrow road, she saw a television camera ahead of her, and quickened her pace to see which of the celebrities was being filmed. She had no memory of a suitable shop down here, and was using it merely to cut across to another street. And there he was, just a few yards in front of her, his irritating voice grinding away at this piece to camera, his sneering tones belittling this season’s experts who were using the show as a springboard into the trade as professionals. Why did he always have to look down on people so? He was such an unpleasant character whose intrusive and domineering narration was to the detriment of the overall production.

  Why couldn’t the narrator be changed each season, as were their amateur experts? Why did his whiny voice have to ruin every episode she watched? Surely he was losing them viewers, rather than picking them up? Her temper flared even higher as she grasped her handbag tightly and moved slightly forward.

  The crew had finished now, but the superior sneer on Peter Potter-Porter’s face had changed not a jot: this was evidently not a persona he put on for the cameras, but who he really was. One of her hands snaked unheeded into her handbag and rummaged around in there until it came across what she was subconsciously searching for. I’ll give him a piece of my mind if it’s the last thing I do, was her last coherent thought.

  SIX

  At about five o’clock, all natural light long gone, the filming was completed, and the crews met up in the Market Square, Falconer and Carmichael still clinging to their coat-tails. They stood there amidst a lot of technical chat about what they had achieved, and when and where they would meet again to film the objects being valued by their resident professional. This was agreed upon as next week, and the auction was to be two days later, so that they had time to edit the film and have it ready for screening on the twenty-third of the month.

  As they began to drift away, a small group of children assembled under the Market Cross and began to sing Christmas carols and Falconer noticed that they were collecting for Help for Heroes, much to his approval. If anyone needed help, it was those maimed in fighting for their own country.

  Eventually, all the technical staff had left, and they were left with just the experts, glowing in the light of their own temporary fame. They might as well, as it wouldn’t last for much longer. Household names soon degenerated into has-beens in the inspector’s opinion, once they had stopped appearing on the nation’s screens regularly – and this programme went out five days a week and had a tight filming schedule to keep to.

  Charlie Huggins was the most smug and self-satisfied, but then his bravado had probably been fuelled by the silver hip flask that kept appearing from one of his pockets, and he seemed to have forgotten his little disagreement with the narrator at lunchtime, whatever it had been about. Mairie McManus was the only woman in the team, and she was flirting and generally acting like one half her age, to match the way she dressed. Another of them who had been noted to slip into the pub before the end of filming, Peter Derby, was beginning to turn from sweetness and light to pure acid, and nudged Charlie Huggins until the latter offered him a pull at his hip flask.

  The fourth member of the team, Johnathan Mull, stood slightly to one side. A very well-educated man, he found the self-congratulation and mutual admiration somewhat embarrassing, and began to suggest that maybe they should head for home. Peter Derby, however, completely disagreed and urged them towards The Cattle Market, a pub right on the Square. ‘After all,’ he said, ‘this is our last treasure hunt for this year. We’ve only got the valuation and the auction to go now, and we’re finished until the New Year, with all the other episodes in the can, and who can say whether they’ll retain us in the light of going national?’ So, he was harbouring hopes of retention.

  This declaration seemed to do the trick, and the group
was just turning towards the pub when Falconer’s mobile rang. He answered it, Carmichael still by his side but looking longingly at the disappearing minor celebrities. As the phone call proceeded, the inspector’s face became more and more serious and incredulous before he hung up and said to his sergeant, ‘Do you want to go inside the pub?’

  ‘Oh, yes please, sir,’ replied Carmichael, a broad grin across his chops, at the thought of more basking in the company of celebrities, ‘but why?’

  ‘Because I’ve just had a phone call to say that a beat PC has found Peter Potter-Porter lying in one of the back streets, and he’s dead.’

  ‘That hilarious narrator chap I was talking to earlier, when I got his autograph?’ Carmichael could hardly believe his ears.

  ‘That’s the one. The uniformed constable is going to stay on guard until they can get him pronounced dead and a SOCO team to photograph and record the scene, but I said we might as well take advantage of having all the show’s “stars” together in one place, before they scatter to the four corners of the country. We’ll just have to get someone to question the technical team later, but I assume they’ll all live within easy reach of the studio, so they shouldn’t be too geographically disparate.’

  ‘How do we know it was one of them, sir?’

  ‘Well, it seems a reasonable hypothesis. His wallet was undisturbed, he still had his mobile phone, and, as far as we know at the moment, he doesn’t know anybody in the town and doesn’t live nearby.’

  ‘Were there any witnesses?’ Carmichael suddenly thought that he might still get on the television, and puffed himself up with pride.

  ‘Apparently, there were no pedestrians visible in any direction, and the body was still twitching when the PC discovered him. The only person he could find was a little old lady in a wool shop choosing a pattern for a matinee jacket, and she hadn’t heard anything. Neither had the woman who owns the shop.’

  ‘Was there a weapon on the scene?’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ replied Falconer as he directed his footsteps towards The Cattle Market’s welcoming lights.

  SEVEN

  Inside the saloon bar, Charlie Huggins, Mairie McManus, Peter Derby, and Johnathan Mull sat round a table, all acting the life and soul of the party and glancing round them to see if they’d been recognised, but they were out of luck, and it was only the inspector and sergeant who headed over towards them. As Falconer asked Carmichael if he would like something, they all drained their glasses and raised them towards him, evidently assuming that he was getting a round in. The inspector sighed and took their glasses, two in each hand, and approached the bar.

  When he returned to the table, he had two vodka and tonics, two gin and tonics, and two large coffees on a tray: he and Carmichael never drank on duty – in fact, they very rarely drank at all. He settled himself in a spare chair that his sergeant had rustled up and began to tune into the conversation. ‘He was absolutely poisonous to me at lunchtime,’ Charlie Huggins said without a trace of self-consciousness. ‘Seemed to think I was some kind of drunken gigolo.’

  ‘Good judge of character, then,’ said Johnathan Mull, grinning at his colleague. ‘He was always having a go at me about my public school accent, which I can’t change even if I wanted to. He was a swine with how he talked about us during his narration, though, wasn’t he?’

  ‘An absolute pig,’ chirped Mairie McManus, ‘and he even called me something akin to mutton dressed as lamb, once. I could have cheerfully killed him, considering how much I spend on clothes and my hair, and how much time I spend in make-up.’

  ‘He was really rotten to me recently, saying I couldn’t spot a genuine antique if it jumped up and bit me: accused me of only buying obvious stuff and that I had no intuition,’ interjected Peter Derby.

  ‘He really is a nasty piece of work,’ confirmed Mairie McManus, once again claiming the limelight.

  Falconer cleared his throat, returning his cup to its saucer. ‘I’m sorry to have to inform you that Peter Potter-Parker is dead,’ he announced to the table at large.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Serves him right.’

  ‘Couldn’t be happier for him.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ This last was Mairie again, her face screwed up in surprise, or at least, an approximation of it.

  ‘Deadly serious, I’m afraid,’ replied Falconer, as Carmichael drew out his official notebook. ‘Now, I realise he wasn’t a popular man, but can you please tell me what you know about him, and how he got on with the film crews?’

  It had seemed that he’d upset quite a few of the technicians too, and was universally quite disliked, much to Carmichael’s surprise. ‘When did you last see him?’ the inspector asked.

  ‘I haven’t seen him since lunchtime,’ declared Charlie Huggins, his face growing worried and pale as he remembered the words they had had.

  ‘I saw him then but didn’t speak to him,’ added Peter Derby.

  ‘I spoke with him,’ admitted Mairie McManus, ‘but I think, underneath all the banter, he was rather sweet on me.’ As she was at least twenty years older than him and obviously dyed her hair dark, this seemed more fantasy than fact, and Falconer didn’t dig any deeper for now. The sourness about the mutton dressed as lamb comment could bide its time.

  ‘I didn’t even see him at lunch,’ Johnathan Mull told them, his face a mask of innocence, ‘but then, we don’t get on very well. I simply don’t like his attitude.’

  That was not the first negative thing they had heard about the deceased, but the inspector leapt on it like a starving man on a fish and chip supper. ‘Why didn’t you get on, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Because he was a supercilious, narcissistic twit,’ came the answer. ‘He was superior whilst actually being inferior. The ability to make the most appalling puns and poke fun at everybody else involved in the show is not exactly a talent that would have seen him go far,’ Johnathan told them, a slight frown of distaste wrinkling his brow. ‘And he was, I believe, jealous of my schooling.’

  ‘Thank you for your honesty, sir,’ said Falconer.

  ‘But I thought he was very funny.’

  ‘Do shut up, Carmichael, there’s a good chap.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Have you got a note of everything said so far?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. Did anyone else feel that his so-called humour was detrimental to the show?’ he asked of the table at large, following his own thought processes for a moment.

  ‘Well, we thought he was a huge show-off,’ added Charlie Huggins, which really was the kettle calling the pot black.

  ‘But we do need to attract a certain type of viewer,’ explained Mairie McManus.

  ‘And what sort of viewer is that?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘The more common sort, if you want to know. There are so many shows like ours these days that we needed a USP, if you know what I mean, and he was it.’

  There were nods of reluctant agreement. ‘But none of us enjoyed the way he talked about us on his voice-over,’ said Peter Derby, draining his glass in one.

  There were nods of agreement at this, and looks of disbelief as Falconer asked them to give their full names and contact details to his sergeant and make themselves available for questioning the next day. ‘Maybe your production company will fund you to spend the night in Market Darley,’ he finished, rising from the table. Leaving Carmichael behind to deal with their disapproval at this request, he went out into the cold, crisp air and listened to the children singing, plumes of breath rising like smoke from their young mouths, their voices sweet and innocent.

  EIGHT

  After the warmth of the pub, the cold outside was more noticeable, especially in the dark, and there would, no doubt, be a heavy frost tonight. It was turning into a cold winter and Falconer only hoped that they did not have the snowfall they had had the previous year. Unwelcome memories of the Great Dane, Mulligan, rose unbidden to his mind, and he gave a quick shudder inside his coat, which he then p
ulled tight around his neck.

  Carmichael re-joined him and, as they were only a few minutes from the body, they headed in that direction and they found the PC there, guarding his crime scene and stamping his feet to keep warm. ‘Doctor arriving in a minute, sir, and the SOCO team’s on its way,’ he informed his superior officer, and Falconer looked down at the earthly remains of Peter Potter-Porter.

  ‘Any idea what happened?’ he asked.

  ‘Not much, but his coat is undone, and I had a quick peek under the sides. There seems to be a small amount of bleeding on his left front.’

  ‘Possibly a stab wound, then,’ replied Falconer, and looked, with relief, at the figure approaching from the other end of the road. Dr Philip Christmas – very seasonal name – was arriving and would soon relieve them of the need to hang around any longer in the icy temperatures. ‘Oh, by the way, Constable, we were told there was an elderly woman in a wool shop present when the fatality took place. Do you have a note of her details?’

  ‘Right here in my notebook, sir. I’ll get them to you as soon as I get back to the station.’

  ‘You could just give them to my sergeant now, and then we can get straight off and interview her after we’ve talked to the owner of the shop. On second thoughts, why don’t you do that when the SOCO team arrives? We’ll get straight off to this … Miss Jarvis,’ he concluded, squinting to read the handwriting in the PC’s notebook, as he showed it to Carmichael.

  Emily Jarvis’ residence, for her, was quite a meandering bus ride away from the town centre but was, in fact, just a ten-minute drive in a car. As they pulled up at the door, they saw the bowed figure of a white-haired woman just inserting a key in the lock. They had nearly beaten her back home.

  She turned, as they walked up the front path behind her, and looked closely with myopic eyes at the identification they offered, even breaking off and removing her spectacles carefully from her handbag to read them properly. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said, ‘but we elderly people can’t be too careful with people that come to our houses.’