Shadows and Sins (The Falconer Files Book 13)

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘And how many times, in all, did you visit her alone in her home?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t make a note in my diary in case my wife found it and thought what you just did.’

  ‘There doesn’t seem to be any evidence of your input on the manuscript which, in fact, we have taken possession of.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to be credited. It was just for fun.’

  ‘So, why didn’t you say anything when she disappeared?’

  ‘I thought that she had done a runner, so I re-let the property. We’d just about finished the story, and I thought she’d just get on with trying to get it published on her own. In the end, I didn’t think it was any good anyway. It was only a daft dream of mine that I’ve had since I was a child. I just wanted to get it out of my system.’

  ‘We shall want to take your fingerprints, sir,’ stated Falconer, his mind on the handbags.

  ‘So that you can eliminate them from your enquiries?’

  ‘Something like that.’ Falconer didn’t think so, but he wouldn’t say anything at the moment. Let the man think his story about fairies had gone down well. But, he didn’t believe it for a moment. For now, he had another line dangling in the water, and he wanted to see if he could land his fish. He’d make his mind up later.

  They found Timothy Driscoll, the so-called French resident, at home and very surprised to see them. ‘We contacted you by telephone before,’ explained Falconer after introductions had been made, ‘and I don’t remember you mentioning that you were resident in the UK again.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Sorry about that. I don’t like to advertise the fact that I’ve come back.’

  ‘Got a lot of debts, have you?’ asked Tomlinson.

  ‘Not really. I just don’t want people knowing I failed to make a mark on the French way of life. I was so enthusiastic before I went that I rather dug myself a hole and, when it didn’t work out how I had hoped that it would, I didn’t want everyone knowing I’d had to slink back here with my tail between my legs.’

  ‘You mean it didn’t work out financially?’

  ‘It didn’t work out, full stop. I couldn’t get the hang of the language, so I couldn’t work, and if I couldn’t work, then I couldn’t live. I don’t make enough from those flats to keep me.’

  ‘I understood you didn’t charge very high rents,’ put in Falconer.

  ‘Yes, that’s true, but it only made it even more impossible for me to do them up, and nothing’s selling these days, is it? I couldn’t put the rents up as they are, I couldn’t afford to renovate them, and I didn’t stand an ice cube’s chance in hell of selling them for more than tuppence ha’penny. You see my dilemma? Anyway, I hadn’t received a penny of rent from that property in I don’t know how long and I had no idea until I came back from France that she had gone, as she never answered any of my letters. I just knew that I wasn’t being paid.

  ‘So why didn’t you re-let the property?’ queried Carmichael as Falconer wrinkled his nose in distaste at the thought of the state of the flat.

  ‘Have you seen it?’ asked Driscoll. ‘I haven’t got the sort of money that that place needs spending on it to make it lettable.’

  Falconer wasn’t feeling particularly sympathetic towards a man who had hoped he could either just pick another life in a foreign country, without putting any work in, or live off investments, and gave him a very old-fashioned look. ‘So you’ve come back here. And are you working?’

  ‘No. I’m having to live off benefits. I can’t find a job.’

  ‘Shame!’

  What a waste of time this had proved to be.

  That afternoon brought news from Forensics. Of the handbags recovered from the site the day before, there had been no fingerprints. There were five bags in all, and one of them proved to have a concealed inner pocket in which they had found a store card belonging to Ms Suzie Doidge.

  ‘So that’s one of our missing girls. We’ve found the bodies of Melanie Saunders and Annie Symons, we’ve got the body of Suzie Doidge still missing, this Natalie Jones has supposedly disappeared and there’s Fanny Anstruther, not to mention Wanda Warwick’s friend Bonnie Fletcher. No wonder the national press got on to it. It’s turning into rather a complex case, Tomlinson. Hang on! There wouldn’t be any bag for Natalie Jones. She’s just gone missing, so whose is the fifth bag?’

  ‘Oh, we’ve had fair wonders of cases down in Cornwall, sir. You wouldn’t believe the complexity of some of them.’ And Falconer was thoroughly distracted. ‘Now, I remember, when I was first in uniform…’

  The inspector got to the point where he almost lost consciousness with the wonders of Cornwall, when a wave of what had happened the evening before washed over him, and suddenly he had to sit closer to his desk so as not to advertise the evidence. He had now completely lost his train of thought.

  The internal phone rang, bringing him back to normality, and he found Bob Bryant on the line. ‘We’ve had a call from some builders down in Ford Hollow – you know, that place where you had all that trouble last year – and it would seem that they’ve uncovered a woman’s body. I think you and Tomlinson ought to go and take a look. It sounds like it might be another one in the same pattern.’

  ‘We’re on our way, Bob. Whereabouts in Ford Hollow?’

  Whereabouts in Ford Hollow turned out to be on the edge of the village, where the ford had been recently diverted to allow the building of new houses, much to the disapproval of many of the residents. One of the machines digging the foundations had uncovered the remains of a body, partly rotted but still recognisable as a young woman.

  Rev. Florrie Feldman met them at the site, where she had been alerted he was arriving. ‘You killing off your parishioners again?’ Falconer hailed her as they approached the now dormant and sleeping digger.

  ‘You cheeky whippersnapper! Let me explain. The digger was scraping the ground prior to starting to dig the foundations, when it uncovered an unexpected occupant under the surface. She’s a bit raggedy, but I’m sure I’d recognise her if she were one of mine.’

  ‘Not if she was already in there before you took over,’ the inspector countered.

  ‘True, true, but we’ve had quite a lot of the locals out here to have a look – you know how fast the grapevine works in a village – and none of them said anything about recognising her. Of course, they turned up on the pretext of having a last protest at the granting of permission to build here, but I could see it in their eyes that they were just rubbernecking. After all, the ford has already been diverted, so there was really nothing that could be done about the situation.’

  ‘Nothing gets past you, does it, Rev.?’

  This particular member of the cloth had come to Ford Hollow the previous year, just before there were a couple of very nasty incidents, but she had originally met Falconer when in her first parish of Shepford St Bernard, and they had forged the beginnings of an alliance. They got on well, and Falconer felt that he could always trust her word, which is why he had turned to her quite recently when he needed someone outside of the station to talk to.

  A CSI team was at work, and Doc Christmas had already pronounced life extinct – beyond all hope. ‘That’s three dead and two missing,’ announced Tomlinson unnecessarily, and not much help to Falconer to recover the thread he had picked up earlier and nearly run with, and had now totally lost.

  ‘Did we get DNA samples taken from the house in King George III Terrace?’

  ‘We did indeed, sir. Who do you think this is?’

  ‘I think it’s got to be our missing Ms Doidge, although I suppose it could be Bonnie Fletcher or Fanny Anstruther – but unlikely to be our Miss Jones, as this body has a long-buried look to it. Do you know, I just can’t seem to see the pattern to this. Why kill three or four young girls and an old lady, unless the old lady was a practice murder and set the pattern for all the rest. Our Fanny doesn’t quite fit into this story.’

  ‘When did Ms Doidge disappear, to our knowledge?’r />
  ‘She hasn’t been seen since April 2009,’ replied Falconer after a quick wrack of his brains.

  ‘What a rats’ maze this case is.’

  ‘You can say that again, Tomlinson.’

  Back in Market Darley, the station was besieged by press, so news must have already leaked out about the discovery of yet another body, and they had to fight their way through the scrum of bodies, mumbling ‘No comment’ as they did so.

  ‘I hope you two didn’t give anything away,’ called Bob Bryant, as they passed his desk. Was the man ever off duty?

  ‘No. It was a real pleasure to tell them that we had no comment, instead of our interviews being littered with the dratted phrase,’ Falconer slung over his shoulder, and it was. He could count on the fingers of one huge mob how many times that expression had been used against him in interview, and it was a real pleasure to get his own back.

  ‘Oh, and a Mrs Littlemore phoned you. I’ve put the number on your desk.’

  ‘Thanks, Bob.’ Now, why did she want to talk to him?

  Amy Littlemore and her husband Malcolm lived in Steynham St Michael, and were married to the bottle rather than to each other. They ran a craft shop but were more often than not, drunk in charge of a commercial establishment.

  He retrieved the number from records and rang, only to find a very proper and sober voice answering the phone. ‘Is that Mrs Littlemore?’ he asked, hardly able to believe that it wasn’t a neighbour or friend.

  ‘Speaking. Is that DI Falconer? I seem to recognise your voice.’

  ‘It is. How perceptive of you.’

  ‘Oh, I was waiting for your call. And, by the way, in case you’re wondering, I’ve given up the drink. It would’ve killed me if I’d carried on the way I was going, and Malcolm’s shown solidarity and given up too.’

  ‘How’s business?’

  ‘Booming, now we’re sober behind the counter. But it was about that TV appeal by your superintendent that I phoned originally. Such a handsome man, and so very compassionate, in my opinion.’

  ‘Go on,’ urged the inspector, grinding his teeth at these off-the-cuff compliments about his senior officer. He’d not pass those on. The man’s head would get so big he’d need a good coating of lard just to get through his office door.

  ‘We used to have an assistant who came in for a few hours a week, and suddenly she didn’t come in anymore. Well, that was OK when I was, er, imbibing, but when I became sober I got to thinking about it. It was rather odd, her just not turning up like that, and I thought I’d better speak to you about it.’

  Surely not another one? ‘What was her name?’

  ‘Marilyn Slade. Mousy little thing. I doubt we’ve seen her in a couple of years now. This was just an enquiry to see if she was all right, really.’

  ‘Where did she live?’

  ‘Prince Albert Terrace, here in Steynham St Michael, but of course she could’ve moved. I tried calling her number, but it’s no longer in existence, and I had a quick peek through the window of her place but she doesn’t seem to be there anymore. I didn’t dare be anymore nosy in case the neighbours thought I was up to something. That was this morning, you understand. I couldn’t have done that when I was, um, tired and emotional all the time. Can I leave it with you?’

  ‘We’ll check it out, Mrs Littlemore. Thanks for your concern, and congratulations on giving up the demon drink.’

  ‘It wasn’t easy, but we both managed it, and life is much better now. Thank you for calling me back, Inspector.’

  ‘What was that all about?’ asked Tomlinson.

  ‘A woman from one of my early cases with Carmichael. She used to be a terrible drunk, but she’s reformed now, and she’s just noticed that someone may have disappeared. What is this all about? There won’t be a woman left in the county if we carry on like this.’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate, sir.’

  ‘I’m not. Look how many there are so far, and I knew nothing about any of them – but it isn’t just me who doesn’t notice. It would seem that no one else takes much notice of who’s around them anymore.’

  ‘It’s modern life, sir. It goes at such a pace that people don’t take much notice if someone stops showing up.’

  ‘But these are the “villages”, Tomlinson, and they always used to.’

  ‘Evidently not, sir, if what you say is true.’

  ‘Bum! You’re right. But I just can’t see the pattern to this case. It seems to be all young women, and there’s Fanny Anstruther, a pensioner, right at the beginning of it all.’

  ‘She’s had them, sir,’ crowed a familiar voice on the phone.

  ‘Congratulations, Carmichael. What did she have?’

  ‘A boy and a girl. I’m so excited. I’ve got to go home this evening, but can I delay my paternity leave as previously asked, because my mother’s coping?’

  ‘Of course you can.’

  ‘Only, Kerry’s got to stay in with the twins because they’re a bit small, and my mother said she could stay until Kerry comes home.’

  ‘That’s fine. Tomlinson’s covering for you admirably.’

  There was a short silence of disapproval after this remark, then, ‘Could you meet me for a drink tonight in The Fisherman’s Flies to wet the babies’ heads? Only I won’t be going back to the hospital, and I’d like to get out for an hour or so.’

  ‘Is there not a friend or family member you’d rather go with?’ Falconer was flattered but thought he was an odd choice of companion.

  ‘No, sir. I think of you, out of working hours, as my friend.’ The sergeant was on cloud nine, and forgot to be reticent about his feelings.

  ‘Well, thank you very much, Carmichael. The feeling is reciprocated.’ Falconer was still on cloud nine, too, after the evening before and the same thing applied. ‘What time shall I get there?’

  ‘Seven-ish?’

  ‘Fine. I’ll be there.’

  Carmichael concluded the call on his mobile just outside the hospital, his head now swathed in bandages from his two falls, but he was a deeply happy man, and a few stitches didn’t matter now that he knew Kerry and the twins were all right.

  When Falconer arrived in The Fisherman’s Flies that evening, Carmichael’s ramshackle figure was already propping up the bar. He wasn’t yet drunk, but the sheer happiness of what had happened had left him grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘What’ll you have, sir? I’m having a pint to celebrate.’

  ‘Just a half for me. You can stagger home, but I need to drive.’

  ‘My mum wouldn’t mind if you stayed over. You could always bunk in with me,’ the sergeant offered.

  Considering the terrifying thought of seeing Mrs Carmichael senior and sharing a bed with his sergeant, not to mention the more than likely possibility that Mulligan would sneak upstairs and join them meant that Falconer refused as politely as he could. He said that Honey might pop round tonight – if he was very, very lucky – and his little Abyssinian hadn’t been home long, and would miss him if he weren’t there.

  Carmichael was too elated to take offence, and immediately ordered himself another pint. As they raised their glasses to the new lives, George Covington stopped by them and said, ‘I knew all those girls that were on that there appeal the other night. We always record the national news for after we’ve closed, so that we can keep up to date with events for the punters.’

  ‘What, all of them?’ asked Falconer, in disbelief.

  ‘All of them. All the young ’uns come out here, you know. Right magnet this is for young people. Don’t know why.’

  ‘Did you know a Marilyn Slade as well?’

  George thought for a moment, then said, ‘I believe I do, as it happens, although I can’t say as I’ve seen ’er in a long while.’

  ‘Who’s that, sir?’ This was a new name on Carmichael, although he’d kept fairly up to date by phoning Bob Bryant all through Kerry’s labour, until he’d passed out.

  ‘Come over to this table here and I’ll tell you.’
The inspector led Carmichael away from the bar and passed on the latest snippet of information from Steynham St Michael.

  ‘So, whose was the latest body found?’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘Don’t know whether it was Suzie Doidge or Marilyn Slade. It was too long deceased to be Natalie Jones, that’s for sure. And all these women have been disappearing while we’ve been working together and we knew nothing about it. They’re like an invisible string of beads drawn throughout our time together, and it’s only coming to the surface now.’

  ‘Wow! Unbelievable!’ Carmichael was suitably impressed, if not suitably sombre. ‘I’m going to come in tomorrow afternoon, after I’ve visited the hospital and made the arrangements with Mum. I want to be in on this one. But, for now I need another drink, and I’ll probably have a sore head in the morning.’

  ‘I’ll finish this one and leave you to it.’ Falconer had other fish to fry.

  On arriving at his own house, he found Honey on the doorstep. How could one man be so lucky?

  The cats had ignored Honey that morning, turning their backs on her censoriously when she had floated down the stairs, but they did hear something that they approved of during the hours of darkness that night. ‘Don’t do that. It’s disgusting!’ floated down to their ears, and they were reassured that their owner still had some standards left.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next morning, Falconer arrived at the station on time, but still floating around in the stratosphere in his mind, but Tomlinson soon brought him back to earth with a bump. ‘We’ve had some identification on that body that was found at Ford Hollow, sir. It was Marilyn Slade. She’s on our records because she was once arrested for shoplifting.’

  ‘Not Suzie Doidge?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well, where the devil is that woman?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Neither do I, Constable, and that’s what’s perplexing me. Have you requested a CSI team to go round to this new victim’s address?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But, I had a very interesting conversation with the landlord of The Fisherman’s Flies in Castle Farthing last night, which I think we ought to take into consideration.’