Shadows and Sins (The Falconer Files Book 13)

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘I’ll mention cherries tomorrow, and see if he owns up to admitting that he doesn’t have one anymore,’ said the irrepressible DC with an impish grin that would have done justice to a Cornish piskie.

  ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘You just wait and see.’

  ‘We didn’t come to any conclusions in our little meeting did we?’ Carmichael stated lugubriously.

  ‘That’s because we weren’t as alluring as the person I have heard referred to in the canteen as “the delicious coffee-coloured shrink”. By the way,’ he continued, as Carmichael gasped at the man’s impertinence, ‘has anyone checked whether Driscoll or Bridger own any other properties, or might have, in the last three or four years? Also, have any other of our victims lived in the properties they now own, or may have owned? For all we know they could both own a whole string of properties, and our victims have just been going around renting them for years. I know that sounds a bit muddly, but you get my gist, Davey.’

  ‘I think I see what you’re getting at, Neil. I’ll talk it over with the team tomorrow morning, and see if we can’t sort out how to get our hands on the information about properties, bought, owned or sold in the relevant period, by those two. Have a nice evening. I’m going off to visit Kerry and the twins, now.’

  ‘Give her my best,’ called Tomlinson after the figure of the retreating giant.

  Carmichael had one jaw-dropping conversation after another. When he got to Kerry’s bedside, she explained that it was very lucky that the twins had been born early. If her pregnancy had gone to full term, she would not have been able to deliver them naturally. As she had already had three children, she would probably not have got to her due date anyway, and the whole thing could have ended up in an emergency caesarean section.

  ‘Anything could have happened, Davey,’ she told him in a concerned voice. ‘They were so big because of your build. They’d have been absolute monsters if I’d gone on much longer, and this was my body’s way of doing its best for them – Harriet must take after me. They also think I got my dates a bit wrong, and that the pregnancy was further advanced than we’d thought. That’s why they didn’t need to go into incubators or anything like that.

  ‘The doctor told me that we were very lucky that things happened exactly as they did. We got the best possible outcome: healthy mother without stitches, and two healthy babies, not too light. It shouldn’t be too long before all three of us can come home. I’m so looking forward to it.’

  ‘So am I. Do you know my mother sent me to bed one night with the children so that she could shampoo the dining chairs? She’s shampooed, washed and cleaned everything that isn’t nailed down, and quite a few things that actually are.’

  Kerry knew Mrs Carmichael senior quite well, and she wasn’t surprised. ‘Never mind, Davey, we’ll soon get it feeling like home again.’

  ‘Thank God for that. At the moment, it’s like living inside an advert for cleaning products. It all seems so antiseptic.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll get like that when all the kids leave home.’

  ‘Promise me you won’t.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  When Falconer got home that night, he got out the vacuum cleaner, and the duster and polish, and just gave everything a quick going over. He didn’t want Honey catching him out on the housework stakes; not after he’d given her such a thorough talking-to the night before. She arrived as he was swilling a bleachy cloth round the sink, and he dried his hands, and walked out of the kitchen to let her in. There was a lot of talking he wanted them to do before anything else reared its delightful head. No, no, don’t think like that, he thought, as the inevitable started to happen.

  ‘Come on in,’ he invited her, putting his baser feelings into an emotional freezer. He really needed to pick her professional brains, rather than indulge in another session of appreciating her body. ‘Let me get you a glass of wine and pour out all my troubles. I need your cool, analytical mind on some pretty rum coves.’

  ‘Should I restrict my wine intake?’ she asked innocently.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘In case I have to drive later.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think there’s any chance of that, do you?’

  Taking a goodly swig of wine, she smiled at him and told him to pour out his heart before he poured her anything else.

  ‘I’ve got five suspects,’ he began. ‘I’ve also got five corpses. I think one of the former is responsible for all of the latter, but I can’t understand why there were so many different methods of killing.’

  ‘OK, first, tell me about your suspects,’ she prompted him.

  ‘Right, let’s start with George Covington. He’s landlord of The Fisherman’s Flies pub in Castle Farthing. He’s about sixty, married, and has worked in a pub in London before. He seems a very genial mine host and quite harmless. Yet he knew all the victims, and his wife has mentioned that a barmaid disappeared from their last pub in the capital. By the way, two of the victims worked the odd shift for him.’

  ‘That’s number one,’ she responded. ‘Now give me a potted history of number two.’

  ‘Colin Bridger,’ Falconer began, almost like a declaration. ‘He’s the owner of one of the victim’s properties. He also claims to have collaborated on a book of fairy stories with her. It sounds like a load of codswallop, but we actually have a draft of the book in our possession. He used to visit her regularly, supposedly to work on the book. He’s not a young man – he’s retired, though it was early retirement, from managing a plant nursery – and he’s married. Seems a bit afraid of his wife. One grown-up daughter. I’ve got some information on their backgrounds from my expanded team. You can look at my notes later – among other things.’ He gave her a leery wink and she sniggered.

  ‘Check, two,’ confirmed Honey.

  ‘Then we have another property owner, Timothy Driscoll, whom we thought lived in France, but it turned out he’d only been there for a year. He still uses a French mobile and lives a bit of a reclusive life. He’s not married, used to live with a girlfriend, but that broke up, and he made a botch-up of his attempt at a new start in France. Doesn’t like being seen as a failure. Currently unemployed. Used to work for the local authority, but at the moment is at a loose end.

  ‘We’ve also got two men of alike occupation – both general builders and handymen. We’ll start with Michael Mortimer. He lives four doors from victim number one. He says he only knew her to nod to. Does the occasional bigger job with his neighbour, Simeon Perkins, who’s my final suspect. Both are unmarried. As an aside, Mortimer has a passing resemblance to the Hunchback of Notre Dame, so I’m not surprised he’s single and lives alone. Of course, I wouldn’t be so unprofessional as to make comments like that in the station.

  ‘Simeon Perkins is probably the other side of the coin. General builder again. Tall, blond, and probably quite good-looking if you’re a woman, although I can’t say that I fancy him.’ At this facetious comment he smiled shyly at Honey, who took his hand and squeezed it.

  ‘I’m very glad to hear that, Harry Falconer. I wouldn’t be here if I thought any differently.’

  The inspector knew he wasn’t very good at this flirting business, but he’d have to get used to it gradually. It certainly didn’t come as second nature to him, as it did to a lot of men.

  ‘The only thing I can really say about this man is that he doesn’t seem to like being interviewed by the police. He lives alone at the moment, but I’m not sure whether he’s ever lived with a wife or partner. I’ll have to find out.’

  ‘You show me someone who does like being interrogated in a police station.’

  Falconer made a harrumphing noise. ‘He says he was on greeting terms with the first victim, and, as with Mortimer, he’s not married. So, what do you think?’

  ‘I’ll give you my opinion for what it’s worth. You’ve got two general builders who also do odd jobs. What does that tell me about them?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘T
hat they’re used to turning their hand to different things. They can tackle just about anything in the house-building or maintenance area. They’re multi-taskers.

  ‘Then you have two property owners. Ditto, as they probably have to keep an eye on their houses, and I’m sure they must have had to take time renovating or furnishing a property, or even just getting the garden sorted out.’

  ‘True, true.’

  ‘Then you’ve got a pub landlord – the ultimate multi-tasker. He’s got to order and stock his pub, open it and run it, and keep the customers happy. How many skills does that take? And maybe he’s at an age where he’s going through a period of crisis about growing old and unattractive.’

  ‘I’m beginning to see what you mean.’

  ‘You mentioned a mixture of methods of killing. Well, none of these men actually works on an assembly line or on a check-out. They all do something that needs a number of different skills. Maybe they just like varying the method to keep their experiences fresh. God, what a horrible thought.’

  ‘But why would they kill at all?’

  ‘Anger, frustration. There are any number of reasons. Some men kill for sexual pleasure. Have you thought about that one?’

  ‘It’s a pretty grim thought, isn’t it?’

  ‘But not unknown.’

  ‘And this is a pretty grim case. If I could get a request OKed, would you sit in on the interviews?’

  ‘If permission is granted. But, apart from this pub landlord, have you worked out how any of the other men could know all of the victims?’

  ‘Um, no. Perhaps we’re barking up completely the wrong tree.’

  ‘Your instinct isn’t usually that wrong, is it?’

  ‘The only hunch I’ve had recently is on Mortimer’s back.’

  ‘Ha ha. He’s not really a hunchback, is he?’

  ‘No, just a bit on the un-pretty side.’

  ‘And you’ve also got to consider, if the same man murdered all of them, perhaps he was just looking for a bigger thrill by varying the methods of killing.’

  ‘There are some twisted buggers out there, aren’t there?’

  ‘Too right there are. And you watch your language, Mr Inspector, otherwise I shall have to spank you.’

  ‘Is that a promise?’ asked Falconer.

  ‘You bet your sweet ass it is. Come on. And, by the way, just going back to the prosaic for a second,’ she continued, as they mounted the stairs, ‘your best bet would be to look at the ones who aren’t currently married, and have never, or at least not for a long time, maintained a live-in relationship. You’re more likely to find your deviant there.’

  ‘Maybe. Hang on, I haven’t told you about the gaps between the deaths!’ This really was dedication to duty. They sat on the bed and Falconer explained that there had been an apparent cessation of killings for a period of a year, and about the handbags that had been recovered.

  Honey sighed in frustration and made mock-strangling motions with her hands. ‘When was your landlord guy out in France?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s something we need to confirm.’

  ‘And have all the handbags been attributed to a victim?’

  ‘All except one.’

  ‘Could that be a French victim?’

  ‘Unless we’ve got another body concealed around here. And did I mention that one of the bodies was dismembered?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘We don’t know yet.’

  ‘Harry, have you not been giving enough attention to your work?’

  ‘You have been very distracting.’

  ‘That’s simply not good enough. I want to come in and see the files, and I’d like to sit in on any further interviews you do. There’s someone out there who could kill again, and even if they haven’t killed recently to your knowledge, there’s nothing to say that they haven’t killed elsewhere, or won’t kill again tomorrow if the compulsion gets strong enough.’

  ‘Chivers is already blowing his stack about the budget.’

  ‘Then I’ll come in out of the goodness of my heart. This is very dangerous territory, and you ignore the seriousness of it at your peril.’

  ‘Stop talking and come here.’

  The case was moved on, the next day. News finally came in from the brewery that the barmaid from the Covingtons’ previous pub, the Robin Hood, had in fact moved on to running her own pub. A telephone call to Paula elicited the information that she must have been mistaken, so any speculation on that front had been a complete waste of time. It would seem that her husband George was just an old codger after all.

  David Porter, editor of the Carsfold Gazette, rang in to say that his work experience youngster had turned up an advert dated just before Christmas from a ‘Mike M of Castle Farthing’, who had been looking for a life companion, female and under forty, so he wasn’t let off the hook.

  Timothy Driscoll, however, confirmed that the year he had spent in France covered the period in which both Annie Symons and Suzie Doidge disappeared, so that was another one off their list, provided he could come in with proof of this.

  Colin Bridger and Simeon Perkins had no such confirmations of immunity to investigation so, along with Mike Mortimer, they were brought in for another round of questioning.

  Each of the three suspects was shown photographs of the victims but, apart from the face of Annie Symons, all of them stated that they did not recognise the others. Unless the inspector was entirely mistaken, one of them was a very good liar – but which one?

  When asked where they had been when the women were presumed to have disappeared, they were unable to answer. The times were so long ago, with no exactitude to them, and a man could hardly be expected to supply an alibi for an unspecified time in any case. When the three of them were finished with, the police were no further forward. Unlike lots of cities and larger towns, Market Darley and its surrounding villages did not boast a multitude of CCTV cameras which would help them to pick up the three men’s movements through a variety of dates. In this, they were not so lucky as their urban colleagues.

  When the wider team had been dismissed for the day, Falconer, Carmichael, and Tomlinson went back to their old office and the inspector summed the situation up as best as he could.

  ‘We’ve got a missing young woman who hadn’t disappeared at all and turned up alive and well in Spain. We’ve got a missing old lady who didn’t fit into the pattern, and who was actually in a home and recently died of natural causes, and we’ve got five dead young women. With the exception of Ms Warwick’s constant reminders, pokes, and prods, we had no idea whatsoever that these lonely females simply weren’t around anymore.

  ‘We’ve two suspects from our original five who no longer seem viable, and I’ve got a feeling in my water that Mr Bridger is just a distraction. He might be scared of his wife, but I somehow don’t believe him capable of murder.

  ‘That leaves us with our two gentlemen from Drovers Lane who, as Honey explained to me last night, are multi-taskers and thus capable of using diverse methods of killing – but which one might be responsible?’

  This question was not to be answered that day and, apropos of nothing, Tomlinson asked if the other two were going to watch the rugby that weekend. Falconer shook his head, but Carmichael said, most unexpectedly, that he had once played for the Regional Police 2nd XV.

  ‘Really, Sergeant? I didn’t know that.’

  ‘It was when I was a raw recruit and you didn’t work here yet,’ Carmichael replied. ‘I’m a big bloke and so they thought I might be a bit useful to the team.’

  ‘So why don’t you play anymore?’ asked Tomlinson.

  ‘Got banned from playing for them.’

  ‘How come?’ Now Falconer was interested, too.

  ‘Well, we didn’t play rugby at our school, so I didn’t know the rules, and all they told me was about passing the ball backwards, and scoring a try.’

  ‘So what went wrong?’

  ‘I knew about getting the ball over the line, and that
’s exactly what I did, but it just so happens that the ball was in our fly-half’s hands as I crossed the line.’

  ‘What?’ Tomlinson couldn’t quite picture it.

  ‘The ball got caught by our fly-half, but he sort of hesitated momentarily, and I just reacted. I picked him up and raced to the line, finally grounding him and the ball.’

  ‘You didn’t, Carmichael?’ Falconer was appalled.

  ‘I did. That’s why I was sent off, while the fly-half went off to have his head X-rayed, and I was eventually banned from the team.’

  ‘You never cease to amaze me, big man,’ Tomlinson chuckled.

  ‘I’d never played the game before. How was I to know?’ At the innocent look on the sergeant’s face, Falconer couldn’t help joining in the good-natured merriment. Carmichael held out his hands, palms up. ‘What?’ he asked, slightly put out by their chuckling. ‘What? How was I supposed to know?’

  They had needed the odd anecdote to keep them feeling cheerful, and this was certainly one about his sergeant that the inspector hadn’t heard before.

  Chapter Eighteen

  That night Falconer had a dream. In fact, he had several, but each and every one of them ended up in front of a giant, shiny, new red front door which barred his way to anything further, and woke him up. It wasn’t a menacing door, but it did seem to disrupt his dreams from progressing and he had the feeling that it was trying to impart some sort of message to him; but what would a door say? That sounded like one of Carmichael’s jokes.

  For the first hour or so at the station he tried to dismiss the image from his mind, but it just wouldn’t shift. He began to wrack his brains to see how a giant door could be significant to his current life, but could recall no over-sized doors that appeared in his everyday experience. He also didn’t know of anyone with such a bright red door as this one.

  When light eventually dawned, and he realised that the colour red was merely to alert his conscious mind, he made a series of phone calls: the first to Wanda Warwick. ‘A gate!’ he said, ending the call, and then punched in the numbers for another enquiry. ‘Thank you very much, Mr Driscoll. If you do remember, will you get in touch with me?’ he ended the next one. ‘That’s very kind of you to give me the information, Mr Bridger,’ was the termination of the third call.