Inkier Than the Sword (The Falconer Files Book 3)

by Andrea Frazer

  In answer, Roma Kerr merely passed the newspaper to him, and there was Carmichael’s face, smiling out at him from beneath his pantomime hat, beneath the headline ‘Local Copper Collects More Than Small Change for Charity’, with a sub-heading of ‘Pantomime-Themed Wedding Boosts Local Charity’.

  He read on : Big-hearted Detective Sergeant Davey Carmichael, who is currently based in Market Darley and lives in Castle Farthing, got married on New Year’s Eve to Ms Kerry Long, also of Castle Farthing. As they already have a cosy home in which to start their married life, and Ms Long has two young sons from a previous marriage, DS Carmichael’s natural sense of fun and his generosity led him to suggest that they have a pantomime-themed wedding, getting all the guests to dress as pantomime characters.

  It was not only fitting at this time of year, but the theme would make the wedding unforgettable, especially for his two new stepsons. This unique idea also inspired him to realise that, as they had everything they needed for a comfortable life thereafter, that it would be an even better event if he asked people not to buy them presents, but to make a donation to The Market Darley Children’s Hospice. Final figures are not in yet for the total donations, but a statement from the hospice said that the sum had already exceeded four figures, and was still rising.

  In the Courier ’s opinion society could do with a lot more people like this open-hearted couple, and we wish them every happiness in their married life.

  Should you also like to make a donation to mark the occasion of probably the most unusual wedding the Market Darley Register Office has ever witnessed, please send cheques to …

  Falconer was stunned, and puzzled as to why everyone but him had been in on the plan, and didn’t know whether to pump Carmichael’s hand in congratulation at this completely selfless plan, or ask why he had been excluded from all knowledge of it.

  In the event, Carmichael had realised his dilemma, and explained. ‘I asked you to be my best man one morning as soon as I got to the station, and you came back to work after lunch with that flash, trendy coffee-maker for us. I felt that you’d spent enough already when we decided to go ahead with it, so I didn’t tell you then.

  ‘Everything after that seemed to happen at a hundred miles an hour, and when I thought of telling you, it was out of work hours, and a convenient opportunity never arose when we were together. The phone always rang, or someone came in who had to be seen to, or we had to go out to a crime scene, or to interview someone. And suddenly it was only a few days away, and I’d still said nothing.

  ‘That’s why I asked to look through your wardrobe, and I selected that Indian top because I thought that if you wore that, it would look as if you had decided to go along with the idea, and were wearing something fitting, but discreet. I didn’t know what to say about it afterwards, and as you never asked why there was no display of wedding presents at the reception, I’ve been in a cleft stick ever since.

  ‘So anyway, I’m sorry, sir. But the coffee from that machine’s absolutely gorgeous, and Kerry wouldn’t be without it now. Thank you very much for your generous gift.’

  After a silence that lasted about ten seconds, Roma Kerr got up from her seat, came over to their table and gave Carmichael a warm hug. ‘You’re my hero!’ she declared simply. ‘May your days be many, and your home a happy one,’ she concluded, moving back to her own table, taking her substitute reading matter with her, to resume her lunch.

  ‘And may I echo that thought – without the embrace, of course,’ said Falconer, now holding out his hand for that overdue shake of congratulations. ‘Nobody but you could have come up with that idea, Carmichael. I think you’re probably unique, and Kerry is a very lucky young woman.’

  ‘That’s enough, sir. You’ll make me blush,’ replied the sergeant, his actions matching his words, and looking away in embarrassment. ‘I just try to keep the inner child alive, that’s all. It’s all very well having to be a grown-up at work, but in my own time, I can be as daft as I like, and the best thing is, that nobody in my new family minds one little bit.’

  ‘Good for you, Carmichael,’ Falconer replied, and really meaning it. It seemed that his sergeant had, indeed, found his soul-mate in Kerry Long. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, Ms Kerr,’ he called across to the next table, ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions when you’ve finished your meal,’ and with that, he resumed the consumption of his now distinctly lukewarm shepherd’s pie.

  II

  They resumed their conversation with Roma Kerr about fifteen minutes later, she moving to their table, so that they didn’t have to raise their voices against the general hubbub of the bar. ‘I suppose it’s about what happened to Hermione Grayling, isn’t it?’ she asked, saving them the trouble of an explanation.

  ‘That’s perfectly correct, Ms Kerr.’ Falconer referred to all but the most obviously married women as Ms these days, and only altered his terminology if they corrected him. It saved him a lot of indignant contradictions, and as many dirty looks, generally getting him off on a better footing than trying to guess the marital status and titular preferences of the lady in question.

  ‘The first question I need to ask you is a very simple one, and I’d be glad if you’d just give me a yes or no answer. Have you at any time been prescribed Valium?’

  ‘Absolutely not. No. I’m simply not the nervy, tense type. Next?’

  ‘Have you received a poison pen letter in the recent past, or has anyone you know had one?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t had one, but I know Buffy – Buffy Sinden – has. She told me the other day, when she was in my shop looking for some clothes for a makeover. In fact, it was yesterday morning,’ she concluded, pleased with the accuracy of her memory.

  Although Falconer already had this information from Buffy – no, Elizabeth! – Sinden, he knew when praise was necessary. ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘It’s always useful to have a witness with a good memory.’

  Roma visibly preened herself at this blatant praise, then added. ‘I say! That’s when the old girl bought it, wasn’t it? That means that Buffy and I can alibi each other. Gosh, this is just like on the telly, isn’t it? Well, not for you, I mean. It’s your job. But for me, it’s the most exciting thing that’s happened for – I don’t know – like forever.’

  ‘I’m sure it is, Ms Kerr, and thank you for your time. It’s saved us a visit to your shop.’

  ‘No trouble, Inspector.’

  ‘Oh, by the way, we know where you were yesterday morning, but where was your husband, if you don’t mind me asking?’ Falconer enquired, almost as if he had added the question as an afterthought.

  ‘He was up in town ordering stock. London. He got the eight o’clock with Tommy Gifford, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Ms Kerr. We won’t detain you any further.’

  ‘Yes, I must be off. Fantastic to have bumped into you, Sergeant – you’re a real hero.’ With which remark she picked up her newspaper and handbag, and sashayed out of the pub.

  The craft shop opposite the Fox and Hounds had a large Closed sign on its door, and Falconer winced as he read the shop’s name on its fascia board. ‘I don’t believe it!’ he exclaimed, unconsciously doing a passable impression of Victor Meldrew. It’s called ‘Knitty-Gritty’. How absolutely ghastly! Maybe ‘Drinky-Winky’ or ‘Boozy-Woozy’ – yes, definitely that last one – would be a better name for those two to work under. What do you think, Carmichael?’

  ‘How about ‘Drunky-Skunky’?’ he suggested, demonstrating that his sense of humour was alive and well, and concentrating on the subject at hand.

  In the light of this insurmountable barrier to speaking to the Littlemores, it was decided that they’d start at the antique shop. ‘Come along, Superman,’ Falconer remarked, sarcastically, still smarting that he’d known nothing about Carmichael’s charity stunt. ‘We’ve got work to do. Let’s pay a visit to Mr Charles Rainbird – see what he has to say about our three hot topics.’

  ‘If I were you, sir, I’d g
o for the envelope, rather than the letter,’ Carmichael suggested.

  After a few seconds of deep thought, Falconer replied, ‘I think you might be right. None of them wants to show us a letter that highlights something unpleasant in their past, but the envelope is a different matter. It means a house-point from the police for co-operation, and it still keeps the contents of the poison pen letter private. Well done, Carmichael. We’ll make a chief constable of you yet.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I believe there’s a blue moon forecast for tonight,’ the sergeant replied with good humour, as they strolled down to the antique shop.

  Charles Rainbird was sitting at the counter finishing a phone call when they arrived. He had no customers, but Falconer assumed that this was because anyone wanting to view a shop of this sort would be having lunch, and would probably call in later, when they had been fed and watered.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Rainbird.’ Falconer commenced with the introductions, both of them displaying their warrant cards, so there would be no misunderstanding, and went straight for the jugular. ‘A little bird has told us that you have received a letter that wasn’t too pleasant. Now, don’t deny it, or pretend you don’t understand, because it’ll just waste my time, and I don’t take kindly to people who do that.’

  Carmichael swallowed his surprise, but managed to retain a poker face. If this worked, it could save them a lot of verbal gymnastics, but it was, in his opinion, a bit like cheating.

  ‘And what little bird would that be, Inspector Falconer?’ Rainbird enquired, playing for time.

  ‘I’ve just had a word with Mr Warlock,’ he replied innocently, as if in explanation.

  ‘Oh well, it’s a fair cop then, Inspector.’ The fish had risen to the bait. ‘I did get a rather unpleasant epistle recently, but I’m afraid I burnt it. Sorry and all that, but it can’t be helped.’

  ‘As you say, no problem, sir,’ the inspector concurred unexpectedly. ‘I’d be more interested in the envelope, if you still have it.’

  ‘Now that I can oblige with,’ Charles admitted with relief. He hadn’t in fact destroyed the letter, but if this policeman was only interested in the envelope, he could have that, with pleasure, and then perhaps he’d be left alone. He still couldn’t believe his old friend Vernon would be so spiteful. Removing the letter from the envelope, and replacing the former in the safe in his office at the rear of the shop, he returned to his two visitors, holding out the envelope as if it were a holy offering.

  ‘That really is very useful, Mr Rainbird,’ commented Falconer as he indicated for Charles to slip the envelope into the proffered plastic evidence bag. ‘It means we have at least the chance to trace the publications from which the individual letters were cut, and that information can assist us in confirming the sender.’

  ‘I just can’t believe it was Hermione, though.’ Charles suddenly looked both hurt and puzzled. ‘We’d known each other almost all our lives. If she’s had any beef with me in the past she’s just come out with it. Why resort to spiteful little letters, now? Everyone loved Hermione. And she seemed to love us all back in return. This has really shaken my confidence in my ability to judge character, and to know what’s going on in people’s minds.’

  ‘Maybe it was just her age, Mr Rainbird. Hormones can be tricksy little devils, they can play merry hell with a woman’s emotions and behaviour.’

  Charles sighed heavily. ‘I suppose so, but it’s so out of character, and very hurtful.’

  ‘Well, we must be on our way after a couple more questions.’ Falconer felt uneasy around visible displays of emotion, and was keen to change the subject if he could. Charles answered in the negative to the question about Valium, and pleaded attendance in his shop during the previous morning, and that was that. There was nothing more to be gained, and the dynamic duo bade him goodbye after only ten minutes.

  Charles’ production of the envelope from his poison pen letter, however, had prompted Falconer to suggest that they call on Vernon Warlock. He had a feeling that those two had found themselves in similar circumstances, and had colluded, and decided on the same story.

  As they exited the antiques shop, Falconer indicated for them to turn left into the Market Darley Road, explaining as they walked. ‘We’re going to try a similar little ploy about envelopes with Mr Warlock, if that doesn’t offend your conscience too much, Carmichael.’

  ‘If you’re the one that asks, it’ll be on your conscience rather than mine,’ replied Carmichael, whose mind worked very simplistically in regard to some subjects, honesty being one of them.

  ‘Then we’re going to stroll up to the estate agent’s and see what’s what. It’s almost dead opposite The Spinney, and someone might have seen something – you never know your luck. Then we’ll hang a right down Tuppenny Lane, see if the library’s open, which’ll leave us right opposite Forge Cottage, straining at the leash to question the Littlemores. What boundless joy!’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it quite so strongly, sir.’

  ‘Then down Dairy Lane to see Ms Bryony Buckleigh,’ Falconer continued, oblivious to Carmichael’s remark, ‘and finally back round in a “P” shape, to the Market Darley Road. I haven’t checked to see whether there’s a surgery today, but if there isn’t, it’ll be better to catch Ms Gifford at home, where she might be a bit more forthcoming than she would at work.’

  III

  Vernon fell for the old ‘a little bird (Rainbird!) told me’ ploy as easily as Charles had done, leaving Falconer to reflect that these two definitely didn’t watch enough police programmes on the television, or they’d never have been so naïve, but it had worked to his advantage and saved time. He was now in possession of two more envelopes, and didn’t really give a tinker’s cuss about the letters for the moment.

  Both Monica and Quentin were in their office when the two policemen arrived. Quentin was on the phone to what sounded like a potential client, giving brief details of property after property, and scoring out addresses as he talked. Monica was sitting at a computer keyboard updating their records: deleting clients’ details for those who had bought from another agency, sold through another agency or – and this was their main problem – had decided not to move in the current economic climate.

  Monica’s professional smile faded as they introduced themselves, and answered in the negative to Falconer’s first question, which was the Valium one. In answer to his second question concerning their activities on Friday morning, it would seem that they both alibied each other, both having been in the office. A diary provided a meagre list of appointments and phone calls, which helped give veracity to their claim to have been at work. His third question, however, produced a very interesting and unexpected reaction. At the mention of an anonymous letter, Monica blushed a bright but attractive pink, and Quentin gave a hastily suppressed, but nevertheless recognisable, harsh bark of laughter.

  ‘Have I said something amusing, sir?’ Falconer was reluctant to let this opportunity pass. ‘Do you find something funny at the thought of someone receiving a distressing letter?’

  Now it was Quentin who was red with embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, it was nothing to do with the seriousness of the subject – more of a private joke really, and only connected with the letters in a very tenuous way.’ He was clearly flustered, and glanced over at his wife who was, at that very moment, blatantly lighting a cigarette before his very eyes – again! At least she’d identified the humour in the situation, but had reacted by kicking him in the balls – metaphorically, of course – with that accursed filthy habit of hers, which she was supposed to have ceased on the first of this month.

  ‘You know this is a non-smoking office, Monica,’ he declared, with some pomposity, but she kicked again, and a little harder this time.

  ‘My name is on the lease of this establishment, and my name is over the door. If I want to smoke in here, I will. In fact, if I choose to smoke anywhere else, I will!’

  Falconer detected an undercurrent – a sub-text he could not ho
pe to read – and hastily returned to his questions, negating to mention the government’s smoking ban. ‘Did you, in fact, receive such a letter? Either of you? At all?’

  His embarrassment showed, but Monica piped up, ‘Yes, as a matter of fact we did, but I destroyed it.’ This drew a glance of puzzlement from Quentin, but he let it go, evidently leaving it to her to decide what to admit to, and what to deny.

  ‘I don’t suppose you kept the envelope, did you?’ the inspector asked, a hint of a twinkle in his eye, to which Monica immediately responded.

  ‘Yes. I did keep the envelope, as a matter of fact, though I’ve no idea why I should do such a thing.’

  Falconer glared furiously at Carmichael whose mouth he had detected in a minute movement, indicating that he was about to speak, and the sergeant settled down again, a silent mountain with a notebook. Falconer knew what the man was about to say: he really was too honest for the job, but he didn’t want him saying a word that suggested, or even hinted, that Monica was telling anything but the unvarnished truth.

  ‘Do you have it here?’ he asked, trying for a normal tone of voice, after his little scare about Carmichael.

  ‘I’m afraid not. It’s at home, but I could go and get it for you, if you like. It won’t take more than five minutes with the car.

  Falconer and Carmichael spent the short interval reading the details of the properties displayed on the various boards in the office, both silently marvelling at how prices had tumbled over the last eighteen months. If a cash buyer were in the market for a nice country property with all amenities, including swimming pool, he or she could pick up a veritable bargain at the moment. Those that could not take advantage of this were, of course, the people who had something to sell, who were having to offer their properties at very depressed (and depressing) prices.