Strict and Peculiar (The Falconer Files Book 7)

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘I’m Chris Roberts. So, how are you finding the course?’ he asked, sounding like his late father, to his own ears.

  ‘Oh, it’s marvellous!’ she gushed. ‘And the tutor’s absolutely fabulous.’

  ‘Would that be Jocasta Gray?’ he asked, remembering her name from the noticeboard.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Elspeth, looking a bit heroine-struck. ‘She makes the course so interesting and absorbing.’

  ‘And she’s going to run this meeting on local religious beliefs and practices on Monday evening?’ he continued with his questioning.

  ‘She is. The one’s we’ve had so far have been – well, just wonderful. So fascinating and, well, sometimes, unbelievable.’

  ‘That sounds great!’ he replied. ‘I think I’ll go to it, myself, if they’re that good.’

  ‘Oh, do come along,’ Elspeth encouraged him. ‘The more the merrier, as far as Jocasta’s concerned.’

  ‘It’s a date!’ he concluded, causing her to return to the beetroot shade that had just begun to fade from her features. Seeing her discomposure, he added, ‘Well, not a date, date. But I’ll see you there, I expect.’

  ‘Of course. Of course,’ the poor flustered girl replied, adding, ‘There is something ton … ’ and then clammed up, like an oyster, clapping her hands to her mouth, as her eyes stared at him in horror.

  ‘What was that?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t quite catch it.’

  ‘Nothing! Absolutely nothing!’ she declared in a small, fearful voice, and turned away from him to resume her work, re-stocking the college’s information stand.

  ‘That was a bit odd,’ he thought, but then he put it to the back of his mind. She was evidently painfully shy, and socially immature, and it probably didn’t mean anything.

  As the place seemed more or less deserted, DC Roberts, aka Chris the student, decided to go home and resume his poking around on Monday. He’d already picked up some bits and pieces that could prove useful, and his former conscientiousness had faded rather.

  It was Saturday, and he felt like he deserved a night out on the town in Market Darley. His mother was managing quite well at the moment, with the help of equipment from the Social Services Department, and he should be able to arrange things in the house that would allow him to get a bit of R&R and not be at anybody’s beck and call.

  As he left the college campus, he was surprised to see an ice-cream van parked outside the gates, apparently doing a roaring trade, customers snaking back from it in a long queue, and not one of them a day under eighteen.

  How odd, for ice-cream to have that sort of appeal, when the outside temperature was as low as it was, and all of the van’s customers old enough to vote. Market Darley certainly lacked the sophistication of the streets of Manchester, in his opinion, and his lips moved in a small sneer of superiority.

  Chapter Four

  Sunday 31st October – Hallowe’en

  Market Darley and all its surrounding villages were bedecked with pumpkins carved into gruesome faces, just waiting to be lit that evening. All over the area, excited children were preparing for that exquisite experience of ‘Trick or Treat’, a reasonably recent import from the USA, but none the less popular for that.

  Falconer, due mostly to his experience in past years, but also because of his (infrequent) contact with Carmichael’s boys, for whom he had been asked to be a godfather sometime in the dim and distant future, kept little treats in the house in case trick-or-treaters came a-calling, and had also gone to the trouble of carving out a pumpkin and placing it in his front window with a night-light burning in it, to show that the little horrors were welcome to come to his door.

  This was his only contribution to what he thought of as a very American affair, but at least it stopped him from getting eggs thrown at his windows, his wheelie bin overturned, or worse. There had been none of this organised begging when he was a child, and he in the main disapproved of it, but knew that it was a case of ‘if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em’, so he had.

  In his opinion, children had more than their fair share of treats these days, and, as a policeman, he knew that there were some little ones whose parents didn’t give a fig, and would let their children go trotting off to ring and knock at the front doors of total strangers, putting themselves in God knew what danger.

  A uniformed member from the station usually went round the local primary schools, telling the children not to go out on this activity unless accompanied by a parent or other adult, but he didn’t know how much good this did. It was the parents who needed to be given a kick up the behind, because it would be these lackadaisical individuals who would be the first to complain and go to the press should something calamitous befall their child.

  Many parents today, sapped by working full-time as well as having a family to bring up, rarely knew where their children were, if they were out, what they were doing, and with whom. And it was these same parents who made the most fuss, if their little (or not so little) one got into trouble, and were brought home by the police after having committed an offence. It never crossed their minds that their children were their responsibility, be they home or out, and that their misdeeds were in no way the fault of the police.

  He planned to spend a quiet evening at home with his four cats, Mycroft, Ruby, Tar Baby, and Perfect Cadence, the latter now having learnt the nickname of ‘Meep’, because of the way she meowed. This sleek grey cat seemed to have some sort of feline speech impediment, and even hissed with a lisp, which always made him laugh, and her sulk at the indignity of being laughed at.

  Thus, he settled down in front of the fire – for it had turned very cold – with his book, cats draped over various parts of his chair, to await whatever callers the evening would bring him, a bowl of goodies and a bowl of fruit for the more discerning child sitting on his dining table, ready to be transported to the front door should the need arise.

  In Carmichael’s house, all was chaos. Carmichael had volunteered to carve the pumpkin, but there had been so much opposition to this that Kerry had eventually purchased one large and two smaller pumpkins, so that her husband and her two sons could have a pumpkin each to prepare for that evening’s festivities.

  She had made the costumes for their own outings long ago, so as not to be caught out when the date arrived. In fact, she vividly remembered Inspector Falconer calling to collect Davey one day when she had him standing on a chair, pinning the hem of his outfit when the doorbell had rung These seasonal disguises now hung, freshly pressed, on hangers on the outside of wardrobe doors. ‘Daddy Davey’, as Carmichael was addressed by his two step-sons, had helped them with the manufacture of their papier-mâché masks, and these, too, appended from the hangers upstairs in their bedroom.

  Kerry spent the afternoon collecting the discarded chunks from the inside of the pumpkins, fastidiously removing the seeds, and popping the chunks of vegetable into a huge saucepan to make soup for supper after they had been out in their costumes, and the delicious smell of pumpkin soup permeated the house for the rest of the day.

  Carmichael wandered in and out of the kitchen to see if she was tired, being on her feet for such a long job, and that everything was OK. She was heavily pregnant with Carmichael’s first child, her third, and the baby was due in just over two months’ time. He noticed with a growing sense of pride the size of her bulging belly, as it grew with the fruit of his loins inside her.

  He still found it difficult to believe that he was actually going to have a child of his own: a child he had made. Although he loved Kerry’s two sons dearly, and felt like they were his own, he had not been there when they had been born, nor heard them speak their first word, or take their first steps. At times, he found it almost impossible to believe how lucky he was.

  The dogs, Fang and Mr Knuckles, seemed to have caught the excitement in the atmosphere, for they capered around, chasing invisible insects and begging for pieces of pumpkin, which they sampled with an initial chew or two, before opening their mouths to let the
raw vegetable fall to the floor in disapproval at the taste, and Carmichael was in his element, not only being a child again, but being grown-up enough to warn the boys not to give any of the pieces of pumpkin from the floor to Mummy for the soup, as they might have doggie spit on them.

  At half-past six, when all three gruesome orange faces glowed from the front window ledge, the three men of the house disappeared upstairs to don their fancy-dress, and Kerry removed from their hiding place (in case the boys should have spotted them, and demand their share) the sweets and treats she had bought earlier in the week for visitors to their door tonight. Opening and discarding packets, she poured the whole mélange into a bowl, big enough for a cluster of little hands to delve to secure their treat.

  There was a lot of giggling and much laughter from upstairs as the three prepared themselves, and at just before seven o’clock they trooped downstairs for Kerry’s inspection. On seeing them, she clapped her hands with delight. Two young boys and a very large man had gone up the stairs. What had come down again, were a vampire, a ghost, and an extremely tall witch, hooked nose and warts visible on its face.

  As they neared the bottom of the staircase, the vampire (Dean) fingered his fangs, the ghost (Kyle) made whoo-ooing noises and waved its sheeted arms, and the witch cackled most convincingly as it reached for its twig broom at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Glory! You do look convincing!’ Kerry exclaimed, amazed at how good her handiwork looked in full light. She had done a good job with their outfits, and they should get some positive reactions from those they called upon.

  ‘We’re going to visit the houses from the Carsfold Road at the other end of the village, then work our way up to The Old Manor House to finish off with, then we’re coming home’, Carmichael informed her. ‘That should be plenty for tonight, and what have we got next week, boys?’

  ‘Guy Fawkes’ Night!’ the two boys shouted in unison. Carmichael was determined that they would celebrate this date with all the traditions of his own childhood. Of course, he and Kerry would take them to an organised display as well, but he wanted them to know the excitement of fireworks being let off in their own garden, and the smell of the gunpowder at close quarters – safely organised and conscientiously policed by Kerry and him.

  Three ghastly figures fled out into the night in Castle Farthing, and Kerry sat down and put her feet up, the soup now ready just to re-heat and serve, knowing that she had earned her period of rest, her bowl of treats at the ready for when children other than hers rang the doorbell.

  Chris Roberts had noticed that there was a fancy-dress party at one of the larger pubs in Market Darley that evening and had managed to put together quite a gruesome costume using a rubber mask he had managed to purchase in the town. With this, and a pair of jeans and a very old T-shirt, suitably stained with red paint, he looked like the victim of a vicious attack, with the face of a politician currently in high office. Little did he know that tonight, his appearance would turn out to be fiction mocking fact (but without the political theme).

  He was in blissful ignorance of this, however, as he set out, in high hopes of a good time, at half-past eight, with instructions for his mother not to wait up for him, as he didn’t know what time he’d be back.

  The pub was quite near the college, and had advertised low drinks prices on a board outside, probably intended to lure students inside to spend their unearned student loans. He set off in the certainty that some of the students from the college would be there – maybe even Elspeth Martin, who might be kind enough to introduce him to any friends on her course – their course, now. That really would give him a head start for tomorrow, although he must make sure he didn’t stay out too late, as his undercover work really commenced in the morning.

  Inspector Falconer ought to be proud of him, he thought, selflessly giving up his Sunday night to seek out others with whom he might be studying (and questioning) in the future. At this thought, he felt quite proud of himself, never for one moment considering that the real reason he was going was just to have a good time and a couple of drinks in convivial company. He looked much younger than his years, and would easily fit in with the student crowd.

  Chapter Five

  Monday, 1st November

  Carmichael arrived at the station just after Falconer the next morning, but didn’t go straight to his desk, merely dropping off his coat and disappearing immediately, saying he’d be back in a minute, for he had something to show the inspector.

  Falconer was puzzled, but dismissed it from his mind, as just another ‘Carmichaelism’. There had been reports of ‘Mr Spliffy’, the drug-peddling ice-cream man, seen out on the road again, and he needed to find out where the van operated from. In the past, tracing the vehicle license number had proved useless, as it seemed that the van had different number plates every time it went out. He needed that van followed to its den before he could do anything about making an arrest – feeling a collar, as it were.

  While he was sticking pins into a map of the town, which was affixed to the wall to mark sightings of the rogue van, there was a discreet knock at his door. ‘Come in,’ he called, and turned to see who it was.

  His eyes couldn’t believe what was standing before them, and his mouth let out an involuntary scream. There appeared to be a six-and-a-half foot old hag in his office, and it was a couple of seconds before he realised that it was just Carmichael, evidently in his fancy-dress costume from the night before.

  ‘You frightened the life out of me, Carmichael!’ he exclaimed, his right hand rising to clutch his chest. ‘I’m sure that apparition has taken six months off my life. Whatever do you think you’re playing at?’

  ‘I just thought I’d let you see the finished costume, sir, seeing as how you called round for me once when Kerry was fitting it for me. Don’t you remember?’ came the reply, the witch’s face looking crestfallen, its plastic nose drooping towards it chin, and its hastily applied warts threatening to drop off.

  ‘I appreciate the thought, Sergeant. I just wished you’d warned me first. You must have scared the bejesus out of all the little kids last night, turning up on their doorsteps looking like that,’ Falconer replied, his heart-rate now slowing down.

  ‘I did, a bit, actually. One of the little nippers wouldn’t stop screaming until I left the garden,’ Carmichael declared.

  ‘I’m not surprised. If I’d seen an apparition like that when I was a kid, I’d have had nightmares for months afterwards,’ Falconer chided him, suddenly remembering Nanny Vogel, about whom he still had bad dreams, and he was now forty-one. ‘Jolly fine effort, though. Very lifelike! Now, go and take it off, there’s a good chap. We’ve had some more sightings of Mr Spliffy, and I’m just marking them on the map to see if we can identify an area that he might originate from.’

  Carmichael perked up at this titbit of praise, and headed back to the gents’, so that he could take off his Hallowe’en weeds, and return to the office, ready for work. If Mr Spliffy was out there again, they’d find him and nail him, this time.

  Chris Roberts had had a fine time at the Hallowe’en ‘do’ on Sunday night, but had not bumped into Elspeth Martin or, in fact, anybody who had introduced themselves as being a student at the local college, and so, on Monday morning, he turned up bright and punctual to find his place on the course, knowing that he would run into Elspeth there.

  He had decided that he was going to enjoy being undercover – it was akin, almost, to being his own boss, with no one to answer to every minute of the day. He’d dressed as advised, and the scruffiness of his garments was perfect for blending in with the younger students.

  The woman, now on duty behind the information desk, confirmed that he had been booked in for the comparative religion course, and helped him to fill in a student registration card. On being asked whether he had anything to identify him as a student, such as a student rail card, an ID card for pubs and clubs, or a National Student Union membership card, he apologised at being so badly remiss, and cl
aimed that he had yet to get hold of the former and the latter, as taking this course had been a last-minute decision. As he was a mature student, he wouldn’t need an ID card, and offered his driving license as proof of identity, and this was accepted without question.

  She then directed him to room 101, as his course home-room, and sent him on his way without a hint of suspicion that he might not be exactly what he had claimed to be. This was all to the good and, as he traversed corridor after corridor, in pursuit of where he would be spending a lot of his time in the near future, he pondered what this future would hold for him.

  In a large cottage in Dairy Lane, Steynham St Michael, named curtly and simply ‘Honeysuckle’, were foregathered a group of residents who had formed the committee that had organised the village’s Hallowe’en party the night before in the village hall. They had spent this morning clearing away the detritus of the celebrations, and had now adjourned to Bryony Buckleigh’s home for some well-earned refreshments.

  Apart from Bryony herself, there were also Patience Buttery (who had taken a day’s annual leave so that she could help out), Dimity Pryor, who had left her volunteer assistant in temporary charge of the charity shop, Elizabeth Sinden, and her new beau, Craig Crawford, who was a self-employed accountant, and could do as he pleased with regard to his working hours.

  Bryony offered cups of steaming coffee from a tray, while Dimity followed behind with a plate of biscuits and a plate of tiny cucumber sandwiches, so that there should be a choice of sweet or savoury nibbles.

  Bryony, being retired, had taken the chair of the committee and, when she finally had the chance to sit down, thanked her helpers most heartily for their efforts before, during, and after the event. A special thank you was given to Craig Crawford, who had manfully hauled tables and chairs around, placing them wherever directed without a single grumble.