‘Cut your cackle, woman, and get a move on. I don’t want to be last on the scene.’
Antoinette Chateau awoke elegantly, as she did everything else in life, and lay in bed for a few minutes working out whether she wanted to know what was going on or not. Eventually, she decided that it was best to know what was abroad this night, and slipped on a pair of soft leather moccasins, before gathering a fashionable leather coat and going outside.
If it was something else nasty, maybe France would be a safer place for her. She had always considered an English village to be the most tranquil of places, but she was terribly unsettled about what had happened during the night of vandalism, and was having a really deep think about whether she was actually living in the right country.
The Dutch couple slept on peacefully, having consumed another few of their ‘funny’ cigarettes and, in Black Beams, the Maitland home, not a sound was to be heard. No one stirred. No one woke.
Doc Christmas was, by close proximity, the first official on the scene, and was pleased to be able to inform Heidi that Ferdie was not dead, merely unconscious, due to a sharp blow to the head with the inevitable blunt instrument.
‘It’s still a crime,’ he informed her, ‘although thankfully not a fatal one, and the police will have to attend to take statements, but at least you still have your partner, and I’m sure he’ll be up and about again in no time.’
‘He is best man in world,’ she stated tearfully, relieved that there would still be time for her to claim her widow’s pension in due course. ‘He is mine man – best in world – and I am worrying so much about him.’ In her highly emotional state, she had lost a little of her grip on the language of her adopted country.
‘Don’t worry about him too much. If you want to wait around, I’ll be going to the hospital to see him settled in, and you can come with me if you want to. I don’t think you should be driving with you being in shock, but you can come back with me afterwards, when I come home to get ready for work. What do you say to that idea?’
‘Ich frage danke schon, Herr Doktor. Thank you for very kind offer. I go now. I hear ambulance, and voices at front of Haus. I explain.’
The paramedics took over the examination of Ferdie’s prone body, as Heidi moved off to face up to her responsibilities with what she guessed was a posse of neighbours, eager for news of more dastardly nocturnal deeds in their midst.
While the crowd had waited, there were various speculations as to what could have happened at Rose Tree Cottage.
‘It’s probably one of those love crimes,’ was the opinion of Dale Ramsbottom who, with his wife Sharron, was one of the last to arrive on the scene. ‘You know how hot-headed foreigners can be.’
‘That’s the French, with their crimes of passion,’ contributed Mabel, more knowledgeable than he on the habits of other nationalities.
‘Them bastards never seemed the sensitive types to me – the Germans in general, I mean, not those two.’ This was Duke Zuckerman, troublemaking as usual.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Mabel, spotting the seeds of xenophobia in his statement.
‘Oh, you know, just the war and everything. Can’t say as I’ve ever known any other Krauts though, so who am I to judge?’
‘Quite right, Duke. Now shut your mouth, and give your brain a chance to work before you open it again,’ his wife admonished him with a grim face. ‘No point in causing trouble where there ain’t any. It could by any sort of domestic accident, for all we know, or even a heart attack. He’s a big man, that Ferdie, and he might be prone, for all we know.’
Lionel Dixon merely observed events from the front window of The Retreat. It simply wasn’t in his nature to join a ghoulish gathering like this. He preferred to keep his distance, and wait for someone to phone him with the actual details.
At this juncture, Heidi appeared round the front of the house and made an announcement that Ferdie had been attacked while waiting to trap anyone bent on any more damage to property, and that the police had been informed, and were on their way.
Carmichael’s venerable old Skoda was indeed full, with two detectives in the front and a huge dog in the back; a huge dog that was determined to insinuate himself into the passenger seat to sit with his beloved.
‘Will you keep that dog under control, Carmichael! He’s managed to get his head halfway between the seats, and my trousers are absolutely soaked in dribble.’
‘You control him, sir. I’m too busy driving. As it is, if I want to put on the handbrake or change gear, I’ll have to give him an elbow in the snout, and I’m not so sure he wouldn’t take a chunk out of me. It’s you he wants to get to, but it’s not just your space he’s taking up, you know.’
‘It’s only my trousers he’s slobbering all over, though, isn’t it? I don’t see why I should have to turn up at a new crime scene with dribble all over my trousers, and no believable explanation.’
‘There’s nothing I can do but stop and let you get in the back with him. I can’t drive like this; it’s not safe,’ stated Carmichael sternly.
‘You can’t do that,’ replied Falconer, with anxiety in his voice.
‘I shall have to. And if you don’t agree, sir, I shall stop the car now, and refuse to drive any further. I do not want to be involved in an accident just because you won’t sit in the back of my car. Now, move it! With all due respect. Sir.’
Falconer moved it, having been left no choice in the matter, and Mulligan was thrown into paroxysms of absolute euphoria at his arrival. Here was the nice man who had cuddled him every night when it was so dreadfully cold. The least he could do now was return the favour, and give his face a good licking, into the bargain, to show his gratitude for deeds past.
When they reached Fallow Fold, the crowd, which was now beginning to break up, at first, took Carmichael to be the superior officer. Granted, his tie might have been askew, and his shoes badly tied, but the damp and dishevelled scarecrow who got out of the back of the car looked more like someone who had been taken into police custody, rather than an officer of the law.
Doc Christmas was flabbergasted when he saw the state of Falconer. Both men had approached him, neither speaking nor looking at the other. ‘Lovers’ tiff?’ asked the medic, sarcastically, then added, ‘Or is this a case of domestic violence? What the hell happened to you, Harry? You look like a tramp. You hair’s all over the place, you seem to be wet, and your clothes are so rumpled it looks like you’ve been hauled through a hedge backwards. And why are your trousers soaked through? You’re surely not suffering from incontinence at your tender age.’
‘He’ll tell you tomorrow, Doc,’ stated Carmichael, trying hard to suppress his mirth. ‘Let’s just say it’s a shaggy dog story that’ll keep until the morning.’
Falconer said nothing, merely reaching to straighten his tie and remove his handkerchief from his pocket in order to scrub his face, in a vain effort to remove the appalling smell of the dog’s saliva from his nostrils.
‘I gather Mulligan’s back,’ said Christmas, being well aware of Falconer’s enforced stay at Carmichael’s home over the festive period. ‘I’ll say no more.’
A two-man SOCO team had been summoned, and it did not take long to wrap up the details of what had been a distressing, but not murderous, assault on the now-hospitalised Ferdie. Falconer spent the whole time hoping that the doctor would offer him a lift home, but his pleading glances cut no mustard. Doc Christmas had promised to take Heidi with him when he left for Market Darley, and Falconer smelled so bad, he simply didn’t want to be confined in a car with him.
‘We’ll stop in on mine before you go home, sir,’ Carmichael volunteered generously. ‘Then you can have a shower, I’ll lend you something clean to go home in, and then you won’t stink out your lovely Boxster.’
That was about the best thing that could happen before morning, and he agreed grudgingly, with the promise that Carmichael would keep the Hound of the Baskervilles off him as he left the house. He simply wasn’t up
to any more ‘free love’.
The journey back to Castle Farthing proved to be not so exciting as the journey to Fallow fold, however, as Mulligan was quite exhausted after the delights of being reacquainted with his old room-mate, and slept the whole way back in the back seat, stretched across Falconer’s legs, snoring, farting, and drooling happily, while his ‘mattress’ did its best not to breathe through its nose.
As the one-headed Cerberus slept the sleep of the innocent, Carmichael evidently had something on his mind, and asked, in a voice loud enough to be heard over the noise, not only of the old car, but over the snoring coming from Falconer’s lap, ‘I’m thinking of having a tattoo done. What do you think, sir?’
‘You’re thinking of doing what?’ Although Falconer had heard perfectly, he couldn’t quite believe the content of what he’d heard.
‘Getting a tattoo. What do you think?’
‘Where?’ was Falconer’s first question, for knowing his sergeant, it would probably be something horribly visible, like a spider’s web on the back of his neck, and that would not be a comfortable sight for any victim of crime, or witnesses, they might have to interview.
‘In that place just off the Market Square,’ replied Carmichael, oblivious that the import of the inspector’s question had gone right over his head, not even stopping to ruffle his hair.
‘I meant where on your body,’ retorted Falconer, clarifying the matter by emphasising the last two words.
‘Somewhere private that I’d rather not discuss.’
‘Well, at least that’s a relief, but knowing you, you’ll catch blood poisoning from a dirty needle – or worse.’
‘Can that really happen, sir?’
‘Most definitely, and has on many occasions.’
There was a short silence while Carmichael brooded on this in the driver’s seat, then he indicated that he had changed his mind by piping up with, ‘I don’t fancy risking that. I don’t like hospitals, so maybe I’ll get some temporary ones that wash off, and make do with those.’
‘But nobody will see it anyway,’ replied Falconer, logically. ‘No one will know it’s there.’
‘I will!’ was Carmichael’s final word on the matter, but at least it didn’t sound like he was going to mutilate his body and risk his health over one of his little fads.
As the inspector came downstairs at Jasmine Cottage, fresh, if dressed rather eccentrically in enormously over-sized clothes, he noticed that the pups had got over their fear of the monumental dog, and he was giving them, in turns, rides round the living room, slumped over his great snout.
At the door, he paused for a few moments to share his thoughts on the current disturbances in Fallow Fold. ‘I don’t like this one little bit,’ he confided. ‘A night of very personal destruction, and now an attack on a resident. The portents are not good, and I smell evil in the air. You mark my words: we’re not finished with that village – not by a long chalk.’
His return home didn’t improve his mood, as Monkey had evidently encouraged the other cats in further destruction of paper goods, and his Radio Times was a pile of shreds on the sofa. There had been yet another raid on his peace of mind by the Phantom Paper-Shredding Gang, and there was not a thing he could do about it, as all the suspects were currently slumped, wrapped in the arms of Morpheus.
With a long-suffering sigh, he mounted the stairs, determined to get as much sleep as he could before morning, and deal with anything other than his repose, when he rose. Things might not look better in the morning, but at least he wouldn’t feel so ill-used.
Chapter Six
Sunday – Duty Hours
When Falconer arrived in the office the next morning, DC Roberts was conspicuous by his absence and, although this was not a rare occurrence first thing in the morning, he nevertheless rang down to Bob Bryant – still on duty – to see if there had been a phone call to warn them of his tardiness to report for duty.
‘No, and there won’t be,’ said Bob enigmatically, then explained, ‘He was the victim of a “Jelly” avalanche yesterday afternoon.’
‘I beg your pardon, Bob. He was what?’
‘He was in the office on his own, and Superintendent Chivers himself decided to do one of his snap spot checks, Saturday being his favourite day to try to catch officers napping. Well, he caught Roberts a good one.
‘When he opened the door of the CID office, Roberts was sitting with his back to the door, his earphones in, bopping away and singing along to the music. He didn’t even hear old Jelly come in, and the Super was able to sneak right up on him and put a hand on his shoulder, before the lad became aware that he wasn’t alone.’
‘Oh, my God! What did the old sadist do to him?’
‘He’s only gone and put him on traffic today and, as you know, there’s one of those huge car boot sales going on in the Market Square. He’ll be lucky to get out alive, what with the stallholders and the punters all milling around at the beginning and the end, cars and vans everywhere, all either trying to get the best parking place, or trying to get out before anyone else. Still, it’ll teach the lazy little tyke to be a bit more dedicated to his job, and maybe make him grateful to have one at all, especially in CID.’
Falconer ended the call, chuckling. What stern words from him could not achieve, one brief visit from Chivers had brought about in one fell swoop, and he shouldn’t have any more problems with the young officer for at least a couple of weeks. Maybe later he’d go down and watch him directing traffic, just for a laugh.
Neither Falconer nor Carmichael was supposed to be anything but on-call today, but the inspector had come in to instruct Merv Green and ‘Twinkle’ Starr on the events of the night before. They could go back to Fallow Fold and do a bit of door-to-door enquiring; see if anyone had any titbit of information that might help identify last night’s attacker or, indeed, the vandal responsible for the first night of surprises.
Carmichael, he had directed to stay at home, unless called in. There was no point in both of them turning up in the office early, when both of them were rostered merely to be ready to respond. The office would survive well without them, as Sunday was a very quiet day, and Falconer’s home was only a short way away should anything of note occur.
On his drive home, he made his slow and careful way through the edge of the Market Square, his spirits lifted by the frantic figure in the middle of all the action, arms waving maniacally, red in the face from blowing his whistle. It served Roberts right that he should be punished by such a vigorous duty.
Then he remembered the enormous amount of clearing up he had to do in his own home, and the trip to the DIY store to buy bolts for all his doors, and his spirits swooped again to their former nadir of the night before. He was already too fond of his new charge to consider handing her over to a cat rescue society, and was coming to terms with the fact that he’d just have to be one step ahead of her for the rest of the time they spent together. If only his other pets weren’t so easily led.
He’d have to give her a little more positive attention; she was probably disturbed by her change of home, and needed to know she really belonged. Sometimes Falconer could be naïve beyond the bounds of belief, although he hadn’t penned her up when she first arrived by locking the cat flap, like many a new owner would have done.
He somehow knew from the first moment that she jumped on to his shoulder, that she’d find her way back, now she’d met a whole crowd of new cohorts, wherever she wandered. That cat looked as if it were with him to stay. She had, at last, found her home.
At least he wasn’t suffering the troubles of some of his colleagues in the force, with a wife, unhappy at his necessarily extended working hours, and children who had more or less forgotten what he looked like, and always took their mother’s side in an argument.
At least he wasn’t involved in a messy and heartbreaking divorce, like some he could mention – men who forgot that a family needs care and love, and not just a pay cheque at the end of each month. He was on
e of the lucky ones. To his mind, cats didn’t leave you, or run off with another owner, although they could cause a great deal of trouble in one’s life when they put their minds to it.
He had a happy, if temporarily disrupted, existence, his sergeant was deep in marital bliss, and it looked as though there could be an announcement in the near future from PCs Green and Starr. Roberts was just a drifter, and would probably be as happy on his own on a desert island as he would be in the ear-splitting din of a nightclub. He’d just fit in wherever he landed, and he rather hoped that his DC would find some direction in his life, soon. It might give him more incentive to concentrate on building his career with the police.
It was a philosophical but contented detective inspector who cleared up after his pets and took another trip to buy the unexpected necessities of little bolts from the DIY store that day.
In Fallow Fold that morning, Marilyn Maitland had woken late, having left Melvyn downstairs the previous evening to pursue his toot. These were getting longer and longer, and more frequent, and she surmised that he was getting itchy feet again.
They had, for long, lived under life’s radar, never registering for tax or declaring themselves in permanent residence, always moving on when it looked as if someone might be about to blow the whistle on them. There was always someone, everywhere, who either worked for the government, had a grim streak of justice in them, or just a spiteful streak that led them to tell tales out of class.
They had got by through Melvyn’s usual wheeling and dealing, but they’d been in Fallow Fold for longer than they usually stayed anywhere, and the jewellers, junk shops, and antique dealers for quite a radius were getting familiar with her husband. They’d have to head for territories new before long, and it was to this that she attributed Melvyn’s unusually frequent and high consumption of alcohol.
She had known the personal Skid Row he had been headed for the previous evening, and had absented herself to the bedroom again, where she kept a secret stock of wine in her unusually deep knicker drawer. Melvyn would never think to look there, and he was always too bleary and hung-over after a night on the tiles to notice a corkscrew, empty wine bottle, and glass upstairs. Just in case, she always put these tell-tale signs in her wardrobe, out of his line of sight.
Death in High Circles (The Falconer Files Book 10) Page 6
