Death in High Circles (The Falconer Files Book 10)

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘Is that you, Davey?’ called Kerry’s voice. ‘Have you forgotten your key again?’ It was only seven thirty in the morning; who else would she be expecting at such an early hour?

  The smile on her face froze as she saw the inspector standing there, dressed in his best, and she instantly noticed the putty-coloured skin and the exhaustion in his eyes. ‘Oh no,’ she almost wailed. ‘Not Davey?’

  He caught her as she slumped, and helped her into the cottage, where the boys were just finishing breakfast at the dining table. Harriet, he noticed, had finished her morning meal, as evidenced by the sticky mess on the table of her highchair, and was just visible, sleeping off her food in her pram.

  ‘Go and play upstairs, boys,’ he ordered, with a stern look, and guided Kerry to the sofa, where he gently set her down. ‘Mummy and I have got to have a little talk, and you’d be so bored. I’ll give you a call when we’ve finished, then you can come down again. OK?’

  Slightly fazed by this unconventional happening, neither boy made a murmur about being sent from the room, and mounted the stairs without a sound. Children can sense atmosphere and, at the moment, they sensed something that they’d rather not know about for now.

  Fear made Kerry start to babble, and she began with, ‘He’s dead, isn’t he? Davey’s dead? What happened? What are we going to do without him? We’ve had him for such a short time. He was the best father in the world, you know, and I don’t know how we’re going to carry on, on our own. I’ve been separated from one husband, the boys’ father, and he died, and now Davey’s dead. Oh, God! Whatever are we going to do without him?’

  This last question ended in a wail of despair, and Falconer took both her hands in his, and said quietly and calmly, ‘Davey isn’t dead, my dear, but he has been badly injured. He’s in the hospital now, where they’re doing everything they can for him. He’s in the best hands possible, and they’ll do everything that’s humanly possible for him.’

  ‘But he’s going to die, isn’t he? I can hear it in your voice.’

  ‘It’s in God’s hands, now, but he’s been operated on. They’ve transferred him to the ICU, and all we can do now is to wait and pray.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Kerry almost sighed. ‘What about Ma? Has someone broken the news to her? She’ll be out of her mind with worry when she finds out.’

  ‘I understand that Merv and Twinkle are going round to see her, then Twinkle’s coming here, so that you can go to the hospital. It’s all been cleared with Chivers, so don’t give it another thought.’ This he had discovered with his brief chat at the reception desk before he left the hospital, and was glad he had some positive information to report.

  ‘You go on upstairs and have a bath or shower or whatever, get dressed, and try not to brood on it too much. When you’re ready, Twinkle should be here, and while you’re getting ready, Uncle Harry will be in charge.’

  It is worthy of note that in any circumstances less serious than the ones which presently prevailed, he would no more have referred to himself as Uncle Harry than he would be to ride through the streets of Market Darley stark bollock naked.

  At ten thirty he left Kerry in the ICU, sitting by her husband’s bed, tears streaming down her face and mumbling frantic prayers for the patient’s life to a God she’d only half-believed in before this tragedy. Carmichael lay in the bed, numerous tubes coming out of his body, machines beeping their message of ‘OK, for now’, but there was no way he could communicate, as he was being kept under sedation to give his body time to concentrate on healing itself.

  Carmichael himself was in a place of limbo. He was aware of strands of sound, which he knew were voices, but could understand not a word. He seemed to be in a black place where, occasionally, the faces of his family would float by, out of reach, but immeasurably dear to him. He had no idea where he was, or what had happened to put him here, but his mind was too blurred to bother about that. He was aware of no time passing, as he floated in this womb of darkness – this limbo – but he just accepted that this was where he was supposed to be, for the time being.

  Falconer promised to return at lunchtime to take Kerry home, and make sure she had something to eat. One of the other officers would ascertain that she got back to her husband’s bedside for evening visiting. That was all he could do for now, and he turned his weary steps towards the station, to see what had happened in his absence.

  It wasn’t quite eleven thirty when he arrived there, and he made straight for the canteen to get something in his belly. He hadn’t eaten since the evening before, and he felt husked out and completely devoid of energy.

  As he wolfed down a full English and swigged tea, the very act of eating in the canteen made him think of Carmichael, and the gargantuan platefuls his partner had consumed opposite him, so recently. Even the thought of the sergeant’s huge tea mug brought a lump to his throat, as he finished his meal and contemplated the possibility that Carmichael might never have breakfast with him again.

  It was definitely time that he went to his office and got on with some work, but when he got there, his whole working world was turned upside down by what he saw. At Roberts’ desk sat Merv Green, almost unrecognisable in civvies at the station. Under Falconer’s own desk lounged a large furry rug that greeted him as if he hadn’t seen him in years, and proved to be Mulligan.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I couldn’t take him to mine and leave him there on his own all day. Not only would he be lonely, but he’d probably rip the place to shreds just to pass the time.’

  The worst thing though, was that there was someone sitting in Carmichael’s chair, at Carmichael’s desk. A very large man with skin as black as the night had been poring over the sergeant’s computer as the inspector had entered, and was now on his feet, standing to attention.

  ‘Who the hell are you, and what the bloody hell are you doing sitting at my sergeant’s desk?’ barked Falconer, his pallid face flushing an angry purple at the sheer impertinence of the man.

  As he was venting his spleen on his unsuspecting victim, there was a discreet knock at the door, and Superintendent ‘Jelly’ Chivers himself squeezed into the office. ‘Ah, good morning, DI Falconer. I’ve just popped in to introduce you to DS Ngomo. He’s on loan to us while both your men are hospitalised, and I’ve authorised PC Green to work as Acting DC until such times as your forces are back to full strength.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll find both of them hardworking and efficient, and eager to gather sufficient evidence to put those bastards who did that to DS Carmichael behind bars for a very long time.

  ‘As officer-in-charge, I’ll leave the delegation of duties up to you, knowing the case will be in secure hands. We’ve probably got enough evidence in that freezer alone to put them away, but I want to know the ins-and-outs of a duck’s arse in this case, and I don’t want any of the force to rest until we’ve got precisely that.

  ‘We owe it to Carmichael and his family to see justice fully and publicly done. Well done for dealing with that murdering swine when he tried to resist arrest,’ he concluded, and actually winked at Falconer. And he disappeared out of the door again as suddenly as he had entered.

  ‘Well,’ said Falconer. ‘Please excuse my boorish behaviour when I arrived, Sergeant Ngomo. It was the shock of seeing someone else at my partner’s desk. I had no idea that the Super had called for reinforcements.’

  Still at attention, Ngomo replied, ‘There was no reason for you to have known I’d be here. My Christian name is Matthew, and I have four brothers; Mark, Luke, John and Gotobed. Gotobed is, of course, not his real name, but it has stuck since he was a small child.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, and I am DI Falconer, and I like to be called either ‘sir’ or Inspector. I do not answer to the repulsive term ‘guv’. What do you prefer to be called?’

  ‘Matthew will do fine, sir. It is my given name in Jesus,’ the new sergeant replied, then fell silent.

  ‘Green, how long is this dog going to be a feature in the office?’ Mu
lligan had held his peace while Chivers was in the room, but now he’d gone, the dog could not contain himself any longer, and was pawing and licking at Falconer furiously, while making whining noises of friendliness and joy.

  ‘When I got in this morning, I was told to get myself into civvies and report to your office. The dog had been making a helluva row all night, barking at those two who did for Carmichael, and the duty sergeant was nearly out of his mind, so I said I’d bring him up here, take him home with me tonight, and keep him until he can go back to his owners. I’ll ask around to see if there’s anywhere else in the station that he can stay during working hours.’

  Green could hardly suppress a wide grin, as he couldn’t believe his luck, not only at being given a chance in plain clothes, albeit temporarily, but having the chance to look after this absolutely splendid dog as well.

  ‘That’s a very generous offer, to look after him yourself. Make sure you get expenses for his food and anything else he needs. I’m afraid I’m in no state to question either of those two downstairs, so I’d like you to take it turn and turnabout with them, and see what you can pry out of them.

  ‘Me, I’m not rostered for duty today, so I’m going home. Now!’ and the inspector turned on his heel, and marched out of the office, down the stairs, and out of the front door; got into his car, and drove the short distance to his home where, on reaching this sanctuary, he just collapsed on the sofa and cried as if his heart would break.

  When the crying jag had ceased, he phoned the hospital, only to be told that there was no change in Carmichael’s condition. He then phoned the station and explained that he was supposed to take Mrs Carmichael home from the hospital at lunchtime, but that he was temporarily incapacitated, so perhaps an unmarked car could be dispatched to drive her back to Castle Farthing.

  He certainly wasn’t in a fit state to transport a grieving half-widow anywhere, and he made a pot of strong coffee and settled down on the sofa to watch the two DVDs which Carmichael had so thoughtfully given him, and which he had not yet been courteous enough to watch.

  He put on the wedding DVD first, and watched the guests arrive, the ceremony, then candid shots from the speeches and reception. It brought back so many memories, that he was either laughing or crying the whole way through. He even managed to laugh at a couple of scenes that showed himself, half-cut, and trying to dance to the frantic music that he barely remembered. Deciding that he ought, in future, to save himself for such old-fashioned dances as the waltz and foxtrot, he changed to the christening DVD.

  From the very first scene he had a lump in his throat. Carmichael and Kerry looked like a golden couple, baby Harriet, a princess, in her Victorian goffered gown that hung nearly to the ground. (He hadn’t noticed this magnificent garment before, because of his state of accidental inebriation) The two boys wore suits that matched their father’s, and beamed at the camera with fearsome pride.

  The phone rang, just after he had started watching, and he rose and pulled the plug from its socket, then reached into his pocket to turn off his mobile phone, too. He would watch this without interruption, as a private apology for being made a fool of by Carmichael’s brothers, and missing the opportunity of joining in the celebrations with a clear mind, as a proper godfather would have done.

  When the DVD finished, he put his head in his hands and sobbed out his misery, that such a thing could happen. If he hadn’t been so disgusted with Honey, he wouldn’t have been in such a bad mood. If he hadn’t been in such a bad mood, he would have made more haste to get to Fallow Fold. And if he’d got to Fallow Fold just a couple of minutes earlier, he could have prevented what eventually happened. It was all his fault, and the weight of guilt was unbearably heavy.

  After about half an hour, he poured himself a good slug of scotch, and put on the first DVD to play again. At the end of it, he put on the second one, again accompanied by an even larger slug of whisky, and that was how Doc Christmas found him, when he called round to see how he was, having heard that he’d just walked out of the station with barely a word.

  It took him some while to get an answer to the door, but he persevered until Falconer got tired of the constant knocking and ringing, and flung himself out into the hall to see who was making such a nuisance of themselves. Didn’t they know he was grieving? Didn’t the whole world know that?

  Doc Christmas was one of the few who did know in what state he was likely to find the inspector, and was ready for either fight or flight, when the man himself eventually answered this persistent summons.

  Falconer looked like a tramp, and was such a lightweight as far as alcohol was concerned, and so exhausted, that he was practically incoherent after two large drinks. Brooking no argument, the doctor took him gently by the shoulders and about-turned him, pushing him in the small of the back, to get him to go back into the sitting room.

  That achieved, he put on the kettle, and began rooting around in the kitchen to find something that he could cook, so that the man at least had food in his belly. ‘Beans on toast do you?’ he called through, only to find that Falconer was dead to the world, asleep on the sofa, and snoring like a prize porker.

  He woke him to feed him, gave him two cups of scalding hot tea, then pulled out of one of his jacket pockets two small bottles. ‘Get yourself upstairs and into your pyjamas, and let me know when you’re in bed, and I’ll come up and minister to you. Do it! Now!’

  Ten minutes later, he was standing in Falconer’s bedroom with a tray, on which rested a mug of hot chocolate, a pint glass of water, and two small pills, one white, the other yellow. Falconer was looking mulish about the pills but, as Doc Christmas told him, if he didn’t take them immediately he’d summon Falconer’s GP and tell him the man was fit only for certifying under section two of the Mental Health Act. ‘And don’t think we couldn’t do it either. It only takes two signatures and you’re in the nut hut.’

  The patient took the medication reluctantly; even suffering the indignity of having to open his mouth to show that he hadn’t just hidden the tablets under his tongue. As he sipped the hot chocolate, Christmas sat on the edge of the bed, and promised he’d let him know if anything at all happened, with respect to Carmichael’s condition.

  ‘You should sleep through to the morning now. I’ll call in first thing, to see whether you’re fit to work and, if you’re not, you do what’s best for you, and not what you think you should do. The world won’t come to an end just because you miss a couple of days in the office. And going into work won’t make Carmichael any better or worse than he was going to be anyway.’

  Five minutes later, the doctor removed the mug gently from Falconer’s slackening fingers and pulled the duvet over him, before tiptoeing from the room and leaving him to sleep off his grief and guilt, or as much of it as he could. He’d be back in the morning to judge his fitness for work.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sunday

  The doctor was true to his word, and returned on Sunday morning to Letsby Avenue to assess his patient’s physical and mental state. He arrived at ten thirty bearing a bag of croissants and the enormous weight of one of the larger-circulation Sunday newspapers.

  When Falconer opened the door to him, it was obvious that the inspector hadn’t long been out of bed, as he was still in dressing gown and slippers, his hair was a mess of spikes, and he evidently hadn’t found time, yet, for a shower.

  Doc Christmas bustled in like a male nanny, organising a pot of coffee and setting the kitchen with the necessary accoutrements for them to sit down and have breakfast together. ‘Have you fed the cats yet?’ he asked. ‘From the smell, I detect that you haven’t had time to clear their litter tray. No, no; you sit down, and I’ll sort everything out, then we’re going to get something inside you, and you can’t spend the whole day looking like a scarecrow.

  ‘When you’ve eaten, showered, shaved, and dressed, we’re going to sit down together, and you’re going to talk about how you really feel. I don’t want any of this daft st
iff upper lip guff from you. For once, I want you to pour out your feelings. You’ll be amazed at how cathartic it can be, and you know nothing you tell me will go any further.’

  Falconer shuffled through to the kitchen, the sunlight from the window highlighting his stubbled face and the drawn expression on it. ‘How is he?’ he asked, knowing he had no need to identify about whom he was asking.

  ‘He’s holding his own, and if he regains consciousness and you look like a bucket of shite, he’s not going to be very encouraged, is he? He’ll think he’s going to die if you look like you’ve gone to pieces, now start eating these croissants while I pour the coffee, then you can get up to the bathroom and turn yourself back into a human being.’

  For once, Falconer did as he was told, and looked marginally better after his late breakfast. The doc then shooed him upstairs, and told him not to come down again until he’d checked in a mirror that he looked his normal respectable self. ‘Then we talk,’ he concluded.

  Forty-five minutes later, the inspector was sitting stiffly on the edge of the sofa, willing himself to open his heart and verbalise his horror at what had happened, his fears for Carmichael’s survival, and the nagging guilt that, if he hadn’t been in such a filthy mood about Honey, he would have arrived at the scene more quickly and could, perhaps, have prevented what happened to Carmichael. This one aspect of the situation seemed to haunt his every waking moment.

  It was a lifetime’s outpouring of grief, and he was astounded at how it wracked his body. Strangely, once he’d started, he found he couldn’t stop, trying to explain his shyness and loneliness, and he even gabbled out the story of why he was in a sulk in the first place, and what Honey had told him. It came out in a flood, a cataract of words that he couldn’t stop, and by the time he’d finished he felt exhausted, but a little better.