‘Harry,’ said Doc Christmas, ‘There’s no way you can go back and change any of that; you don’t have a time machine. What you can do is help out with Davey’s wife and children, and visit him in hospital. If it helps, pray for him. I’m going to advise Chivers that, in my opinion, you’re not fit to work at the moment, and recommend that he grant you a week’s compassionate leave, sick leave, call it what you will.
‘You also must try to express your emotions, and not bottle them up inside. That way madness lies. Try to be more open about how you feel. People won’t perceive that as a weakness, but rather as a strength, that you have the ability to show your vulnerable side.’
Falconer tried to interrupt, but was talked through and down.
‘You will do as you’re advised and I shall brook no argument. At the moment you’re simply not fit to work, and you wouldn’t be able to exercise sound or positive judgement on anything. I want you to take these tablets,’ here he handed him a strip of anonymous pills, ‘two a day, and these,’ and he handed over another strip, ‘one at night.
‘You’re not indestructible and you’re not immortal. You need to eat, sleep, rest, and recuperate, just like any other human being. Do the sensible thing and take my advice on this, and you’ll be feeling more able to face the world much more quickly. No, don’t argue. Just do what you’re told, for once in your life.’
‘Yes, Nanny,’ replied Falconer meekly.
‘I’ll call in every day to make sure that you’re following instructions, and if you need to talk any more, you know you can trust me. I’m used to keeping all my patients’ secrets; yours won’t be too much more of a burden. But you must start learning how to express your feelings, or you’ll have a complete breakdown.’
‘Yes, Nanny.’
Shortly after the doctor had left, the phone rang, and Falconer found Superintendent ‘Jelly’ Chivers himself on the other end of the line. Without preamble, he launched straight into his lecture.
‘I’m calling from the station,’ – on a Sunday? – ‘and I’ve been talking to some of the men. I’ve just had a brief chat with the FME, and he says he’s already seen you this morning. I’m going to take the man’s advice, and I’m ordering you to take a week away from work. I can’t have you working on this case anyway, because you’re too close to it. You’ve already half-killed Mr Dixon once, and I don’t want a recurrence of that in my station, although this is the last time I shall ever speak of that incident.
‘I’ve got a new team together, and I want you out of harm’s way while they conduct interviews, take statements, and gather evidence. You’re too closely involved, with what happened to Carmichael. Take a break; maybe go away for a couple of days. I’ll be in touch.’
The inspector hadn’t managed to utter a word, when Chivers rang off, and he was left standing there with the phone in his hand, wondering what would have happened if the man had dialled a wrong number. He’d never have known, not having given him the opportunity to answer or comment on anything.
He had no idea what he would do with himself with no office to go to, and then he remembered that he used to be quite a good pianist, and he’d spent quite a long time learning Greek, and had become quite proficient at it. Maybe he ought to go back a few paces and find out who he had been when he was first partnered with Carmichael.
Of course, he’d see what he could do for Kerry and the children, and spend some time at the hospital where he had two officers incarcerated, but it seemed like the ‘essential’ Falconer had gone astray. He seemed to have worked non-stop since the start of their partnership, and realised the possibility that he’d been driving himself a little too hard.
It was time to take his foot off the accelerator of life, and transfer it to the brake for a while. Carmichael had, in fact, been a prime example of how to balance his personal life with his professional, and Falconer had never noticed before what a fine juggling act he did. He just hoped to God that the young man had more time left in which to demonstrate this skill.
That afternoon found Falconer sitting by Carmichael’s bedside. He’d been told that, although his colleague was unconscious, he could probably still hear, and it might be a good idea to talk to him about incidents they had shared together.
This was not something he thought he would have considered doing in the past, but so emotional had he become at the thought that he may lose his partner, that he forced himself to remember some of the more bizarre incidents in their shared past. He also talked about some of the weird and wonderful clothing Carmichael had worn during their time together, reviewing the best part of two years, case by case.
As he sat there, thus engaged, DC Roberts wandered in from the general ward, and sat on the end of the bed to listen. He’d only been stationed in Market Darley for a few of their previous cases – and had spent most of the first one in hospital, after being beaten almost to death with a baseball bat, and the greater part of his second case in a similar condition, after being a victim of a hit-and-run accident.
This third case had seen him hospitalised before it had really got going, and he knew some of the hospital staff really well, now, and was treated rather as a pet. Listening to the inspector saved a lot of time reading notes, and was far more entertaining.
One case, over Christmas, between hospital stays but during convalescence, he had missed completely, and rocked with laughter, at the same time groaning with pain, at some of Carmichael’s more ludicrous ideas, like building a hen-house inside the house, without considering how he would get such a large structure out into the garden.
At four o’clock, Kerry arrived, Roberts returned to his ward, and Falconer discreetly ended his visit, passing a few minutes with her to discuss her husband’s condition, and to enquire how things were going at home.
He had already seen the biggest get well card ever printed leaning against the wall by the sergeant’s bed, and Kerry told him she had received an enormous bouquet and basket of fruit from the station, and that Bob Bryant had actually left the reception desk and come to visit her personally, to tell her how much he admired Carmichael, and how far the young man had come since moving to plain clothes. This was better than a glowing report from the superintendent himself, and she glowed with pride, as she repeated what he had said.
She also told him that the doctors had decided to allow the sedation to wear off the following day, and see how her husband reacted. The children were worried, but fine, and having Linda Starr there made all the difference. She talked her out of her misery, amused the children, and shopped for her, so that she wouldn’t have to face any questions she wasn’t ready for.
Merv was visiting after tea tonight, and the children had been very excited about him coming over, as he intended to bring Mulligan as well, and the thought of having two adults in the house who were not their parents, and the anticipation of rides on Mulligan’s back, was enough to make them laugh with happiness – something they had not done since the attack on their father.
After leaving the hospital, Falconer went home and put together a scrappy meal for himself, before driving over to Shepford St Bernard, the village in which he and Carmichael had worked their last murder case, and attending Evensong in the church of St Bernard-in-the-Downs.
His reason for this was twofold. He found Evensong a very comforting service, full of reassurance, with an atmosphere that was timeless. He also wanted to have a word with Rev. Florrie Feldman. Her no-nonsense attitude was exactly what he felt he needed at the moment, in his precarious emotional state.
The tiny church choir sang the psalms, a tradition that he loved and always found very calming, and Rev. Florrie recognised him in the small but loyal congregation, and realised that he had probably come to the church to see her; thus, she said goodbye to the other members of the congregation, then came back into the body of the church to see him, instead of disappearing straight into the vestry to disrobe.
Falconer’s worries were not just about Carmichael’s survival, but
about the very existence of God, and the continuing life of souls after death. He had been brought up as a regular church-goer, a tradition that was continued through both prep and boarding school.
He had taken a bit of a ‘pagan break’ while at university, but had become a Sunday worshipper again in the army – but since he had left that force and joined another, he was back in no-man’s-land as far as his real beliefs went.
Rev. Florrie was pragmatic as ever, and he left her company with little idea of what she had really said, but strangely reassured by her words.
The inspector had been home no longer than half an hour when there was a ring on the doorbell, just as the cats were having their mad minutes, a daily occurrence in the early evening. Shutting them in the sitting room with difficulty, he opened the front door to find Merv Green on the doorstep, clutching a bottle of very good red wine and an armful of packets of snacks.
‘Thought you might like some company,’ he stated baldly, elbowed his way into the hall and opened the sitting room door, only to be literally bowled over by a crazy feline game of tag. Luckily, he staggered a step or two before completely overbalancing, and the bottle of wine landed safely in an armchair.
‘Give me dogs every time,’ he stated, then added, ‘Come on, sir. Get out the corkscrew. There’s a man dying of thirst here, and it isn’t you.’
‘Only if you tell me how the interviews are going, and what you’ve learnt about the Maitlands,’ Falconer replied, heading for the kitchen, still surprised by Green’s visit.
‘Deal,’ a deep voice called back from the other room, and the inspector loaded a tray with wine glasses, glass bowls for the snacks, and the all-important corkscrew.
When everything had been set out, the wine had had a minimal time to breathe, and they were settled in armchairs, Merv started the conversation, but not on the subject that Falconer had expected. ‘That Ngomo’s a bit of an oddball, don’t you think?’
‘I only saw the man for a couple of minutes, but he didn’t seem like a native.’
‘Oh, he’s that all right, born in good old London town, but apparently his parents speak hardly any English, so all six of them chat in African lingo at home. Do you know what he asked me after you’d, er, gone on leave?’
‘Enlighten me,’ replied Falconer, intrigued, despite his impatience to hear about the case.
‘He only went and asked me if I’d found Jesus.’
‘What on earth did you say?’
‘I told him I hadn’t realised he was missing, but that I’d keep an eye out for him and if I hadn’t found him within forty-eight hours, I’d put out a missing persons report.’
‘How on earth did he react to that?’
‘He just smiled that sappy smile of his, and walked away shaking his head. Did you notice his eyes?’
‘I really didn’t have time. Gazing into sergeants’ eyes isn’t one of my regular pastimes, believe it or not.’
‘They’re like black stones in pools of blood, they’re so bloodshot. I put it down to too much praying.’
‘Green!’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Shut up and bring me up to date with the case.’
‘Here goes. We’ve been taking it in turns to interview them. We were both in all day yesterday, and I went in this morning, then I went to Carmichael’s place after they’d had their tea – nice kids – then I checked back at the station before I came here, because I knew you’d want an up-to-date picture of what we’ve discovered.’
Chapter Sixteen
Sunday Evening
‘Dixon and Mrs Maitland have known each other for decades. They met in college, and were “going steady”, as they used to call it, in the olden days,’ Merv began his tale.
‘Dixon claimed never to have loved anyone else, but then along came Melvyn Maitland, with his long hair and beard – which he still has – and swept Marilyn off her feet with his casual approach to life and his laid-back attitude. She fell for it, hook, line, and sinker, and broke up with Dixon, marrying Maitland only a couple of months later.
‘Dixon was almost out of his mind with grief, and dropped out of college shortly afterwards. Meanwhile, Mrs Maitland discovered that the gypsy life was not as wonderful as she had expected. She found it very unsettling, constantly moving on, not settling anywhere, and hadn’t been prepared for the fact that Maitland never intended to pay tax of any sort to any government department.
‘In effect, they became what she described as “tax ghosts”, always renting furnished properties, and doing a flit if it seemed that any agency was catching up with them. Maitland himself did anything and everything, provided it paid cash, but it was a precarious life that stopped her pressing for a family. If she didn’t like the lifestyle, she felt she could hardly subject a child or children to it.
‘After a couple of years, she’d had enough, and contacted Dixon, who was still living with his mother in the same house, and they became secret lovers, only meeting infrequently in cheap hotels and boarding houses, but their meetings gave them both something to look forward to. Maitland wasn’t a fool, though, and he noticed when Marilyn suddenly started to be in a better mood, seeming happier than she’d been for quite a long time.
‘It didn’t take him long to find evidence of her adulterous activities, in the form of a clutch of letters from Dixon, declaring his undying love, and which she should have burnt, but couldn’t bring herself to confine to the flames.
‘That was the point that Maitland began to blackmail Dixon, whose mother was a fervent Christian, and would have cut him out of her will had she known what he was doing. So weak was he that he paid up, and continued to pay up until he moved to Fallow Fold and Maitland lost track of him.
‘He thought he was safe, and couldn’t believe his good and his bad luck when Marilyn and Melvyn moved into the self-same village. Of course, they couldn’t resist the opportunities for clandestine meetings, when Melvyn was off working somewhere else or doing deals, but he’d clocked Dixon as well.
‘He wasn’t a stupid man, by any means, and just presented himself on Dixon’s doorstep one day with his hand held out, just like before. Even though Dixon’s mother was dead by then, she had instilled her moral values in him so thoroughly, that the thought of all and sundry knowing that he was having a relationship with a married woman was anathema to him, and he began to pay again.
‘Then Marilyn suggested a plan to him, whereby they could be together forever.’
‘I say, Merv, you’ve got a jolly good storytelling style when you put your mind to it,’ interrupted Falconer.
‘Well, I’m not down the pub with me mates now, am I, and Twinkle wants me to talk better. She thinks it’ll help me get on in the force,’ he replied with a rueful smile.
‘She’s probably right, too. Keep it up. Now, on you go.’
‘She’d managed to winkle out of Melvyn that it was he who did all that vandalism when he was stinking drunk. He was the co-ordinator for all the groups, and he’d had a bit of a time of it with them lately. He got absolutely rat-arsed one night and attacked the property of some of the people he thought were responsible for all the extra work he’d had to do.
‘Then there was that attack on the German bloke, and she thought they could make use of those incidents to stage Dixon’s disappearance, after leaving an unbelievable note mentioning his dead mother. Then, a couple of days later, if no one had accused Melvyn of doing away with him, he could come back, clandestinely, and she and Dixon would do away with Melvyn and hide his body in the freezer. It’s just a pity that the freezer was rather too small, and they had to dismember him.
‘Marilyn had also forgotten her passport, then thought that Melvyn’s might be handy too. They might be able to sell it to some unscrupulous individual if they ran short of funds, and Dixon had already been back once for his own. They were holed-up in a bed and breakfast place in Carsfold while they were plotting their departure.
‘Neither of them will say when they did for
Melvyn, but Doc Christmas says there’s a knife wound in the neck which would have severed the jugular. They were probably both there when it happened, and can you imagine the scene, with Maitland with a knife sticking out of his neck, blood spurting everywhere, and him staggering round the utility room, roaring and pulling at the knife? God, it’d really have pulsed out when he removed the plug. And they probably just looked on, too frightened to move.’
He stopped momentarily, and shuddered. ‘Anyway, whenever it was, we know when they came back to cut him up just as if he were a sheep or a cow, and stuff the bits in the freezer.’
‘But what about the blood we found on the fireplace in Dixon’s house? Was it Dixon’s after all, or was it Maitland’s, left there by accident as it were?’
‘It was Dixon’s. Apparently he always sharpens his pencils with a pen-knife, and cut himself, sharpening one so that the shavings went into the fireplace and didn’t make a mess of the floor.’
‘You couldn’t make this up! So the mention of his mother was deliberate?’
‘It certainly was. He knew he’d told people that she’d died, and that someone would say something sooner or later. They might even think he’d been coerced into writing it by someone who didn’t know about her death. That would have been even better, because with him gone, and then Maitland disappearing, Maitland would probably have been suspected of doing away with his neighbour, and the two love-birds would have the chance to flee the country to start a new life together, before anyone was actively looking for them.
‘No one would be looking for a couple. They’d eventually find Maitland’s dismembered body, but his wife would be well away by then, and maybe they’d even have the opportunity for Mrs M. to make an honest man of Mr D., somewhere abroad.’
‘Some people really make life difficult for themselves,’ Falconer commented. ‘If only he’d had the guts to ask her to leave her husband, none of this would have happened, and they could have lived happily ever after, in sin. Morals sometimes cause more trouble than they’re worth.’ This was something that he had never expected to hear coming from his own mouth, and he realised he had been reassessing his ideals and opinions since that murderous attack on Carmichael.
Death in High Circles (The Falconer Files Book 10) Page 17
