That seemed to sober the disgruntled, failed businessman, and he calmed down while Roberts asked his last few questions. No, they hadn’t seen the woman after she left the party, and no, they’d never seen her precious jewels.
In fact, they’d not really heard about them, or at least the reality of them, till that moment. There had been whispers, but they’d viewed the idea of a woman like that having a priceless collection of jewellery as being fabulous, and viewed them as probably as real as the Loch Ness Monster.
Roberts was very glad to leave Three-Ways House, and relieved to be heading back to the station, all his interviews completed for the day.
Rev. Florrie gave the two detectives a warm welcome at The Rectory, but her eyes still held deep sadness at what had happened. ‘I was just about to make a pot of tea,’ she declared, ‘Will you join me? Oh, and there’ll be cake as well. I always find sweet things a source of comfort when I’m feeling miserable. If I can’t work out, spiritually, when something dreadful has happened, then I fall back on the earthly comforts of cake, biscuits, and chocolate.
‘It doesn’t diminish my faith, or compromise it in any way,’ she explained, ‘It just comforts me until I realise why such a thing could have been in God’s plan. And they taste good as well, and aren’t actually a sin. I think of it as, when God – temporarily – can’t provide, Mr Kipling and Cadbury can.’
‘Very logical thinking, Vicar. We’d be delighted to join you, and afterwards, perhaps you could tell us all you know about Miss Keighley-Armstrong, so that my sergeant here can make a note of it, then, exactly what happened when you found her this morning.’
‘No problem, and then I shall have to get my skates on to be ready for Evensong, not that I expect anyone else to attend. Quite often it was just Lettice, her friend Violet, and me. Now Lettice is gone, I expect Violet will be too upset to come this evening.’
‘Oh, and I’d like to borrow the keys to Manor Gate before we leave. I want to pick up her insurance policies, and find something with her solicitor’s address on it, so that I can set the wheels in motion in those quarters. I understand she had no next of kin; no blood ties, as it were.’
‘That’s right. She was all alone in the world. That, I think, is what made me so fond of her in the first place. She might have been railing about my appointment, but there she was, with nobody to call her own, and yet she still had spirit. She never moaned or complained; just got on with her life, and enjoyed whatever she could from it.’
‘By the way,’ said Falconer, a thought having just struck him, ‘do you know if she kept any cash in her safe? There was no sign of any when we searched the property.’
‘I’m not sure, but I rather think she did. I was there once when her groceries were delivered, and she was gone rather a long time. I got up, because I had to leave anyway, and she was still at the door with the delivery man, counting cash out into his hand. Maybe she got it from the safe. It wouldn’t have taken her so long to get money from her purse, and I noticed that the study door was open, which it certainly wasn’t when I arrived.’
‘Thank you very much indeed, Vicar. That’s a bit more food for thought.’
When Carmichael had everything down in his notebook, they rose to take their leave, along with the key of Manor Gate. Carmichael hung back looking embarrassed, and eventually said, ‘You go on ahead, sir. I need to speak to the vicar about something private.’
Puzzled but compliant, Falconer went outside to wait for his partner in the car. He didn’t have long to wait, as Carmichael soon emerged, skipping down The Rectory path with a grin that fair split his face in two. He had the general demeanour of someone who has just been informed that he’s won the lottery, and on a rollover week to boot. All in all, he didn’t look like the same man who had almost crawled out of his house just that morning.
‘What’s come over you, Mr Happy?’ asked Falconer, as the sergeant got into the car.
‘Are you still up for being godfather for my mob, sir?’ he asked.
‘Of course I am. I promised, didn’t I?’
‘Great!’ whooped Carmichael. ‘I’ve just had a word with the vicar, and she says she can probably arrange to come over to Castle Farthing and conduct the service there. She doesn’t reckon she’ll have any trouble getting permission, so it looks like Kerry and me can get on with arranging it now. Isn’t that great, sir?’
Omitting to mention that it should be ‘Kerry and I’, the inspector merely replied, ‘Splendid! Super!’ and contemplated another thrash involving the entire Carmichael family. He was still recovering from his partner’s wedding, and that had been over a year ago now.
At Manor Gate, the necessary documents weren’t difficult to find, still lying on the floor in the study. A letter from her solicitor, all the insurance policies they could find, with an envelope of photographs, plus a copy of the victim’s will were gathered together, before they headed back to Market Darley to have an information-sharing session with Roberts.
Late afternoon – Market Darley
They found Roberts at his desk, tapping a pencil on its surface in apparent impatience. ‘Everything OK?’ asked Falconer, as they breezed in.
‘Sort of,’ Roberts replied, stilling the pencil and putting it down on the desk.
‘What do you mean, “sort of”?’ asked the inspector.
‘It’s just that I haven’t got a lot of time just at the moment. There’s a bit of a surveillance going down tonight, and a few of the uniforms are off with chicken pox – it’s that time of year, especially if you’ve got young kids. I’ve been asked if I’ll come in on night duty, just so that there’s an extra body available, and I said I would, because it’s all overtime, isn’t it?’
‘Have you got any time at all now for your official work with plain-clothes?’
‘Not much. I want to get my head down for a few hours before I come back on duty, but I could give you a quick run through of what I got noted down today. You can tell me what happened with you tomorrow, if I can stay awake.’
‘Fair enough this time, Roberts, but in future please consult me first before agreeing to anything that Bob Bryant tries to talk you into. He might do the rosters, but he has no authority over you, nor any right at all on your services. I suppose you’ll be like a wet dish-rag tomorrow, when I need you to be alert?’
‘I’ll try my best not to be. Sorry,’ the constable replied insincerely, just thinking about the overtime payment.
‘Go on, then. Spill your guts,’ ordered Falconer, glaring.
Roberts spilt.
Falconer got the papers he had collected from the house out of the folder he had slipped them into in the car, and began to go through them, reading to Carmichael as he went. ‘Her solicitor’s here in Market Darley, so we shouldn’t have too much difficulty getting an appointment with him tomorrow. So is her insurance broker, which makes life a bit easier for us.’
Pulling a number of photographs out of a buff envelope, that appeared to be related to the policies, he gave a low whistle, as he looked at the images, one by one. ‘Look at this, Carmichael. I believe we have, here, photographs of the infamous collection of jewellery.’
So saying, he began to hand the images to his sergeant one at a time, so that Carmichael could appreciate what had made him whistle. ‘My God, sir. These are very upmarket, aren’t they? They must be worth a fortune.’
‘Indeed. They were not exaggerated in the telling as most things are. These really are the goods. No wonder someone finally broke in and had it on their toes with them. But look at these policies for the house and contents. They can’t have been updated in years. And she’s not been advised to go for new for old on replacement of any items claimed for. That’s ludicrous. Her broker needs a damned good hiding, taking his eye off the ball to that extent.’
‘There shouldn’t be any trouble getting full value on the jewellery, though, sir. Each sheet has a description of the piece, with the carat of the gold and approximate weight, and a ca
rat value for the stones. Golly, these must have cost a bomb to have commissioned. Her father must have made a mint in South Africa,’ offered Carmichael, his eyes wide at the information they were taking in.
‘That’s the way things used to be in the old days, Sergeant. Now, let’s have a look at her will. Phew!’ He whistled again, glancing at the final bequest. ‘That’ll set the cat among the pigeons without a doubt.’ At that point neither could identify any other legatees, but he would address this when they could put faces to names, motive, and opportunity.
‘What’s that, sir?’ asked Carmichael, finally dragging his eyes away from the photographs.
‘This,’ replied the inspector, ‘Read the last bequest,’ he said, handing the solitary sheet of stiff paper that comprised the old lady’s last will and testament.
Carmichael read the line slowly, then replied, ‘You’re right about that, sir. This’ll really set tongues wagging, and teeth gnashing if I’m not mistaken.’
Chapter Nine
Early hours of Monday morning – Market Darley
The call came in just after midnight, and as there were no cars available due to the surveillance, Bob Bryant rang Roberts and alerted him to the fact that there appeared to be a prowler in Shepford St Bernard. The constable had been stood down from the surveillance at the last minute, when one of the officers who’d previously been off sick returned to work, and was lolling about at home, sulking about the missed opportunity to earn a bit more this month.
‘It was reported by a Mrs Bingham of Tootelon Down in the main street. Last of a terrace of three houses, apparently, just next to the garage,’ the sergeant informed him. ‘Says the cat didn’t come home till late, and when she opened her back door, she heard a cry of what sounded like pain; as if someone had got their foot down a rabbit hole and twisted their ankle. Then she saw the light of what she presumed was a torch, but when she called out, ‘Who’s there?’ the torch went off, and everything went quiet.
‘She didn’t want to open the back gate, in case whoever it was went for her, so she called it in. Do you think you could get over there and take a look? It’s probably nothing. She’ll just be spooked by that other old woman’s death, but better safe than sorry, eh?’
‘Will do,’ agreed Roberts, who had just got his head down on the sofa, and was dropping off the nightly cliff into sleep, downstairs. ‘The fresh air will do me good.’
‘If you find anything, call it in, and I’ll see what I can do with bodies to assist, but I bet you a pair of my best underpants that’s it’s a false alarm.’
Roberts struggled to his feet, and yawned and stretched. If it was just a twitchy old lady, then he’d be back home within the hour, and could, perhaps, get in a couple of hours’ kip. For now, though, he ought to take a trip to the bathroom, and splash his face and the back of his neck with cold water to make sure he was awake enough to drive.
Shepford St Bernard
Damn, damn, damn, a rabbit hole. That hurt, but not too bad. Turn the bloody torch off. Stay absolutely still and try to think of an excuse for being here. Keep completely silent. Don’t move. God, she’d shouted now. What to do? Nothing. That was the answer. Do nothing.
That sounded like the back door closing. Good, she’d gone back inside. Now, to carry out the plan. Thought ceased, as further progress was made in the graveyard.
There was the back gate. Positive it was newly oiled. Perfect. No creak whatsoever. And the downstairs lights were on. Couldn’t be going better. The back door was unlocked, as expected. Now, get inside and spin the tale. Then it would be time to do what this little visit was all about. Then get the hell out of here, and back to safety.
As he entered Shepford St Bernard, Roberts decided to park in the car park in front of The Druid’s Head as the road through the village was so narrow. It might not get a lot of traffic through it at night, but the street lights were unusually dim, and he didn’t want someone to clip his motor as they swung through.
As he got out and locked the doors, he heard the revving of another engine, but didn’t give it another thought. Probably just someone having difficulty getting their vehicle started. He began to cross the road, then was blinded as headlights were turned on and the engine noise got louder.
His reflexes were not what they would have been after a good night’s sleep, and he was a fraction of a second late in his jump out of the way. This helped a little, but not enough to stop him being caught by the car’s wing, and flung to the ground, his head making solid contact with the tarmac. As the lights of the car were turned off again, so were those in Roberts’ head, and he lapsed into unconsciousness.
Market Darley
I don’t believe it, thought Bob Bryant, as he heard the voice of Violet Bingham for the second time that night. What can the old dear possibly want, now? Someone of a higher rank, perhaps? He couldn’t have been more wrong.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you again, but there’s been an accident opposite my house. I just heard the roar of an engine, then a thud, and when I went out to see if anything had happened, I chanced upon a young man, unconscious, in the front car park of The Druid’s Head. I wonder if you could get someone out here and alert an ambulance to collect him?’
‘Did you recognise the victim?’ asked the sergeant, hopefully.
‘Yes, well, that’s the thing, isn’t it?’ she replied. ‘It was the young man I saw coming out of the pub after lunch, with the two nice detectives, who were on their way to call on me. I happened to be looking out of the window at the time, and it was definitely the same young man who’s now been hit by a car. I assume he was on his way to talk to me about my call about the prowler.’
Bob Bryant swore softly under his breath, then turned his attention back to his caller. ‘If you can put a blanket or something over him, I’ll get another officer and an ambulance out there as soon as I can. Stay with him, and keep an eye on him, because the paramedics will probably ask you about any change in his condition when they get there.’
‘Will do, Officer, and sorry to bother you again so soon after the last call.’
‘Think nothing of it, madam. That’s what we’re here for,’ replied Bryant, furiously thinking about whom he could divert to the village to investigate not only what had happened to Roberts, but also what the original call had been about.
After checking on the surveillance, he got the kiss-off, and his only alternative was to call Falconer. It was one of his officers, after all, so he could hardly complain. He wouldn’t be happy about being roused from his bed at one o’clock in the morning, but what could a beleaguered desk sergeant do about it, if there was no one else available?
Harry Falconer was having a delicious dream about Dr Honey Dubois, his ‘sort of’ girlfriend, with whom he had had a few dinner dates since the New Year, and for whom he had high hopes of getting a lot closer to as the year rolled on.
The intrusive noise was treated by his brain as part of the dream, so as not to rouse him, but, as it continued, the subconscious had to give up and go off for a sulk. It wasn’t going to cease, and let the dream continue. Thus, Falconer gradually became aware of the sound of the phone shrilling.
He opened one eye cautiously, and noted the time. One fifteen a.m. Not good. A reluctant hand reached out of the duvet and answered the insistent summons, the owner of the hand struggling to a sitting position and trying to get his thoughts in order. ‘Falconer,’ he enunciated groggily into the mouthpiece, all the while thinking, this had better be worth it, dragging me away from Serena … For a split second, his mind froze. No! Not Serena! Honey! It was Honey! Serena was from the past! What on earth had made him think that name?
‘Sorry, Bob, I didn’t quite catch that,’ he said, pulling himself together. ‘What? When? Not again? Is that man jinxed?’ Pause. ‘OK, I understand all the others are tied up. Just give me time to throw on some clothes, and I’ll be there. Who reported it?’ Pause. ‘I’ll go straight to her address, then. I’ll call in when I’ve got more
information. Thanks a bunch for the early alarm call.’
Reluctantly dragging on the clothes he had taken off only a couple of hours before, he mulled over what Bob Bryant had told him. A prowler reported behind the cottages on The Green. Roberts, not on night duty now, but sent out because of lack of other available personnel. And he’d been hit by a car, on his first case back since he’d been beaten nearly to death in November.
Did he just attract accidents, or was it purely bad luck – being in the wrong place at the wrong time? For all the good it had done the department, he might as well have stayed in Manchester. He seemed constantly to be either in hospital or convalescing. At that point, he quelled these selfish thoughts. Maybe it would have happened to anyone who had answered the call.
But Shepford St Bernard wasn’t exactly thronging with traffic during the day. At night, it must be like a grave. How on earth, then, had Roberts managed to get himself run down by a car, when there probably wasn’t another vehicle on the road for miles around?
Leaving the house, being careful to close the front door and car door quietly, so as not to disturb the neighbours, he drove away, wondering what he would encounter at the other end of his drive.
Shepford St Bernard
As he approached the road through the village, he could see the still-flashing lights of an ambulance, and hear the crackle of the vehicle’s radio. Two paramedics were lifting a gurney into the back of the vehicle, causing him to park as quickly as possible, so that he could check on Roberts’ condition, before he was sped away.
‘He’s not too bad,’ one of the paramedic’s explained. ‘He was conscious when we got here, and he says he did his best to jump out of the way, so he was caught more of a glancing blow than a head-on one. He’s going to be black and blue on his right side in the morning, and he’s got a head wound from where he hit the tarmac; that’s going to need to be stitched, but apart from that he’s been lucky.’
Grave Stones (The Falconer Files Book 9) Page 12
