Death of an Old Git (The Falconer Files Book 1)

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘Let’s try the till for a start. There should be a few pounds in that by this time of day.’

  ‘Come on, Carmichael,’ said Falconer in muted tones. Show’s over. Let’s make ourselves scarce before we’re caught out as the pair of dirty eavesdroppers that we are.’

  Chapter Ten

  Tuesday 14th July – afternoon

  I

  Back in their office in Market Darley, Falconer and Carmichael, with the twin aids of memory and the sergeant’s notebook, went through what they had got so far ‘to see if there were any favourites running’ as Falconer had put it. The inspector leaned back in his chair, feet on desk, as the sergeant hunched over his notes in concentration.

  ‘Right then, who’s an obvious non-starter, Carmichael? What do you say?’

  ‘Well, those two at the pub don’t seem to’ve had any grudge against the old chap. That bit of business in the bar with the Brigadier’s nothing to an experienced publican, which he obviously is.’

  ‘Well done. Who else is out of the running?’

  ‘Can’t see the old lady being in the frame either, can you sir?’

  ‘Old Mother Cadogan? No. She might not have been over-fond of the old boy, but he seems to have steered well clear of her. Perhaps he knew when he’d met his match. What do you say to the Swainton-Smythes – the Rev. Smug and his gossiping gush of a wife?’ asked Falconer, rising to open another window and encourage a through draught.

  ‘He seems too other-worldly. Not the type. Doesn’t seem to want to hear a bad word about anybody.’

  ‘He got to the body before us, though didn’t he? He could’ve been in there destroying evidence for someone else, even if he didn’t do it himself – secrets of the confessional and all that.’

  ‘That’s Catholics, sir. And do you really think he’d’ve done that?’

  ‘Nah. Go on. You’re doing fine.’

  ‘I can’t say I can see any motive for his wife either, can you?’

  Falconer eased his feet back on to his desk. ‘That old man caused quite a bit of ill-feeling in the church,’ he offered. ‘Rev. D.D. lets it all wash over him, but she’s a completely different kettle of fish. There’s a lot of emotion simmering just below the surface with that one, and she’s fiercely protective of her husband: treats him almost like her child in some ways. What say she did away with the old man to make her husband’s life less stressful? Stranger things have happened.’ Without giving Carmichael the chance to answer, he went on, ‘What do you think about the postmaster? He who finds the body has to be just a little bit suspect.’

  Carmichael looked thoughtful. ‘He does pander to that wife of his, doesn’t he, sir? And they’re both very concerned with their god-daughter’s welfare. And the old man goaded him whenever he had the chance. I suppose he could have been pushed over the edge. It does happen in neighbour disputes.’

  ‘Well done, Sergeant.’ Falconer was experiencing what felt like the beginnings of a partnership here. ‘Now let’s move on to said god-daughter. She had a whole heap of reasons to dislike her neighbour. He led her a terrible dance, one way and another – his behaviour, from what we’ve heard, was enough to goad anyone beyond endurance, let alone a working single parent struggling to raise two children.’

  ‘She’s doing a very good job, sir.’ (Warning, warning! Extreme danger!)

  But Falconer waded in where angels feared to tread. ‘Don’t let sentimentality cloud your judgement, Carmichael,’ he warned. ‘She had that old git next door, the kids, a job to hold down, no washing machine, and next to no support, financial or otherwise, from that ex- of hers. And if the ex- had secured a loan from Morley, he wouldn’t have had to meet high repayment rates and, maybe, her life would have been a little easier – Lowry not working all hours to make ends meet, maintenance payments a bit more regular. Maybe that last incident with the dog excrement was the straw that broke the camel’s back.’

  ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree there. She’s a nice young woman and Lowry was a fool to let her go.’

  ‘Oh, wake up and smell the coffee, Carmichael. Take off those rose-coloured spectacles before you break into song. This is real life, not The Sound of Music.’

  After a silent stand-off that lasted for some minutes, Falconer resumed the précis. ‘What about Mrs Romaine, and/or Manningford?’

  ‘I don’t rate her, sir.’ Carmichael had calmed down a bit, and was willing to come out to play again.

  ‘Boy, was she a bitch on heat.’ Falconer wrinkled his nose in distaste at the memory.

  ‘But she didn’t care, did she? She didn’t seem all that bothered about her bit of hanky-panky coming out.’

  ‘Indeed she did not, but lover boy wasn’t quite so sanguine, was he? He was definitely terrified about his wife finding out what he had been up to. And if she’s got all the money, he’s got an awful lot to lose.’

  ‘And the old man was spying on them in the woods. Maybe he’d already put the squeeze on.’

  ‘And he went over to see Morley,’ continued Falconer, taking over the theory, ‘maybe just to beg for his discretion, the old man laughed in his face, and bingo.’

  ‘Nice one, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, sergeant. Now, who does that leave?’

  ‘What about the Brigadier?’

  ‘Yes. Got a quick temper, that one. He’d already had a run in with the old man in the pub, and he was still losing his produce. Plus, he didn’t volunteer that he’d been down to the old man’s cottage that evening. I’ve got a feeling the old devil’s still hiding something, and I’m going to find out exactly what it is and face him with it.

  ‘Now, who’s left? The Wilson woman who runs the shop? She’s Ms Long’s aunt, so has a strong interest in her welfare. She was owed a large-ish amount of money by Morley, and is struggling to keep that business of hers afloat. It may have been enough for her to snap.’ Goodness, what incestuous breeding grounds of resentment and hostility villages are, he thought: all tranquil on the surface, but absolutely seething with emotion underneath.

  ‘And we haven’t spoken to that Rollason chap either, sir,’ Carmichael reminded him. ‘Do you remember Kerry – Ms Long – said she’d seen him walking away from the old man’s door,’ (here he consulted his notebook on two separate pages) ‘a little after nine, but his wife said he didn’t get in until ten fifteen.’

  ‘Good point, good point. We’ll start with him when we get there tomorrow. And that just leaves us with great-nephew Michael Lowry, crack shot and neglectful father. He looks like an odds-on favourite to me.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have tried to borrow from the old man if he didn’t think he had a tidy sum tucked away.’

  ‘Nor would he, Carmichael. Life would be running a lot more smoothly for him if Morley had given him some financial backing. And whatever grief the old man inflicted on his ex-wife and children would just be served up cold as extra aggravation for him. We’ve got quite a full race card here. Let’s hope some of them start falling at the fences soon, so that we can see the wood for the trees, as it were.’ Good grief! he thought, this conversation was heading for Cliché City if he didn’t take more care.

  ‘Right, that’s enough of that. I suggest we put in an hour or so going through that glorious collection of litter we brought back with us.’

  Most of the papers were easy to discard, consisting mainly of old household bills and receipts. In the detritus were also the few official documents that covered the span of the old man’s lifetime: his birth certificate, birth and death certificates for his wife, their marriage certificate, paid-off mortgage papers and the deeds to the property.

  Falconer also found a pile of personal letters, yellowed with age and beginning to come apart where they had lain folded for so long, but he expected to learn little of recent events from these, and set them aside for perusal on the morrow.

  Circulars advertising special offers, and an enormous assortment of junk mail were also discarded, as they should have been the minute they c
ame through the letterbox. What was it about the ageing process, he wondered, that turned people into squirrels? Why should they suddenly find it necessary to hoard every scrap of what they had, in earlier life, thrown away instantly?

  A ‘sir’ from Carmichael made him look up. ‘I think you’d better come and have a look at this. I don’t know if it’s legal, but it looks like a will to me.’

  Falconer was on his feet in an instant and hurried over to the sergeant’s desk, taking the tattered sheet of paper from him. ‘If I’ve got any relatives left,’ Falconer squinted to make out the crabbed copperplate handwriting, faded ink on age-discoloured paper, ‘then they can have what I’ve got. I might hate my family but I fair despises the government and they ain’t getting what I’ve scraped together in my lifetime.’ It was signed, in the same shaky hand, Reginald Ernest Morley, and bore two more signatures as witness – those of a John and Catherine Marchant – and dated some ten years earlier.

  ‘Well, well, well, there’s a turn-up for the books. We’ll have to get this checked out, but it looks kosher to me. We’ll have to ask around and find out who these Marchants were. I’ll try the Reverend Snotty first and, if he doesn’t know, I’ll ask at the pub. Someone ought to remember them. And we know who Morley’s only living adult relative is, don’t we, Carmichael? And we know he has no alibi for Sunday night and that he’s strapped for cash. This just strengthens the case against him.’

  ‘But if he killed him, why didn’t he just take the money and run?’ asked the sergeant.

  ‘Use your head, man. Most of that money was in old fivers. If Lowry’d tried to change that amount of them in a bank it would’ve raised a few eyebrows, and it wouldn’t have been long before we got to hear about it. Anyway, if he knew about the horde, maybe others did as well. No, this way was the safest. Do for him late in the evening, so that there’s no chance of anyone knowing what had happened and nipping in and helping themselves, then leave the place in the safe hands of the police next morning. You can be sure that, if Alan Warren-Browne hadn’t gone round when he did, Lowry would’ve found some excuse to call round there and “find” the body.’

  ‘You think he knew about the will?’

  ‘It all fits. But don’t forget, what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, no matter how hard you find that to swallow.’ There he went again!

  They fell silent once more, and continued with their search through the mouldering papers. Hardly a breeze stirred through the office, and ominous black clouds were building up in the west, heralding a stormy evening. But weather conditions went unnoticed as they scanned and discarded their way through the dwindling piles.

  Falconer gave a low whistle at almost the same moment as Carmichael called for his attention once more. ‘What have you got, Sergeant?’

  ‘Bank book, sir. Very old but not cancelled.’

  ‘How much?’ Falconer held his breath.

  ‘Four thousand, three hundred and fifteen pounds and thirty-six pence, sir. Last entry made not long after decimalization. So why haven’t we found any statements then?’

  ‘The old sinner probably burnt them in case anyone saw, and tried to tap him for a loan, as did his great-nephew, if you remember. I’ll ring the bank in the morning to see what the up-to-date balance is. That four grand is probably worth two or three times as much by now’

  ‘What’ve you got?’

  ‘One moment and I’ll tell you,’ and the inspector made a brief but productive phone call. As he replaced the receiver his eyes were gleaming. ‘Insurance policy, Carmichael. Current value with bonuses is a little over fifteen thousand pounds. That old boy was worth at least thirty grand, and that’s without taking into account the value of the property, which even in this state is going to be well over a hundred and fifty k. Worth doing murder for, don’t you think? This just looks blacker and blacker for Mr Michael Lowry.’

  At that point they were interrupted by the arrival of duty sergeant Bob Bryant. ‘This was just dropped off for you, Inspector Falconer. Full report of the PM. Nice little facer in there. Hope you don’t mind, but I had a peep.’

  Falconer looked through the report. Cause of death: as thought. Time of death, somewhere between 9 p.m. and midnight. Wire from neck identified as that commonly available from any hardware or DIY store. Contents of stomach, partly-digested bread and cheese, something chocolaty (cocoa), and approximately three times the normal dosage of a commonly prescribed, but medically old-fashioned, sleeping tablet.

  ‘Get on to the doctor at Castle Farthing surgery and see if – no leave it, I’ll do it myself. If any of our runners was prescribed those tablets, I want to know who, when, and why. And where are the leftovers, if any?’

  Chapter Eleven

  Wednesday 15th July – morning

  I

  Falconer was in the office early the following morning, and seven-thirty found him at his desk, working his way through the personal letters that were all that was left of the Morley paperwork.

  The oldest and most fragile consisted of letters that had passed between the old man and his then sweetheart, later his wife, during the Second World War, and Falconer paid these only scant attention. He felt they could have no bearing on the old man’s end so many years later, and had no wish to be a voyeur on their courtship. A few letters from the immediate post-war era were from old comrades-in-arms, passing on their de-mob news, and a few – intermittently spaced – were from family members. These last he paid more attention to, as they would provide some background for the feud that had so distanced Morley from those family members and, ultimately, from his great-nephew.

  It proved to be a very sorry tale indeed, a dispute arising between brothers after the death of their father. Most of the correspondence was from Reg’s younger brother Robert, and centred on the name which had been shared by both Reginald Ernest Morley, died two days ago, and his late father, who had passed on in 1957. There had been several withdrawals made from Reginald Morley senior’s account, in that name and with a rather dubious signature, made after the date of his demise. A sad but predictable tale, given what Falconer had learnt about the recently-deceased Reginald Ernest Morley junior: it had all been about money and greed. The rift appeared to have been final, the bank informed to freeze the account (although no documentary evidence was here available to back this up), as the letters, abusive and accusatory, tailed off after a few months, finally wishing ill for the rest of his days to the recipient.

  He was about to pack away the pile when a lone piece of paper, envelope-less and folded very small and haphazardly, caught his eye. He picked it up, carefully opened it out, read, and whistled quietly to himself. ‘I can’t pay any more and I can’t take any more. You must live with the consequences now.’ That was all. The letter was unsigned and undated, but undoubtedly fairly old. Given a small leap of the imagination, however, it did suggest that some of the surprisingly large amount of money in the Morley coffers may have come by the exercise of a little local blackmail.

  Most of the cash from the cache in the cottage had been in old five-pound notes, and no deposit had been made in the bank account (he must phone to verify details) for well over thirty years. Something may have happened to force the old man into early retirement – the letter was darkly suggestive of this – or maybe he had just lost his taste for the game. A quick check of Mrs Morley’s death certificate showed a date in 1972. That had possibly been the trigger. And then he must have lost heart, just done a bit of spying here and there. Maybe he had been stashing money away for both of them in their old age and, without his wife, it had not seemed worth the bother any more.

  Whatever the story was, maybe catching Cassandra Romaine and Piers Manningford in a compromising situation in the woods, and knowing who held the purse-strings in the Manningford household, had awakened the old greed. Maybe he had just been bored. In any case, Piers Manningford had better anoint himself with oil for, after he had rattled Nick Rollason’s cage, Falconer was going to give him a se
vere grilling.

  Looking at his fob watch he noted that it was eight-thirty, and about time he left to pick up Carmichael. His eyes rolled towards the ceiling as he wondered what sight would greet him today.

  II

  At a toot from the horn, Carmichael ducked through the front door and made his way down the front garden, which seemed, overnight, to have added a semi-derelict caravan and wrecked Mini, partly cannibalised for parts, to its junkyard ornamentation.

  Today’s outfit was less funereal than the day before’s, and consisted of brown. That one word summed it up. Carmichael had plumped, once more, for a single-colour ensemble. With his great height and breadth, and his slightly bovine expression, Falconer could not decide whether to open the door for him or offer to fetch a milking stool.

  It was scorchingly hot today, but if only the weather would break, maybe he would be able to steer his partner into slacks and a nice, white, long-sleeved shirt with a tie.

  III

  Parking at the lower end of the village they called first at the surgery to enquire about the diazepam found in Reg Morley’s stomach.

  They were in luck, as the surgery was only open three days a week, on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. On Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturday mornings, anyone from the village who needed to see a doctor had to make the four-mile journey to Stoney Cross, as it was a split practice. All this was explained to them by the brisk receptionist, who also informed them that today’s duty doctor was Dr Philip Christmas, and that he currently had a fifteen-minute break between consultations (at this, an elderly woman seated in the waiting area glared darkly towards the receptionist and tapped her walking stick in impatience) and would see them now.

  They found Dr Christmas seated before a computer monitor, a cup of black coffee in one hand, a half-eaten jam doughnut in the other.

  ‘Come in, gentlemen, and take a seat while I wash my hands. They’re covered in sugar and not fit to be shaken.’

  He was a man in his mid-fifties, of medium height and build, with salt-and-pepper hair and a thick and luxuriant moustache, from which he surreptitiously dislodged stray crystals of sugar as he listened to their request for information.