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

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘Oh.’ The Brigadier (trusting soul) deflated a little. ‘Fair play, old chap. Yes, I did go back.’ (Yippee!)

  ‘What time?’

  ‘About half past nine.’

  ‘And did you speak to Mr Morley?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I’d better tell you why I went back, first, so it makes more sense. When I got home the first time Joyce was all in a tizzy. This is jam-making season, and while I was out she’d gone to fetch in some gooseberries as she knew we had enough to make a few pounds – so much better than that shop-bought muck. But when she got to the bushes there wasn’t a single fruit to be found. Morley had already been at our soft fruits – raspberries, strawberries – and when I realised he’d been at it again I really saw red. Had a quick gin-and-it for Dutch courage and marched back down there. Pushed my way past him and went straight to the kitchen. And there they were – the best part of three and a half pounds of gooseberries in an old carrier bag.’

  ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘Grabbed ’em and told the old sod a thing or two.’

  ‘Don’t be modest, sir. What thing or two did you tell him?’

  ‘That he deserved a good thrashing and, if he stole from me again, I’d have him arrested.’

  ‘And that’s all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you see anyone on the way home?’

  ‘Too angry to notice if there was anyone about. By the way, who saw me and blabbed?’

  ‘No one, Brigadier. I made that bit up, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be blowed!’

  ‘Would either of you gentlemen like a scone?’ Joyce Malpas-Graves offered. ‘There’s some very nice gooseberry jam to go with them.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Wednesday 15th July – afternoon

  I

  Falconer and Carmichael spent the remains of the working day behind their desks, in the time-consuming pursuit of building a comprehensive case file thus far, pairing signed statements with notes taken, preparing hitherto unsigned information to statement forms, and compiling progress reports. It was tedious but necessary work, and both men ploughed on in comparative silence, merely wishing the task done and the hours to the end of the working day over.

  Back in Castle Farthing there were, in most cases, enjoyable preparations afoot for the evening’s celebration of Clive Romaine’s birthday at The Fisherman’s Flies. Paula and George Covington were arranging (and protecting with cling-film) such comestibles as smoked salmon sandwiches (crusts still attached), cheese and broccoli quiches (suitable for vegetarians), sausage rolls (suitable for omnivores), smoked trout goujons with a dill dip, and filled rolls for those requiring more than a mere morsel of sustenance. The dual motivations of a fun evening twinned with excellent profits spurred their creative geniuses, and they sprinkled cress and dealt prettily halved tomatoes with gay abandon, and hoped that their offerings would pass muster with the decidedly un-villagey Romaines.

  The Rollasons were collecting together the plethora of equipment and supplies necessary to the passing of an evening for a baby in an unfamiliar household. Little Tristram was to spend the evening in Jasmine Cottage with Kerry Long’s children in the care of Rosemary Wilson, who was more than happy to forego the pleasures of an alcohol-fuelled knees-up for the chance to play nanny to three young charges.

  And, oh, the choices to be made. Should a spare sleep-suit be included in the little man’s baggage? Should she put in his bunny-wunny but leave out the teddy with the sleepy-time eyes? She had better put them both in. The noise from the garage workshop carried in the warm, evening air, and for the last few days Tristram had slept only fitfully until it ceased, which happened far too late in her and her husband’s opinion. The poor little chap, usually so happy and contented, was definitely showing signs of fatigue in his sudden tears at the slightest thing. She herself was feeling a little frayed at the edges at the constant running up and down in the evenings to comfort and resettle him.

  It was all quiet now, however, and her thoughts drifted back to the task in hand. Would one bottle be sufficient? Better make that two – one of milk and one of juice. Had Nick taken the travel cot over? Where were the spare dummies? How many napkins? Rebecca’s head was in a spin as she surveyed the ocean of things she felt would be needed by Tristram to go a-visiting for just a few short hours. All in all, taking into account his full complement of equipment: pram, pushchair, highchair, play pen, walker, and a whole lot of other must-haves for the average toddler these days, he probably had more possessions than his parents.

  Across the green, Kerry Long was enjoying a moment of her new-found peace selecting what to wear, and choosing what make-up would enhance her outfit of choice. Freed from the tyranny under which they had lived since moving there, Dean and Kyle were outside in the mercifully dog-dirt-free garden whooping with delight in their imaginings, in the secure knowledge that there would be no yells of complaint across the fence, no more censure of their natural youthful exuberance.

  Their mother pulled a lavender T-shirt dress from its hanger and selected a fuchsia pink ‘shrug’ with a smile. With her old sparring partner removed, and the thought of the money which would secure her regular (and generous, if Uncle Alan’s solicitor had anything to do with it) maintenance payments, life looked sweeter than it had since the break-up of her marriage.

  II

  Down at the vicarage, the Reverend Bertie struck an ungainly attitude on the side of the bath as he attempted to trim his toe-nails, while his wife stood at the mirror above the wash hand basin doing her best to apply make-up to all of the little canyons that were inexorably changing the familiar landscape of her face, and wondering if anti-wrinkle creams really worked.

  ‘You won’t forget you’re picking up Aunt Martha, will you?’ she asked, the words slightly distorted as she stretched her mouth to apply lipstick.

  ‘I didn’t think I was driving tonight. Ungh!’ he grunted as a particularly tough piece of nail yielded finally to the clippers.

  ‘Mind out, Bertie. You’ll have someone’s eye out if you’re not careful.’

  ‘Sorry, dearest.’

  ‘And surely you remember what we arranged? You’re to take me with you to Auntie’s, drop us both off at the pub, bring the car back here, then walk down to join us. It’ll save her walking one way, and make sure she gets there. You know how she likes a good old gossip when she gets the chance.’

  ‘Of course I remember now, Lillian,’ agreed her long-suffering husband. ‘It must be this Morley business that put it out of my head. I’ll pick her up as promised. I say, she seems to have recovered well from losing her friend – Evelyn, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s the one. Yes, she has rather bounced back over the past few months, but then at her age she must be getting quite used to outliving her contemporaries. Wasn’t it just typical of her to volunteer to nurse her those last few weeks? She’s far braver than I am.’

  ‘Nonsense. Cometh the hour and all that. She’s just a good, Christian woman who rose to the occasion. They’d known each other for donkeys’ years. You’d do the same if it was your old crony Audrey.’

  Lillian Swainton-Smythe put down her mascara wand and gazed sightlessly towards her reflection. ‘I probably would, Bertie. You’re right, as always.’

  III

  In his bed-sit at the rear of the garage Mike Lowry also looked forward to the evening in his own way. He had not ceased his dawn to dusk work at the rear of his establishment, realising that the injection of cash from his late, unlamented great-uncle was not a fortune of sufficient size on which to rest his laurels. Rather, it was enough to help re-equip his ageing tools and facilities, and allow him to work on his favourite aspect of the job – to whit, the restoration of vehicles just coming into their own as modern classics: early VW Beetles, Morris ‘Moggies’, Mini Coopers and the like. Thus he had continued to put in as many hours as he had energy (and spares) for since, on his two
current babies (no irony intended here, given his neglect of his flesh and blood children), a Mini Cooper in its original racing green and a Messerschmitt bubble car (his ownership of which shall be left shrouded in mystery). He knew he had been a fool to try and dupe Manningford, but the embarrassment that being found out had caused him still rankled.

  Work finished for the day, he cleaned up and took stock of the immediate future. He was a man of means now and would have some respect. As for that little tart who’d turned him down then grassed him up, well, he might have some fun making her squirm. What had he got to lose? Dipping his comb into a jar of hair gel, he applied it to his wayward locks in quest of the quintessential quiff.

  IV

  The Brigadier and his wife were also in fine form and looking forward to a noggin or two. Their precious kitchen garden had lain unmolested for the third day in a row, and life was good. The chickens were laying, the fruit was ripening, vegetables growing steadily. Mother Nature’s weed legions were under control and all was well with their world.

  V

  In The Old School House Martha Cadogan made her culinary preparations for cats and hedgehogs early, recovered now from the unpleasantness that had occurred that morning. Buster, too, should have an early supper, and maybe a late one too, after his ill treatment earlier. He really was a dear little dog, and she had quickly grown accustomed to, and delighted in, his company.

  VI

  Next door, in The Beehive, the atmosphere was less relaxed. ‘Why did you arrange this, Cassie? You know I don’t like a fuss. I’d much rather we’d gone for a drink or a meal, just the two of us.’

  ‘How do you expect to fit in to a community if you don’t make the effort? This is the perfect opportunity. I’ve asked everyone we know and a few we don’t, for good measure. It’s only for a couple of hours. Why don’t you just relax for once and try to have a good time. There’s no need to be so tight-arsed about drinks and nibbles in the local. After all, it is your birthday.’

  ‘It doesn’t feel like it, the way you’re railroading me.’

  ‘Lighten up, Clive. Are you frightened you might have fun?’

  ‘You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, a final punctuation to the conversation. Whoops! she thought. Better tread warily tonight. It feels like I might be on thin ice here.

  VII

  At Pilgrims’ Rest on the corner, Piers Manningford paced nervously up and down. To go or not to go, that was the question. If news of his and Cassandra’s affair were to become common gossip, he didn’t dare be seen with her. Either they would appear too familiar or too distant. On the other hand, it would look strange if he did not make an appearance. With Dorothy still away (thank God for small mercies) it would look odd if he chose to spend the evening skulking at home by himself. Piers continued his pacing. Why had he ever embarked on this crazy liaison? Why was life so complicated? He had been a fool and could already feel the hot breath of the hellhounds of destruction at his heels.

  VIII

  Rosemary Wilson wandered contentedly across the green towards her babysitting duties. Life had seemed brighter these last few days, her burden lighter. No longer would she have to suffer the petty pilfering of that wretched old man and soon, too, his debt to her would be settled. At least she could be assured of that. And Kerry was so much more relaxed, as were the children, now free to play as they pleased: now free to be children. It might be a wicked thing to think, but Castle Farthing was a better place without its crotchetiest male resident and she, for one, missed him not a jot.

  She diverted her course slightly to greet Alan and Marian Warren-Browne who were just leaving their property by the side door, obviously en route for The Fisherman’s Flies. ‘Looking forward to the jollities?’ she called as they turned to wait for her.

  ‘Should be a nice evening.’ Alan sounded cheerful enough, but a slight anxiety marred his expression and, although dressed for an evening out, Marian looked strained, her eyes tired.

  ‘Are you all right, my dear?’ Rosemary asked in some concern.

  ‘Just the tiny shadow of a headache.’

  ‘It’s the noise from that damned garage. It never seems to stop these days. That bloody dog’s gone, so now we get this.’

  ‘Don’t make a fuss, Alan. I’ve taken something for it and I’m sure I’ll be fine.’

  ‘You go and have a nice evening, you two, and you can tell me all about it over a nice cup of tea tomorrow, Marian.’ And, with this, Rosemary Wilson took her leave of them and headed towards Jasmine Cottage, content that her evening would consist only of playing with her three young charges.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Wednesday 15th July – evening

  I

  Detective Inspector Harry Falconer was preparing for a rather quieter evening, to be spent in the confines of his own home, said home being a substantial, detached 1950s property in a small cul-de-sac on the outskirts of Market Darley, local planning regulations having thus far declined to allow it to be swamped by the sprawl of the new development which mars so many other small towns. The house he owned outright. His father and grandfather had been successful barristers – his father still was – and, although his parents had vociferously protested against their son’s choice of career, Falconer stuck by the principle that he preferred to be on the side of those apprehending miscreants and wrong-doers, than on the side of those accepting obscene (in his opinion) amounts of money to twist testimony and employ obscure loopholes and points of law to secure their freedom to re-offend.

  His principles had not, however, led him to refuse the proceeds of the trust fund that had come his way at the age of twenty-five, and allowed him both to enter the property market, and to build a modest but expertly chosen shares portfolio, thus launching him simultaneously on the stock market. Over the years that lump sum, plus the accumulation of premiums and profits, had led him to his present abode and its very individual style.

  The kitchen was an operating theatre of stainless steel. All the rooms were painted in magnolia, the woodwork white. The flooring was the palest beech wood, relieved by the careful placing of vivid rugs. The seating in the sitting room was of cream leather, the furniture in the dining room of metal, glass and sea-grass. Everywhere was minimalist, with the exception of the largest of the downstairs rooms, which he had designated his study. This room alone spoke of the inner Falconer and what fuelled his intellect and imagination, and filled his hours of leisure.

  On one of the walls hung a few Monet prints, and two further walls were lined with bookshelves filled with volumes by his favourite authors. Here Sherlock Holmes sat beside Professor Challenger: A Study in Scarlet, The Hound of the Baskervilles, The Lost World, The Poison Belt. M. R. James flanked Edgar Allan Poe. A Journey to the Centre of the Earth sat near The Diary of a Nobody, Three Men in a Boat and The Picture of Dorian Grey. Although normally a meticulously ordered man, Falconer was ruled by no such pettiness of spirit with his books. He knew where to lay his hands on each and every volume.

  A baby grand piano nestled in the bay window, a book of comic songs by Tom Lehrer open on its stand at ‘The Masochism Tango’. Although a fairly competent pianist, he had been having a little trouble with the right-hand triplets against the mainstream rhythm of the left hand, and intended to put the piece through its paces later, with the aid of the metronome.

  On his desk sat a number of textbooks and cassettes devoted to the Greek (modern) language. He had studied, for a while, the classical tongue at school along with Latin. The former, though more or less lost to him now, had prompted an interest in its modern-day equivalent. As he harboured the ambition, at some point, to indulge in a little flotilla sailing around some of the lesser-frequented Greek islands, a knowledge of the language seemed like a good idea, and was proving an excellent intellectual challenge.

  The only other occupant of the house, and Fa
lconer’s only (and preferred) company was a seal point Siamese cat, named Mycroft in tribute to the first great (if fictitious) detective’s brother.

  Falconer had dined well on a fillet steak, char-grilled vegetables with couscous, and a vinaigrette-dressed green salad, Mycroft on a little poached salmon (all bones most carefully removed). Putting their few dishes into the dishwasher, master and cat retired to the study, the former settling purposefully at the piano, the latter on the black, leather swivel chair at the desk. Almost immediately the strains of the introduction to the aforementioned tongue-in-cheek tango rang out, to be joined, at the appropriate point, by a light, but pleasing voice, as the song began. Mycroft purred along in contentment at the sound of his master’s voice.

  II

  Things did not run with such tranquil order in the overcrowded Carmichael household, where the rules were few and simple. If you wanted clean clothes that fitted, get up early. If you wanted to sit down, clear a chair. If you wanted to eat, clear a space at the table, but be sure to be fast in the kitchen before everything went. Mealtimes were not occasions for civilised conversation round the dining table, a piece of furniture that lived in the kitchen and was currently covered in half-empty sauce bottles and food-encrusted plates, with an empty milk bottle perched precariously near the edge, a bluebottle lazily pacing its rim. No, here mealtimes were a battleground; first, to obtain food on whatever assortment of crockery was fit for use and, secondly, to secure somewhere other than the floor to eat it.

  Carmichael, a few years ago, had despaired of any sort of order in his daily round and, with the object of remedying this situation, had set to work, with those of his cronies at that time employed in the building trade, on the conversion of a large, brick, shed-like appendage to the property, reached, via a make-shift covered porch, from the kitchen.

  Within six months he and his helpers had weatherproofed it, repaired one window and added another. The walls had been given an inner skin of plasterboard and painted, the door replaced with a sturdier model with a Yale lock, this last rescued triumphantly from the local tip. At this point, its new occupant had removed all that he felt he possessed outright from the bedroom he had been sharing with two brothers and moved, as it were, into his own private wing of Carmichael Towers.