Death of an Old Git (The Falconer Files - File 1) (10 page)

Chapter Twelve

Wednesday 15th July – morning

I

Falconer decided to leave the car where it was. It was a nice day and he had at least found a parking space. As they passed the teashop, Cassandra Romaine hailed them from the green. She was sitting on the bench by the war memorial, a full wicker shopping basket beside her.

‘It’s my husband’s birthday today,’ she trilled, ‘and we’re having drinkies and nibbles in the pub tonight. Do you fancy joining us?’

‘No thank you, Mrs Romaine. I hope you have a good time,’ called Falconer loudly, then, dropping his voice, he muttered, ‘After all, you are that good time that’s been had by just about all. You didn’t want to go, did you, Carmichael?’

‘No way, sir.’

‘Too right. The drinkies may be OK, but as for the nibbles – I’d rather be nibbled by a piranha fish.’

‘I don’t think I’d fancy either, but it takes all sorts.’

Was that Carmichael making a joke?

II

Piers Manningford was in, and waiting for them. Dorothy was working away for a few days, and he was very glad indeed of her absence. Whatever was to be discussed this morning would include part of his life that he would rather his wife was kept in the dark about. So, although it was with a certain amount of trepidation that he opened the door to the summoning knock, he felt fairly sure that his secret was safe, at least for now.

‘Come in, Inspector, come in, Sergeant. Go through and sit down. I’ve just made a pot of coffee.’

‘Nasty business at the garage this morning, sir.’ Falconer fired his opening shot.

‘It was, it was. But I’m not ashamed at losing my temper. The man was blatantly trying to rip me off.’

‘Perfectly within your rights, sir,’ the inspector agreed. ‘Rather, I was referring to Lowry’s roughshod manner with Miss Cadogan.’

‘He’s a guttersnipe. I called round after I got home and the little dog’s fine, just a bit sore, but she was really upset. Said Buster had had a bad enough time with his old master, and it wasn’t fair, him being kicked like that when he’d done nothing wrong.’

‘Maybe she’ll have the common sense to steer clear of that young man in the future.’

‘Let’s hope so. Now, how do you take your coffee?’

‘Black, no sugar,’ instructed Falconer.

‘White, five sugars,’ requested Carmichael.

Five sugars!
That explained a lot, thought Falconer. He took a sip from his cup, placed it on the occasional table beside his chair, and went straight for the jugular. ‘Was Reg Morley trying to blackmail you, Mr Manningford?’

An arc of coffee flew from Piers’ lips and into his lap as he choked in surprise. Mopping furiously at his groin area, he vigorously denied the allegation.

‘What would happen if your wife found out about your little romps with Mrs Romaine?

Manningford stopped mopping. ‘She’d rip me to ribbons verbally, throw everything not nailed down at my head, pack my bags, throw me out, contact her solicitor and launch extremely acrimonious divorce proceedings. That’s what would happen. There, does that satisfy you?’

‘What would you be willing to pay to keep it quiet?’

‘I have very little money of my own.’

‘Then what would you be prepared to do to guarantee silence?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Of course you do, Mr Manningford. Would you be prepared to commit murder?’

‘Don’t be absurd.’

‘Did Mr Morley try to blackmail you, Mr Manningford?’

‘Stop it, stop it! I didn’t touch him. He never said anything. I’m not even sure it was him in the woods. Why don’t you leave me in peace and try to find out who really did it. You’ll destroy me if you carry on like this.’ Sweat poured down his face, and his eyes were red and brimming with tears.

‘Thank you for the coffee, Mr Manningford. We’ll be in touch. Shall we see ourselves out?’

III

The walk to The Rookery to see Nick Rollason would normally have been a waste of time as, on a Wednesday, that gentleman was usually to be found in his office in Carsfold. Today, however, he had found it necessary to return home for some clients’ files he had inadvertently left on his desk, and was just collecting these together when the two policemen arrived.

‘Come on in, you’re lucky to catch me. I’m normally in the office at this time. My wife said you had a chat with her yesterday. How can I help you?’

‘Let’s start with Sunday afternoon.’ Falconer had been directed to an armchair, Carmichael, notebook at the ready, was perched incongruously on a green pouffe, giving the uncanny impression of a mountain placed on a pea. ‘Your wife says she heard Ms Long shouting after Mr Morley as he left to walk his dog. Did you hear her too?’

‘No. That was when Becky was opening up, and I was out in the back garden mowing the lawn. Daren’t leave it at this time of the year, especially after such a wet spring, or the grass is up to your armpits before you know it.’

‘Did you see Mr Morley at all on Sunday?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’

‘Had you been bothered by Mr Morley spying on your wife?’

‘Becky and I decided to ignore it. She didn’t want any bad feeling between neighbours.’

‘So why did you go over to see him on Sunday evening?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘You were seen.’

Nick Rollason sighed. ‘OK, pax. I went out to the pub for a couple of pints and had rather more than I intended. I got all worked up about that dirty old man ogling my wife and decided to have a quiet word with him.’

‘And did you?’ questioned Falconer, expecting a denial.

‘Yes, I did. I told him quietly and precisely that if he didn’t stop his peeping-tommery immediately, I’d wring his scrawny little neck for him.’ Rollason looked very unhappy at this admission and hung his head. ‘When I heard what had happened I felt dreadful, as if I’d somehow wished it on him. God knows, I only meant to frighten him, and the next morning he was dead.’

‘What time did this take place, sir?’

‘I left the pub a few minutes after nine. That’s as close as I can get. And the whole thing can’t have lasted more than a minute or two.’

Thank you God, thought Falconer, before going for the throat. ‘So why did it take you over an hour to get home? It’s a distance of only a few yards.’

‘I went for a walk to clear my head.’

‘You were seen heading towards your own home. Are you sure that wasn’t to get a bit of wire from the shed, so that you could return and solve your peeping tom problem once and for all?’ This didn’t account for the sleeping tablets, but Falconer had to try for whatever he could get.

‘Don’t be absurd. I’d had too much to drink and I was all steamed up. Yes, I did head towards home, but I decided to keep on going up the High Street and have a tramp around the ruins until I felt calmer and more sober. Then I went home.’

‘Do you realise that you might have been the last person to see Mr Morley alive?’

‘Very unlikely – in fact it’s impossible, Inspector.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Because that would make me a murderer, wouldn’t it, and I’m afraid you’re going to have to look elsewhere for someone to fill that role.’

‘Bugger!’ said Falconer as they took their leave. ‘Either he’s an exceptional actor, or I’ve just made a bit of a tit of myself.’

‘Do you like bird-watching, sir?’

‘No, Carmichael.’

After a minute or so, during which both men remained silent, Falconer resumed. ‘Let’s call at The Old Manor House while we’re up this end. I’ve a feeling I know what that old boy’s hiding and I want to put my theory to the test, see if I can’t bluff him out into the open.’

‘Can I help?’ asked Carmichael, eager as a big brown puppy.

‘Just go along with anything I say, even if you know I’m lying. And try not to look surprised, OK?’

‘OK.’

IV

The Brigadier and his lady wife were taking elevenses in the garden, and the policemen were invited to sit and partake of a cup of Darjeeling and some excellent home-made flapjacks. A plate of scones, a pat of butter and a glass bowl of jam also sat on the table.

‘Tell me again,’ said Falconer with a light spray of oatmeal, ‘when did you go down to Crabapple Cottage on Sunday?’

‘Went down about nine. Knocked on the door, called out. Nothing. Heard shouting round the back and decided to call it a day.’

‘You didn’t speak to Mr Morley at all?’

‘No. Told you, couldn’t get an answer.’

‘But did you speak to him when you went back later?’

‘Young man, are you all right?’ cut in Joyce Malpas-Graves as Carmichael began to cough convulsively.

‘I’m fine,’ he managed between splutters. ‘Crumb went down the wrong way.’

The Brigadier banged him on the back while his wife passed his cup to him. Falconer merely glared in fury. So much for Carmichael keeping a cool head as he, Falconer, tried to flush out the truth. At the first sign of a bluff, Carmichael nearly chokes to death in surprise. If I were ten years younger, thought the inspector, and two feet taller, I’d give him a proper slap. And not on the back either.

‘Brigadier, if I can get back to what we were saying.’ Carmichael was silent now, but red in the face from his recent paroxysm. ‘You returned to Crabapple Cottage on Sunday evening. You couldn't make yourself heard when you called earlier, so you returned.’

‘Who says I went back.’

‘You were seen.’ (Carmichael was staring innocently into his cup, fully aware of the rules now, and playing the game.)

‘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.