Death of an Old Git (The Falconer Files - File 1) (11 page)

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 Portrait 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 Falconer’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.

Although the furnishings and ornamentation were a somewhat eclectic mix, his den was clean, tidy, and loved. Above all, it offered him the privacy he craved – sanctuary from the slovenly ways of the rest of the household – and was treasured as much by Carmichael as Falconer treasured the somewhat more sumptuous and lavishly appointed establishment that he called home. Carmichael knew about make-do and mend, and the importance of having one’s own space, and this went no little way to explain why he had felt such admiration for Kerry Long and her carefully nurtured home.

At seven-thirty that evening, as Falconer began his piano practice, and as the residents of Castle Farthing began to make their separate and several ways to The Fisherman’s Flies, Carmichael entered his own private haven carrying a tray on which rested three microwave meals for one (he was, after all, a big lad), six slices of bread and butter, a pint mug of tea (only four sugars in this beverage), and that day’s copy of
The Sun
. He too would be having a quiet evening at home.

Chapter Fifteen

Wednesday 15th July – evening

I

All of those asked had taken up the invitation to attend Clive Romaine’s birthday celebrations and by eight o’clock, to use the vernacular, the joint was heaving. Trade at the bar was brisk, the food was receiving an enthusiastic reception, and muzak from a number of unobtrusive speakers added to the volume of conversation broken, now and then, with a guffaw of good-natured laughter. As the evening wore on and drink flowed more freely, however, there were to be a number of unpleasant exchanges, some jarring notes amidst the jars of ale.

The first of these occurred shortly after nine o’clock when Nick Rollason, already proved to be an individual more likely to air a grievance after a bevy or two, buttonholed Mike Lowry about the amount of noise that had come from his workshop over the past few evenings.

‘I can understand you have a job to do, and I don’t begrudge you that, but do you have to carry on till all hours? Some of us have got young children trying to get some sleep, and if you don’t do something about it, I shall have to get in touch with the noise abatement people, see what they have to say about it.’

‘We can’t all work in a poncy office, Rollason. Some of us have to get our hands dirty. Not all of us have nice, clean, quiet jobs shuffling a few bits of paper around.’

‘That doesn’t answer my question, Lowry. When are you going to let us have a bit of peace and quiet in the evenings?’

‘Hear, hear,’ cut in Alan Warren-Browne. ‘I thought my wife was going to get a respite from her crippling migraines when your uncle’s dog went – no offence meant, Miss Cadogan.’

‘None taken, Alan.’

‘But, oh no. Like a family trait it is, you, him and noise.’

‘I can’t help it if your old lady’s a hypochondriac.’

‘She is not.’

‘Nor if your kid doesn’t want to be poked off to its cot at every opportunity.’

‘How dare you!’ This last from Rebecca Rollason, crimson with rage.

At this point George Covington lumbered over and steered Mike Lowry towards a darts match in noisy progress at the other end of the bar, his wife in his wake carrying plates of food to offer to those left standing on the still-smouldering battlefield.

Things settled down for a while then, the mechanic tossing arrows towards their circular target, and beer down his throat. The Reverend Bertie Swainton-Smythe, seeing the glasses of his wife and her aunt empty and taking advantage of a lull in activity at the bar, moved to replenish their drinks, almost stumbling to his knees as he attempted to ease himself round the table.

‘Watch out, Bertie,’ called Lillian, as he grabbed at the bench for balance.

‘I’m awfully sorry, Aunt Martha. I seem to have trodden on your handbag.’

‘I’m sure there’s no harm done. Here, let me put it up on this chair, out of the way.’

‘Oh, Auntie! Why didn’t you bring something a little more appropriate for the evening?’ Lillian was aghast at her aunt’s shopping-sized bag.

‘Because I stopped having pretty little bags for evenings forty years ago, Lillian. This is my all-occasion, never-have-to-repack-it, never-go-out-without-something bag. Like it or lump it.’

‘Aunt Martha, don’t tease so. I can see the twinkle in your eye.’

‘There’s room for that in my bag, too, should I choose to keep it there. There you are, Bertie! Thank you very much. You must let me get the next one. Here’s mud in your eye.’

The good-natured atmosphere in the bar prevailed for another three-quarters of an hour, during which time heavy rain began to fall from the cloud cover that had stealthily thickened as daylight had faded. Martha Cadogan, true to her word, had taken her humongous handbag to the bar to order a round of drinks, and was a reluctant close witness to what happened next.

Mike Lowry had continued to drink steadily and to walk a little less so. On one of his not infrequent trips from the bar he cannoned into Brigadier Malpas-Graves, as the older man collected two pink gins for himself and his wife. ‘Steady on, old man. Plenty of time till closing,’ he warned.

‘Ah, if it isn’t the Brigadier. Sir,’ he said, putting his pint down on a table. A dangerous glint had appeared in the mechanic’s eye and he seemed bent on making mischief, ‘I believe I owe you a great big thank you.’

‘What for, my boy?’

‘From what I’ve gathered, it was you that did away with my tight-fisted old Great-uncle Reg. What a favour that was. Perhaps I ought to buy you a drink, in gratitude, shall we say.’

‘Whatever are you talking about, man? Explain yourself.’

‘You went down to his place Sunday night, didn’t you?’

‘I think you’d better keep your accusations to yourself, young man, or you’ll be hearing from my solicitor.’

‘But I’m only trying to say thank you, aren’t I? For finding me a fortune, although anyone less like Chris Tarrant I’d be hard pressed to find,’ this reference to
Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?
being a complete mystery to the Brigadier.

‘You leave him alone, Mike, and stop shooting your mouth off. You’ll get into all sorts of trouble if you’re not careful.’ Mike turned to the source of these words: his erstwhile partner, Kerry Long.

‘Oh, if it isn’t the money-grubbing bitch who makes my life a misery with her whining. Frightened he’ll take me to court and you’ll lose your precious maintenance, are you?’

‘Calm down. Let’s all calm down. This is supposed to be a birthday party.’ Clive Romaine stepped in to try his hand at peace-making, but to no avail.

‘Well, if it isn’t the husband of the local bicycle. What’s it like not knowing who’s been in your wife’s knickers from day to day?’

‘What the hell are you implying?’

‘Leave it, Clive.’ Cassandra tried to pull her husband away.

Lowry, at that moment, caught sight of Piers Manningford’s face, thought he saw the way the wind was blowing, and decided to get his own back for his earlier humiliation on his own forecourt. Maybe it was his turn to get caught with his trousers down. ‘Oh, I thought better of it. Didn’t know where it had been. But ask that next-door neighbour of yours. He’ll give you chapter and verse on her cheap favours, if I’m not very much mistaken.’

‘What’s he talking about, Cassie?’

‘Nothing. Leave it. He’s drunk, that’s all.’

The Reverend Bertie hove into view from one direction at that juncture, while George Covington appeared from the other. ‘Come along, Michael. Let’s get you home,’ said the vicar, brooking no argument. ‘You restore order with the others, George. Leave this one to me. Now, where’s your glass?’ Bertie handed him his glass. ‘Now, get that down you and I’ll see you home.’

The application of a little more ale seemed to have a pacifying effect on Lowry, for he became almost meek, allowing himself to be seen safely back to his bed-sit, from where he could do no further mischief that evening, and the vicar left him, in an armchair, eyes already closing in sleep.

As he stepped back over to the pub he noticed that there had been a temporary respite from the rain, but thunder now rumbled ominously in the distance, promising more to come, and lightning flickered intermittently in the west.

The party was breaking up on his return, there being too many ruffled feathers to maintain even the illusion of a congenial social gathering, and each went their separate ways to evaluate and think on what the evening’s events meant to them.

At eleven-forty-five the thunder and lightning were directly over the village of Castle Farthing and a deluge of rain began to fall.

All but one of its residents listened in awe as the summer storm raged.

II

Castle Farthing was not, however, abed for the night, as could be seen in the bright lightning flashes that intermittently bathed it in an eerie blue light. During this time, in one of Mother Nature’s flickering slide shows, an observer would have noticed a dark figure flitting along the Carsfold Road. A few minutes earlier, the first figure to venture out had left a property on the High Street and disappeared into the storm. Over a period of a few minutes two more figures braved the elements. After about five minutes a final figure left the comforts of hearth and home and disappeared into the dark, rain-lashed night.

None was abroad for pleasure