Nuptial Sacrifice

  NUPTIAL SACRAFICE

  ANDREA FRAZER

  Contents

  Nuptial Sacrafice

  After many trials and tribulations, eternal bachelor Detective Inspector Harry Falconer has finally decided to get hitched. His bride - the delectable Dr Honey Dubois!

  With his trusty sergeant Carmichael as best man, Falconer is in remarkably good spirits as the big day closes in. OK, so the normally lugubrious Carmichael is having trouble getting his words out, and there’s the unenlightened Mrs Falconer senior to deal with. But surely nothing serious can go wrong?

  With impeccable timing, it does - will bride and groom last long enough to cut the cake, or will it all be over before it even begins?

  The final instalment in the much-loved Falconer Files series by acclaimed author Andrea Frazer.

  He was standing in the church, aware of his best man’s presence beside him. He stood silently, his eyes gazing unwaveringly forward towards the altar, slowly becoming conscious of the realisation that something was wrong; something didn’t feel right.

  In slow motion, he swivelled his head towards his best man, Carmichael, only to have his breath taken away on realising that the best man was in full clown’s regalia: huge misshapen shoes, baggy striped costume, green curly wig, white make-up and a big round red nose.

  The clown smiled, and the groom suddenly looked down at his own body to discover that, instead of being attired in full morning suit, he was stark naked. His hands immediately moved into position as substitute fig leaves as, instead of the wedding march being played by the church organ, a big band struck up with ‘In the Mood’.

  Whipping his head round to see if he could catch a glimpse of Honey as he attempted to hide his embarrassment, he saw her in a Mardi Gras outfit, a very revealing melange of feathers and sequins, beginning to samba down the aisle towards him. His mouth opened to scream. This was not how it was supposed to be!

  Detective Inspector Harry Falconer woke from his tormented sleep, the scream frozen in his throat, and allowed his eyes to roam round his bedroom - his own bedroom in his own house, exactly where he should be - and a smile spread across his face as consciousness returned, and he realised that it had only been a nightmare. Today was the day of his wedding rehearsal. He was finally marrying Dr Honey Dubois, she of the light brown skin, the braided hair, the long graceful neck, and the divine figure, rounded where it should be yet deliciously delicate. The ceremony was on Saturday.

  OK, the rehearsal wasn’t until five thirty, but this was his last day at work before the commencement of ceremonies and, by this evening, he would have become inextricably entwined with the process of becoming a married man, and excitement made his stomach churn and shortened his breath. He was going to marry Honey at last: not that it had been a long engagement and, he being a naturally shy man socially, it was really fortuitous that she had proposed to him. Left to his own devices, this would probably not even have been broached for the next year or two. How he did admire this forward woman – and love her.

  She had asked him to marry her one day in the police station car park, after one of his shifts, and they had sorted out a ring as soon as possible, his jaw dropping open at the price of such tiny trinkets. Theirs had been a slightly bumpy courtship, a bit on-and-off, with a few surprises along the way, but they had been engaged for three months now, a time deemed long enough by both of them to arrange and execute a wedding.

  It was now June, and the day was approaching fast, with the weather glorious and his mood to match. He had never felt so sunny as he swanned into the CID office with a broad, beaming smile that took the other occupants quite by surprise. His usual expression was one of glowering intensity, and DS Carmichael was alarmed. DC Tomlinson was also taken off guard and squeaked out, ‘Is there anything wrong, guv?’

  He wasn’t surprised that his good mood had taken them by surprise. He’d even found himself singing in the car on the way in – one of the tenor arias from Tosca of which he was very fond. And the car had changed too. Gone was the Boxster, replaced by a slightly older but beautiful TVR Tuscan. In its automotive way, it was as sleek and lovely as Honey, with its long lines, its delicate curves and its magical paintwork that changed colour as you walked round it. He was, indeed, a very happy man on this gorgeous morning.

  ‘Absolutely nothing wrong in the world,’ he replied to Tomlinson’s rather nervous query. ‘I hope you haven’t forgotten which day it is, Carmichael,’ he said, given that Carmichael was about to be his best man and was essential to tonight’s rehearsal.

  ‘Of course not, sir. I’ve got this afternoon off for a medical check-up, but I’ll be at the church on time,’ which immediately started him whistling the relevant song. Whistling was one of his more recent and very irritating habits.

  ‘Stop whistling, Carmichael.’ This was an order he had found it necessary to issue about twenty times a day recently. ‘Nothing wrong, I hope,’ he ventured.

  ‘Just a routine health check, sir.’

  ‘How are the twins?’

  ‘Sleeping almost right through now, sir, every night.’

  ‘And how is the lovely Imogen, Tomlinson?’

  This was a real surprise to Tomlinson. Never before had the boss asked about his fiancée. ‘Just as lovely as ever, sir,’ he replied somewhat hesitantly.

  ‘Good, good; now what have we got for today?’

  Carmichael left at lunchtime, assuring the inspector that he wouldn’t be late for the rehearsal, and DI Falconer left at five o’clock, to leave him enough time to get to St Jude’s on the other side of Market Darley and get parked before entering the church. It would probably take all of the available half an hour as it was rush hour, a fact he had not considered when they’d booked the slot.

  The traffic was, indeed, heavy, and he arrived with only five minutes to spare, when he saw a ghastly apparition cycling towards him. This vision in unloveliness stopped suddenly just a few inches away from him, with a screech of front brakes and a sudden buck forward before settling back down on the saddle again.

  It was a lady’s bicycle, its rider dressed in lime-green and black Lycra, with fluorescent yellow trainers and a hot pink helmet. Falconer sighed deeply. ‘Hello, Carmichael. And what are we dressed as today?’

  Carmichael ignored the question and informed his superior officer that the Tour de France was coming up, and that, in honour of that, he’d agreed to go on a charity cycle ride for a charity that helped couples with premature twins. ‘Some of them are born really early and weighing only about a pound each, and they have trouble with under-developed lungs and stuff.’ Yup! Definitely Carmichael below that horrendous outfit. No one else would have said that ‘and stuff’ with such a dearth of knowledge and such a depth of feeling.

  ‘Whose bike is that, Carmichael? And why is it light purple? You surely haven’t stolen it?’

  ‘It’s Kerry’s, but she hasn’t used it since she got so big with the twins. Seemed a pity to let it go to waste as I haven’t got one.’

  ‘Quite! And you think you’re suitably dressed for a wedding rehearsal, do you?’

  ‘I’ve ridden all the way from Castle Farthing, sir.’

  ‘And that makes it alright, does it?’

  ‘It makes it necessary. I’ve got to get used to the kit before the race day.’

  ‘So, that was the reason for the medical checkup, was it?’

  ‘Spot on, sir.’

  It made a Carmichael kind of sense, but Falconer was scandalised when he dismounted and the inspector saw his shorts in all their glory.

  ‘You look obscene, Carmichael.’

  ‘What do you mean, sir?’

  ‘What the hell is wrong with those shorts? There’s an absolutely unsightly bulge at the front
of them, just where your legs fork.’

  ‘Oh, that’s padding, sir, to protect me crown jewels from chafing on the saddle.’

  ‘I don’t want to know about your crown jewels, perish the thought. Adjust your clothing immediately. I don’t want the vicar to think you’ve got a crush on him, or something even more sinister.’

  ‘Hang on a minute, sir,’ the sergeant urged him and began to pull in an unsightly way at the back of the garment. ‘I’ll just shift the padding around a bit with pressure. Is that better?

  Falconer took a look at Carmichael’s rear view and replied, ‘Not really. Now it looks like you’ve filled your nappy, but it’ll have to do. Look sharp. Here comes Honey.’

  Carmichael immediately turned his back on the church and faced the road just as Honey found an amazingly just-vacated parking spot and drew up in front of them. ‘And keep your back to her the whole time we’re in there,’ Falconer ordered him sotto voce. ‘I don’t want you scaring the life out of her.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Let me tell you a little joke to relax you.’

  Oh Lord, thought the inspector. ‘Go on then, if you must.’

  ‘There’s these two flies on a tank. What does one say to the other?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I realise you’re going to tell me,’ growled Falconer, ready to wince.

  ‘Do you know how to drive this thing?’

  ‘Where on earth do you get these things from? But, leaving that aside, and returning to our previous subject: what about the pink cycling helmet?’ he asked out of the side of his mouth as the bride-to-be stepped out of her car.

  ‘Kerry said I should get in touch with my feminine side,’ he whispered back, as Falconer’s face crumpled in horror at the thought of Carmichael in a frock, stilettoes, and make-up. It was a vision of the wife of the Jolly Green Giant, and, covering most of his face with a handkerchief to blow a nose that had no need of blowing, he pulled himself together to greet his partner.

  Having just conducted a mid-week baptism, the vicar was in full fig, wearing, apart from his surplice, what Carmichael referred to as his white lacy petticoat and football scarf, and Falconer felt himself begin to shake as they took their places at the front of the church. On Saturday, this would be the real thing.

  Falconer calmed himself by thinking of their arrangements for the ‘do’ afterwards, which they had sensibly arranged to take place at The Manse. Jefferson Grammaticus may have been a slippery customer up to all the tricks in the book, but he did own and manage a top-notch country house hotel which would do them and their guests proud when the day came. It wasn’t the ‘do’ the inspector was worried about at the moment, it was the ‘I do’, but a number of army uniforms, past comrades in arms, were invited, and they would give him reassurance on the day.

  Beside him Honey started to giggle, and he looked round at her, wondering what was so funny. Had she seen the sergeant in all his glory? ‘What is it?’ he hissed.

  As the vicar turned away to get his service book, she whispered, ‘It’s the rev. He looks so old, I was wondering how often they had to hoover the cobwebs away. He must be a hundred if he’s a day.’

  ‘Shh!’ he chided her. ‘There probably aren’t as many young men entering the Church these days as there were in the past, and they have to use what resources are left to them.’

  ‘Well, I hope our wedding doesn’t turn into an impromptu funeral.’

  ‘Don’t be blasphemous.’

  ‘I was only saying.’ The short, hissed conversation seemed to have sobered the bride-to-be and she turned her eyes back to the front with a suitably serious expression on her face.

  The rehearsal then proceeded with barely a hitch, the only dodgy moment coming when the vicar asked for the ring, and Carmichael looked down at his skin-tight Lycra-clad body and said, ‘I didn’t have anywhere to put it, but I’ll bring it on the day. Promise.’

  ‘You make sure you do, my lad. You just make sure that you do.’ Falconer was scandalised, and was just relieved that Carmichael had remembered that he’d left it behind and hadn’t suddenly started searching for it in such a figure-hugging outfit. It would have been an obscenity in such a holy place, and the vicar would probably have had a funny turn as he tried to work out what the madman was doing.

  The time between the rehearsal and the wedding day itself seemed to be elastic. Some days it seemed that the hours sped past with unsettling haste, on others, it seemed that everything was happening in slow motion, and Falconer put this down to nerves. Getting married was a very big deal for him. Not for him the casual ‘I do’, with the thought that they could easily get divorced if things didn’t work out. As far as he was concerned, this union was for life, and he treated it with the sober seriousness and respect that not all couples contemplating matrimony did.

  It was no surprise for the inspector to wake up on his wedding morning alone for, although he and Honey occasionally spent a night together at each other’s homes, they had never lived together, and Honey would be going to the church from her own flat. They were flying to the Caribbean for their honeymoon to meet her extended family, and he was as worried about this as he was about the service itself.

  About his speech and the reception in general, he was totally calm, as he had no fears of public speaking and knew that Jefferson Grammaticus would do them proud. He was a little bit on edge about the best man’s speech, but he was sure that Kerry would have cast her grown-up eye over Carmichael’s notes and not let him get away with anything too outrageous.

  At the thought of what havoc an uncensored speech by Carmichael could cause, his smile started to fade and, as he pulled back the curtains, it completely fizzled out and died. After such good weather, the sky was black and threatening and it looked like there was going to be a storm. He’d have to keep his fingers crossed that Honey didn’t get soaked in her bridal outfit.

  Right, first job of the day was to get to the venue to check that nothing had gone awry with the arrangements for the wedding breakfast – why did they call it that? – to make sure that everything was as Honey had desired and planned it.

  Once again he was glad that they had booked for it to take place at The Manse. Although its owner/manager was a bit of a dodgy character, his establishment was first class, and neither of them could think of anywhere classier than this refined establishment, which was located not too far from Market Darley.

  He threw on a pair of cords and a short-sleeved shirt and, after a quick slice of toast, was on the road. Honey had been very specific as to the table layout and the seating plan, plus she had been adamant about the table-laying, and he wanted to be sure that all of her whims and fancies had been taken care of.

  He was as fresh as a daisy, as would Honey be, too. They had decided against a hen or a stag do the previous week. Falconer had spent the previous evening at home alone with just his cats for company, and Honey’s parents would have arrived the previous morning from their Caribbean home, and she would have spent the evening quietly with them. He had no desire whatsoever to fly to Prague or some such trendy city, get bladdered with a group of so-called mates, and then be found the following morning chained to a lamppost, naked.

  Jefferson Grammaticus met him at the reception desk and led him decorously through to what he referred to as the banqueting hall, as if he were royalty. Everything looked perfect. The round tables, to hold six guests each, were equidistant from each other, the long top table discreetly separated from them. Every table was swathed in a starched white cloth. The cutlery had been laid with ruler precision – he wouldn’t have expected anything less – and each table had a minimalist flower display with exotic blooms. The napkins that sat at every place were folded like swans, and there were a number of champagne bucket stands discreetly placed, just waiting for their buckets of ice containing a bottle of delicious bubbly brew.

  The chairs were similarly in their Sunday best, covers matching the tablecloths with enormous bows at their backs. At intervals around the edge of the ro
om were a number of pedestals with arrangements of expensive flowers adorning their tops, and crystal chandeliers sparkled down from above, adding that extra touch of luxury.

  ‘It all looks fabulous,’ he congratulated the tubby man with the beard, then asked, ‘but where is the cake?’ feeling very glad that Mr Dubois, as father of the bride, had sent over a very large cheque towards the cost of the occasion.

  ‘Ah, the piece de resistance? That was delivered this morning, first thing, and we have it in an adjoining room waiting for the toast-master to lead it out when the time comes. Follow me,’ and the man twinkled away on tiny feet towards a door in the far side of the room. ‘We have it just through here where it should come to no harm,’ he concluded opening the door and allowing Falconer to precede him.

  It was a mighty piece of sugar art: a five-tiered job ordered by Honey herself without any consultation with him, and was covered with silver, gold and white roses all cast in sugar. At the very top – he sniggered – was a tiny police car, also made out of icing. So, she had retained her sense of humour, even on this, their very special day. The whole edifice was stunning, the police car just raising a smile, and he took out his phone to take a photograph of it before it was brought in to be cut. Beside it sat a ceremonial sword representing his army days, with which the cake would be cut for the cameras.

  ‘You’ll notice it’s on a trolley,’ stated Jefferson Grammaticus. ‘That’s so that two waitresses can wheel it in behind the toast-master, who will escort it to the top table.’

  ‘What about music?’ Falconer asked, suddenly remembering that their special celebration couldn’t take place in either silence or some awful mix of seventies hits from a fifth-rate DJ.

  ‘If you’d care to come back into the banqueting hall you’ll see we have a small stage at the other end and, on it, a harp and a piano. I’m sure our professional musicians will keep you sufficiently entertained for the duration of the event. They will play classical in the afternoon, and then change to something more contemporary for the evening when your guests may care to take to the small dancefloor.’ The man really did seem to have everything covered, and Falconer sighed with relief. Grammaticus’ attention to detail was, as usual, faultless.