Music to Die For (The Falconer Files Book 6) Page 10

  ‘Don’t be silly! I’m making him his Hallowe’en costume. I’ve started dead early, because I’ve got to make one for all of us, and he’s the one I don’t have constant access to. He’s always off somewhere with you. Honestly, if you were a woman, I’d think you two were having an affair.’ Kerry had removed the pins from her mouth, and was now capable of speech.

  ‘Ha ha! Very funny!’ said Carmichael sarcastically.

  Falconer merely made a disgusted face, then tried to cover this up by clearing his throat, partially covering his face with his hand, as he did so. ‘Come along, Cinderella: you shall go to the ball,’ he urged, to cover his embarrassment.

  ‘Don’t be so daft, sir.’

  II

  Meanwhile, back at The Grange, the players were in various stages of shock. Gayle Potten had fastened herself on to a bottle of gin, and was drinking it, diluted only with a little water, at an alarming rate. The strings had gone into an exclusive little huddle, and shut up immediately anyone from another section approached them.

  The only one missing from their numbers was Myrtle, who was bustling around the room, offering hot or cold drinks and distributing plates with little nibbles on that she had prepared for after the practice; but no one seemed very disposed to eat, which wasn’t surprising, after what had happened earlier.

  The woodwind players had gathered round the unused fireplace, and were discussing whether it could have been natural causes, or an accident, that had caused Dashwood to peg out. Harold Grimes joined them, a glass in his hand, and gave it as his opinion, that it was murder. ‘I’ve got a strong stomach,’ he informed them, ‘and I went to have a little look-see when Myles came out. I just had a peek, while he was leaning against the wall. I thought I could see something sticking out of his chest, but I don’t know if Myles noticed it. Hey, Myles …’ he called, as the man in question drifted over in their direction, from his previous post by the front window, where he had been watching for the arrival of Rev. Church.

  ‘What’s that, Harold?’

  ‘Did you see anything sticking out of Dashwood’s chest? I was telling these here ladies that I thought I did – you know, when I went in for a couple of seconds, after you’d come out.’

  ‘You must have damned good eyesight, old chap. I just got a general impression, then I high-tailed it out of there as fast as my legs would carry me: so, no, I didn’t notice anything other than how absolutely ghastly it was, and how much I didn’t want to be looking at it anymore.’

  ‘The police will tell us what did for him when they arrive, and that shouldn’t be too long. In the meantime, does anyone fancy a game of cards? Do you have a pack or two handy, Myles?’ But no one else felt in the mood, and a slightly queasy Wendy Burnett was actually taken upstairs by Myrtle for a little lie down. The poor woman was shivering, as if it were midwinter, (ha ha!), and Myrtle ushered her up to one of the guest rooms, where she tucked her up under an eiderdown and told her to lie there until she felt better.

  Back downstairs again, she discovered that alcohol was doing a better job of nursing than she could have managed herself, so she poured herself a giant gin and tonic and perched on the end of a settee, waiting for something to happen.

  The only thing that did occur in the next few minutes, however, was the squeak, squeak, squeak of an approaching bicycle in need of oiling, and Rev. Church’s voice calling a welcome as he let himself in and joined them.

  After suitable greetings had been exchanged, the vicar asked them exactly what had happened – or what they knew of it, anyway. At first, all of them spoke at once.

  ‘Dashwood’s dead.’

  ‘We found Dashwood dead in his kitchen.’

  ‘Someone’s done for that miserable sod, Dashwood.’

  ‘That’s not true! For all we know, he could’ve died from natural causes.’

  ‘There weren’t nothing natural about that man!’

  ‘Harold reckons he saw something sticking out of his chest.’

  ‘There were flies everywhere, and the smell was indescribable. We thought it was a dead cat in his dustbin before we found him.’

  ‘It was you suggested it was a cat.’

  ‘I think Harold only said that – about something sticking out of him – to scare the ladies.’

  ‘Well, he scared me, right enough.’ This admission was from Edmund Alexander, who had already lost the contents of his stomach, but looked like his insides might be ready to search for anything they’d missed, the last time round. ‘Do you mind if we stop talking about it until the police arrive? I feel really nauseous again.’

  At this point in the proceedings, the men retired to the kitchen en masse, and the ladies regrouped themselves so that they made a semi-circle in front of the vicar, who had just plumped down into an armchair. The sexes had divided, as they did at many a lackadaisical party: the men, to chew the fat in the room where the refrigerator was situated, and the ladies, in this case, to seek comfort from their spiritual adviser.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite know what to say,’ Rev. Church began. ‘I gather he’s been an awful pain in the neck to all of you …’

  ‘Arse!’ interrupted Gayle Potten, rather drunkenly. ‘He was a pain in the arse, not the neck. Neck’s too polite for that bastard!’

  ‘Hush, Ms Potten, you don’t really mean to speak like that of the dead.’

  ‘Yes I do! And, no, I won’t regret it in the morning. With any luck, I won’t even remember it in the morning. That piece of, oh, I don’t know – he nigh on ruined our band, and we’ve been together for so long. Why did you foist him on us? What had we ever done to deserve him?’

  ‘I had no idea what he was like. He came to see me with such sparkling references, I didn’t see how there could possibly be a problem,’ declared the vicar, blushing at his own lack of character judgement.

  ‘I’ll bet he only got those references so that he’d go away, and leave some other poor people in peace,’ piped up Gwendolyn Radcliffe. ‘You stretch out and have a little nap, Gayle. You look all-in.’

  ‘More like rat-arsed!’ commented Myrtle, who had just returned from upstairs.

  ‘Myrtle, that’s not very kind, and I’d be grateful if you’d moderate your language. Someone has died, if you’ve forgotten.’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten, Vicar. And I think it proves absolutely that there is a God, for he couldn’t have chosen a more worthy person to strike down.’

  There was a general murmur of agreement at this comment, quickly stifled, as the vicar looked around him, scandalised. ‘I think we should sit here in silence, and say a little prayer, instead of making cruel comments. Now, eyes closed, please.’

  ‘Dear Lord, thank you for removing a pariah from our midst, and delivering us from our only evil.’ Myrtle could be heard to mutter, as she obediently closed her eyes and bowed her head.

  III

  Despite a SOCO team and the police doctor already having been summoned, and the inspector having to go via Castle Farthing, Falconer and Carmichael were the first to arrive at the locus, and made their way round to the back of the cottage, where they believed the door to be unlocked.

  The first thing Falconer did, before even leaving the car was to make a brief phone call. ‘This place is going to need someone on duty overnight, and I’ve decided that PC Proudfoot is due for something, in apology for spreading that rumour about you having cancer. I’ve just told him to get his arse out here right away, because he’s on night duty right now, and told him that he can’t be tired, as he spends most of his daytime duty hours asleep behind a broadsheet in various hidey holes at the station.’

  ‘Good!’ said Carmichael with feeling. ‘He’s actually had the nerve to start calling me ‘Baldylocks’, and I was stopped by one of the collators the other day, and she said she was glad to see my hair was growing back, and asked when had I finished my treatment.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Just that I wasn’t ill, and Proudfoot had got things all wro
ng, then I scooted off back to the office to hide for a bit.’

  ‘I don’t blame you. I could cheerfully wring that man’s neck sometimes. He’s about as useful as a chocolate fire-screen, but at the end of the day, he’s still an extra body when we need one.’

  This deed done, they were both smiling as they got out of the car, Carmichael, as usual, looking like a living ironing board as he unfolded himself carefully out of the cramped (for his size) seat of the inspector’s Boxster, but those smiles were soon to be wiped off their faces.

  As they turned the corner to the rear of the cottage, the smell began to get to them, and both removed a handkerchief from their pockets, and clamped it against their mouths. ‘Cor, that’s a whiffy one!’ commented Carmichael, as Falconer opened the back door and flicked the light switch.

  ‘Good grief!’ he exclaimed, in horror. Dashwood’s body was slumped in a chair at the kitchen table, his head drooping backwards over the back of the chair. His face had made a good meal. Flies buzzed everywhere, and he had maggots squirming from every facial orifice. ‘It doesn’t take long for decomposition to set in in this heat, Carmichael. Carmichael? Where are you, Carmichael?’

  A pathetic figure, its face pale and beaded with a cold sweat, re-entered the kitchen from the garden, trying to speak, but not quite managing it.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter, man? You look like death.’

  ‘I know, sir. Sorry, sir,’ said the figure, its capacity for speech now returning.

  ‘Where the devil have you been?’

  ‘Being sick in the dustbin, sir. You know I’ve got a weak stomach!’

  ‘That was very enterprising of you. And I suppose if I asked you to hose it out, you’d be sick again, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘My day just gets better and better,’ muttered Falconer, silently fuming, and sighed deeply.

  But his mood slid back to that of the professional when he took a closer look at the body and saw that there was an object embedded in its chest. Whatever it was, it seemed to be made of metal, and he presumed that it went in quite deeply.

  ‘SOCO’s here, sir,’ announced Carmichael unnecessarily, as they had heard two vehicles pull up outside, and figures were already entering the kitchen via the back door.

  ‘Ah, my good Dr Christmas!’ exclaimed Falconer, spotting the first of them. ‘How the devil are you, Philip?’ Dr Philip Christmas had worked on all the murder cases with them since Falconer and Carmichael had first been partnered together; at first because he was available, later, because he had been appointed Police Surgeon for the area.

  ‘I’m fine. It’s all them other buggers,’ was his irreverent reply, followed by, ‘That’s a bit of an ugly customer. I wonder how long he’s been there.’

  ‘That’s your job. You’re supposed to tell us that.’

  ‘I know. I was only speculating. Can you get that thing in his chest photographed in situ? I rather want to get it out, to see what it is’

  ‘Same old Christmas,’ commented the SOCO with the camera. ‘Always wanting first dip into the bran tub, to try to get the best prize, aren’t you, Doc?’

  ‘Oh, I live for it, man. I live for it.’ Christmas was in a frivolous mood, and Falconer wondered if maybe he’d had a drink before he received the call to come out here. If he had, it would only have been the one, for he was a scrupulous man, and would never have driven if there was even the slightest possibility that he was over the legal limit.

  A camera flashed several times, as the photographer moved from place to place, recording the unidentified object from all angles, before he was ready to hand over to the doctor.

  ‘There you go, Doc,’ he said at last, and moved away from the grotesque object that sat in the chair, staring at the ceiling with squirming eye sockets.

  ‘Where’s that sergeant of yours?’ Christmas asked. ‘I haven’t seen you without him once during the last year.’

  ‘He’s been sick in the dustbin, and Muggins here is going to have to be the one to clear it up. Our Carmichael has a weak stomach, you know. Anyway, I’ve sent him outside to get some fresh air. If he’s going to be sick again, I’d rather he did it at as great a distance from me as he can get.’

  ‘Good thinking. Now, evidence bag, please,’ he requested, pulling on gloves. ‘There she goes,’ he said, putting gentle pressure on the object to remove it slowly. ‘Here it comes. Now, what, in the name of all that’s holy, is that thing?’

  ‘That thing,’ Falconer informed him, ‘is a cello spike. And the band came here to find him earlier on, because he hadn’t turned up for band practice. I wonder if one of them knew they would find him in less than glowing health? I think I’ll borrow that, if you don’t mind. I’ll book it in as evidence tomorrow but, for now, it’s mine.’

  IV

  At ten o’clock, Falconer rang the doorbell at The Grange, and was greeted by Myles. ‘You must be the police. Please come in and meet everybody. I’ll introduce you. I’m Myles Midwynter, by the way.’

  ‘Thank you, and I’m Detective Inspector Falconer, and this is my partner, Detective Sergeant Carmichael. Lead the way, if you would be so kind.’

  At that moment, a golden retriever lolloped into the hall, examined those present, and headed immediately for Falconer, where the dog began to smell the inspector’s crotch with great interest. Grabbing Acker by the collar, Myles finally managed to drag him off and deposit him in the dining room, shutting the door, so that he wouldn’t be able to get out and resume where he had left off with his investigations of the inspector’s trousers.

  ‘I’m so sorry about that,’ said Myles, looking, not shamefaced, but rather as if he were trying hard to suppress his amusement. Myrtle, who had followed the dog, and was now standing in the doorway of the drawing room, suddenly snorted, and began a real belly laugh.

  ‘That dog goes right to the point doesn’t he? He knows where all the interesting bits are!’

  Falconer blushed a deep red with embarrassment, not only at what had just happened, but at the coarseness of Myrtle’s remarks. Carmichael remained in the background. He was trying not to snigger but, nonetheless, he had a huge grin spread across his face from ear to ear, making him look quite insane, and possibly dangerous.

  To break the ice that had metaphorically just materialised round the inspector, Myles said, by way of pertinent information, ‘His name’s Acker.’

  ‘Like the clarinettist?’ Falconer asked, recognising a life-line when he saw one.

  ‘That’s right. Not a lot of people remember Acker Bilk now, and assume it’s just a weird name.’

  ‘He’s unforgettable, but then my taste in music is quite catholic, and spans all styles and eras.’ Falconer was back on form now, and ready to get on with his job. A little return to the modicum of pomposity that was part of his character always restored him to a better humour.

  ‘Oh, that’s rather pertinent, given that you’re both in the village band,’ he said, pointing to a coloured steel engraving, hung on the wall. It showed a large open trunk, with inside it, a donkey, with a man on his back dressed garishly in blue, red and yellow, and written underneath was the phrase, ‘My ass in a band box’.

  ‘It’s absolutely perfect,’ their host answered. ‘Especially as the rehearsals used to be here. I got it at an auction, for a song. I know it’s a trifle foxed, but it’s rather good, isn’t it? We love it!

  Myles led them into a room of chattering people, drinks in hands, the vicar plumb in the middle, looking a little bit embarrassed at the party that seemed to have erupted around him. When he had introduced everybody, Falconer asked if everyone was present, and if they had a room he could use, just for a short while, to speak to people alone.

  ‘I won’t keep any of you for very long,’ he informed them. ‘I just want to get an idea of who you are, and take your names, addresses, and contact numbers. DS Carmichael and I will call on you tomorrow in your homes, to take statements. I’m sure you’re completely exhausted wi
th what has happened, and could all do with a good night’s sleep.’

  When informed that Wendy Burnett, their oboe player, had gone upstairs to have a lie down, as she had suffered physically from the shock of finding Dashwood’s body, Falconer requested that she be asked to re-join the others, and asked them to, perhaps, spend the intervening time trying to remember everything, no matter how small and insignificant it might seem to them, about finding the body.

  At the end of his request, there was a chorus of groans. ‘Do we have to think about it? I know I’m going to have bad dreams as it is,’ asked Vanessa Palfreyman.

  ‘I shall be relying on you to give me as accurate a report as it is possible for you to give. I’ll speak to Mr Midwynter first, and then I want you to come along, one by one, to speak to me. There is, however, something that I’d like to show you first, he said, removing the cello spike, carefully protected by its evidence bag, from his pocket, and held it out for all to see.

  ‘This was found embedded in Mr Dashwood’s chest, and will no doubt prove to be the murder weapon. Myrtle gave a little cry of recognition and disgust, and her husband pointed unnecessarily, and said, ‘But that’s the cello spike that you lost, Myrtle!’

  Myrtle was almost incapable of speech, after this shock appearance of her lost cello part, but managed to splutter out an explanation. ‘We’ve looked high and low for that, Inspector. We nearly tore the house apart, then we went to the church and gave that a good old going over too. I had it when we played there, after morning service, but when I opened the case to get my instrument out on Monday, so that Myles and I could have a bit of a practice, it had disappeared.’

  At the end of this dramatic statement there was a sudden rap on the front door, which made several of the women jump, and, on opening it, Myles found the intimidating figure of PC Merv Green – who was, in actual fact, a pussycat, but was just a little scary at first sight, due to his muscular build and his shaven head.