Choked off (The Falconer Files Book 2) Page 11

  ‘Well, he certainly got choked off in no uncertain manner, didn’t he, Carmichael?’

  ‘He did indeed! And by the Grim Reaper himself. Best get started then, sir,’ suggested Carmichael, and, with a nod, Falconer switched on the ignition, preparatory to returning to the village and questioning those who had been maligned and insulted earlier that day, or perhaps more precisely, whenever this had been recorded. And that information would probably be on Marcus’s computer.

  II

  There was no point, at the moment, in returning to The Inn on the Green, as Peregrine and Tarquin had not been mentioned in the programme, and their prime witness, Summer Leighton, had received a chemical cosh from her hosts, albeit innocently. Or perhaps not! ‘Trust no one’ was one of Falconer’s mottoes and may partly explain why he had never married, nor had a really serious relationship, by the age of forty.

  He was astonished by their inability to find anyone at home. Those who had partners to answer the door for them explained away the absence of the other with tales of shopping or hairdresser’s appointments. The married couples on the list were nowhere to be found, answering neither their doorbells nor their telephones. In fact, the only stroke of luck they had on this first foray into the society of Stoney Cross was a chance meeting with the vicar. He informed them that the Westinghalls and the Pargeters usually went into Carsfold late on Friday afternoons, the first family, to treat their brood to pizza, the second, for a visit to a burger bar.

  Minty’s and Sadie’s absence he could not explain at all, but had he been a fly on the wall in each of their houses, he would have seen Minty lying on the floor beside a bed which was between her and the window. Sadie would have appeared as a dark, crouching shadow, lurking in the space under her stairs. Neither possessed the necessary sangfroid to speak to the police at the moment, as each of them had something to hide, and both shuddered at the sound of the doorbell and telephone, Minty having a little tremble, just for the hell of it.

  They did, however, learn quite a lot from the Rev. Ravenscastle, who told them, with his anger at the memory still in his voice, of how he had found Willoughby in his church on the previous Sunday night. He also asked them not to bother Miss Horsfall-Ertz – ‘Everyone calls her Squirrel, because she’s always at car-boot sales’ – as she was very unwell at the moment, and he and his wife were trying to nurse her back to health with the help of some of her neighbours. He explained that it was not a case for a doctor, and related the tale of the Yorkshire terrier’s death under the wheels of Marcus’s car, and Squirrel’s shock at seeing him again, actually in the village where she lived.

  The reverend gentleman also added some very tasty snippets that might explain the number of deserted properties, where they had not been able to gain entrance. In the course of his duty of pastoral care, he had visited all those who had not been a roaring success at the Festival, thinking that they might need a few words of comfort in their embarrassment.

  Sadie Palister had been, as expected, quite blasé about the whole thing, stating that she was sure the quality of her work would shine through anything that old poseur had to say about it. Minty Wingfield-Heyes had attempted the same hard attitude, then was struck with a fit of uncertainty, and unleashed a torrent of anxiety about what might happen if Marcus managed to poison the public against her work.

  Rev. Ravenscastle had comforted her by reminding her that it was just a local radio station, but she had done her homework, phoning Radio Carsfold to be told that the programme was usually available as a podcast, and could be summoned up for consumption from anywhere in the world, for the next month. When the vicar left, she was still hugging her anguish to her, like a child with a dis-comfort blanket from which she could not be parted, not realising what the programme would contain, and in what bad taste it would be, to unleash this particular podcast on an unsuspecting world.

  At each house at which Rev. Ravenscastle had called, he encountered pain and angry bluster, and dread at what Friday afternoon might bring. The two exceptions were at Starlings’ Nest and The Haven. At the former, Delia and Ashley were almost light-hearted, poking fun at the whole episode, Delia commenting that she might have to claim late hay fever as the cause of her inaccurate blowing, and Ashley countering with a suggestion of hyperventilation, brought on by a terror of performing in front of a ‘national treasure’, as he facetiously referred to Marcus.

  At The Haven, however, he had encountered the other end of the spectrum. There, he had found Camilla Markland, alone, and steeped in grief. He could find no words to comfort her, nor explanation of her condition. Her face was flushed and puffy, her eyelids swollen so that her eyes were almost closed, and when he had mentioned Gregory’s absence, she had convulsed into even more heart-wrenching sobs. After making her a cup of tea, the closest he got to an explanation was that they had had a little tiff, and Greg had gone for a drive to calm down. This was untrue, he sensed, but could elicit no further information without upsetting her more, and he had to leave her as he had found her, having provided no comfort, and learnt nothing about the cause of her wretched state.

  At this point, Falconer and Carmichael were ready to move on with their, so far unsuccessful, house calls, and asked for directions to Blackbird Cottage and Serena Lyddiard, adding the hope that she, at least, might be in to receive them.

  At the mention of Serena’s name, the vicar smiled, and pointed them up Stoney Stile Lane. ‘She wasn’t able to appear in our little show, though,’ he explained, in case they falsely believed otherwise. ‘She used to be a dancer, and everyone was so looking forward to her performance. Unfortunately, however, she hurt her ankle in practice, and was unable to attend. We were all so disappointed. Well, I’d better let you get on with your job.’ And so saying, he left them, waving as he went.

  III

  Falconer and Carmichael made their way to Serena’s front door, using the heavy brass ‘Hand of Fatima’ knocker to announce their arrival. There was a disconcertingly long wait, and Falconer thought they had been stood up again, but soon, a shuffling noise was heard, approaching the other side of the door.

  The door opened – and Falconer fell in love at first sight! There were no other words to describe what he felt. It was something totally beyond his comprehension; he had never experienced anything like this. His eyes widened, his pupils dilated, to take in the sight of her more fully, and he could feel his mouth hanging slightly agape. He was speechless for the second time that day, and stood there like a statue, drinking in her slender figure, her honey-coloured hair, her amber eyes, and the polite smile of enquiry on her face.

  Carmichael, suddenly becoming aware that there was something amiss, made the introductions himself, casting swift sideways glances at the inspector to see if he could discern what had struck him dumb in such an inexplicable way. But learnt nothing, Serena not being his type; and too old, if it wasn’t too impertinent a thought.

  Falconer suddenly found his voice but, at first, it emerged in rather a husky manner, as he explained that they would like to have a word with her, and asked if they might come in, as having strange men standing on one’s doorstep could be awkward, if witnessed by one’s neighbours – and he wouldn’t like to think that they had been the cause of any rumours or speculation… Whatever was he wittering on about? he thought, as he followed her into the house and into the sitting room. He was acting like a love-sick teenager, and had to check to see that his tongue wasn’t hanging out, and he wasn’t drooling.

  ‘I am Detective Inspector Falconer,’ he began, in introduction, horrified to find that his voice had now risen to a high pitched pre-pubescent warble. Clearing his throat in embarrassment, he continued, ‘and this is Acting Detective Sergeant Carmichael.’ This came out in a strangled baritone, and he cleared his throat again, in an effort to pull himself together. ‘You, I presume, are Ms Serena Lyddiard.’ He had taken the precaution of using a hoarse whisper, and explained it away by claiming, unconvincingly, that he was suffering from a so
re throat.

  Carmichael was glancing at him again, in confusion. This was the first he’d heard of any throat condition – Falconer had been fine when they were talking to the vicar. As Serena nodded in acknowledgement of her identity, Carmichael stared outright at his superior, and said in a puzzled voice, ‘But, sir …’

  ‘Not now, Carmichael!’ Falconer admonished him breathily.

  ‘But …’

  ‘I said, not now!’ Falconer did his best to shout, without engaging his vocal chords, but it just made him cough, at least supporting his claim that his throat was on the blink.

  Waved towards the sofa, they sat down, while Serena lowered herself into an armchair and carefully placed her bandaged right ankle on a footstool, then looked invitingly towards them, awaiting an explanation of their visit.

  Falconer was recovering a little and ventured, in what he hoped was his normal voice, ‘We’re here in connection with the death of Marcus Willoughby; just making enquiries to establish when he was last seen, who might have spoken to him, that sort of thing, you know what I mean …?’ There he went again, rambling, he really must get a grip.

  Ignoring his discomfiture with a kindly discretion, she claimed her ignorance. ‘I’m afraid I never had the pleasure of meeting a man by the name of Marcus Willoughby.’

  ‘Not at all?’ This was Carmichael, trying to cover up for Falconer’s weird behaviour.

  ‘I had my little accident,’ here she indicated her elevated leg, ‘just as he arrived in the village and, apart from my little trip to The Inn earlier in support of my friends, I’ve been more or less housebound ever since. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help to you.’

  Falconer’s body slumped with relief as he heard this, for the information filled him with an unaccustomed joy, and he had the sudden desire, fortunately suppressed, to sing. Ms Lyddiard would probably treat it as a mild eccentricity, but Carmichael would know he was off his rocker, and that would do little for what tenuous authority he had over his giant tower of a colleague.

  As they walked back to the car, Carmichael asked him what was wrong with him, and why he hadn’t mentioned his indisposition before, as he had seemed perfectly all right earlier.

  ‘Just a frog in my throat, Carmichael,’ Falconer explained unconvincingly, ‘Just a frog. Will you need picking up in the morning?’ he asked, his vocal chords now returned to normal.

  ‘No, sir. I’d be grateful if you’d drop me back home tonight, but I’m just going to pick up some clothes – me mam should have finished the washing by now, and I’ll get first pick – then I’m off to Kerry’s. She’s making me my favourite meal, and the boys and us are going to watch a ‘Harry Potter’ on DVD tonight. I’ll be coming from her place in the morning, so I’ll meet you here.’

  ‘You’re a bit of a fast worker aren’t you, Carmichael? You only met her a couple of months ago.’

  ‘You can’t fight fate, sir, not when you meet your soulmate,’ Carmichael replied, showing an unexpected romantic side.

  ‘No, I suppose you can’t,’ replied Falconer, his mind back at Serena’s house, imagining himself being suave and interesting, instead of acting like the bloody fool he had been feeling at the time. As an afterthought he added, ‘Do you like that Harry Potter stuff, then?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter either way to me. If I can see Kerry and the boys enjoying themselves, that’s all I need.’

  For once, Harry Falconer envied his acting DS. It was a humbling experience.

  Carmichael had met Kerry Long when he and Falconer were engaged on their previous murder investigation and, during and after the events in Castle Farthing, the two had grown increasingly close. She was grateful for a strong male influence in the household and had quickly become genuinely fond of him, as had her two young sons, referring to him as Uncle Davey now. Her vulnerability had brought out the best in Carmichael. He had initially wanted to protect her, and this had turned into love. He was a very happy acting detective sergeant. All the things about him that irritated Falconer, Kerry loved, treating his idiosyncrasies as endearing, and loving him all the more for them.

  As Falconer suggested they meet back in the car park of The Inn on the Green on the morrow, he pondered what Carmichael’s favourite meal could be. ‘Steak and chips’ was his one and only guess. How he would have reacted had he known it to be spaghetti hoops on toast with grated cheese sprinkled on top (two platefuls!) we will never know.

  What we can know, however, is that, for all his highfalutin tastes, Falconer loved nothing more, when he was feeling a bit off, than baked beans on toast, with lashings of brown sauce. This was something he used to eat in his teens, unaccompanied, at a mobile café in a lay-by, fiercely keeping this guilty secret from his family and friends, for fear of their mockery and derision.

  When he had dropped Carmichael off as required, he headed for home, a vision of orange and brown filling his mind, and a determination to eat his proposed delight well away from Mycroft, his seal-point Siamese, convinced that even a cat would see him in a different light, if he knew of this guilty indulgence.

  Chapter Twelve

  Saturday, 12th September – morning

  I

  Falconer’s sleep had been disturbed in the past by nightmares of his time in the army, usually about the uncouth behaviour and the foul language of the squaddies. Tonight his disturbed slumber had an entirely novel cause. Every time he floated off into oblivion, he saw Serena’s face and, as his dream-self gazed at it, he became aware that she was in some sort of danger. Danger from what, he never remembered, but on several occasions that night, he had awoken with a gasp, his whole body convulsing with fear, his pyjamas soaked with sweat.

  Except for one occasion, when he was about five years old and his mother had been gravely ill, he had never felt such strong emotion for another human being, and he found it confusing and belittling. He could not believe he could feel so deeply and so much for someone after just one meeting, and even opened wide his mouth and gazed into the bathroom mirror at one point to check his throat, and work out whether he really was coming down with something.

  The next morning found him tired and emotional (in the most sober way possible) and, after his shower, he opened his wardrobe door and realised he had not the remotest idea what to wear. Usually an outfit had already assembled itself while he slept, but his night had been so disturbed, that there was nothing waiting for him, sartorially, in the forefront of his mind.

  He knew that, come what may, he would make some excuse to call at Blackbird Cottage sometime that day, and rashly decided to wear his favourite garments, in the hope that he would impress Serena with his good taste, and shore up his own self-confidence. A short while later he left for Stoney Cross, breakfast no part of this morning’s schedule; his stomach was too full of butterflies for him to contemplate adding food to the mix.

  It was fortunate for him that there was little traffic, for his inattentive driving could have been the cause of numerous accidents. As it was, he had a near-miss with a black cat as he drove down Stoney Cross’s High Street towards his intended place of rendezvous. He winced as he swerved to avoid it, and cursed it for shaking him up like that. He was nervous enough without a black cat showing off just how ‘lucky’ it really was.

  The Boxster and the Skoda arrived virtually simultaneously, and the two detectives got out of their respective vehicles in a near-choreographed move, both stopping dead at the sight of the other, and staring in mirrored disbelief.

  Carmichael stood there, immaculate in a dark grey suit, white shirt and lemon tie, his thatch of hair gelled into a respectable cap, the victim of a very recent shearing.

  Falconer just stood there.

  He was attired in black linen trousers (which had already creased on his drive over), a turquoise silk shirt (condition as yet unknown) which was frontally obscured by a canary yellow Shantung silk waistcoat, and decorated at the neck with a blood-red tie. The whole ensemble was finished off with a brown leather jacket wh
ich had cost him a small fortune in Italy, on a day when he had been feeling particularly frivolous and self-indulgent.

  Carmichael’s mouth gaped in amazement at this rainbow apparition that had, yesterday, been his elegantly attired boss, the undisputed king of the muted palette (with an occasional highlight of colour, just as a visual accent).

  The acting DS was the first to recover his power of speech. ‘Nice threads, sir. What’s the occasion?’

  ‘Nothing, Carmichael. There is no occasion. I just felt like a little change. Is that all right with you?’

  ‘Of course, sir. No offence intended, I’m sure. You look lovely and colourful.’

  ‘And what about you, Carmichael? What’s with the Savile Row look?’ Falconer asked, not really noticing how well his sergeant scrubbed up.

  Had he done so, he might have seen the quite handsome young man that Kerry Long had fallen for. Carmichael had even allowed Kerry to persuade him to let her tidy up his normally unruly hair, and today, he bore little resemblance to the ramshackle scarecrow who had first been partnered with Falconer only a couple of months ago. It wouldn’t last, though – Carmichael’s appearance had a mind of its own, and would soon revert to the norm.

  ‘Marks and Sparks, sir – machine washable. I told you I’d get first pick if I collected my clobber last night.’

  ‘You should get first pick more often. You actually look the part today. Well done!’ But Falconer spoke as if by remote control. His words were automatic, his mind still on how he could contrive a meeting with Serena.

  They were to have no joy in The Inn, however, as Summer had risen early and gone out, not saying how long she would be gone. After her long, chemically-aided sleep, she was raring to go, and had had something very definite in mind as she had sailed through the door with her handbag swinging from her shoulder and a determined expression on her face.