Music to Die For (The Falconer Files Book 6) Read online

  ‘Great!’ thought Falconer. ‘Good old Bob Bryant!’ This paragon at the station had anticipated his need to be in two places at once, and had sent Green out, so that Falconer and Carmichael could get on with the interviews, and Green could sit in with the others, to make sure that no one had the chance to conspire with one of the others to spin a yarn.

  ‘Come on through, Green,’ he called. ‘Your arrival is very timely. Myles here was going to conduct us to a room where we can interview people in private and, now you’re here, you can sit in with this lot. They look as if they could do with a few of your hilarious tales of life in the Force, although I have advised them to go over, in their minds, everything that happened earlier on at Wheel Cottage.’

  Green squeezed himself down on a sofa, between Gayle Potten and the not inconsiderable bulk of Vanessa Palfreyman. ‘Well, that’s me nicely settled then, between two beautiful ladies.’ Gayle giggled drunkenly, which brought a frown of disapproval from Harold, and Vanessa blushed scarlet, and, pulling her arms close to her body, she clamped her knees together, as though that would make her appear less bulky than she actually was.

  Myles led Falconer and Carmichael through the house to what appeared to be his study-cum-library, where there was a desk and several chairs, both hard and softly upholstered, and waited for them to settle themselves.

  Falconer nodded to a Jacobean-style chair near the window for Carmichael to transfer to the other side of the desk, fingers crossed that it was a reproduction, as it looked like a toy in his sergeant’s enormous hands. He, Falconer, went behind the desk, sat down in what must be, in more normal circumstances, Myles’s chair, and beckoned for Myles to sit opposite him, in the chair that Carmichael had so recently repositioned.

  Carmichael took himself off to the back of the room, where he was out of the sight-line of the other two, and extracted his notebook and pen, before settling in an upholstered wing chair, ready to take notes, but being as invisible as it was possible, for someone of his great height and breadth, to be.

  Chapter Nine

  Friday 16th July – continuation

  I

  ‘I asked you to come along first, sir, not only because this is your home, but because you reported the finding of the body, and I supposed that you have some sort of standing with the others.’

  ‘I’ve more or less been in charge of things since our last Musical Director moved to France – actually, it was I who started the whole shebang, ten years ago. That’s three in a row – Musical Directors, that is – that have done that to us. It’s barely credible, that each and every one of them could have deserted us to go to the same damned country.’

  ‘Very coincidental, Mr Midwynter,’ agreed Falconer, then urged him to continue.

  ‘The vicar brought along that Dashwood chap – it was only a few weeks ago, but it feels like forever – and he took over the position.’

  ‘Was Mr Dashwood a popular man?’

  ‘My big fat hairy arse, he was! He was a bully, with no tact or diplomacy, and publicly humiliated us all in the few weeks he ran the practices. And he disrupted the whole flow of rehearsals.’

  ‘We can go into that further tomorrow, Mr Midwynter. Now, about this evening?’

  ‘For once, we all arrived early, at the new village meeting rooms – that was his latest place for us to rehearse. I think we’d probably all taken on board some of what he said to us – I know Myrtle and I had – and we were all eager to put our practise into, well – practice. But he didn’t show up.

  ‘He was always there first, wherever there proved to be that particular week … I know, I know,’ he said, as Falconer put up his hand to divert him. ‘I’ll leave that for tomorrow. Anyway, he didn’t show up, so we started without him, and it was pretty damned obvious that everyone had done the same as Myrtle and I, because we sounded not half bad, instead of bloody execrable. Please excuse my language, only this thing’s left me in a bit of a stew, mentally.’

  ‘No problem, sir. When did you decide to go looking for him?’

  ‘Not until a quarter past eight. We’d got so involved in what we were playing, and it sounding so much better, that we just lost track of the time.’

  ‘So you all made your way to Wheel Cottage? With all those instruments in tow?’

  ‘No, we decided to lock up, and leave them there, expecting to find out that he’d forgotten about rehearsal, or something like that, and that we’d return once we’d bearded him in his den. I suppose, like little kids, we were anxious to show him what we could do.’

  ‘And did you all go into the house?’ Falconer asked, remembering the waft of corruption that had assaulted Carmichael and him, when they had arrived.

  ‘No fear! You must have smelled it when you got there. We thought, at first, there was something ghastly in his dustbin, but when we had a look, it was empty.’

  There is now, thought Falconer, and it’s not empty any longer!

  ‘Then we noticed that that dreadful smell seemed to be coming from the house, and when Harold tried the door, it was unlocked. That’s when the ladies made their exit. Harold and I – that’s Harold Grimes, plays trumpet – stepped in to have a look, but one look was enough, as far as I was concerned.

  ‘All we brave men made our retreat with alacrity, the only straggler being Edmund Alexander – keyboard accompanist for the band. He stopped off to be sick, and I don’t blame him. I could feel my gorge rising as soon as we saw what was sitting in that chair, and the condition it was in. And then all the others came tottering round to see what the fuss was about, I regret to say.’

  ‘Did you touch anything, when you were inside the house?’

  ‘Absolutely not! I mean, if you’re talking about fingerprints, you may find mine on the door or the door frame, but I never laid a finger on anything else, and the others, when they herded round, just took a look from outside, from what Myrtle told me afterwards. It was all so sordid, with flies everywhere. The air was thick with them, until we opened the door, and let a whole swarm of them out. That wasn’t very nice either, and rather a harbinger to the doom that lay just inside that kitchen.

  ‘And then we all high-tailed it back here, like a bunch of scalded cats. Myrtle dished out the drinks, to help with the shock, and got out some nibbles for anyone who wasn’t feeling queasy, and I phoned the station in Market Darley: except, I didn’t! I did that first, from Geraldine Warwick’s cottage, next door to Dashwood’s – that’s Tile Cottage. My head’s so muddled, I can hardly remember what order things happened in,’ Myles apologised.

  ‘Don’t give it a thought, and thank you for your time, Mr Midwynter. You’ve been very helpful. If you’d just make sure my sergeant has your telephone number, I’d like you to send in your wife next.’

  II

  Myrtle Midwynter looked shocked to the core, when she entered the room, and felt her way on to the seat of the chair, as if she were in a trance.

  ‘Are you all right, Mrs Midwynter? You look very pale,’ said Falconer, solicitously.

  ‘It’s the shock! Oh, not just the shock of finding Dashwood dead, and turned into that ‘thing’ that was sitting at his table. No, the biggest shock was that it seems to be my cello spike that was used to kill him, and that really sickens and disgusts me. When the case is over, I don’t want it back. I never want the thing in my house again. Throw it out, or put it in your black museum. Do whatever you want with it, but I never want to see it again – ever.’

  ‘I can imagine how you feel and I shall dispose of it, one way or another, at the end of the case if you still want me to. But tell me, when do you think it could have been stolen?’

  ‘It must have been while it was in the church. I know Harold – Harold Grimes – he’s the trumpet player – says he locked the door before he came across to the pub, but did he? Or did he forget, and then feel too embarrassed to say anything about it afterwards, when there were no instruments missing when we went back to get them?’

  ‘Did you actually se
e him unlock the church door?’

  ‘I saw him fiddling around at the lock with the key, but that doesn’t prove anything, does it? If he’d forgotten to lock it, he’d hardly say anything, unless anything was actually found to be missing.’

  ‘Whose idea was it to go round to Mr Dashwood’s house?’ Falconer asked her.

  ‘I’ve no idea. I mean, we did try to ring him first, but it just kept going to the answerphone. We, or at least, I thought that maybe he’d had an unexpected visitor, and been delayed. I even wondered if he’d just completely forgotten that it was Friday, although I knew, in my heart of hearts, that he wasn’t that sort of man at all. It just seemed like a joint decision to me, as the next logical step to take. Aren’t you going to ask me for an alibi or something, considering it was my spike that he was killed with?’ she asked, in a slightly challenging manner, considerably recovered in spirits, since she had entered the room.

  ‘Absolutely not, Mrs Midwynter. We don’t know when he died yet, so I wouldn’t know when to ask you for an alibi for – that was very clumsily phrased, but you know what I mean.’

  ‘I do, and it was a silly question for me to ask, really. I’m still not thinking straight. Sorry!’

  ‘That’s perfectly understandable, under the circumstances. Can you tell me one more thing: did you touch anything when you were at Wheel Cottage, even if it was just the door or its frame?’

  ‘No way! The place was swarming and crawling with flies. As soon as I saw what was in there, I just wanted to get away as fast as I could. The smell of corrupting flesh was everywhere, and it turned my stomach.’

  ‘You’re aware, then, of the smell of decomposition, are you?’

  ‘I’ve come across it from time to time: usually when I’m walking Acker – that’s our dog. I believe you met him earlier,’ she said, turning her face away from him, as she suppressed a smirk. ‘And he quite often smells out dead animals, when he’s off the lead, then I have the unpleasant job of trying to distract him, to get the lead back on, and take him somewhere else so that he doesn’t remember it and go straight back when I let him off for a run again.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Midwynter. That will be all for now. I’ll speak to you in more depth tomorrow.’

  As she rose, she asked, ‘You’re going to be here for some time yet, aren’t you? Would you and your sergeant like a cup of coffee?’

  Two voices, one tenor, one bass, announced their gratitude at the offer, and when she asked about sugar and milk, Falconer answered, ‘Just black for me.’ Carmichael, on the other hand, asked if he could have his milky, and with six sugars, at which request Myrtle’s eyebrows rose, though she managed not to make any comment as she left the room in pursuit of the offered refreshments.

  With coffee to sustain them, they dealt very efficiently with the other band members, but they all had something to say about Dashwood and his abrupt manner, and it wasn’t until nearly midnight that they were finally able to make their farewells to the Midwynters and get off to their beds.

  PC Green had left in his patrol car when the last of the band members had left their details with Carmichael, so the two detectives were the last to leave The Grange that night, both grinning widely at the sight of PC Proudfoot standing outside Wheel Cottage, doing his duty, as every policeman should, no matter what the personal inconvenience.

  When Falconer had dropped Carmichael off in Castle Farthing, and finally reached his own home, it was to find a message on his answerphone from Dr Christmas.

  ‘I can’t possibly give you an accurate answer to time of death, or even day of death, given the upturn in the weather, Harry,’ the message ran, without preamble. ‘The best I can do at the moment is to say somewhere between five and nine days. I know that’s not much use to you, but corruption had begun, and the flies and maggots had done a good job. Maybe you can shave the ends off that a little by finding out who saw him last, and when. It’s a bit like that case at Stoney Cross, isn’t it?’ [3] ‘Well, I’d better get off. I’ll speak to you, if I learn anything new. Goodnight.’

  The message was timed at eleven forty-five, so he and Carmichael weren’t the only ones not home until the witching hour: not that that made him feel any better.

  [3] See Choked Off

  Chapter Ten

  Saturday 17th July

  I

  Carmichael had phoned Falconer at half past seven that morning, to report that his car wouldn’t start, and would the inspector mind picking him up on the way to Swinbury Abbot. ‘I know it’s not really ‘on the way’,’ he apologised, but you called for me last night, and it didn’t add very much time to our journey, did it?’

  ‘No problem, Carmichael, but please tell me, do you actually know when I’m in the shower?’

  ‘No, sir. How would I know that?’

  ‘Because every time you call,’ explained Falconer, dripping water all over his bedroom carpet, and using one hand to hold on to the towel that was wrapped insecurely round his waist, ‘I am in that cubicle. I know it’s you, because you have such impeccable timing, that I’m beginning to recognise your ring.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. See you shortly. Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye, Carmichael,’ snarled the inspector, and cut the line with a certain amount of unnecessary temper.

  As Falconer approached the diamond-shaped village green in Castle Farthing, he could see that Carmichael was up and about. Whether he was dressed or not was another matter. Today, the sergeant seemed to have rediscovered a couple of Hawaiian garments that the inspector had not seen for some time.

  A red-, orange- and pink-patterned short-sleeved shirt adorned the top of the huge young man’s body, and a pair of green, blue, and yellow shorts the bottom half, only a little of which was visible, as he was involved in an activity that demanded a lot of scrunching up.

  ‘Carmichael! You’re far too big for that bicycle. Whose is it? Return it to its rightful owner this very minute!’

  ‘It’s Dean’s, sir,’ called back Carmichael. Dean was one of his two step-sons, for his wife had been married before, then widowed, before becoming married to Carmichael. Carmichael was making tentative enquiries about adopting Dean and Kyle, so that they could all share the same surname, but Kerry, his wife, was not convinced about the idea as yet. ‘Both the boys bet me I couldn’t ride such a small bike, so I’m just proving to them that I can.’

  ‘Well, just make sure that you don’t come to work on it while your car’s out of commission. Get off it this minute. Someone might see, and we’ve got people to interview.’

  ‘Do you want to come in for a glass of something cold, first, sir? It’s awfully hot,’ asked the sergeant, always solicitous of his superior’s welfare.

  Realising that he was quite thirsty, Falconer agreed, and locked his car, approaching the front door with caution. ‘No, don’t open it too wide,’ he almost shouted, as Carmichael put his hand to it.

  ‘It’s all right, sir. The dogs are out in the back garden.’

  ‘Thank God for that!’ commented Falconer, for he had had several run-ins with Carmichael’s dogs, a Chihuahua and a toy Yorkshire Terrier – Fang and Mr Knuckles by name – and didn’t want another one at the very start of a working day. ‘I haven’t got my ‘old Harrys’ on,’ he explained, ‘and I simply can’t afford to have another pair of trousers ruined.’ [4]

  ‘You’ll be quite safe. We’ll just grab a glass of orange squash and be off.’

  As they approached the kitchen, there was a squeak of hinges, Falconer’s heart gave a great lurch, and he turned and fled back outside the cottage. That was the sound of Kerry, opening the back door, to let the little darlings in for something – they’d probably smelled Uncle Tasty-Trousers from outside, and were anxious to re-make his acquaintance.

  Well, they’d just have to wait until he was suitably attired, in the chewed and clawed trousers he now reserved especially for visits to Carmichael’s household. This morning he didn’t think there’d be a chance of meeting the
toothy little terrors, but he’d been wrong. Knowing how acute their senses were, they probably recognised the sound of his car engine, before they’d even got a whiff of him.

  Carmichael came out with two glasses of orange-coloured liquid, clinking with ice, and drank his off, pausing only to say, ‘Sorry, sir. Kerry didn’t think. She sends her apologies, and she’s put them back outside.’

  II

  As Falconer drove, Carmichael described the most efficient route round the addresses he had been given the night before.

  ‘We’ll start at Tile Cottage, right next door to Wheel Cottage. That’s Geraldine Warwick – plays the piccolo and percussion.’

  ‘At the same time?’ asked Falconer sarcastically. ‘I should like to see that.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, sir. It’s out of character, and it’s a bad example to me,’ commented Carmichael, with a smile in the driver’s direction.

  ‘Sense of humour coming along fine, then, Carmichael?’

  ‘Just fine and dandy, sir. Next we go to 3 Columbine Cottages – Gayle Potten who plays the flute – that’s almost opposite. Then we go into Groat Lane, to 2 Honeysuckle Terrace for Harold Grimes – him that plays the trumpet. Then we back up a bit, and go up Dark Lane to The Old Manor, for that Palfreyman woman who plays the double bass. I think she must’ve chosen the instrument to go with her size, sir, don’t you?’

  ‘That’s very impertinent, sergeant. But, nevertheless, I agree wholeheartedly with you. Go on.’

  ‘No, I’ve missed one. The first call in Dark Lane is at The Old Orchard – Fern Bailey on viola. Then we turn into the High Street for The Old Bake House, for Lester Westlake and his saxophone.’

  ‘That sounds like lunchtime to me. What does that leave us for the afternoon?’

  ‘Dunspendin on Mill Race, for Mr Edmund Alexander – Les Dawson, pianist, from what I picked up last night – then The Hurst, Chopping Knife Lane for Cameron McKnight – ex-first violin. That was a little diversion, so we go back down the High Street next, for the vicar at The Parsonage, then back to Stoney Cross road for Gwendolyn Radcliffe at the Limes – ex-second violin. Then next door to Thistle Cottage, for Wendy Burnett, the oboe player, and then finally, down Beggar Bush Lane, to The Grange again.’