Pascal Passion (The Falconer Files Book 4) Page 12

  As they entered a large through-lounge, she announced them with a bad grace, and flung herself into an armchair by the door into the hall, with a mutinous expression on her face.

  ‘Did you get a good ear-wig?’ she asked with a glower.

  ‘Stevie! Don’t be so rude. They’re only doing their job,’ snapped the woman who introduced herself as Patsy Baldwin. ‘We’re all at sixes and sevens at the moment, with Mrs Finch-Matthews being murdered like that.’

  ‘No, we’re not, Mum. You, Dad, and Gran are. I’m not of the same mind as you three.’

  ‘Is this to do with the loss of your leg?’ Falconer took a flyer, thinking that the gods love a chancer, and this time it paid off. He didn’t get ripped to ribbons for his impertinence. Neither did he get his face chewed off, nor get ejected with a boot up his backside. The presence of the police seemed to have introduced a calming element, and given them all breathing space. Even Stevie’s face was losing its high colour as she stared at him, in disbelief at his directness and sheer brass neck.

  There was a silent hiatus, as the faces of the three older Baldwins became blank, the silence finally broken by Stevie, who had seemed the most agitated. ‘They’re all glad that Mrs Finch-Matthews is dead. They say it’s a judgement because of what happened to me, but that a load of bollocks – please excuse my French.

  ‘What happened to me was an accident, pure and simple, and nothing whatsoever to do with Mrs Finch-Matthews’ decision to allow skipping ropes to be brought into school. What happened could just as easily have happened when I was at a friend’s house, or in the garden here.

  ‘It was a series of bad luck and coincidences, and the chances of them all happening to the same person were probably one in a million. If I can accept it, why shouldn’t they?’ she asked the two detectives, but without the expectation of an answer.

  ‘And they still can’t accept that I got pregnant, and simply didn’t want to marry the father. He would have been totally unsuitable. We’d have been divorced within the first two years, and that would have been much more harmful to Spike than being brought up here, with three generations of his family on hand to help with his upbringing.’

  Falconer signalled with his eyebrows to Carmichael to keep schtum. This stuff was a gold mine, and had come from completely out of the blue.

  ‘But we all love little Spike,’ protested Mrs Baldwin, her husband and his mother nodding their heads in silent agreement.

  ‘Sure you do – NOW!’ Stevie shouted this last word, making her mother and grandmother jump. ‘But you were pretty hateful about his very existence when I was pregnant, and when he was first born, weren’t you?’

  ‘We didn’t know him then, Stevie. Give us a break. We’re all doing our best here, and it wasn’t our fault that that woman got herself murdered, now was it?’ Frank Baldwin had finally entered the conversation, and there was a clear note in his voice that begged for mercy from his only daughter. ‘We’ve only ever done what we thought was best for you. You know that.’

  ‘Maybe you have, but you’ve never really asked me what I think is best for me, have you? You’re all so puffed up with hatred, that it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if one of you spiked Audrey in the eye, just for the sake of what you considered ‘unfinished business’.’

  ‘That’s a horrible thing to say, Stevie, and you just take that back!’ Frank had raised his voice, and his face was suffusing with colour again.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dad. I just get so het up about the whole thing. What happened, happened, and none of us can do anything about it. Now, the woman you hold responsible has gone too, so can we just forget about the whole thing, and try to get on with our lives with a bit of love and harmony again.

  ‘I know it’s always been simmering somewhere in the background, but, on the surface, we’d all come to terms with it, and until Thursday last life was pretty good. Can we get back to that, please?’ she begged. ‘I mean, what happened to me wasn’t as bad, or as final, as what happened to that little girl a few years before I started school, was it? What was her name? I can’t remember.’

  ‘Let me think a minute,’ said Patsy. ‘It was a long time ago … Got it! Carole Nicholson.’

  ‘And what happened to her?’ asked Falconer. ‘No one else has mentioned anything about this.’

  ‘I doubt they would,’ said Elsie, who had been very quiet until then. ‘It must be thirty years ago now. A lot of people weren’t here all that time ago, and those that were have probably erased it from their minds. They remember Stevie’s accident because she’s still here to remind them, but poor little Carole Nicholson is as dead as a doornail, and if you ask me, that was all that silly woman’s fault, too. I mean, that Audrey’s own husband had even died in a car accident, you’d think she’d have been more careful of the kiddies.’

  ‘Mum!’ interrupted Mrs Baldwin junior. ‘Let me tell it. You put such a negative spin on it because you’ve got an axe to grind.’ Turning to the two detectives, she commenced her tale.

  ‘It was when Stevie was just a baby. There was a girl at the school called Carole Nicholson – very pretty little lass she was. Anyway, one day – November, I think, because it was all because of the fog. It seems that Carole had fallen over in the playground – heaven knows why they didn’t keep them indoors in that kind of weather – and she tried to tell one of the grown-ups, but they wouldn’t listen. They were too busy trying to get the children back indoors after the bell had been rung, so little Carole decides to go off home and tell her mum that she’d fallen and hurt herself.’

  Patsy Baldwin paused here, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘She’d only got as far as the main road when a car ran right into her. They hadn’t even noticed she was missing at the school; it was all so quick. They got an ambulance, of course, and fetched her mother, but she died the next day. The only thing her mum could do for her was to kiss her poor knee better, and then she was gone. And she was an only child.’ Here, she gave a heart-felt sigh. ‘Stevie’s right. At least we’ve still got her. Things could be a lot worse, couldn’t they?’ She turned to stare at her family as she asked this.

  With an embarrassed murmur of assent from the other three members of the family, the previous mood of resentment seemed to be broken, and they became aware again that they were not alone. Falconer was, at last, able to begin his questioning, although he was not destined to learn any more than he already had.

  As he was leaving, he heard Stevie say to her mother and grandmother, ‘I didn’t know you’d made stuff for the bake sale. You should’ve said something. When Ruth Lockwood handed me two plates and said thanks for the flapjacks and jam tarts, I stood there like an idiot, wondering what on earth she was talking about.’

  Making a mental note of this snippet of seemingly irrelevant information, he decided that his unintentional eavesdropping, and the ensuing emotional scrimmage as they had arrived, had been more than enough to be going on with. It had been like manna from heaven, and he’d learnt more from that than he would have done from hours and hours of patient questioning.

  It would appear that quite a few people had had quite sizeable bones to pick with Audrey Finch-Matthews, including a few he hadn’t yet had the chance to speak to. This was only round one, and he was being showered with players in that age-old game, ‘Grass Thy Neighbour’.

  III

  Paddock View was a fine-looking property that occupied the corner of Four Stiles and Leaze Hollow. It was the home of India and Hartley Bywaters-Flemyng and their son Sholto. The family also owned the large paddock, of which the house had a fine view, the stables built thereon, and the row of six holiday cottages, and obviously did very well for themselves.

  India opened the door to them, listened to their polite introductions, ushered them into a huge room, richly furnished and appointed, and introduced them to her husband Hartley, who shook hands and smiled, but did not speak. Their son had been interrupted in a game of some sort with his father, and suddenly flung a ball of some sort
towards Hartley.

  Unfortunately, Carmichael had chosen that very moment to cross the room to a chair, at a gesture from Mummy, and was caught somewhere just south of his middle, sinking to the floor with a cry of, ‘He got me right in the scrofulas!’

  Both Falconer and India Bywaters-Flemyng rushed to his aid. He was curled up on the floor in a foetal position, his hands doing temporary duty as a makeshift cricket box, and he moaned loudly and piteously. ‘He got me right in the tentacles, right on me Little Davey! If I can’t have kids, I’m gonna sue for loss of fertilisation!’

  ‘Calm down, Carmichael. It was an accident – nobody’s fault,’ then to India, ‘Have you got anything cold? A packet of frozen peas would do; just something to dull the pain and prevent too much swelling.’ India’s face collapsed into a mask of disgust as she thought of eating peas that, in their packet, had cradled Carmichael’s ‘gentleman’s parts’, and wondered if she would be considered eccentric if she returned them to the freezer using tongs, but the victim assured her that that wasn’t necessary, and a little sit down was all he needed.

  They helped him up and guided him to the chair which had been his original destination, a John Wayne missing his horse, and he sat there, cradled forward over his lap, a little green around the gills, and asked for a glass of water. As he waited for this to be fetched he keened miserably to himself, ‘I’m never gonna be a dad now. What’s Kerry gonna say?’

  ‘She’ll probably kiss them better for you when you get home. Now, show a bit of backbone and let’s get on with what we came here to do,’ Falconer hissed, already weary of the drama. For this, he received a glare and a small moan of self-pity, but Carmichael got the message, drank his water, and took out his notebook, still crouched protectively over the root of his male pride.

  ‘I’m trying to find out if anyone saw a stranger in the vicinity of the school on Thursday morning, or saw someone they didn’t expect to see there?’ Falconer’s question was posed to both of them, but it was India that answered.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there, Inspector. Everything was just as normal. I took Sholto to school, then came back here to check out the bookings for this week and the next with Hartley, then he went off to the cottages to make sure that the empty one was ready for the next visitors.’

  ‘And did you see anyone or anything unusual, either on the way there or back, or while you were there?’ This question was addressed specifically to Hartley.

  It was India, however, who answered for him. ‘I’m sure he would have mentioned it to me, if that were so.’

  ‘I was asking your husband, Mrs Bywaters-Flemyng, and I’d be grateful if he was the one who answered me.’ Falconer had been caught like this before.

  Hartley’s face went completely blank, and his colour began to rise. He looked like a boiler building up pressure, and there was a look of despair in his eyes. For a moment Falconer got his hopes up. Here was a man hiding something, if ever he’d seen one. What was about to be confessed? And then the man spoke. ‘Aye-aye-aye-aye-aye …’ he began, and it seemed almost an impossibility that he wouldn’t follow this up with ‘like you ve-ry much’.

  ‘I d-d-d-didn’t s-s-see any-w-w-w-w-one out of the aw-aw-aw-ordinary,’ he informed them, his face now a deep crimson colour with embarrassment. He hated, more than anything else in the world, having to talk to strangers, because it made his problem so much worse.

  ‘Well, thank you very much, Inspector. I suppose you realise that he’s not going to be able to speak properly, even to me, for the rest of the day?’

  ‘My apologies, Mrs Bywaters-Flemyng – and to you Mr Bywaters-Flemyng, but I’m sure you’ll understand that I have to ask.’

  ‘And before you make matters even worse, it was that bitch at the school that caused his speech impediment. He was perfectly all right before he went there, but he was cripplingly shy.’ Hartley nodded in confirmation of this information, and his wife continued with her explanation, which she felt was necessary in the circumstances.

  ‘She saw it as helping him to gain confidence in front of others, and she used to make him read out loud to everyone. Even before he could read, she’d have him up to the front of the class on a Monday morning, when she used to choose a few of the children to tell the class what they’d done at the weekend.’

  ‘B-b-b-b …’ Hartley spluttered.

  ‘It’s all right, Hartley; I know what you’re trying to say. That vicious old cow got to enjoy seeing him fight it: she could see the dread in his eyes, and she enjoyed the feeling of power it gave her. And Hartley is the end result of her cruelty. I wonder if she ever looked on her work, and found that it was good?’ She was steaming mad when she finished the explanation, and Sholto came over to her and put his arms around her legs.

  ‘Are you OK, Mummy? Don’t get mad, please. It makes me feel all funny in my tummy, when you get mad.’

  ‘I’m not mad, darling. I’ve just been a little bit cross, and now I’m better, ’kay?’

  ‘’Kay,’ he agreed, and went over to give his father’s legs a hug too, so that he wouldn’t feel left out.

  Falconer volunteered to fetch the car for his wounded sergeant, and left Carmichael still sitting hunched forward, a look of pained indignation on his face as he mulled over the odds of permanent damage having been done.

  On the short drive to the Borrowdales’ residence in Cat Hanger Lane, Carmichael was still sitting in an unnatural position, when he turned to Falconer, who was driving, to spare his sergeant the pain of operating the pedals, and asked, ‘You said earlier that you were going to find somewhere we could use as an incident room. Whatever happened to that idea?’ He was obviously still feeling ropey, because he forgot to address Falconer as ‘sir’, something he was usually most meticulous about.

  ‘Cuts, Carmichael; cuts, and the lack of any available space suitable for that purpose. Normally we would have asked to use the school, as all the children are on holiday, but that’s not been possible as they’ve had to cancel the decorators and declare it a crime scene. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there doesn’t seem to be anyplace in the village for public gatherings other than the church. Even the bake sale had to be held in The Rectory, and we can hardly ask if we can move our activities there.

  ‘Not only would it be unprofessional, but it would leave all our notes and information open to public view when we weren’t there. There’s no way we could trust a locked door to stay locked, when unattended, in a private dwelling. There’s simply no money in the budget for a Portakabin, so we’re stuck with the drive every day. I’m sure if we could summon up a mass murderer, the money would suddenly become available; but for one little death – no chance. And by the way, Carmichael, the words are scrotum and testicles, should you ever need to use them again. And I don’t think I want to hear another word, for the rest of my life, about your “Little Davey”!’

  IV

  They parked the car outside Creepers, not wanting to give any advance warning of their presence to Seth Borrowdale next door at The Vines, in case he decided to be unexpectedly unavailable, by legging it out of the back door and over the hedge into Back Lane. Fortunately, the drive was not gravel, as they had noticed it was at the holiday cottages, but was tarmacked like the Baldwins’, and they were able to approach a front door, once more, without any indication of their approach to anyone inside.

  In fact, it was Seth Borrowdale himself, who answered the door, as he’d been expecting Cameron MacPherson, from whom he had requested the use of an electric drill, not possessing one himself, and Martha having acquired a small shelf that she wanted fixed to the kitchen wall to hold her recipe books. Seth saw no point in buying either DIY or gardening tools, when he lived next door to a perfectly well-equipped neighbour, who was always willing to lend him things. Presuming on the kindness of others was just one tiny part of his laissez faire attitude to life.

  His wife came bustling out of the kitchen drying her hands on a tea cloth when she heard v
oices, and wriggled her way past her husband to take charge of whatever was going on. When Falconer asked if they could speak to them individually, she made it clear that she knew all about her husband’s past, and insisted that the interview be a joint one.

  This was not at all what Falconer had planned, but he let it pass, and they followed her into a living room furnished, surprisingly, with antique furniture, the only seats available being upright and horse-hair stuffed, and not at all comfortable. Presumably Borrowdale had a den somewhere with a more accommodating chair, and his wife, maybe a recliner or something of that sort, in another room. Neither of them looked as if they would enjoy sitting in there in the evenings, and in fact, there was no sign of a television set.

  Martha noticed them looking round and, surmising their thoughts, promptly provided them with an explanation. ‘This is for ‘best’,’ she explained. We’ve got a kitchen diner, so we keep the middle room for lounging about in. It doesn’t matter if Lorcan makes a mess in there with his toys, and the cats can sleep where they please, without Seth yelling at them to get off this, or get off that, and asking them if they knew how much so and so was worth.’

  Her husband cast her a glare as he heard this, but made no comment himself. In fact, he looked rather like a ‘no comment’ man for life in general, and he sat perched on a particularly stern sofa, waiting for someone other than himself to start the conversational ball rolling.

  Falconer took the cue, and asked Martha the now tedious questions about whether she had seen anything or anyone unusual on the last day of term, and got the usual reply. He could have just photocopied one statement and given it to all the people to whom they had spoken to sign.

  Fortunately for him, the smell of cake beginning to burn wafted in through the door, and Martha left the room in rather a hurry. Here was his opportunity. ‘I don’t know what you’re up to, Seth Borrowdale, but I do know you’re up to something, and I’m going to find out what it is, and charge you with it. That aside, what do you know about the murder at the school? We’ve been reliably informed that you hated Mrs Finch-Matthews, and have done since you were taught by her. Did she find out something about what you’re up to and threaten to expose you?’