Strict and Peculiar (The Falconer Files Book 7) Read online

  It was still a toss-up in his mind whether this murder was down to this ‘cult thingy’ that had grown at the college, or whether it was a purely village affair. He couldn’t make up his mind which he favoured after the events of earlier that year, but thinking about that time certainly took his mind off his coming ordeal on his drive to Chris’s home.

  The front door was answered by a neighbour, who said she had been looking in on Mrs Roberts since Chris’s accident, and Falconer’s guilt returned with a discernible thump in the region of his solar plexus. This was all his fault, and now he had to accept what was coming to him.

  In the event, Mrs Roberts was very gracious about the matter, telling him that her son had understood that the job might prove dangerous at times, and that he had accepted this before joining the force. This, of course, only compounded Falconer’s guilt, but he pressed on regardless, and she gave him permission to search for the notebook or books in Chris’s room.

  Although a relatively untidy person in his appearance, it seemed that Chris was impeccable in his living space, and the bedroom was as immaculate as a monk’s cell, the two notebooks he had used sitting tidily on his bedside cabinet for easy access in the mornings. As he took them, Falconer wondered how long it would be before Chris woke up in his own bed again, and not just his own bed here, but his own bed where he actually lived, in Manchester.

  He left the house with relief, firstly because his meeting with Mrs Roberts was over, and secondly because he knew he would find useful information in Chris’s notes; and he couldn’t wait to get back to the station to read them.

  He spent the rest of the afternoon deciphering the hieroglyphics which the detective constable used for his notes, but did manage to glean confirmation of the names Chris had mentioned to him in one of his telephone reports, and he noted them down in his own notebook for interviews on the morrow: Elspeth Martin, Antonia Knightly, Amelia Harrison, Jamie Huntley, Aaron Trussler, and Daniel Burrows.

  He’d ring the college in the morning to check their timetables, and if it was not possible to find them at the college, which was likely, tomorrow being the weekend, to obtain either home addresses and telephone numbers. He’d had enough for today, however, and closed down his computer and left the building, becoming aware, as he walked to his car, of the bangs and whizzes of fireworks being let off in the early darkness of this time of year.

  Saturday 6th November

  Although Falconer was not officially down to work today, he had deemed it necessary to come in to follow up those names from DC Roberts’ notebooks. No sooner had he reached his office, though, when the phone rang for him, twice: firstly Quentin Raynor, lost, and then Quentin Raynor found.

  The first call was from Monica Raynor, to let him know that Quentin had still not shown up, and that he had not taken his car or his mobile phone with him when he went, and she wanted to officially report him as a missing person.

  The second was from Vernon Warlock, who was at his home in Steynham St Michael, and had a very distressed Dimity Pryor with him. She had arrived almost hysterical at his front door about half an hour ago, and it had taken him all of that time to get her to tell him a coherent story.

  ‘She’s just been to the chapel, Inspector Falconer,’ Vernon informed him. Vernon’s house, Vine Cottage, was only two doors from Dimity’s, and she had taken shelter with him, rather than go home on her own and report what she had discovered.

  ‘It seems that no one had officially been to the chapel for days and, as she has the key, she thought she’d just look in on it. They were expecting the site manager, Dave Hillman, and the electrician, Bob ‘Sparks’ Stillman to turn up sometime, the electrician to do a final check on the re-wiring, and the site manager to sign off the job as completed, but they hadn’t shown up, to her knowledge.

  ‘When she got there, she put on the lights, it being so dark at this time of year, and the chapel being so dimly provided with daylight, and what she saw nearly caused her to faint clean away.’

  ‘And what was it she saw, Mr Warlock?’ asked Falconer, getting a bit fed up with the extraneous names and details with which Mr Warlock was providing him – no doubt just for dramatic effect.

  ‘It was really very upsetting for someone of Dimity’s sheltered upbringing,’ he continued, but Falconer wasn’t going to suffer too much of this embroidery.

  ‘Just tell me what she found, sir, then I can get on with doing something about it,’ he chided him.

  ‘She found another body!’ snapped Vernon Warlock, cross at his dramatic speech being thus foreshortened.

  ‘Whose?’ snapped Falconer, now all ears.

  ‘Quentin Raynor’s,’ answered Warlock, pettishly. ‘She said it was on the stone altar table, like the other one, but this one didn’t have its head bashed in. It looked, in her opinion, as if Quentin had been badly beaten and died as a result – beaten to death, was how she described it to me.’

  ‘Did she lock the chapel door when she left?’ the inspector enquired anxiously.

  There was a muffled moment as Vernon covered the mouthpiece with his hand, then his voice sounded clearly on the line. ‘She said she did it automatically, before panicking completely and rushing round here.’ Sounds of disagreement with this last statement came faintly over the line, but Falconer wasn’t listening.

  ‘I’ll get there as soon as I can,’ he promised, cutting the caller short, but before he had a chance to ring Carmichael, the internal telephone tinkled, and Bob Bryant informed him that Superintendent ‘Jelly’ Chivers had come in that morning, and would like to see him immediately, in his office.

  As Carmichael wasn’t in, Falconer allowed himself a fairly loud ‘damn!’ before leaving his office for that of the superintendent. What had he done, now? He couldn’t think of anything for which he could be hauled over the coals, but if there had been the slightest hint that he had stepped out of line, Chivers would find out about it and give him a good going over for it. Just for a split-second, he knew how Roberts felt, and then dismissed this thought as unworthy, given the physical injuries that the DC had sustained.

  At his knock, a terse voice bade him enter. He opened the door, stepped into the lion’s den, and then was turned to stone. Sitting opposite Chivers was someone he had only had brief glimpses of the last time he had investigated a case in Steynham St Michael, and whom he had hoped to meet properly for some time.

  ‘Come in, do, man, and stop standing there like a rabbit caught in the headlights,’ Chivers barked at him, and Falconer was suddenly aware that he had effectively become a statue. His limbs felt like lead, as he walked across the floor to the super’s desk, his eyes glued to the figure seated opposite him.

  ‘May I introduce you to Dr Hortense Dubois,’ Chivers almost purred. It sounded like he appreciated the view as well. ‘Dr Dubois has worked with us before, and is gaining a reputation as a psychological profiler,’ Chivers explained.

  ‘Dr Dubois, may I introduce you to Detective Inspector Harry Falconer, one of my most promising officers,’ he concluded, and Dr Dubois rose to shake Falconer’s hand.

  He felt as if he were in a dream. Here, before him, stood the woman who had been the object of his desire for almost a year now, and he was actually shaking hands with her. She was tall: tall enough to look him in the eye, and he found the experience very unnerving. Her hair was plaited in near-black corn-rows, and her slim body was encased in a canary yellow wool suit, worn with a simple white silk blouse.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said, in a beautiful, slightly deep voice. ‘I believe we almost met once before, on a previous case,’ she stated, and he nodded dumbly, too thunder-struck to speak. ‘And please call me ‘Honey’. Everyone else does.’

  Her voice was that of an angel, and her clothes contrasted so beautifully with her dark, perfect skin that he felt he would faint with ecstasy just being in her company. Her eyes were like liquid plain chocolate, her teeth as white as pearls, and her skin, oh! her skin; it was like superbly carved eb
ony. He honestly didn’t believe that he’d ever seen someone so stunning.

  For a very brief moment, he thought guiltily of Serena, whom he had met the year before, and from whom he had inherited Ruby and Tar Baby, and then dismissed such thoughts from his mind as irrelevant, now, given what had happened. [4]

  So lost was he, in reverie, that it took Chivers’ rather grating voice to rouse him to the present. ‘Well, take a seat, man! I don’t know what’s wrong with you today, dithering at the door, and now standing in front of my desk, dithering again like an old woman.’

  Falconer sat abruptly in the empty chair next to Dr Dubois’, and tried to muster his wits. ‘Dr Dubois is going to be working closely with you, to try to identify the type of person we’re looking for in this case,’ Chivers informed him.

  He was in Heaven. He must have died and gone straight there. Was he really hearing the words that informed him that he was to be working closely with this vision of loveliness? With a shake of his head, he became instantly the professional that he was, announced that there had been another death in Steynham St Michael, and that he was just about to alert the necessary personnel to attend the scene.

  ‘Off you go then. I only wanted to introduce you to Dr Dubois. You’ll start working together on Monday morning,’ Chivers informed him, and Falconer crossed the fingers of both hands under the desk in hope that they would not have solved the case by then, and thus deprive him of the chance to work alongside this enchanting creature.

  When he returned to his own office he found that not only were his hands shaking, but his legs were as well. Boy, had she had an effect on him! Now, he must phone Carmichael, and get Bob Bryant to rustle up suitable personnel to kick this second death into action (which didn’t sound right in his mind, but he knew what he meant).

  When he got through to Carmichael and told him about the second body in the chapel, something in his voice must have betrayed his mood, because Carmichael asked him, in a slightly puzzled voice, ‘If Quentin Raynor is dead – murdered – why do you sound so happy, sir?’

  ‘It must be a bad line, Carmichael,’ he said, and hung up before he broke out into peals of joyous laughter. He’d keep himself in control long enough to meet Carmichael at the chapel as soon as he could get there, but for now, he was chuckling away like a madman at his unexpected good fortune.

  Falconer drove to Steynham St Michael like a recently-qualified driver, so disconcerted was he by what had happened just before he left the station, and Carmichael was already waiting for him when he arrived, as was Dr Christmas. The speedy arrival of the SOCO officers meant that they were already inside, doing what they needed to do to gather evidence and assess the scene.

  ‘What took you so long, sir?’ asked Carmichael, as Falconer locked his car.

  ‘Traffic,’ was the inspector’s completely untrue answer to this enquiry.

  Carmichael’s next question was very close to the bone, however. ‘You are happy! You said it was just the telephone line, but you’re grinning from ear to ear like the Cheshire Cat. Sir,’ Carmichael added at the last minute.

  ‘Nothing to do with this death,’ Falconer told him, trying to resume a more normal countenance. ‘When can we have a look? It’s freezing out here.’

  ‘They’re just coming out now, sir. They must be finished inside. Mind you, they’ve still got to go through the graveyard to see if there’s anything helpful to be found there.’

  ‘In this light?’

  ‘They’ve brought their own lighting, sir, just like at the theatre,’ Carmichael answered, and Falconer became aware that Philip Christmas was also standing there, and that he had totally ignored him in his excited state of mind.

  ‘Hello there, Doc. We meet again,’ he greeted him, holding out his hand to him.

  ‘A damned sight too often for my liking,’ replied the doctor, pulling a face. Although he loved his job, he had to grumble a little, just for verisimilitude. ‘It looks like we can go in now; see what all the fuss is about, eh?’ he concluded, practically rubbing his hands together at the thought of another body.

  Inside the chapel was, if possible, even colder than outside. The lights were switched on, but the place was far from bright. At the far end of it they could see something lying across the altar table, like an over-sized turkey that just wouldn’t fit on the carving dish, but there was also some fresh writing on the wall, for the first time in black paint, and in English: Be sure your sins will find you out.

  ‘Well, better get this over with,’ pronounced Christmas, with enough relish to garnish a whole turkey in itself. ‘See what we’ve got, eh?’

  Falconer and Carmichael followed him slowly down the aisle, not rushing to see what they had got like kids at Christmas. Falconer would be willing to bet that a young Philip Christmas would have had all the wrapping paper off his presents well before dawn on Christmas Day.

  ‘This is a merry amalgamation we’ve got here,’ announced Christmas. ‘A positive marriage of methods. Look!’ and he pointed to the face of the body – the thing that had been Quentin Raynor.

  The face was bloodied and beaten, and some of the limbs seemed to sit at unnatural angles. ‘Placed on the altar, just like the first victim,’ pronounced Christmas, ‘but beaten to death, as had obviously been the intention with your poor DC Roberts. And it looks like the same weapon was used for both beatings,’ he concluded, pointing to something very small embedded in the facial tissue.

  ‘If I’m not mistaken, that looks like a tiny spicule of wood, and I’d say it was something very like, or identical to, a baseball bat, that was used on him: nice and long for force, and thick enough to do some real damage.’

  ‘How do you sleep at night?’ Falconer asked the medical man, now completely sobered-up from his earlier intoxication, his mind back on the job at hand.

  ‘Like a baby, Harry,’ confirmed the doctor. ‘Like a baby.’

  ‘Do you mind if I go outside, sir?’ asked Carmichael, turning a whey-faced countenance on the inspector.

  ‘You go and get some fresh air, Carmichael. I’ll do everything that’s necessary in here.’

  With a sigh of relief, Carmichael turned and fled down the aisle, like a bride who has changed her mind at the very last minute, and hurtled into the cold clean air outside the chapel. He sometimes suffered from a weak stomach and he could feel a ‘chuck’ coming on just looking at that battered, bruised, and swollen countenance inside, but he didn’t have long to wait before Falconer joined him.

  ‘Come on,’ said the inspector. Let’s get ourselves off to interview poor Dimity Pryor.’

  They found Dimity still at Vernon’s cottage, sipping a hot toddy, which the cottage’s owner had suggested, both against the cold and for shock. She was sitting in an armchair beside the fire, a rug tucked across her lap and under her knees.

  ‘Good morning,’ Falconer greeted her. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had such a shock. Are you sure you’ll be all right?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll be fine, provided I can sit in here with Vernon for company for the next hour or so, then I’ll have to get myself off home. Housework doesn’t do itself, no matter what anyone says,’ she replied, giving him a weak smile. ‘It was that nice doctor that called in for the keys,’ she informed him, and Falconer was grateful that Philip had thought things through and worked out where Dimity was, for although he had told the doctor that Dimity had discovered the body, he had not told her that she was at Vernon’s cottage.

  ‘Can I get you anything, gentlemen?’ asked Vernon, at his most obsequious.

  ‘I don’t think so, Mr Warlock, but a bit of privacy would be appreciated while we interview Miss Pryor here. I know it’s a bit of a cheek, this being your home …’ He let the sentence trail off, and it worked.

  ‘That’s quite all right, Inspector. I’ve got plenty of chores to deal with in the kitchen, so I’ll leave you to get on with your job,’ he informed them. And, no doubt, one of those things was eavesdropping at a not-quite-closed door, thought
Falconer, as he rose to make sure that the adjoining door was tightly fastened.

  He turned back to find Carmichael squatting at Dimity’s side, looking at her compassionately. ‘Poor Miss Dimity,’ he murmured, and took her small, birdlike hands in his enormous paws; his way of offering comfort. How was it, thought Falconer, that Carmichael always reacted instinctively like this, yet such a thing would never have crossed his own mind? He didn’t know the answer to this one; he just knew that, for all his size, Carmichael had a calming effect on people who were upset or shocked.

  The inspector saw Dimity’s face break into a watery smile, as she gazed into Carmichael’s concerned face, and he took a seat opposite her, nodding his head to Carmichael to seat himself, ready to take notes, and fixed his gaze on the now-calmer woman sitting on the other side of the fireplace.

  ‘I know how ghastly this must be for you, Miss Pryor, but sadly you’re an old hand at this sort of thing now, and you know the procedure. I have to ask you about what happened earlier, and you need to give me as much detail as possible so that we can catch whoever it is who’s committing these terrible murders,’ he stated.

  ‘He was one of our own,’ she began, ‘One of the villagers. It’s like it’s happening all over again, Inspector Falconer, and I don’t think I could stand that: not after the last time.’

  ‘I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but a young detective constable has been beaten senseless too, and left at the side of the road on a freezing night to die.’

  He heard a sharp intake of breath at this information, and continued, ‘I believe that the attack on him was carried out by the same person who has left those bodies in your chapel, and we want this person put away where the public won’t be in danger any more. I’m sure you understand my sentiments.’