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  As it seemed she had divulged all that she knew about her neighbour, including the information that she had been having an affair with him, Falconer asked her if she would be good enough to ask her husband if he would come in to speak to them. Obligingly she left the room and did as she was bidden, moving up the stairs out of the way as her husband entered the living room looking apprehensive at what the two policemen would think of him as a cuckolded husband. It was the only thought that had brought a smile to her face that evening.

  As Falconer had expected, Peter Sage denied having been outside the house before the tragedy in the next-door garden, claiming, as his wife had said he would, to have been in the spare bedroom, interacting (for ‘playing’ would never have done as a description) with his model trains and landscape models and buildings. He had, according to his own story, been painting some new trees and shrubs, and could produce these, along with the little pots of green paint and the tiny brushes, should the inspector so wish.

  As this was an easy enough alibi to set up in advance, Falconer did not take him up on his offer. It wasn’t long before the two detectives found themselves outside on the pavement again, coming to a decision as to whether to back-track to number three, which had been missed out due to the upheaval caused by Carmichael’s dramatic arrival, or to go on to number five, then go back afterwards.

  The decision was made for them, as the tenant of number three, Patrick Flanagan, put his head out of the front door to ask if they were intending to call on him next. He had been keeping watch out of the front window since the incident with the disguised Carmichael, and had been fretting that he had been missed out.

  ‘We’ll be with you directly, sir. The route was rather disturbed by the arrival of my sergeant. I am Detective Inspector Falconer, and this is Detective Sergeant Carmichael. Please excuse his appearance, as he was celebrating Halloween with his children when he was called in for duty.’

  ‘Patrick Flanagan,’ said the man, holding out his hand to shake both of theirs. ‘And he’s not the only one who’s been doing that this evening,’ he added, nodding his head in the direction of a small group of witches and wizards who were making their way into the close, accompanied by what appeared to be somebody’s father. This adult, however, had not got into the spirit of the occasion by dressing up, as had Carmichael, and merely wore, boringly, jeans and a parka jacket.

  ‘He’s not playing the game,’ sounded Carmichael’s voice, lugubriously. ‘He can’t get any sweeties if he’s not in costume.’

  ‘Do come in,’ invited Flanagan, not wishing to get involved in a discussion about whether adults accompanying minors on such excursions should also wear fancy dress. He had no children of his own and, while quite happy to provide those of others with sweets, did not wish to get any more deeply involved with what he considered to be a sub-species of the human race.

  Although his place of birth was betrayed in his voice, the interior of his house was no different in decoration than any other average English house, and did not display large numbers of shillelaghs or shamrock-patterned carpet. It also betrayed the absence of any other occupant.

  Seeing them staring round, Flanagan explained without enquiry, ‘My wife’s away in Ireland for a month or two. I may look as old as the hills, but I still have a mother-in-law, and she’s not very well. That just leaves me here to my own devices, as I retired a couple of months ago, and I’m still trying to work out how best to occupy my time. Still, I expect it’ll all work itself out when the wife gets back. At least I’ll get a decent night’s sleep now, with him next door gone; not wishing to speak ill of the dead, but nevertheless stating the truth.’

  ‘What did your work used to be?’ asked Falconer, in genuine interest.

  ‘I was a baker for thirty years.’

  ‘No doubt you had to get up at what, to the rest of us, is the middle of the night.’

  ‘I used to have to get up before mi-laddo next door had finished playing his loud rock music,’ admitted Flanagan, with feeling.

  ‘Good God!’ exclaimed Falconer. ‘How on earth did you cope? Sleep deprivation is used as a method of torture!’

  ‘Any way I could: herbal remedies, ear-plugs, sleeping tablets from the doctor. I couldn’t resort to a drop of whisky because of having to get up so early, and then operate machinery,’ he explained. ‘As a last resort, every now and again, I used to stay at my sister-in-law’s for a few nights, just to feel human again.’

  ‘I don’t think I could stand a neighbour like that,’ interjected Carmichael.

  ‘Someone else obviously agreed with you,’ stated Falconer pointedly, his mind straying back to what had happened earlier that evening in the adjoining garden.

  Their final port of call in Chestnut Close was at number five, the home of Leslie Ingram. From what they could see in the dim illumination of the street lamps, it was a tidily kept property. Outside by the kerb was an immaculate and rather expensive motor car, only a couple of years old, and in complete contrast to the filthy, rusting heap that had been identified to them as that belonging to Larry Jordan.

  Ingram was quick to answer their summons at the door and had obviously been awaiting their arrival. After introducing himself, he bade them enter and take a seat in the sitting room. Without preamble, he stated, ‘Terrible business, this; terrible – but it couldn’t have happened to a more deserving victim, although I wouldn’t normally wish ill to anyone.’

  ‘So, you’re another neighbour who wasn’t a fan of Mr Jordan,’ stated Falconer drily.

  ‘The man was a boor,’ retorted Ingram. ‘Have you seen that disgusting heap out on the road? That’s the man’s car, and he actually drives – used to drive,’ he corrected the tense to take account of the man’s untimely but hardly regretted demise, ‘it on occasion. He had such a contrary character that he took great delight in parking it in a slightly different position every time he returned to the close.

  ‘The old crate has an oil leak, so you can imagine what that did to the appearance of the road surface, this close being laid in concrete in the sixties. He’s defaced the end of the road all the way round. Not only that, but the thing itself is an utter eyesore.

  ‘I, personally, have offered, not only to mend the oil leak, but to give it a thorough clean, both inside and out, just to improve the view from my front window. And what do I get for my public-spirited attitude? He threatened to punch out my lights and, the next morning, there were eggs smashed all over the bonnet of my car. It took me ages to wash off the mess and restore the shine.’

  ‘Mr Jordan really didn’t seem to go out of his way to make friends and influence people, did he?’ asked the inspector, with no expectation of an answer. ‘Was there anyone in this neighbourhood who had a good word to say about Mr Jordan?’ he enquired wryly.

  ‘Deborah Sage, two doors from his place, seems to have had a soft spot for him, much to her husband Pete’s disgust,’ the car fanatic commented, smiling slyly behind his hand.

  Feeling that this was punching rather below the belt, Falconer replied, ‘Whereas you merely fell out with him to the extent of him defacing your car and offering to punch you.’

  ‘That sounds much worse than it actually was,’ squawked Ingram in protest.

  ‘But his defacing of the road surface with motor oil infuriated you?’ This did hit home.

  ‘Do you realise that since that old heap’s leaked, I’ve had to buy kitty litter to soak up the spillage, when I don’t actually possess a cat?

  ‘Do you live alone, Mr Ingram?’

  ‘I do. Not that it’s any of your business, but my wife left me eighteen months ago: said she couldn’t stand life with what she described as a ‘petrol-head’ who cared more for his car than he did for his wife. And good riddance, too. Do you know, she used actually to smoke in the car? Moaned like hell when I asked her to open a window and hold the filthy cigarette outside, for put it out she would not. It was when she changed to smoking cheroots that I really put my foot down; and tha
t’s when she packed her bags and buggered off.’

  ‘What the hell are you doing, Carmichael?’ asked Falconer, as they sat in the front of his car, and his sergeant squirmed beside him. They had sought the privacy of the vehicle to mull over what they had learnt so far about the suspects in the case, such as they were.

  ‘Sherbet dab, sir,’ replied the sergeant, flourishing his little lollipop and holding up the little bag of white powder. ‘From trick-or-treating.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you actually helped yourself to sweeties too, when you went knocking on doors!’

  ‘Of course! I was dressed up, too. I’d also gone to the trouble of escorting the boys round the village. What’s wrong with me getting a few sweets as well?’

  Falconer merely shrugged, feeling speechless in the face of such deathless logic, and addressed himself to their murderous problem.

  ‘Let’s discuss who could have been responsible,’ he began, while Carmichael slurped away at his sherbet-coated lollipop. ‘If we look at the Westons at number one, Mrs W let the cat out of the bag about her husband being in the garden at the time of the murder. He didn’t like that, did he, and came up with a different story immediately, to throw us off the scent. And he’s got a vegetable patch at the end of his garden which I saw when I was examining the scene of crime, and it’s got pumpkins in it.’

  ‘I bet a lot of them grow veg, sir. It’s not a high income area,’ contributed Carmichael, beginning to sound like a nuisance. ‘And it is definitely a murder, is it, sir, and not just a suspicious death?’ asked the sergeant, playing Devil’s advocate, although he didn’t realise it.

  ‘I can’t see anyone committing suicide by pumpkin, can you, Carmichael? And I can imagine no circumstances in which what happened to Jordan could have occurred by accident,’ snapped the inspector, in indignation that such a thing should be suggested.

  ‘Just checking, sir.’

  ‘Well, don’t! To sum up, we’ve got a victim who was a drunken noise nuisance – a potential victim waiting to be murdered – who didn’t get on with his wife or his neighbours, and seemed to go out of his way to antagonise anyone with whom he came into contact. We’ve got one woman who found him a laugh and was having an affair with him, but that’s the limit of his fan club.

  ‘Her husband – Sage, that is – resented the fact that Jordan was sleeping with his wife, the guy at number one – that Weston chap – hated the fact that the man’s garden was a weed-infested disgrace that seeded his own immaculate patch throughout the year, the Irish bloke, Flanagan, went through hell with sleep loss for goodness knows how long because of the loud rock music. And finally we have the car nut, Ingram, who was actually threatened by the victim. According to their states of mind, they’ve all got a reason to want rid of him, even his own wife, whether or not we understand it as a suitable motive for murder.’

  ‘Would you like a liquorice wheel, sir?’ Carmichael had his own inimitable way of breaking a mood.

  In a metal-framed bed, in a side room in the Market Darley Hospital, a figure stirred, groaned and opened its eyes. A tongue emerged between its dry lips and attempted to moisten them, before it spoke in a croaky voice. ‘Can someone get Inspector Falconer urgently?’

  A nurse, just popping her head round the door to check on the patient, entered, and attempted to find out what was so pressing that only the said inspector could deal with it.

  Falconer had a little difficulty removing his mobile phone from his trouser pocket while sat in the driver’s seat, but the effort was worth it when Roberts had passed on the vital information with which he had regained consciousness.

  ‘I think we’ll just have a final word with Mr Masters, who was with Roberts when he was struck down, to find out if he can confirm what the DC has just told me, then we’ll make a little call,’ he pronounced, after relaying the contents of the short call to Carmichael. ‘Oh, and wipe your top lip. There’s sherbet on it, and it looks like you’ve been helping yourself to the Class As.’

  As they exited the vehicle and headed for the alleyway leading to the rear of the properties, and also to 86 Oak Drive, where Mr Masters could be found, the DS removed a large rumpled handkerchief from the trouser pocket below his all-enveloping fancy dress costume, and scrubbed at his top lip in an embarrassed manner.

  On their way to Oak Drive they were waylaid by a flustered Patrick Flanagan, desperate to unburden himself of some information that it had slipped his mind to pass on earlier, in his anxiety about being missed out of the run of questioning.

  ‘I witnessed something earlier on this evening that I think might have some bearing on the outcome of your investigations,’ he panted, losing his breath from the speed with which he had hurried after the two figures.

  ‘It’s about yon fella that got killed, and that gardening fanatic at number one,’ he continued, his face red, not only from exertion, but with excitement, too. Well, he’s got a daughter – young thing and quite pretty.’

  ‘Go on,’ urged Falconer, fully expecting this incident to come to nothing.

  ‘Well, she went out this evening, all dolled up and probably heading for some party or other, and yer man Jordan waylaid her at the end of the garden path and acted like a full-blown pervert.’

  ‘What did he do, Mr Flanagan?’ Falconer’s interest had been piqued.

  ‘He only put his hands on her buttocks and gave them a good squeeze. And he put his tongue out and ran it round his lips in the most lascivious manner. The girl’s an innocent abroad, and I know that during the summer he used to go out in his jungle and ogle her, when she went out in her bikini to sunbathe.’

  ‘How very interesting, Mr Flanagan. We shall certainly bear this new information in mind as we continue with our investigations.’

  Unfortunately for them, John Masters had not noticed anyone near the shed when the explosion occurred, as he had been standing further away than DC Roberts, who had been walking in the direction of the wooden structure in order to investigate the choking noises that had been emanating from it. With this unhelpful information, Falconer’s mobile phone rang again, and he answered it to find Dr Christmas on the other end of the line.

  ‘Hello, Philip,’ he greeted the FME. ‘You’re surely not working at this time of night? … You’re that bored? … Well, whatever floats your boat … You’ve found what? … Oh, you wonderful man!’ Something else went ‘click’ in Falconer’s head, and he saw again, in his mind’s eye, something he had actually looked upon, earlier in the evening. ‘I think you just may have solved this case for me. I’ll be in touch.’

  Ending the call and replacing the phone back in his pocket, he turned to Carmichael. ‘Come along, Sergeant. We’ve got an arrest to make,’ he announced dramatically and enigmatically, and set off once again for Chestnut Close – rear entrances, this time – leaving John Masters standing, abandoned once more by the forces of law and order.

  Having knocked on the opaque glass of the back door of number four, it was Deborah Sage who opened it to them, and bade them enter. She was still attired in dressing gown and slippers, a towel still wrapped round her head. Her large handbag was open on the work surface, and she made haste to close its gaping jaws as the two detectives entered the house for the second time.

  ‘Mrs Sage,’ began Falconer. ‘The night has become unseasonably cold, and I believe I just noticed a silver flask in your handbag. I don’t suppose you’d care to offer me a little nip to warm my poor, cold bones?’

  Deborah Sage’s face drained of colour, and she clutched the large handbag to her chest possessively, her lips moving, but no sound emerging from her mouth.

  ‘Come on, don’t be mean,’ he exhorted her, holding out a hand and moving closer to her. ‘You saw what he did, didn’t you?’ he asked, apparently apropos of nothing, causing Carmichael to stare at him in incomprehension. Like a mesmerised rabbit, she slowly extended a hand clutching the bag, in offering, her eyes now closed, and her head now nodding up and down in agreement.

>   Falconer took the bag when it came within reach and extracted the flask from its depths. He opened it, gave an almighty sniff, which produced a smile of satisfaction as the brandy fumes hit his nostrils, closed the receptacle again, and placed the flask carefully in an evidence bag, which he handed to Carmichael for safe-keeping.

  ‘Deborah Sage, I am arresting you for the murder of Lawrence Jordan …’

  Back at the station, Carmichael could not contain his unquenched curiosity. ‘How did you know it was her, sir?’ he asked, eager for enlightenment. ‘She was the only one who didn’t hate him.’

  ‘Correct, Carmichael, so she was very hurt when she saw her lover feeling up someone who was little more than a child, but who, nevertheless, represented a threat to her relationship with the deceased. Someone very young, very pretty, very innocent, and very available, given her lack of disapproval of what Jordan had just done to her.’

  ‘But, how did you work it out?’

  ‘I had a little help. I received two phone calls. One was from Roberts, who had regained consciousness and remembered that just before he was struck on the head by a flying piece of wood, he had seen the figure of a woman near the shed – I told you about that one – and a second call from Doc Christmas, who, being easily bored, had started the post-mortem early, and discovered the presence, not just of the whisky the victim was drinking in his shed, but also of brandy and of the drug that makes up a commonly prescribed brand of sleeping tablets.

  ‘That told me that he was drugged before he was encased in that pumpkin, which had been purloined from Dave Weston’s garden earlier that evening. Mrs Sage would have fed him some of the brandy and just hung round until the drug took effect, and he fell asleep. We can prove where the pumpkin came from tomorrow by identifying the stalk from which it was cut, in Weston’s vegetable patch.

  ‘And she could easily have made up some sort of basic incendiary device, which was supposed to cover her tracks, using the fuel from her husband’s lawn mower, a scrap of rag or cleaning cloth, and an empty glass bottle.