Christmas Mourning (The Falconer Files Book 8) Read online

  The boys tripped back downstairs, but so involved had he become in watching the pups that Kerry beat him to the bathroom, and he went disconsolately into the kitchen to see if he could give Carmichael a hand preparing breakfast. He would get a shower this morning. Thank God that the Carmichaels had one that was run on bottled gas and didn’t rely on a tank of heated water. Otherwise, by the end of his imprisonment at chez Carmichael they’d all reek to high heaven. Sending up a silent prayer that the people they were going to interview today were equally blessed with this system, he put toast under the grill and watched it intently.

  Carmichael meanwhile, had gone outside to give the chickens some unfrozen water and feed them, and returned to make the scrambled eggs, huffing and puffing with cold. ‘Poor little things,’ he remarked. ‘I don’t know how they stand it out there in that shed, but they seem perfectly happy, and it felt quite warm in there.’ But Falconer wasn’t listening. He’d just heard Kerry coming out of the bathroom, and he was already halfway up the stairs before Carmichael noticed that he was talking to thin air.

  When breakfast was cleared away, Falconer returned to the table to work out their schedule for the day while Carmichael dealt with the washing-up. Kerry was exhausted from all the disruption and extra cooking the day before, and had slumped into an armchair, looking as if she could sleep for a fortnight, and had only made one comment with animation since she had got up. She had declared that she had names for the puppies, and that they were to be called Little Dream, Fantasy, and Cloud. That way, it didn’t matter whether they turned out to be boys or girls.

  As she dozed and Carmichael clattered dishes around in the kitchen, Falconer looked at all the appointments he intended them to make that day with a jaundiced eye, and felt a deep longing for the services of PCs Merv Green and ‘Twinkle’ Starr – and even work-shy, lazy PC Proudfoot. Never had he appreciated all the foot-slogging they did on their door-to-door enquiries for him, and he wished mightily that they could be transported here to help out. They were going to be rushed off their feet, but there was no point in making any bones about it. It had to be done, no matter how long it took.

  When Carmichael appeared at the kitchen door with a cloth across one shoulder, to see if there was any more washing-up, he asked him, ‘Where do the old man and his nephew live? That old chap who turned up in his Father Christmas costume?’

  ‘You mean John and old Albert Carpenter,’ replied Carmichael. ‘They live at the other end of this terrace, in Woodbine Cottage.’

  Falconer returned to his list, and when Carmichael finally came in from the kitchen he indicated for him to join him at the table. ‘I’ve planned that we go down to those new houses where Jeffries lived and have a word with the three stooges first, then I thought we’d better check out that place you told me about, that’s taken over what was the vicarage.’

  ‘That’s Dr Griddle’s lot. It’s called Blue Sky now. I must admit, I haven’t seen any of the residents out and about for some time, but I think I got a glimpse of Hector Griddle at the back of the church at Midnight Mass.’

  ‘Right: we definitely need to check that lot out then. What did you say the place was?’

  ‘It’s a sort of halfway house for people who’ve been coming off drink and drugs. It’s not been open a year yet, and there was some trouble when it first opened. Some of the patients there seemed to think they could sneak off to the pub without anyone noticing, but Dr Griddle soon sorted that out. He gave George Covington snapshots of everyone who was in residence so that he could eject any of them trying to sneak a crafty drink. They soon caught on that there was no use in even making the attempt, because if they were caught, they lost privileges.’

  ‘Well, it’s a damned nuisance having it on our doorstep when we’re cut off like this, and with a double murder on our hands. If there’s any likelihood that it was one of them, we’re going to run into a mountain of bureaucracy just to get a peek at their records.’

  ‘Where to after that, sir?’ asked Carmichael, not so much concerned with as yet un-encountered bureaucracy as to where else they might be headed.

  ‘I thought that might be about lunchtime, then I thought we could look at the upper village; start off with the pub – we really do have to do something about that body, and we can talk to the Covingtons at the same time – then call in on Rosemary Wilson, up and across to Woodbine Cottage, then we can call in on the Stupples and Henry Pistorius in The Old School House.’

  ‘What about the Warren-Brownes?’ asked Carmichael.

  ‘I thought we might leave them for today, what with Mrs Warren-Browne having been in such a state yesterday. I think we ought to give her a day to recover before we call round again.’

  ‘That’s very considerate of you. Thank you, sir, but maybe we’ll decide nearer to the time. I’m sure Kerry’ll want us to call in, even if we haven’t told her what we found yesterday. Right, let’s make like chickens again and get on out there. There’s only a bit of digging to do to join us up to where the farmer went through.’

  Looking with loathing at the shovels that stood ready by the front door, Falconer gave a deep sigh of resignation, started to pull on his coat which was barely dry from the night before, and thought, here we go again!

  Although the fire had only just got going, the cold air outside hit them with an icy blast which produced a gasp of shock from them both. Today wasn’t going to be an easy day, Falconer thought, as they started to move the snow that had accumulated during the previous night. Although the front path was short, with muscles already aching from the unexpected exercise of the previous day, it seemed a lot longer than it actually was.

  The sky was a clear bright blue, and the sun was creeping up over the horizon so there was no need for a torch, although both men now had one about their person as it was highly unlikely that they would finish their visits before dusk.

  The snow-plough-scraped ground was slippery under their feet, and they walked warily down to the end of the village green before crossing the road to the first homes on their list. As they approached Alice Diggory’s house at Hillview, Falconer noticed the absence of lamplight from Michaelmas Cottage where Digby Jeffries had lived, and determined that one of the first things he would do when they were reunited with the rest of the world was to trace the man’s next of kin. They had to be informed, and without too much delay. It would be a disaster if the media somehow got hold of the story and they learnt about it that way.

  The thought of gifts waiting pointlessly under a tree that would never light up the room again with its coloured lights sent a wave of sadness through him. No matter what the man had done, and they hadn’t proved anything yet, he was still loved or cared for by somebody, and those somebodies had carefully chosen, paid for, wrapped, and delivered presents for him, which he would never have the pleasure of opening now: would never see, use, or enjoy.

  At Hillview, Alice Diggory invited them in and informed them that Cedric Malting and Robin De’ath were visiting as she had a mobile gas fire, and neither of them had such a facility. They were keeping warm together, she explained, and keeping each other company at the same time. It made sense, as there were no telephones, no mobiles, and no televisions to entertain them. They might as well be together, as spread across three separate households, two of them bitterly cold. Quite right! Thought Falconer, and it saved them two more visits too, with exactly the same questions as he would ask on this one. That should save some time.

  They found the two men in armchairs, huddled round the mobile gas heater, their hands held out towards it for warmth. When Alice joined them she invited the new arrivals to sit down on the sofa, apologising that she could not offer them any tea or coffee because she only had an electric kettle. Apart from yesterday’s lunch, the three of them were sustaining themselves with sandwiches made from the sliced cold turkey that Paula Covington had shared out before they left the pub the day before.

  ‘I understand that the pub will be opening for hot drinks and fo
od later, and Mrs Covington said she’d call round to The Rookery to see if she could persuade the Rollasons to open up their tea shop, too. Even if it’s only a drink, people need something hot inside them, don’t you think?’

  Both men nodded in agreement and took a seat on the sofa. Fortunately it was a three-seater, for Alice had to squeeze on to it too to be near enough the fire to keep warm. ‘We haven’t resorted to sleeping together yet, but it might be on the cards if there’s no break in this weather,’ said Robin De’ath with a teasing tone in his voice.

  ‘Robin!’ exclaimed Cedric Malting, shocked to his conservative roots, and Alice Diggory’s face turned an unlovely red with embarrassment. ‘That’s quite enough of that, Robin, dear,’ she told him. ‘Any more of that and I shall have to send you home.’ This was a threat that he had to take seriously, and he subsided back into his chair, any signs of amusement wiped away by the thought of spending the rest of the day with no real source of heat.

  Carmichael, perched on the end of the sofa, got out his notebook and tried his best to appear invisible, while Falconer started the questioning. ‘I’d like you to tell me everything you know about the late Mr Jeffries, and don’t hold back anything. You can’t do him any harm now, and we do need to find his killer. No matter how much he’s got under your skins, you wouldn’t want to deny him justice, I’m sure.’

  ‘He was a terror for finding somebody’s weak spot and played on it mercilessly,’ offered Robin De’ath.

  ‘Robin!’ interrupted Alice. ‘One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.’

  ‘But we should speak the truth, otherwise whoever did away with him will get away with it. I’m sure he had no illusions about himself, and he’d rather we helped the police with their enquiries honestly than hold back information and scupper the investigation.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking straight,’ Alice apologised, then handed the baton back to Robin, who was obviously bursting to have a good bitch about his late ‘friend’.

  ‘But we told you all this, yesterday,’ protested De’ath.

  ‘Then we’d like you to tell us again, please,’ requested Falconer. ‘You might have remembered something overnight that you forgot to share with us yesterday.’

  ‘Very well,’ he began with a sigh, ‘He used to like playing ‘king of the shit heap’ with us three,’ he said, with a bitchy gleam in his eye. ‘And Henry, too, of course. He saw himself as superior as he’d worked for the British Broadcasting Corporation; blessed be its name. We all knew that Henry did too – Pistorius,’ he elucidated pompously, for the benefit of the two policemen, ‘but Henry only worked in radio, which Digby considered a very inferior arm of the corporation. I must say, Henry gave a very good showing of taking it all in good part, but underneath, I could see that he was seething when it was his turn in the barrel. I presume you’ll be calling on him later.’

  When Falconer had confirmed this with a nod, he went on, ‘Me, he despised because I worked for Channel 6, which, as you might know, is a minority channel which doesn’t have much of a reputation at the moment. On the other hand, it doesn’t have the benefit of the licence payers’ money, which the BBC has, and I think it does a jolly good job on a fraction of the budget that other channels enjoy. Especially the BBC! Not difficult to produce lavish programmes when you’ve got all that public loot at your disposal, is it?’

  Cedric Malting now took up the conversational reins. ‘He was always teasing me about my plays because they’d only ever been performed by amateur groups, but it’s not easy to get established as a playwright. I thought I’d found someone to give me a bit of a step up when I met him, but he refused point-blank, saying that my work should shine through on its own merit if it was any good.

  ‘I explained to him that it wouldn’t have a chance to shine unless someone actually read it, but he wouldn’t yield to my pleas.’

  ‘Well, you know why that was, don’t you?’ interrupted Robin. ‘He made us think he was in a position of power when he had only been a lowly floor manager, and there we were, all either being jealous or looking up to him, when he was an absolute nothing.’

  ‘That’s a bit strong, isn’t it, Robin?’ asked Alice.

  ‘Absolutely not!’ he replied. ‘The police are here to hear the unvarnished truth, and that’s exactly what I’m telling them. What about the things he said to you? I don’t know how you didn’t give him a good slapping.’

  ‘I wouldn’t stoop so low as to behave like that Robin, but he said some very cruel things to me.’

  ‘Like what?’ asked Falconer, suddenly ceasing to sit statue-still and joining in.

  With a slight grimace as she gathered her thoughts, Alice began her tale of how she had suffered under the tongue of the late, and presumably unmissed, Digby Jeffries. ‘He kept on at me about how English teachers were responsible for the lack of correct grammar, spelling and pronunciation in English today. He used to suddenly start quizzing me on obscure points of the language, and if he flustered me with the unexpectedness of his questions, he informed me that I didn’t know my subject well enough to have been a teacher, and should have done something useful with my life, and maybe worked in a factory. A factory! I ask you!’

  Taking a moment or two to regain her calm, she continued, ‘He used to upset me a great deal, as I was always graded as an excellent teacher, and worked at schools which had marvellous reports from Ofsted. And when I pointed this out to him, along with the pronunciation and grammatical errors that most of those currently working for the BBC made, he used to push it back in my direction, saying it was because they’d been educated by low-grade teachers like me.’

  ‘It’s a wonder you ever socialised with him at all,’ interjected Falconer.

  ‘Who else do I know in this little village, except for old codgers like us and Henry?’ she retorted.

  ‘Why did you move here in the first place?’ asked Falconer, as the wind suddenly howled round the building, causing him to add, ‘I’d have thought these places would’ve had double glazing, given how recently they were built.’

  ‘Thrown up, you mean,’ said Robin De’ath, re-joining the conversation. ‘Every short cut taken and every corner cut with these places.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have come here at all, if it hadn’t been for the low price,’ Alice explained. ‘As you know, I never married, and you don’t get a lot of ‘bang for your bucks’ on a teacher’s pension. When I retired I had to sell my old place just to give me some capital to help me live comfortably. It’s not easy, not being part of a marriage or a partnership, and I should have hated to throw my lot in with a friend or relative and not have my independence any more.’

  Carmichael looked up in astonishment at her phraseology. She had kept up with her subject, even though she was retired now. ‘Bang for your bucks’! Way to go, lady!

  ‘And if you really know why we associated with him, Inspector, it was because we were all newcomers and close neighbours as well, and it would have looked a bit off if we’d excluded him from our little group when Henry Pistorius was part of it, and he lives all the way up Sheepwash Lane. We were just too well-brought up to ostracise him, and that’s the bottom line.’

  This explanation from Robin De’ath did indeed have the ring of truth about it, and Falconer decided that they’d learnt as much as they could from them about their relationships with the dead man, but there still remained the actual events of what happened on Christmas Eve: what they may have noticed that other people had missed or forborne to mention. And whether they had all got together to rid the village of a thoroughly unpleasant old man.

  ‘I wonder if you could tell me about what happened on the twenty-fourth: the Crib Service, Midnight Mass, and afterwards, in the pub.’

  ‘We didn’t go to the pub after the Crib Service like a lot of people did because the place would have been full of children,’ Alice explained, just so that they should understand they had only made one visit to The Fisherman’s Flies.

  ‘I couldn
’t believe the sheer brass neck of the man,’ said the quiet voice of Cedric Malting. ‘Just swanning in like that and taking over. I mean, I know he had permission from the locum vicar, but I thought he would have stepped down when the old man showed up. That’s when he should have disappeared out of the back of the vestry, and not challenged the belief of the younger children by them having to see two Father Christmases at the same time.’ This was an unusually bold speech for Cedric, and Falconer thought that maybe the man only found his voice through writing his plays.

  ‘Discretion never was the better part of valour in Digby’s opinion. He had the hide of a rhinoceros and the stubbornness of a mule. He’d not have yielded his role if a whole coach-load of red-suited gentlemen had turned up,’ agreed Robin.

  ‘Hear hear, Cedric!’ added Alice. ‘It was absolutely disgraceful! He should have been ashamed of himself, and then to turn up to Midnight Mass in the same costume. I would have died of embarrassment if I’d done something like that. He was completely insensitive to the feelings of others, and just liked showing off in my opinion.’

  ‘Did you notice his behaviour with the children to whom he handed out presents?’ asked Falconer, which elicited a delighted comment from Alice.

  ‘Lovely grammar, Inspector. There’s not much of it about these days, so well done. Well done indeed!’

  ‘Thank you very much, Miss Diggory. I take that as a real compliment, coming from an English teacher,’ replied Falconer, his manners, as usual, impeccable.

  ‘And as for turning up at the pub in that ghastly costume, he really was the biggest show-off I know,’ said Robin De’ath sourly.

  ‘Yes, but he didn’t stay till closing time, did he?’

  Pricking up his ears, Falconer asked, ‘When did he leave?’ hoping to get a bit more information on this little incident in relation to his group of oldies.