Glass House (The Falconer Files Book 11) Read online

  ‘We’re the police, Mr Innocent; here about Mr Radcliffe’s death.’

  ‘Never even met him, we haven’t, but if I had’ve done, I’d have busted his nose for him, running over our poor little cat like that, not looking where he was going.’

  ‘Did neither of you meet either of the men at Glass House?’ asked the inspector, still reeling at the venom that had emanated from this young woman, whose face had grown red with her rising temper.

  ‘No.’ they replied, in unison.

  ‘We’ll be on our way, then. Thank you for your time,’ said Falconer, swivelling quickly a hundred and eighty degrees, and marching towards the front gate, Carmichael right on his heels, as anxious as him to get away from such a young harridan.

  Neither Nerys nor Vince Catcheside was out at work today, and they were invited into a bleak sitting room in which there was no air; no window or door left open, and the strong smell of dog was discernible, easily traceable to a very elderly and none-too-clean spaniel in a basket in the corner of the room.

  ‘You here about those two homosexuals, are you, or just the one who got himself topped?’ asked the very unlovely Vince.

  ‘Whoever did that, did this village a favour.’ Nerys put in her two-penn’orth in a most unsavoury manner.

  ‘So you weren’t friends with them, then?’ Might as well put the cat among the pigeons. If it was going to be uncomfortable for them, he might as well make it uncomfortable for these two, too, thought the inspector.

  ‘No bloody way, mate: not with the likes of them. We wouldn’t risk it, in case we caught something. Never know what they’ve got, that sort. Could be carrying all sorts of diseases not visible to the naked eye.’

  ‘But you were quite happy to attend their barbecue?’

  ‘That was different. We wanted a nose at what they’d done with the old place after all that disruption. And there wasn’t any harm in drinking their booze. Alcohol sterilizes things. As for the food, if it was barbecued, any germs would have been killed by the heat.’

  It almost made sense. ‘But you didn’t know them?’

  ‘Absolutely not. Wouldn’t mix with their kind if you paid me.’

  ‘But you went to their party?’ If that wasn’t mixing with them, Falconer was a monkey’s uncle.

  ‘That was different.’

  They left after that, before either of them could get into a homophobic rant. If that had happened, both of them felt they would have needed restraining from giving the Catchesides a damned good thumping.

  Falconer winced as he heard the shouting and yelling coming from the inside of the next house, as Carmichael put his finger to the doorbell of Myrtle Cottage.

  This time it was a sour-faced Mr Warren who answered their ring, and he just inclined his head to his rear to bid them enter. The living room was utter pandemonium, with the three ambient children throwing whatever they could lay their hands on at each other, even the baby trying to join in from its position on the floor, while Mrs Warren ran round between the four of them to try to disarm them.

  ‘Bit lively today, aren’t they?’ commented Carmichael, as a metal toy car whizzed past his ear. It looked like he and the inspector had become the new target for the little devils.

  Falconer ducked as a small doll flew over his head, thus failing to dodge the plastic dog that hit him on the head, as he straightened up again.

  ‘Nothing’s changed since yesterday. You can talk to Christopher if you like, because he was at work when you came before – isn’t that where he always is – but I’ve got nothing to add. I was in here all last night with a baby who wouldn’t sleep no matter what I tried.’

  After his wife’s bitter comment about his regular absence from the fray, the sour expression on Mr Warren’s face deepened, and he motioned towards the comparative sanctuary of a tiny dining room, where it was marginally quieter.

  ‘I hadn’t even tried to get to know them,’ he told them, as soon as they had all taken a seat round the table, seeing this as the only way that four people could be comfortably accommodated within its space-limiting walls.

  ‘I don’t know any of the neighbours – only to say hello to. She’s right; I am always at work – I have a very demanding job, that often dictates that I do overtime.’

  ‘But you went to their house-warming barbecue?’ asked Carmichael.

  ‘We were only there a few minutes when someone chastised the kids, and she was off, in high dudgeon, and I had to follow to show solidarity. Actually, I think our kids are a bunch of destructive little hooligans, and it didn’t bother me if someone else wanted to try to instil a little discipline into them, but they wrap her round their little finger, and make me glad I don’t have to spend too much time here with them.

  ‘And I got sent back later to relay madam’s complaints about how the noise made things worse with the kids, and how their ruddy peacocks kept us all awake at night. That was fun, I can tell you.’

  ‘That’s very honest of you, sir,’ Falconer thanked him, while thanking God that he lived on his own, and didn’t have to deal with this sort of disruption in his spare time. He’d go stark raving mad in no time at all if his home life resembled this poor soul’s, and he mentally wished him luck with picking up some more overtime.

  This was the point where they passed Glass House to visit the three houses on the other side of it and the one in Market Street. The first property was Riverbanks, where they had chatted with Gerald and Lucille Sutherland yesterday, and shouldn’t take very long, as they had made their position perfectly clear at this first meeting.

  As they had expected, neither of them admitted having been out in the village the evening before. In fact, they had gone over to Market Darley to visit friends, which was easy to check up on, and had not returned until nearly midnight, when all the fuss was over.

  It had only been when Gerald went out for a newspaper that morning that they had learnt the news of their neighbour’s death. Taking the telephone number of the friends they had visited the night before, the two detectives went on their way, calling at Green Gates next.

  Mr Oliver Smallwood had returned from his business trip the evening before about seven o’clock, and was now available to speak to them, but he was as devoid of information as everyone else had been. It was his wife Ellie who had gone round about their Darling, as he had not been there, and he’d not spoken to either of them since they had moved in.

  ‘I had thought of going round to complain about the noise nuisance from their mad birds – not at all suitable for a garden where there are near neighbours, don’t you think? But, I could never be bothered. There was always something else to do; paperwork, you know, and we do have a social life.

  ‘It’s Ellie that’s had to put up with more than me, although I did object to the disruption when I was here at weekends, but she can cope with it better than I can, being so wrapped up with her plans to breed Shih Tzus – and eventually win Best of Breed, even a Best in Show at Crufts, sometime in the dim and distant future.

  ‘Me? I’ll just be happy if she makes enough to cover the salary she’s given up, and helps me balance the books on this place and retain our present lifestyle. I’d be grateful if they – he’d – get rid of those birds, though.’

  ‘I think that’ll happen, sir, and in the not too distant future.’

  At River View, Robin Eastwood took a little rousing, as the weather was fair again and, back at home once more, was at his ease in a sun lounger in the back garden. When he finally answered the door, he was all flashing eyes, teeth, and smiles.

  ‘Do come on in. I’ll get a couple of folding chairs and we can talk outside in the garden. Just give me a minute or two to put together a tray of cold drinks and I’ll be with you.’

  ‘Sociable soul, isn’t he?’ commented Falconer, as they strolled outside on to the lawn.

  ‘His sort usually are,’ replied Carmichael cryptically. ‘I thought you’d have noticed by now.’

  ‘What the hell are you ba
bbling about, Sergeant?’

  ‘He’s one of them, isn’t he?’

  ‘Is he? One of what?’ Falconer really had no idea what Carmichael was babbling about.

  ‘He’s gay.’

  ‘He’s never!’

  ‘Oh yes, he is. He set off my “gay-dar” as soon as I met him yesterday evening. I thought you’d have noticed too, sir.’

  ‘Nothing was further from my mind. I thought he’d just popped round to support McMurrough?’

  ‘As if. He smelt fresh meat, and was in there as fast as he could get. McMurrough’s quite a catch, you know, even without the lure of a possible part in Allerton Farm.’

  ‘Never! How mercenary!’

  ‘Yes, sir. Here he comes with a couple of chairs now.’

  It was lucky Eastwood had to go back into the house to load his tray of refreshments, because Falconer was too stunned to speak.

  The resultant interview was curt, and lasted only long enough for a glass of chilled lemonade to be consumed. In fact, Falconer nearly choked, trying to drink his so fast, and nearly did so again when Eastwood informed them he worked as a solicitor; a partner in a local firm.

  Afterwards, as they headed towards the footbridge that would allow them to get to the pub, it was only Carmichael who was in a talkative mood. ‘He admitted to going for a drink about ten o’clock, sir. He made no bones about being out and about in the village fairly late.’

  There was no reply, so Carmichael felt obliged to carry out the conversation with himself. ‘At least if he did that, he’d have a defence if anyone told us they’d seen him. Pretending to be at home all evening would have cut no mustard if he’d been spotted, so it only made sense to go for a drink, and McMurrough said he’d dropped in for a quick one before closing time.

  ‘It would be easy for him to have hung around until McMurrough had seen Radcliffe off home, then get in there and do for him. And he had a motive, if he had his eye on young McMurrough for himself. There’re much more of an age, after all. Radcliffe must have been – what? – twenty-five, thirty years older than his partner.’

  They had stopped outside The Goat and Compasses, and Falconer finally spoke. ‘I hear where you’re coming from, and I believe you’ve made several valid points. We’ll chew them over after we’ve done our stuff in here. Speaking for myself, I could murder a half, if not a full, pint.’

  ‘Me too, sir,’ agreed Carmichael. Neither of them drank much, and if they wanted more fluid, would probably order lemonade and lime.

  The landlord of The Goat and Compasses was a big man called Terry Watkins. He had been at the pub eight years, and knew all his local customers by name, as well as their usual orders.

  He remembered the night in question well because, apart from the murder, it was only the second one when McMurrough had spent time on the premises, this time gathering punters round him and keeping them there drinking for longer than they usually would have stayed.

  ‘It was a good night for takings, in the end, after a very slow start, and I hope he comes in regularly – once he’s got over his tragic loss, of course.’ These last words were not spoken with any real empathy. The whole emphasis was on future profits.

  He remembered well Gareth Jones arriving at the bar, and told them that he didn’t put up with any nonsense on his premises, and had made it clear that Jones should have a beer at home, and the man had left without causing any further upset.

  ‘I used to box a bit when I lived in London, and I don’t tolerate any rough stuff in my pub. If necessary, I’m prepared to wade in myself and pull the buggers apart. I won’t have it, and my regulars know it. This is a respectable drinking place.’

  He also remembered Robin Eastwood coming in about ten o’clock for just the one, and confirmed that he had left just before closing time. ‘He often does that. Says he likes a bit of fresh air before he goes to bed. It takes all sorts, doesn’t it?’

  He had no more to add, at that point, and felt he had been sufficiently helpful, finally gazing round his pub, full of old beams and horse-brasses with a smug smile. He ran a clean establishment, well-adorned with brass and copper; the curtains were a suitably country chintz, and he was pleased with life in general, especially with the prospect of the current media darling becoming a regular.

  Their thirsts quenched, the two detectives headed back to Market Darley and Darren Worsley, hopefully banged up in a cell and sobering up nicely.

  Green had done his job, and they found the man in a cell that reeked of alcohol and stale sweat, but he was still far from sober. ‘I demand a fag break!’ he yelled into Falconer’s face when they arrived at his place of incarceration. ‘There’s no bleeding smoking in here, and I need a fag. It’s against my human rights to deprive me of one of those, so I demand that someone takes me somewhere where I can have a smoke. I am an addict, you know.’

  ‘Carmichael – handcuffs. Then take Mr Worsley out into the back yard where the bicycle shed is, for his fix, then deposit him back here, and I’ll see you in the office before we go home.’

  Worsley was not slurring like he had earlier, but his speech was too careful to be normal, and his gait was still a little staggering. It was hardly worth trying to get any sense out of him until he was fully compos mentis. The morning would be timely enough.

  They were getting nowhere fast, and Falconer would be glad of a bit of solid evidence, or a decent clue to the killer’s identity. It was all very frustrating, not even having a prime suspect.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sunday

  Market Darley

  Although neither Falconer nor Carmichael were scheduled to work on the Sabbath, they had a duty to go into the station to question their detainee from the day before, damn his drunken eyes.

  Bob Bryant, as usual, was on duty at the desk – when wasn’t he? – and led them to Worsley’s cell. ‘He’s been a bit lively since you went home last night, but he finally settled down and, when he had his breakfast brought to him this morning, it looked like he’d slept it off, and was finally sober, so I think you might be all right.’

  ‘Good,’ commented Carmichael, ‘because the inspector’s coming to mine for his Sunday dinner.’

  Falconer smiled weakly, while Bob Bryant smirked, and merely said, ‘That’s nice.’

  Worsley was found to be dozing on his mean bunk, his blanket pushed on to the floor, it being quite warm in the cells with their lack of windows and little ventilation.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Worsley,’ Falconer greeted the man, bringing him back to wakefulness. ‘I’m sorry we had to detain you, but we are in the middle of a murder investigation, and it was important that we had a chance to speak to you when you were sober. I’m sure you understand how important it is for us to follow up any clue, no matter how small.’

  ‘I know I’m unbearable when I’m drunk, but I don’t know whether I can be of any help to you, even sober, although I suppose there are always nuggets of information that could help you on your way,’ said Worsley, for the first time since they had first met him, sounding rational.

  Carmichael got out his notebook, and Falconer took a seat at the other end of the bunk.

  ‘What do you remember of the last few days, Mr Worsley? Can you remember anything that happened on the night that Mr Radcliffe was murdered?’

  Worsley’s face fell, and Falconer apologised. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I had momentarily forgotten that you two used to be partners, and that this must be painful for you.’

  ‘It’s all right. I’m fine most of the time, but then, most of the time I’m off my face, and can’t really think about anything seriously.’ He scratched at his uncombed hair and thought for a moment.

  ‘We used to double-date, you know – just occasionally – Bailey and I and Chadwick and Gareth Jones. I suppose it was because those two were getting it together, and were desperate to spend more time with each other, but Gareth and I didn’t even notice.’

  ‘Where did you go as a foursome?

  ‘It wa
s usually to a club in some town or other; somewhere where there were lots of people, lots of noise, and lots of booze. That way they could get Gareth and me wasted, and disappear off into a dark little corner to spend some time alone.

  ‘There are gay clubs out there, even round here, if you know where to look, and we’re not unrealistically far from London – especially if you’ve got money to burn and can afford a taxi.’

  ‘So you think they might have been cheating on the two of you even before both couples split up?’ asked Carmichael, fascinated by this glimpse into a lifestyle about which he knew nothing.

  ‘Oh, absolutely. We’d go back to ours, and they’d put the drunks to bed, then get it together downstairs while we two sots were unconscious.’

  ‘Do you know this for certain, sir?’

  ‘Not a hundred per cent, but let’s say, if my suspicions were made of concrete, they’d nearly be set by now. You do know what Gareth’s planning to do, don’t you? I only wish I’d been sober enough to come up with the same idea before we split up, but I was always on the booze, even then.’

  ‘What’s that, sir?’ asked Falconer, playing the innocent.

  ‘He’s been collecting little notes and messages, photographs and bits of video from his smartphone, ever since McMurrough went into The Glass House. He used to confide in me quite a lot, in the early days before, I suspect, those two got serious about each other.’

  Originally he was only gathering material just for memories, but he got to thinking about what would happen if they ever split up – oh, yes, he considered the idea of where it would leave him if McMurrough hit the big time.

  ‘And he was right, wasn’t he? Anyway, by then, he had quite an archive of their time together – even recordings of tender moments between them, and he’s planning to go to the press and sell his story.

  ‘What with my poor ex – poor old bedazzled Bailey – getting the chop, what he’s got will be hot news. He’ll make a bundle, and might even get invited on to someone’s chat show into the bargain – hopefully not McMurrough’s!’