Grave Stones (The Falconer Files Book 9) Read online

  ‘Please. But if you have nothing, just bring your lovely self, Gwen. You will be feast enough for my eyes.’

  ‘Are you attempting to flirt with me, Toby?’ she asked, giving him a wry grin.

  ‘Definitely, O Lovely One!’

  After his coffee, Toby went back next door, not only with his beautiful box, but with a sort of date for that evening, and the possibility of some more ‘pretties’. Things were looking up in all respects. Fortune really does favour the bold.

  Market Darley Hospital

  Being policemen gave Falconer and Carmichael the opportunity to charm their way on to the wards outside official visiting hours, and they found Roberts on Carsfold Ward, sheets tucked up to his chin, his head swathed in bandages, and sleeping the sleep of the innocent.

  A nurse spied them approaching his bed, and went over to shake him awake gently, having harboured suspicions that his two visitors would not have as delicate a touch as hers.

  ‘Good morning to you, DC Roberts,’ Falconer greeted him.

  ‘Been in the wars again?’ asked Carmichael. ‘This place must be beginning to feel like home to you.’

  Roberts opened his eyes, blinked several times, then looked Carmichael up and down and said, ‘I see it’s non-uniform day again. Did your mummy send you to school with a pound?’

  Carmichael gave him a slight frown, putting his manners down to his state of health. Falconer ignored him, but silently marked his card, before asking him how he felt. ‘Battered and bruised, guv – sorry, sir – but I’ll live.’

  ‘But not for long, if you go on behaving like this. Do you feel up to talking about exactly what happened when you got hit?’

  ‘I can manage, if you’ll just put Carmichael on the other side of the bed, where he can’t blind me. He looks like Rupert Bear on holiday.’

  ‘Hey, you leave off my clothes. I don’t criticise yours, so keep your opinions to yourself,’ snapped Carmichael, quite riled now.

  ‘Children, children,’ Falconer intervened, ‘Play nicely now, or you won’t get any cake at teatime. Go on, Roberts.’

  ‘I’d only just got out of the car, and had taken a couple of steps, when I became aware of the revving of an engine; didn’t think much of it; just thought someone was having difficulty starting their motor, and there wasn’t a car in sight.

  ‘Then the sound moved in my direction, whoever was driving put on the headlights, full beam, and blinded me. The only thing I’ve remembered since last night is that he must have been parked up round the side of the garage, where he wouldn’t be seen from the road, in the gloom and shadows.’

  ‘Do you remember talking to me before the ambulance left the scene?’ asked Falconer, curious.

  ‘Did I?’ Roberts asked. ‘I don’t remember a thing from when I tried to throw myself out of the way until they were cleaning me up here, and very painful it was too, especially the stitches. Did you go to Mrs Bingham’s house?’

  ‘It was Mrs Bingham who called the station again, got Bob Bryant to summon an ambulance and phone me, then she went back out and put a blanket over you.’

  ‘Well, even in these pyjamas, and with my head in an NHS turban, I look better than old Davey over there,’ he stated, with no apparent relevance to Mrs Bingham’s good deed.

  ‘I’ll tell you something about Carmichael, shall I, Roberts?’ Falconer said in a quiet, dangerous tone. ‘He may dress like a crazy,’ here the sergeant gave him a ‘whose side are you on’ look, ‘but it’s all part of his cunning behaviour.

  ‘You may think he’s soft in the head.’ Again, that look from Carmichael. ‘He is, in fact, very clever. If he dresses like a fool, people take him for a fool. They say things in front of him that they might not say in front of me, and, if he looks a bit simple, people will confide in him more readily.

  ‘His simple disguises make him a genius at getting information out of people, just because of the way he dresses, so we’ll have no more remarks like that, if you don’t mind. I don’t like them, and I’m not willing to put up with them. If you work very hard, you might, one day, be as good a detective as DS Carmichael here. In about twenty years’ time, if you work hard at it.’

  There was a silence, as the two others took in the meaning of Falconer’s little speech, then Roberts thanked them for coming in to see him, but he was sure they had work to do. It sounded like the shot had hit home.

  Outside the ward, on their way back to the car, Carmichael asked, ‘Did you mean all that stuff in there, sir?’

  ‘Most of it.’

  ‘Which bit didn’t you mean?’

  ‘The bit about your clothes. It’s your face that fools people. Now let’s leave it at that, shall we? I don’t want us to fall out, but I won’t have him take a pop at you like that. You’re a damned good detective, and sometimes you have strokes of pure genius, apart from the fact that you saved my life when we were investigating that ghastly hotel last year. Now, let it go.’

  Carmichael let it go, not sure whether he had just been insulted or complimented, but giving the inspector the benefit of the doubt.

  Shepford St Bernard

  ‘We’re going to have to re-interview everyone after what happened last night, and catch up with the people who were out,’ said Falconer as he entered the village. Indicating late and swerving right to turn into Coopers Lane, he added, ‘And we’ll start with that woman who was out. She may not know much about what happened to Lettice, but she could be of some help with what happened last night. She might have heard a car leaving the village at speed, or seen someone loitering in a vehicle with intent.’

  ‘You’re very optimistic this morning, considering that you’re getting by on next to no sleep,’ opined Carmichael, remembering the parlous state he’d been in after his unintentional binge.

  ‘I think I’m running on pure adrenalin. I know I shall sleep like the dead tonight. In fact, I think I’ll pick up a take-away on the way home, shove it down my throat, and go straight upstairs. Here we are,’ he finished, drawing up outside Carpe Diem.

  Gwendolyn was dressed when she opened the door to them, and invited them inside, after checking their warrant cards. ‘What’s this all about, then? Devious deeds in Shepford St Bernard? Criminal complications that require police investigation?’

  ‘You obviously haven’t heard what happened yesterday morning, or last night,’ Falconer stated, looking her straight in the eye, to make sure she wasn’t having him on.

  ‘What did happen? You’re really tickling my curiosity, now,’ she asked.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to inform you that Miss Keighley-Armstrong was found dead, outside her house yesterday morning, and Mr Twelvetrees was discovered dead, in his house, in the early hours of this morning. Miss Keighley-Armstrong’s safe was also raided but, thankfully, the missing items have turned up now.’

  Gwendolyn sat down with a whump, looking dazed. ‘No!’ she said, drawing the word out to an inordinate length. ‘But I’ve had Toby round here this morning, and he didn’t say a word about any of this: Toby Lattimer from next door but one, that is.’

  ‘One of my officers put a card through your door yesterday, when he discovered you weren’t at home, with a message to contact the station. That officer is now in hospital, having been deliberately run down by a car, in this very village, also in the early hours of this morning. Would it be acceptable for us to interview you now?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ she replied, her attention evidently still on what Falconer had just told her. ‘I can’t believe this, though. Shepford St Bernard’s such a quiet little backwater. Nothing ever happens here.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why you’ve got a double dose, now, not to mention the damage to one of my officers. Let’s start off with where you were yesterday.’ Carmichael found himself a seat and got out his notebook, making sure he was out of her range of vision for the sake of discretion and not making her feel uncomfortable in her own home.

  ‘I was at an antiques fair all day. I left very early, and
didn’t get back until nine, but I’d had a good day, so that didn’t matter. Then I unpacked my remaining stock and went up to bed, absolutely knackered. I’m afraid I slept like a log, and heard nothing until I woke up this morning.

  ‘I’d hardly got out of bed this morning when Toby came knocking at the door – just after nine; I ask you – then I grabbed a bite of breakfast, showered and got dressed, and here I am, the last twenty-eight hours completely covered. Not guilty. Sorry. But, tell me, what did happen to them both, and how’s your injured soldier?’

  Ignoring her flippant manner towards what had happened to Roberts, the inspector decided that there was no point in concealing the truth. It would be flying all round the village as they sat there. ‘Miss Keighley-Armstrong had her safe broken into and all her jewellery stolen, then she was knocked on the head, and found dead outside her house several hours later. Mr Twelvetrees was found inside his own home, his throat cut, the missing jewellery spread out in front of him, and the whole scene set to indicate suicide.’

  ‘But you don’t think it was?’

  ‘I’m certain it wasn’t. We were supposed to think that Mr Twelvetrees had stolen the jewellery and killed Miss Keighley-Armstrong, then cut his own throat in remorse, leaving the sparklers out in plain view as an admission of guilt.’

  ‘And you don’t believe that’s what happened?’

  ‘Not for a moment. It was staged, and I’m going to find out who the author of this double-tragedy is, and make sure he or she doesn’t try to orchestrate any more productions for a very long time.’

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful, but I’ll keep my ears and eyes open, and get in touch with you if I discover anything that may help you. Can I have one of your business cards?’ she said, beginning to rise to her feet, to indicate that, as far as she was concerned, the interview was over.

  Falconer evidently agreed, as he too rose, pulled a card from his inside jacket pocket, and handed it to her. ‘You say you’ve already talked to your neighbour this morning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I’ll go straight round there, in the hope that he hasn’t gone out yet. Thank you for your time, Ms Galton, and don’t hesitate to call us if you think it necessary.’

  They found Toby Lattimer on his knees, on an old blanket, weeding the flower border at the front of his house. ‘Good morning. Mr Lattimer, I believe,’ Falconer greeted him, and introduced himself and Carmichael, as the man rose to his feet.

  Shaking hands with them both, Toby kept his eyes on the inspector, then commented, ‘You look awful. Bad night? Me too. I just couldn’t get off, so I took some sleeping tablets that the doctor prescribed for me just after I retired from work. They get you off all right, but you feel like the walking dead the next morning. Dreadful chemical hangover.’

  ‘Bad luck, sir. I look this way because I was awakened in the early hours to come out to a hit-and-run in this village. One of my officers, as a matter of fact; the one that came to speak to you yesterday.’

  ‘Bad luck again. Was he badly hurt?’ asked Toby, a mean glint in his eye that indicated that he was a lover of bad news.

  ‘Only a glancing blow, fortunately. He’ll be back on duty again in no time,’ the inspector informed him, watching closely for his reaction.

  ‘Jolly good, jolly good!’ was what he said, but his eyes wandered away from Falconer’s face, and he suddenly gave a start, as if pulling himself together, and invited them inside.

  Once settled, Falconer asked Lattimer if he would be so good as to confirm where he was, between eleven o’clock the previous evening and two o’clock that morning,’ while Carmichael got his head in gear for taking notes.

  ‘Well, that’s an easy one. I went up to bed about ten thirty, but couldn’t get off. Around midnight I gave in, and took something to help me get off, then woke up this morning feeling lousy.’

  ‘Yet you were still on your neighbour’s doorstep just after nine o’clock this morning, even though you were feeling hungover and tired?’

  ‘Are you a collector, Inspector? Do you have a passion for amassing things in a particular category?’

  ‘I’ve got a few favourite categories in which I sometimes collect pieces, but I’m not consumed by the idea of acquiring new items,’ he replied, thinking of his Art Deco porcelain and a few other choice objects in his house.

  Carmichael opened his mouth, but Falconer halted him by stating, ‘I don’t think Smurfs count in this case, Sergeant.’ The mouth closed again, and settled into an embarrassed inverted smile.

  ‘Actually, I think you’re wrong there, Inspector, if you don’t mind me saying so. You collect, but with no passion. I got the feeling, from the way your sergeant’s eyes lit up at the mentions of collecting, that he is passionate. What he collects is immaterial. It’s the enthusiasm that matters.

  ‘And there, he’s like myself. I am a very dedicated collector, and Gwendolyn next door but one went off on Sunday with a tortoiseshell box that is to die for. She’d shown it to me when she bought it, but I was trying so hard to resist buying it.

  ‘Then, when she took it off to the fair, I realised that I wanted it more than I’ve wanted a little bibelot for some time. That’s me, I’m afraid. If I collect something, I collect something, and nothing can put me off the trail, except for my own stupidity, trying to resist when I know I’ll give in in the end.’

  Carmichael’s face was beaming after this little speech, and he offered to show his collection of Smurfs to the inspector sometime, and after his offer was rebuffed, regaled Toby with how he had found a nest of the little blue men at a car boot sale only a couple of weeks ago, and had got the lot for the paltry sum of a pound.

  ‘That’s the spirit, Sergeant. Follow your passion, and it’ll give you a tremendous amount of pleasure. I’d be happy to look at your collection, any time. All collections fascinate me, and some of those little blue things are worth quite a lot of money nowadays.’

  ‘Just to recap,’ Falconer interrupted, ‘and getting back to what we were talking about, you went to bed at ten-thirty last night?’

  ‘That is correct, Inspector.’

  ‘And did you hear any noise from the street, while you were tossing and turning? A car starting up, perhaps? Or maybe passing your house?’

  ‘I sleep at the back of the house, Inspector, and can’t hear a thing from the street. Sorry, but I can’t be of any help whatsoever.’

  ‘Never mind, sir. Thank you for your cooperation.’

  Outside again, Falconer suggested, ‘Why don’t we park up outside the pub, then we can do the rest of our calls on foot, as it’s such a beautiful spring-like day today?’

  ‘As long as you don’t mind being seen in public with me,’ replied Carmichael, still stinging from Roberts’ comments, when they visited him earlier that morning.

  ‘I’ll just tell anyone who asks that you’re my slightly simple nephew whom I’m minding for the day to give my poor, beleaguered sister a day off.’

  ‘But you haven’t got a sister, sir,’ retorted Carmichael in perplexity.

  ‘That is correct. Ergo, neither do I have a nephew, but I don’t think I’ll have any problem being believed.’

  Carmichael’s lower lip stuck out in a pout while he considered the inspector’s bald statement in silence, eventually relaxing his facial muscles. It might have appeared as an insult to some, but from a different point of view, he realised it could be seen as a compliment, in a back-handed sort of way. Maybe. Considering what Falconer had said to Roberts earlier. Definitely a compliment. Perhaps.

  Sauntering along the street to Robin’s Perch, it was a pleasure to look at how the front borders were coming to life in the recent sunshine, the storm having left the shoots undamaged, blossom now beginning to open the faces of its flowers towards the sun in rapture. Windows had been flung open to air the houses, so long shut up over the long winter, and lace curtains fluttered in the breeze like the sails of imaginary yachts on journeys to far flung shores t
hat were no further away than the window-frames.

  This blissful mood was shattered when they found no one at home, again, at Robin’s Perch, but that was their furthest point of call at the southern end of the village. They turned, and began to walk back the way they had come, headed first to Sweet Dreams, on the south side of The Druid’s Head, to see what Krystal Yaxley had to say about the events of the night before, or to be more accurate, the early hours of today.

  Had they but known it, they were at the beginning of a fruitless exercise, very few of the residents being at home; probably out shopping, given that most of them were retired. They ended up at The Rectory, with little to add to their store of knowledge, except for the fact that Lettice’s cat now lived with Violet Bingham, so its owner’s tragedy hadn’t resulted in it going to the RSPCA, such an old animal unlikely to find a new home this side of eternity.

  On arrival at the vicar’s residence, they were both frustrated and fed up, and Rev. Florrie’s smiling welcome and offer of tea and cake went some way to raising their spirits.

  ‘I know it’s a pain, knowing you’ve had a fruitless journey, but take a piece of cake, and try to see the positive side. You’ve had a lovely walk on a glorious day, and your interviews will keep until tomorrow,’ she reassured them, handing round a plate laden with slices of Victoria sponge.

  ‘We’ve simply got no leads, though. So many people had a possible motive, but there’s no concrete evidence,’ moaned Falconer, raising the jammy confection to his mouth.

  ‘Don’t forget you need to include me on your list of suspects,’ the vicar declared, unexpectedly.

  ‘Why ever should we do that?’ Falconer spluttered through his mouthful of cake, and Carmichael stared at her, his mouth too full even to attempt speech.

  ‘Oh, I thought I’d told you. Maybe not. Lettice told me, when she’d decided I was good enough for her parish, that she’d left a quarter of her estate, after death duties, to the church. She’d considered changing her will when I turned up, but didn’t rush to do it, and then I turned out all right in the end.