Choked off (The Falconer Files Book 2) Read online

  Puzzled but compliant, Squirrel did as she was told, returned to the room and resumed her tale. ‘It happened last March. In Carsfold,’ she began, tears forming over her faded-denim eyes. ‘We’d been shopping, and were just going to the bus stop to come home for our tea – I’d bought the boys a little pack of minced steak as a treat …’

  She stopped, unable to hold back the tears any longer, and they spilt down her cheeks unchecked, her nose beginning to run in sympathy. Falconer handed her a clean handkerchief. He had a particular aversion to badly behaved noses, and he could throw the defiled hanky in the bin when he got home.

  ‘When you’re ready,’ he said quietly, hoping she would pull herself together. He’d had rather a lot of emotions to deal with today, not least his own disconcerting feelings, and he was eager to get away to their final destination.

  Sniffing, she took up her tale where she had left off. ‘We were just crossing the road to the bus stop, when there was this enormous roar of an engine. I looked up, saw the car careering towards us, and stepped back, trying to pull on the leads to save the boys, they being a bit in front of me, like, because of the leads. Squeak was on the left, and I managed to get him out of the way, but Bubble, being just that tiny bit closer to the car, wasn’t so lucky. Right under the wheels he went, such a tiny little thing – squashed flat! I never thought I’d see the day when I had to witness something that horrible.’

  At this point, she dissolved into sobs, and Carmichael went off in search of the kitchen to make a pot of tea. They would be there some time if they were to get the story to date, because that would mean calming the old lady down, and that wasn’t going to happen in five minutes. His prediction proved to be correct, and it was a quarter of an hour before Squirrel could resume her tale with any coherence.

  ‘I knew his face as soon as I saw him again. You’ve got to report it to the police if you hit a dog, and I made sure someone from the crowd called them. Didn’t want him to get away with it, see? And when he came towards me on the refreshments table, I couldn’t help myself. Both times it was a reflex reaction. And I think I might’ve been a bit rude as well. This cloud of fury just came over me.’

  ‘So what, apart from threatening someone with a knife,’ – she was too upset to notice the sarcasm in his voice – ‘and throwing the contents of a teacup over the same person, have you done that’s what you would call very stupid?’

  Her eyes filled with tears again, and Falconer put one of his hands over her gnarled old knuckles in encouragement. They’d be here till midnight if she started howling again!

  ‘I wished him dead, that’s what I did. I wished it would happen, even prayed to God to strike him dead, and now he is dead, and it’s all my fault,’ she wailed. Falconer’s comforting hand had failed. What did Carmichael have that he lacked?

  It was a further ten minutes before they could leave her on her own, and even then they called in at The Vicarage on their way to Stoney Stile Lane, to alert the vicar that one of his parishioners might be in need of his services again.

  VII

  As Falconer and Carmichael got out of the car and approached the house, the inspector was aware of a number of uncomfortable sensations. His stomach was turning cartwheels, his tie felt more like a noose, he had begun to sweat and prickle all over and he knew his face was as red as a sunset.

  Unlike most people, he had not experienced these sensations at around the age of fourteen, and didn’t recognise them for what they were – the symptoms of puppy love. At fourteen, he had been more interested in the CCF (Combined Cadet Force), intent on a career in the Forces even then. He’d had no time for socialising, or for girls. All his reading was on aspects of military life, and he single-mindedly kept things thus, until he had achieved his goal of joining the Army.

  There hadn’t been a lot of contact with the female form in his military years, and the contact that there had been had been dressed in regulation uniform, all signs of femininity and flirtatiousness trained out. He was similarly single-minded in his police work and, therefore, the impression that Serena had made on him was totally alien to his prior experience of life.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ Carmichael asked as they reached the front door.

  ‘Absolutely fine,’ he replied, his tie feeling even tighter, his voice emerging as a strangled tenor. ‘Nothing to worry about at all: everything’s just tickety-boo. I’m fine! Fine! Absolutely fine!’ Realising he was rambling again and becoming a little too vehement, causing Carmichael to stare at him in a puzzled manner, he pulled himself together just as the door opened.

  And there was the face that had caused this flood of emotion in him – that caused his heart to beat faster, his face to flush crimson, his mind to become a blank, and his loins to do more than just gird themselves.

  Serena bade them enter and be seated, while she settled herself into the same chair as on the previous occasion they had called there, slightly changing the position of her footstool, before she elevated her left ankle to its well-stuffed, cushioned top. Carmichael suggested that he made them a drink, and, with the lady of the house’s permission, set off to the kitchen.

  Falconer cleared his throat, unable to think of a single thing to say, except for ‘I adore you’, which hardly seemed appropriate this early in their acquaintance. Serena, noticing his discomfiture, threw him a lifeline by asking how the enquiry was going.

  ‘Hrmph!’ He cleared his throat again, then, ‘It’s difficult to judge at this stage. We need to collate all the information before we can get any sort of picture of what actually happened.’ Once started, he couldn’t stop. ‘There will, no doubt, be several possible scenarios to consider. Our job is to narrow it down to the one that probably occurred, then see if evidence is in existence to prove it. Only then will we be able to submit it to the Crown Prosecution Service, to see if we have sufficient proof to support a trial, and …’

  He finally ground to a halt, not only running out of breath, but also of any idea of what he could possibly say next. He wanted to ask her out for a drink – dammit, he wanted to marry her and father her children, but he could hardly blurt that out on a second visit. She’d think he was mad, and that’s exactly how he felt – mad, out of control, and drunk with longing.

  ‘Interesting mix of colours,’ she said, changing the subject in the face of his obvious embarrassment. ‘Do you always dress so flamboyantly?’

  For the first time that day, he looked down at himself – really looked, felt his face flush again and, frantically searching for something to say in his defence, blurted out, ‘Terribly sorry, it is a bit bright, isn’t it? Must’ve got dressed in the dark this morning, my mind completely away with the fairies.’ This explanation conjured up two pictures in his mind: one of Carmichael in his usual garb, and one of the landlords of The Inn on the Green, and he grimaced at these hellish twin visions.

  Thankfully, Carmichael (the suave!) returned at that moment with a tray, causing a much-appreciated hiatus in the embarrassing proceedings and, after cups had been milked and sugared, tea poured and biscuits politely offered round, the questioning began.

  Of course, it didn’t last long, Serena pleading total ignorance because of her ankle, and her subsequent withdrawal from events surrounding the Festival, as she had done on their previous visit. Of Marcus, she claimed no knowledge at all. ‘I’m afraid that I have never met a Marcus Willoughby in my life, as I told you when we last met. Of course, I’ve had phone calls from friends in the village, keeping me up with the news and views, but I’ve been basically stuck here, kind people doing my little bits of shopping for me, just waiting for the time when I can get back to normal.’

  ‘We completely understand, Ms Lyddiard, but should you think of anything that has been said, or that you’ve heard, please don’t hesitate to ring me.’ Falconer drew out one of his cards and scribbled something on its reverse. ‘Here’s my card, and I’ve put my home telephone number on the back, so that I can be available any time, day or ni
ght.’

  This brought Carmichael’s head up with a start. He had been sitting staring into his cup, making strange adenoidal clicking noises at the back of his throat, but this had really caught his attention. He’d never known the boss to do anything like this before. The way he had dressed for today’s interviews, his strange behaviour outside, and now this. A large smirk of comprehension spread across the acting sergeant’s face, and he winked across at the inspector, his features contorting hideously in understanding, as he did so.

  Falconer nervously cleared his throat once more, and rose to leave. The last thing he needed was Carmichael putting his blasted size fifteens into things. Before he knew it, the fool would be reciting ‘Falconer and Lyddiard under a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.’ And he would die of embarrassment.

  They took their leave as politely as possible, but once they were outside the garden gate, Falconer turned to Carmichael, who was grinning like an idiot, pointing at his superior, and sniggering under his breath. ‘One word from you, Acting DS Carmichael, and I’ll bust you down so far, you’ll be a uniformed foetus. You understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Carmichael replied, but still looking like he had something to say.

  ‘Don’t even think about it, because it won’t be pretty – ah-ah, no you don’t – because it’ll hurt you a lot more than it’ll hurt me, and you’ve got your career to think of. Whatever would Kerry say, if she found out you’d done something very, very stupid?’ he asked, turning the words they had heard so often that day, on his partner – now it was his turn to say them.

  But, as Carmichael got back into his car to head for Castle Farthing, he was no longer smirking. There was a frown of confusion on his face. Something was wrong about today – he just couldn’t think what, but it was nibbling away at the back of his mind. He simply couldn’t get at it, at the moment, but something had been out of kilter. Something had been not quite right.

  VIII

  Back at home, Falconer paced up and down, unable to settle, and thoroughly rattled by his welter of emotions at their last interview. He found it impossible to concentrate on the case, so overwhelmed was he by the memory of Serena, the faint whiff of her flowery scent, and the loveliness of her face. It was no good, he couldn’t go on in this distracted state. He had a serious job to do, but he also had to know if there was hope for him.

  Trembling with fear lest he be rejected, he picked up the phone to speak to her. So shaken was he, that it took him three attempts to dial her number, and when she didn’t pick up for four rings, he thought his head would burst with frustration. Having decided on this bold action, was he to be thwarted when he had finally dredged up the courage to speak openly to her?

  The sound of her voice turned his knees to jelly, and he sat down abruptly, gathering his wits together to get it all off his chest. ‘Ms Lyddiard? It’s DI Falconer here. This isn’t an official call. I just needed to speak to you.’ He managed quite well in the end, given the circumstances, and although her final answer made his spirits soar, so high were his hopes, to other ears, it was quite ambiguous.

  ‘I’m very flattered, of course. I don’t, however, think it would be very professional for you to be seen in public, having a quiet drink with a possible suspect, while the investigation is in progress.’

  ‘But, would there be a problem for you afterwards?’

  ‘Oh, afterwards is a completely different matter. Let’s just wait, shall we, and see how things turn out?’

  Falconer was in seventh heaven when he rang off, and he could feel his sense of judgement returning in the light of what he saw as an affirmative answer. She hadn’t said ‘no’. He took that as a ‘yes’ and, as his head dropped with relief, he caught sight of his so carefully chosen attire and marched off to the bedroom to survey his length in the cheval glass.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ he exclaimed, the scales now fallen from his eyes. ‘I look like Carmichael after raiding my wardrobe. And I went out like this today and interviewed people. I must be a laughing stock in Stoney Cross.’ The odd comments that had been made during their visits, making no sense at the time, suddenly did, rushing back to him in a wave of embarrassment.

  ‘Damn, blast, bugger and bum!’ he exclaimed loudly, and headed towards the shower to wash away his shame, determined to appear in more sober attire in the future, and happy in the knowledge that he would only have to wait until Monday to see Serena again. All those interviewed had been asked to drop into the station in Market Darley after the weekend to sign official statements, and Carmichael was probably, at this very minute, going through his notes to see what they had got from their home visits.

  Getting back to business, he realised he had completed what he considered to be ‘round one’ of the investigation. ‘Round two’ would follow as surely as night followed day, and he had a feeling there would be a bit more ‘Grass Thy Neighbour’ forthcoming within the next day or two.

  After his shower, and feeling rather more like himself, apart from the ‘cat that’s got the cream’ grin slapped right across his face, he made two more phone calls, wrapped in a restrained burgundy-coloured terry-towelling robe, sober black slippers on his feet.

  ‘Carmichael? What are you doing tomorrow? Quiet day with your young lady?’

  ‘No, sir. She’s spending the day with her godparents – Marian and Alan Warren-Browne from the post office in Castle Farthing. Remember them?’

  ‘Lady with the headaches?’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘Got any other plans?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Fancy a spot of unpaid overtime?’

  ‘How could I resist, sir?’ Was Carmichael developing a sense of humour?

  ‘Back in the office first thing, then. I want all your notes typed up, and I want to take a good hard look at the large number of people who seem quite happy that our Mr Willoughby is permanently out of the way.’

  ‘Yes, sir. See you tomorrow morning, then.’

  His next call was to the editor of the Carsfold Gazette, the previous employer of Marcus Willoughby before he had started his ill-fated radio career. David Porter was always available on his mobile, in case a story was in the offing, Betty Sinclair, she of the edition with the disgruntled Letters to the Editor, had only been filling in for him while he was away on his late summer leave.

  ‘Hello, David. Harry Falconer here. Look, I need a little favour, but it’ll need a bit of trawling?’

  ‘What’s that, then? Got a scoop for me?’

  ‘I read the ‘Letters to the Editor’ page concerning a former employee of yours, and I just need to see any photographs you have of your ex-art critic, Marcus Willoughby – anything from his articles really. In fact, both photographs and articles would be rather good.’

  ‘You’re pulling my leg; but then he always was more trouble than he was worth. Liked to be seen as all-knowing, and went out of his way to be controversial.’

  ‘No leg-pull involved, I assure you. I need to get more of a feel for the man, and not just the slewed spin of the people who’ve crossed his path.’

  ‘I’d heard he’d copped it. Have you got anything for me?’

  ‘You know better than to ask that,’ Falconer admonished him, ‘and you also know that if you help me now, it’ll be quid pro quo.’

  ‘Fair enough. You’re the boss. I’ve got a green ʼun just started working here, making the tea and running messages. I’ll get him on to it; he’s dead keen at the moment. Anything he finds, I’ll get him to forward to you – I’ve got your e-mail address.’

  That was that, then. Tomorrow he’d use what they’d got today, see if a little tabulation would show up anything that wasn’t obvious from the visits themselves.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sunday, 13th September – morning

  I

  Sunday morning found both Falconer and Carmichael back in the office, Carmichael getting his notes prepared for the file, Falconer sucking his pen thoughtfully (but not the inky end, as he had chide
d Carmichael about so doing), and about to put into writing the three things he needed to consider – means, motive and opportunity – for those to whom they had spoken the previous day. He began to write.

  They had gone to The Inn on the Green first, so that gave him Peregrine McKnight and Tarquin Radcliffe to consider. There was no doubt that the old pub could probably have produced a club hammer (the probable blunt instrument), and with those two, even the lady’s stocking wasn’t out of the question, he thought waspishly. That was the means dealt with.

  Motive was a bit trickier. He knew that they had been subject to a certain amount of homophobic abuse from Willoughby, but would this have provided them with enough reason to dispose of him? It was not out of the question, if they had suffered similar harangues in the past from drunken customers; even from completely sober villagers who were less than tolerant of alternative lifestyles. Although there had been no mention of that sort of thing from anyone, that wasn’t cast-iron proof that it hadn’t happened. Perhaps Marcus had just been the last straw for one of them – or even both of them. One to use the hammer, the other to apply the stocking, just to make absolutely sure.

  Opportunity was a given. Willoughby had, in all probability, been murdered after the pub had locked up for the night. It made no difference whether it was both, or just one of them. The one would surely cover for the other. Better leave them in the frame, then. Murder had been done for less – much less.

  Next came Sadie Palister. She was reasonably tall for a woman, must be physically strong to carry out her work with stone, and there were, no doubt, any number of lethal implements lying around in her studio. She had also admitted to a strong antipathy towards the deceased, due to a previous review he had written about her work, and she didn’t expect to be treated any more kindly this time, especially after she had left her ‘Art Critic’ on display for him to find. She had also admitted slashing his car tyres in a drunken fury, on the very night he had been killed, and in the appropriate time-frame. Yes, she certainly had a motive, especially when you added artistic temperament, impulsiveness and booze into the mix.