Death of an Old Git (The Falconer Files Book 1) Page 16

  They had drunk their tea, and Carmichael had sugared Kerry’s brew as heavily as he had laced his own. He had over-dunked ginger nuts and managed to look genuinely surprised when they broke off and fell into his cup, fishing the soggy remnants out with a sausage-like finger. He had persuaded her to eat a couple of biscuits, and his light-hearted and practical approach had worked. Slowly she had relaxed a little and now, the mugs empty, the biscuit plate decorated with only a few crumbs, she was able to speak coherently.

  ‘I know he treated me rotten at times, and I know he said some nasty stuff last night. I expect people might think I ought to be glad he’s dead, but I’m not. I just wish he’d paid the maintenance regular and spent more time with the kids. That’s all I wanted. And I’m not glad. He was my husband after all.’

  ‘You never divorced?’ Falconer needed to check, but his voice was subdued. He was walking on eggshells here and had no wish to provoke another storm of tears.

  ‘No. Never got around to it. There wasn’t really anyone else, so what was the point of more expense?’ She broke off here and there was silence for a couple of minutes, neither of the men wishing to intrude on her thoughts.

  ‘And there’s the children,’ she resumed in a smaller voice. ‘I haven’t had the heart to tell them yet. How can you tell your own kids that their daddy’s dead?’

  ‘There, there,’ soothed Carmichael, putting an arm around her as she threatened to dissolve, once more, into tears. ‘Where are the kiddies?’

  His pragmatic words saved the situation, and she pulled herself together. ‘I could hardly send them to school, not with what’s happened. Auntie’s got them. They’re playing shop with a load of old packets and boxes at the back of hers. She’s given them her jar of foreign coins she’s fished out of the till over the years, to use as money.’

  ‘Good old Auntie,’ said Carmichael quietly.

  ‘Yeah. She’s been great.’

  There was one thing Falconer needed to know before he went any further, and this seemed as good a moment as any to intervene. ‘Do you know if your husband made a will, Ms Long?’

  Kerry wrinkled her forehead in thought. ‘I’m sure it never crossed his mind. Wills are for old people,’ she said naively. ‘You can check through his stuff but I doubt you’ll find anything. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Because if he made no will and you were never divorced, everything will come to you, including what his great-uncle left him.’

  As they walked back to the car, Carmichael’s face was a picture of barely suppressed confrontation, and Falconer heeded the unspoken warning. It did not, however, stop him from thinking.

  VII

  Back at headquarters, jackets over the backs of their chairs, ties off and an oscillating fan (which Falconer had collected on another quick diversion to his home) humming on the desk between them, they began to go over what they had so far.

  ‘What is it with bedtimes last night?’ asked Falconer, expecting no answer. ‘One: Marian Warren-Browne takes a sleeping tablet and doesn’t hear her husband come to bed.’ He held up a finger. ‘Two:’ he held up another, ‘Paula Covington goes out like a light, leaving George to clear up on his own. Three: Rebecca Rollason cries herself to sleep and Nick stays up to cool off – oh yeah? Four: Piers Manningford can say what he likes, as his wife is so conveniently away on business, and five:’ here he indicated with a thumb, as he had run out of fingers, ‘Mrs Brigadier doesn’t even share a bedroom with her husband. Damn and blast it! I forgot to ask the vicar what time they turned in. There’s something going on there somewhere between that lot, and I intend to find out exactly what it is. I will not have the wool pulled over my eyes and be lied to.’

  ‘You never asked Kerry Long what she did when she got home, sir.’ This was the first mention Carmichael had made of her since they had left her cottage.

  ‘Didn’t need to, lad,’ Falconer replied. Of course he hadn’t needed to. She could have slipped out at any time while the children were asleep and no one would have been any the wiser, but he was not going to voice this opinion in Carmichael’s presence, at least not for now.

  Changing the subject he said, ‘That Marian Warren-Browne’s always popping sleeping tablets. I’d dearly love to know which ones they are, but I don’t think Dr Christmas would play ball just at the moment – at least not until we get official confirmation of their presence in Lowry’s stomach, and he did say he never prescribed that brand. Still, I suppose the ones he does prescribe might not have agreed with her. There’s always an outside chance. Anyway, who do you think is still in the frame, Carmichael?’

  ‘Piers Manningford for me, sir. By the way, we didn’t go and see Mrs Romaine today.’

  ‘So we didn’t. But I’ve a feeling that, after last night’s little revelation, she’ll have a full-time job on her hands sweet-talking the birthday boy.’

  ‘It could’ve been him, sir.’

  ‘You’re right. I hadn’t even thought of that. We’d better catch up with those two. Anyone else?’

  ‘That Rollason chap’s got a nasty temper on him. Look how steamed up he was this morning. Reckon he’d kill to protect that wife and son of his. And what about that postmaster?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Treats that old wife of his like a princess – her and her headaches. Fair wraps her in cotton wool and worships the ground she walks on. I bet he could turn real nasty, given the right circumstances.’

  And there ended the gospel according to Acting DS Carmichael, comforter of young widows and sage before his time.

  VIII

  Early evening at the vicarage saw Lillian Swainton-Smythe very drunk and holding forth to her long-suffering husband. ‘This parish is positively going to the dogs, Bertie. And just what are you going to do about it? What – are – you – going – to – do – about – it?’ she spaced her words in an effort not to slur them.

  ‘What do you mean, going to the dogs, Lillian? Explain yourself.’

  ‘You know ezackly what I mean. First there’s that pig of an old man – that dirty old git – making trouble for everyone – everyone – including you. Look at Christmas. Look at Harvest. Thieving old git.’

  ‘Lillian!’

  ‘Well he was. Trouble with you, is you’re too Christian. Well, I’m no’ ʼfraid to tell the truth. Then there was that pois’nous nephew.’

  ‘Great-nephew,’ corrected her husband.

  ‘Lousy nephew. And don’ nit-pick. I’ve forgo’n what I was sayin’ now.’ She paused to take a swig of almost neat gin. ‘Oh yeah, that nephew – oh pawdon me, grea’ nephew – of his, treatin’ his own family like dirt. Kicked poor li’l Buster, he did. Poor li’l Buster! An’ look at las’ night. Pois’nous to everyone he was. An’ who takes ʼim home? Good li’l Christian vicar Bertie. Well, he’s dead now. They both are and good ri’ance. P’raps there is a God after all. Here’s to you, God.’ She drank deeply again.

  ‘Lillian! Behave yourself.’

  ‘Behave myself? Wha’ about telling those adult’rers t’ behave themselves, then? There they are – both married to other people – and shaggin’ the arse off each other ev’ry oppot … opporuti … opportun’ty they get.’ Finally she got the word out.

  ‘That’s only hearsay.’

  ‘Iss the truth. You could see it in their faces las’ night if you weren’t too much of a saint. An’ I say wha’ are you goin’ to do abou’ it? Eh, Bertie? Eh?’

  ‘Lillian, you’re drunk.’

  ‘Well, for your inf’mation, to paraphrase someone or other – I forge’ who, bu’ it doesn’t matter – tomorrow I shall be sober,’ here she broke off to smother a hiccough, ‘bu’ you will still be a coward. Because tha’s what you are, a moral coward. You won’t face anyone with their sin – you jus’ go on forgivin’.’

  ‘Yes, and that’s why I’m still here with you.’ Rev. Bertie had been goaded beyond endurance.

  ‘How dare you!’

  ‘No, how dare you, Lillian
. I’m going out for a walk now. I don’t expect to find you up when I get back. I’ll get my own supper.’ And with that he walked out.

  ‘The hell you will,’ his wife called after him, refilling her glass (just gin this time), one eye closed so that she could focus enough to pour. ‘Well, I’m goin’ to do somethin’ abou’ it, even if you’re too frightened to, you lily-livered ol’ fart.’ Pulling open her handbag, she began to paw through it until she found her address book.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Friday 17th July – morning and afternoon

  I

  Friday began in a somewhat more leisurely and more relaxed manner for Harry Falconer than had the preceding day. He arose at the alarm clock’s summons, showered and, standing naked in his dressing area, opened a wardrobe door to reveal a row of crisp, impeccably-pressed shirts in a range of pastel colours. Selecting one in a delicate eau-de-nil cotton – short-sleeved, for it promised to be another sweltering day – he dressed and sauntered down to his gleaming kitchen to greet Mycroft.

  There he brewed coffee, scrambled eggs and cut up a morsel of smoked salmon. The last two, laid on a slice of wholemeal toast for him, the latter placed in a stainless steel bowl for the cat, put both of them in an even better mood.

  Pausing only to put the dishes in the dishwasher and make sure his Siamese familiar was adequately provided with dried food and fresh water, he checked his appearance in the hall mirror, adjusted a hair or two, and grabbed his car keys. He left the house whistling.

  ‘Damn, damn, damn!’ For the third time he turned the ignition key to hear only a melancholy ‘clunk’. Pulling the bonnet release catch under the dashboard, he got out to see what he could see. Lots of lumps of metal, pipes, wires and dangly bits, and all too grubby to think about touching. Yep, that’s what was always there. Shutting the bonnet and kicking petulantly at a tyre, he re-entered the house to telephone the garage. A further call secured him transport for the day and, his good mood completely evaporated, it was with a heavy heart that he heard a clarion call outside the house and opened the front door to Carmichael.

  So horrified was he by the sight of the rust-pocked, once-white Skoda with its dull blue nearside wing, that he hardly gave his sergeant a glance. Perching as gingerly as he could on the ‘fun’ tiger-striped passenger seat cover, his feet surrounded by crisp packets and sweet papers, he stared miserably ahead of him, just wishing the journey over with.

  ‘Car playing up, then?’ Carmichael, at least, was chirpy.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Know what’s wrong with it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Garage going to fix it today?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you’ll be all right for tomorrow, then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know them sleeping tablets that Mrs Warren-Browne takes?’

  ‘Yes.’ Falconer was going for gold in the terseness event.

  ‘I found out what they are.’

  ‘You what?’ That woke him up.

  ‘I said I found out which ones she takes.’

  ‘How? Old Christmas was really tight-arsed about divulging individual patients’ details.’

  ‘I asked her.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Falconer un-grammatically.

  ‘That Mrs Warren-Browne. I rang and asked her. Said we needed to know for purposes of elimination. Said would she tell me, so I could confirm it with Dr Christmas. That way I reckoned she wouldn’t lie to me.’

  ‘Good man. Well thought out. And what are they?’ A flame of hope sprang up in Falconer’s breast.

  ‘Zopiclone.’ And was immediately extinguished. Oh well, it had been an outside chance anyway, and it was at least one more detail out of the way.

  At the office a copy of the post-mortem report awaited them, confirming the presence of a large dose of diazepam in the stomach and bloodstream of Michael Lowry, late of the village of Castle Farthing. The report also confirmed that the second death had been a carbon copy of the first, and had probably occurred between the hours of 10 pm and 3 am. This could be narrowed, at the earlier end, by the time that Lowry had left the pub and – if he were telling the truth – the evidence of the vicar.

  A short report from forensics confirmed that the wire used in the second murder was from the same roll as that used in the first, cut ends from each piece having been matched, so at least they were only looking for one murderer, rather than a first murderer (as Shakespeare would probably have put it) and a copycat murderer.

  Paperwork kept them from Castle Farthing for the remains of the morning, and their visit to the Romaines was postponed for the time being. The only interruption they received during the first half of that day was a telephone call to Falconer, to inform him that his car needed a new starter motor, that it would cost a ridiculous amount of money when labour and VAT were added, and that his vehicle would be delivered back to his house later that day and the keys put through his letterbox and, finally, would he like to give his credit card details for ease of payment? As he replaced the receiver, Falconer turned to Carmichael and said, only half-jokingly, ‘Sergeant, I wish to report a mugging.’

  II

  They were just finishing their lunch in the canteen when the duty desk sergeant approached their table. ‘I’ve just had a call from Carsfold, sir,’ he informed Falconer. ‘There’s been a report of a noisy domestic in Castle Farthing. They’ve sent an officer to deal with it, but the duty officer from Carsfold had the nous to check with us. It’s a couple you’ve spoken to with regard to the murders, so I thought you might like to know about it.’

  ‘Fire away, Bob.’

  ‘Couple called Manningford. Address, Pilgrims’ Rest, Sheepwash Lane. Of any interest?’

  Falconer dabbed at his mouth with a paper napkin. ‘Thanks a lot. We’re on our way. Come along Carmichael, surely you can eat faster than that?’

  Carmichael could, and was only a few steps behind the inspector as he strode out of the building, then slowed abruptly as he remembered just what carriage awaited him. They’d have to go by pumpkin until his carriage was back on the road.

  III

  There was no sign of a disturbance when they reached Pilgrims’ Rest, no sound at all coming from the property. Whoever had come out from Carsfold had obviously calmed things down for the time being, though for how long, Falconer did not wish to speculate, given the probable subject matter of the disagreement

  A ring on the doorbell brought Piers Manningford in answer, sporting a magnificent, and obviously recent, black eye. Dorothy, skulking in the sitting room, had a split and swollen lower lip and red-rimmed eyes.

  ‘I suppose even you lot knew about this before I did,’ she accused the two policemen, her whole body trembling with rage. ‘Him and that trollop next door. How could you?’ she turned on her husband, eyes blazing.

  ‘I’m going to make some coffee,’ he said, and scuttled from the room, tail metaphorically between his legs.

  ‘That’s right, run away. Run away like you always do, you snivelling little worm.’

  ‘Mrs Manningford, if you could calm down a little, we’d like a word with you. We can speak to your husband later.’

  ‘You speak to him. I never want to speak to or see him again.’ She stopped and took a shuddering breath. ‘I’m sorry. None of this is your fault. I do apologise. How can I help you?’

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to tell us why it was necessary for an officer to call here earlier?’

  ‘Of course.’ She sat down, leaning forward in her chair, knees together, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, fighting for control. ‘I’ve been away for a few days on business, as you probably already know. I got back yesterday afternoon and, apart from Piers being a bit jumpy, everything seemed fine. Then about six-thirty my mobile rang. Of course, I assumed it was business and took it to my study to take the call, but it was Lillian – the vicar’s wife – and she was absolutely stinking drunk. At first, I tried to get her off the line, thought she was raving when she sa
id she hadn’t wanted to ring the house phone in case Piers answered and tried to stop her speaking to me.

  ‘Then she started talking about Piers and that whore next door, saying they’d been having an affair. That got my attention, I can tell you. Artist, my foot! More of a painted lady.’

  ‘Did you believe her?’

  ‘Yes I did. A lot of things suddenly clicked into place. Then she said that I should have been at Clive’s birthday ‘do’, as it had been broadcast to the whole village and everyone was talking about it.’

  ‘It must have been very difficult for you.’ Falconer tried to sound as supportive as possible in the hope that she would remain calm and continue with her narrative.

  ‘It was, but I wasn’t going to go off the deep end just then. Oh, I got rid of Lillian. She sounded almost on the point of passing out anyway. I knew I had a very important meeting to attend this morning, so I decided to stay calm, get on with things, then face him with it today.

  ‘I felt quite devious, telling him it was an all-day meeting and not to expect me till six, then turning up here at midday to surprise him. And, oh boy, did I surprise him.’ Her eyes filled with tears and her tale ground to a halt.

  ‘It’s all right, Mrs Manningford. Carry on when you feel ready.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she sniffed, jabbed at her eyes with a tissue, blew her nose and continued. ‘The house was completely empty when I got back. I’d let myself in very quietly, crept upstairs to see if they were up there, but there was no one in.’

  ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘I went next door. I rang the bell, but nobody answered, looked through the front windows but couldn’t see anyone, so I decided to go round the back. Couldn’t see anyone there either, but I could hear voices – oh, and noises. Do you know, I caught them at it – actually at it, like a couple of dogs – in that seedy little shed of hers at the end of the garden? God, it makes me feel sick just to think about it.’

  At that point, Piers re-entered the room carrying a tray. ‘You filthy bastard!’ Dorothy screamed, and, leaping to her feet, she pushed past him, sending the tray and its contents flying. ‘I’m going to pack a bag this very minute. I’ll be gone a couple of days, and when I get back I don’t want to find you here, do you understand?’ she shrieked from the doorway, then stamped off up the stairs leaving her husband covered in hot coffee grounds and embarrassment.