Choked off (The Falconer Files Book 2) Read online

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sunday, 13th September – afternoon

  I

  Falconer had been right. Superintendent ‘Jelly’ Chivers had not been pleased to be called away from his last barbecue of the season, and he made his feelings unequivocally known. He was a man who had come up through the ranks. No fast track for him. And he didn’t mince his words.

  ‘Why did this all have to bloody well blow up on a Sunday? You’d think a hard-working superintendent could be guaranteed one bloody day of peace a week. Stupid little bitch has probably got herself a bit of scrummy, and is at this very moment curled up in his bed, oblivious to all the bleeding trouble she’s causing other people. Young people of today – (sigh!) – they don’t give a bloody toss who they inconvenience, as long as they get their end away. Never tell anyone where they are, because they’re too bleeding busy having fun. Too many rights, and not enough responsibilities, that’s what they’ve got, these days …’

  At this point, Falconer felt he had to interrupt. ‘She could hardly tell her father, sir, as he’d just been murdered. And part of the problem is that we don’t know who her mother is, so we don’t know whether Ms Leighton informed her or not.’

  ‘Damned careless of you!’ Superintendent Chivers retorted unfairly, then gave his permission for uniformed officers from both Market Darley and Carsfold to be drafted in to start the search. ‘You’re not going to be very popular though, disturbing some of them on their rest-day. Still, that’s your problem, not mine. And get on to the local paper and radio stations as well, see if they can put out an appeal for the girl to get in touch, or for anyone who has seen her in the last twenty-four hours, etc., etc., etc. You know the form, Inspector. Now get on with it, so I can get back to my guests, and act like the genial host that I’m supposed to be.’

  Before Falconer could get another word in, the line went dead. He had been hung up on, which improved his mood not one jot. At least he had David Porter’s number in his mobile now, just in case, and he could probably rely on him doing him the favour of getting in touch with any radio stations in the area. If he was after a scoop, he’d have to work for it. He’d know much better than Falconer what radio stations covered this area, and it would save him a bit of time. He could always confirm with them later on, if need be.

  Falconer had a half-formed – or was it half-baked? – plan in his head, and it was in a much less gloomy state of mind that he listened to Carmichael’s latest report from Happy-Ever-After-Land, while they took a look through the windows of Summer’s car, waiting for reinforcements to arrive.

  This took less time than he had anticipated, and within forty-five minutes (and two cups of coffee apiece) he had a dozen uniforms awaiting his instructions. Peregrine had also put out the word, and there were about a dozen men from the village at his disposal as well.

  ‘Right,’ he started, thinking of the topography of Stoney Cross, ‘I want you in four groups of six; three police officers, the other three, civilians. I want the first group to go north-west, working its way across the sports pitch and into the copse beyond. Group two, same configuration, I want to head north-east, across Stoney Stile Lane.’ At each instruction he pointed in the direction given, lest any confusion arise.

  ‘The third group, I want to go to the south-east, through the agricultural land; and the last group, south-west, starting at the standing stones. If you find anything, I want to be informed immediately. If not, I want you all back here at five o’clock to report. Uniforms, I shall want to brief you then, on the house-to-house calls. There are special instructions for this’ – he smiled cryptically – ‘so I don’t want any of you sloping off and doing your own thing. Have you got that?’

  There was a ragged chorus of ‘yes’ and ‘yes, sir’, and he stood and watched as they sorted themselves out into groups, and decided which group should go in which direction, eventually moving off, an air of excitement about them, at this unexpected little adventure. Falconer didn’t think they’d feel half so excited if they did find anything, but that wasn’t his problem at the moment.

  ‘Fancy a spot of lunch, Carmichael?’ he asked. ‘I should think that’d be admissible on expenses.’ A final ‘yes, sir’ reached his ears, and the two detectives left the car park and made their way back into the pub, which was, at that very moment, about to finish taking orders for roast beef and Yorkshire pud.

  Carmichael was an incredible eater, Falconer thought, as they wrapped themselves round a delicious roast. He seemed to put his grub away with remarkable speed and efficiency. The most miraculous thing of all, though, was the way he seemed to be able to eat and talk at the same time, without choking himself, or even, it would appear, drawing breath.

  ‘Can’t believe it’s happened to me,’ he finished, through a mouthful of roast potato, and looked to Falconer, for his opinion.

  ‘What’s happened to you? Sorry, I was concentrating on my plate.’ This was patently untrue, as he had been thinking of how he would bag the house-to-house call to Blackbird Cottage for his very own, but Carmichael wasn’t to know that.

  ‘Kerry wants me to move in with her.’

  ‘That’s great news, Carmichael! I assume you’ve accepted.’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘What do you mean, “sort of”? You’ve either accepted or you haven’t, and if you haven’t, you must be mad.’

  ‘I don’t hold with all this living in sin, sir,’ Carmichael explained, a slightly pained expression on his face. ‘Me mam brought me up to know right from wrong – part of the reason I joined the Force – so I said I’d love to live with her, but only as her husband.’

  ‘You mean, you proposed to her?’ Falconer was astounded that his frequently tongue-tied colleague should have either the old-fashioned morals, or the gumption, to make a proposal of marriage.

  ‘I certainly did, sir. And she said “yes”. We haven’t set a date yet, but I shouldn’t think it’d be too far in the future. Neither of us wants any fuss, and Kerry has been married before, as you already know, sir.’

  For a moment, Falconer was speechless, then he held out his hand to shake Carmichael’s, and said, whole-heartedly, ‘Congratulations! I hope you’ll both be very happy together – well, all four of you, I suppose I mean,’ he added, remembering Kerry Long’s two young sons.

  II

  Finishing their meal, Falconer decided that they would call at The Vicarage first. There were a few things he wanted to try out there – see if he could budge their stories; perhaps surprise one of them into changing their story. He was glad that they had taken his car, as he hadn’t relished another ride in Carmichael’s Skoda dustbin, and Carmichael had been insistent that he didn’t mind not taking his car as well. As he would be going over to Castle Farthing for the evening, he said it was no problem, so long as he could be dropped back at the station’s car park to pick up his own. It would give him the chance to change into something a little less like work clothes [more details later!] for his evening with his prospective new family.

  Work clothes?! Falconer thought, and could hardly believe his ears, but he held his tongue, not really sure whether Carmichael was ‘extracting the Michael’, or was in deadly earnest.

  On arriving at their destination, the inspector also insisted that they be shown into a room other than the one that contained the poisonous presence of Captain Bligh, and that the Dachshund, Satan, be banished to the kitchen. He didn’t want a repeat of the shambles that had been their last visit there.

  He had made a point of dressing more soberly today, so that his appearance would not be a source of fun. Carmichael, however, was another matter. His attire had been OK for the office, especially, as has been mentioned before, that this was one of his rare days off, but now they were back on the job, as it were, Falconer once more eyed him up and down critically.

  Carmichael had, as so often in the past, gone his own way sartorially. He certainly had a style all his own, and Falconer suspected that it had less to do with
his excuse of ‘first up, best dressed’, and more to do with his own personal taste. He would have to pluck up the courage to ask him sometime, but shelved it for the moment, not feeling up to what the answer might be.

  Carmichael’s shirt was a day-glo orange, with scars of purple tie-dying here and there; his trousers, although well-fitting, were a shade of grass-green corduroy. His tie, in contrast to the sort of hippie life the rest of his attire suggested, was a little number from the mid-seventies, wide at the base, and depicting an oriental girl against a brown background.

  Quietly humming the tune to ‘Aquarius’ from Hair under his breath, Falconer thanked his lucky stars that they weren’t on surveillance. If that situation ever arose, he really would have to give his acting sergeant a talking to, man-to-man. If only he would wear the suit, or a similar one, to the one he had worn yesterday, there would be no problem. As it was, Carmichael was like a mobile firework, drawing cat-calls and wolf-whistles wherever they went, and was particularly amusing to very young children, who would point, and shriek with delight at the unexpected appearance of a clown in their otherwise predictable lives.

  They sat, now, on a sadly sunken sofa in the vicar’s study, Mr Chalk and Mr Cheese, awaiting their prey, on the busiest day of the reverend gentleman’s working week.

  When Reverend Ravenscastle did arrive, his mood was mixed. He was sorely vexed at being disturbed on the Sabbath, but also full of concern for the missing girl, and his first comment to them, after greetings had been exchanged, was that he had prayed for her safe return.

  Falconer, who, at the moment, wasn’t sure whether he was investigating a hate-murder, an abduction, a double murder, or some sort of combination of these events, was in no mood for ecclesiastical niceties, and threw himself into questioning the man about what he had been doing, abroad on the night of Marcus’s murder, with no alibi. He had become aware that somebody was leading him by the nose, but had no notion of whom that person may be, or in what way he was being led, at the moment, and it was affecting his temper.

  ‘I’ve been through Army training, Reverend Ravenscastle, and I’ve been to war. I’ve seen apparently mild-mannered men turned into shouting, screaming killing machines. I’ve seen the glint of the savage in their eyes and in their behaviour. I know that civilisation is only a thin veneer, and I believe the same of religion. I also think it’s more than possible that, after all the memories of the death of your niece that Willoughby’s presence in this village brought back to you, the ill-will he had manifested in general, and the desecration and blasphemy that occurred in your church, you simply cracked. You threw aside the veneers, and reverted to the savage that dwells in all men’s souls.

  ‘I believe it was you who went to Marcus Willoughby’s house on Sunday night, and took your revenge on him for all the sins he had visited on your little world.’ By the end of this, Falconer’s voice was raised to a shout, and Adella Ravenscastle looked round the door to see if everything was all right.

  Without looking in her direction, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on her husband, he spat, ‘Get out of here! And don’t come back until I tell you to!’ Causing her head to disappear, with a little yelp of surprise. Her husband opened his mouth to remonstrate, but Falconer silenced him with a word, holding his hand out in a gesture that meant, unmistakeably, ‘stop!’

  ‘Murder!’ He glared deep into the vicar’s eyes, daring him to speak. ‘Thou shalt not kill,’ he quoted. We are investigating the taking of a human life here, the most heinous crime that can be committed. This is your territory, so I’m sure you understand that I need to find out who was responsible. Now, it’s not my place to judge, but if that person was either you or your wife, I am duty bound to bring you to justice, and I will do everything within my power to uncover the truth – even shouting. Understand?’

  ‘I do understand, Inspector. I was an Army chaplain, myself, at one time, and I have counselled broken men – men who were manipulated into doing or being what you have described, and I have seen their guilt and remorse, and the way that it haunts some of them, both sleeping and waking.’

  ‘Ah. I see. Sorry, Vicar! You obviously understand my situation. Is there any chance you were seen on Sunday night, while you were out?’ Falconer had been put in his place after his outburst, and now spoke more contritely.

  ‘Very little, I’m sorry to say. Stoney Cross generally goes to bed early, and it was very misty. Even if someone had chanced to look out of their window, I would just have been a dark, obscure shape to them. I can, however, assure you, with all the strength of my Christian faith, that I didn’t go to The Old Barn, and that the only hand I laid on Marcus Willoughby was the pat on the shoulder I gave him, as I sent him on his way home from the church.’

  This bald statement had the ring of truth about it, but Falconer could not afford to ease up too much in his questioning. ‘I’d like to speak to your wife now. In the kitchen and alone, if you don’t mind. Perhaps you would care to move your dog to another location for a few minutes?’

  ‘No problem. I’ll take him outside to see if he has any “business” to conduct. Let me know when you’ve finished – and don’t be too hard on Adella. It would have been our niece’s eighteenth birthday today, and she’s taking it hard. We’re planning to visit Maria’s grave with some flowers, later today, with Meredith and her husband, and it’s going to be a very emotional occasion for all of us.’

  The inspector was checked by this information. He had intended to go in as hard with Adella as he had with her husband, initially, but he had the feeling that, with what he had just been told, it would be better to play on the wounds of emotion from which today’s date had picked the scab. It might work in his favour – sometimes people were less able to keep up their guard under the influence of strong emotions.

  He found ‘Mrs Vicar’, as Carmichael had taken to referring to her, sitting on a plain oak chair by the kitchen table, her head bent, her shoulders shaking, and a tea-cloth pressed to her face as she wept. This was definitely a case of ‘softly, softly, catchee monkey’. If he pressed her too hard, given the circumstances, there was the likelihood of a complaint being lodged, and then where would he be? Up Shit Creek without a paddle, that’s where he’d be, and no mistake.

  ‘I’m sorry about just now, Mrs Ravenscastle. I’m afraid I was rude to you, and there’s no excuse for being rude to a member of the public.’

  She had not heard him come in, so sunk in her thoughts was she, and she jumped as she turned round in her chair to face him.’

  ‘I accept your apology, Inspector, and I’m sure that Benedict explained why I’m so upset, today, of all days.’

  ‘He did, and we quite understand.’ Carmichael had shambled into the room, and now loomed over Mrs Ravenscastle in a concerned way. Unexpectedly, he crouched down beside her and put an arm around her shoulders, speaking very quietly to her, so that Falconer was unable to catch his words. She just nodded and sniffed, listening with silent attention.

  In a couple of minutes, Carmichael unfolded his length into an upright position, and went to stand beside the inspector again. Mrs Ravenscastle, the Lord be praised, was wiping her eyes and visibly pulling herself together. ‘That’s a good young man you’ve got there, with a sensible head on his shoulders. He’ll go far, mark my words,’ she announced, rising and putting on the kettle.

  ‘Don’t worry about tea for us, Mrs R.’ This was Carmichael again. ‘Make a pot when we’ve gone, then sit down with your husband, and you can share your memories and comfort each other.’

  Falconer was dumbfounded. Had the fairies come and changed his usual Carmichael for another one overnight? If they had, both Carmichaels had the same dress sense! – the same air of being a fashion victim, and simply not caring.

  Mrs R, as the acting sergeant had just referred to her, sat down again, and told them calmly and frankly, that she could produce no witnesses to her walk on Sunday night, but that it had had a purpose – although not a murderous one. It was a s
ecret at the moment, but if they would care to call round tomorrow, she would provide proof of her story, and also someone who would corroborate it.

  As they strolled back towards the car, both in thoughtful mood, Falconer’s mobile began to jingle, and he fished it out of his jacket pocket with the far-fetched hope that it might be Serena. It wasn’t. Sadie Palister’s forthright voice rang in his ear with what he considered unnecessary volume. ‘I’ve remembered something from Sunday night, but I don’t know if it’ll be of any use to you.’

  ‘We’ll be straight round.’

  III

  Sadie met them at the door, ushering them hurriedly into her studio and bidding them sit. ‘What is it that you’ve remembered?’ asked Falconer, speaking in a rush in his eagerness to learn something new.

  ‘I don’t know if it’ll be of any help at all, but I remembered I’d seen a car, or what I presumed was a car, and heard it too, when I was on my way back from The Old Barn.’ She had the grace to blush as she remembered why she had been abroad so late at night.

  ‘Where did you see it? And what time was this?’

  ‘I can’t give you an exact time, Inspector, because I was too drunk even to focus on my watch, should I have had the urge to do so, so I stick by my approximation of about one-thirty in the morning, which is exactly what I told you the last time we spoke. But, where was I when I saw the car? That’s it! I was just steadying myself to stagger down School Lane, when I heard the noise of an engine. Looking in that direction was just a reflex, but I got the impression of a vehicle moving very slowly towards me down the High Street, from the other end of the shops; from Dragon Lane way.’

  ‘And did you recognise either the car or the driver, Ms Palister?’ Falconer’s hope was slim but, without hope, what was the point of life? Serena’s features swam before his mind’s eye once more, and he had to quickly gather his attention, lest he miss her answer.