Brief Cases Box Set Page 2

  Falconer shuddered at the matter-of-fact way Christmas referred to the slicing and dicing of a post mortem, and hoped he’d never find himself under such off-hand hands (sic). “What I need to know is whether or not you suspect foul play?” stated the inspector.

  “At this point, I’ve no idea. There was a Medic-Alert bracelet on the bedside table, indicating that she had an intolerance to peanuts, but the boyfriends said they were both vigilant, in ensuring that nothing that contained nuts ever entered the house.

  “Apparently, if she travelled anywhere by plane, she would request that peanuts were not served to the other passengers, because of the re-circulated air – we really were better off when they stuck the smokers at the back of the plane, and pumped through fresh air, but that’s an entirely different subject.”

  “I’ll go and have a word with him myself,” Falconer declared. “But, before I go in there, what’s his name?”

  “Dominic Cutler.”

  “Change the name and not the letter; change for worse, and not for better,” piped up Carmichael, then subsided in a glowing blush, as the other two men shot him disapproving stares. “Sorry. I suppose it’s the date they were going to move in together, that’s unsettled me. That’s the date that Kerry and I are going to get married.”

  “I know, Carmichael, I know. I’m going to be your best man, for my sins – may God have mercy on my soul – so I can hardly forget, can I?” said Falconer, with the look of a condemned man on his face.

  “Oh, congratulations, Davey,” added Dr Christmas, holding out a hand to shake the sergeant’s.

  “Thank you very much. I’m sorry about that comment just now. It just slipped out.”

  “Already forgotten, my boy. You’ve got work to do here, with old Harry, before you can kneel before the altar and plight your troth.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” said Carmichael, “referring to a church and all, but I hope it’s not rude. And anyway, we’re not having a big church ‘do’. Remember Kerry’s been married before, and she just wants something quiet and dignified.”

  “And a little less of the ‘old’, if you don’t mind. You’re a few years my senior, I know for a fact. Now, let’s get back to the matter in hand,” declared Falconer, firmly stamping on the tangent that had led them astray so effortlessly. “I need to speak to that chap in there, see what he has to say about last night, and that young lady’s allergy.”

  He spoke to Dominic Cutler in the sitting room, just a few feet from the Christmas tree, and felt a heel for so doing, but he had little choice in the matter, not wanting to have to take the young man to the police station, on today of all days, for questioning.

  “Tell me about yesterday, Mr Cutler; from the moment you left work, to the moment you arrived here this morning. I know how painful this must be for you, but we must get this matter cleared up. For all we know, someone with a key may have entered the premises during the night and murdered Miss Cater, so we need to know everything that we can about what happened in those hours. I’m sure you understand the necessity.”

  Dominic Cutler shook his head, as a dog does when getting out of water, maybe to clear his thoughts, so that he could converse in a rational manner.

  “Let’s start with where Miss Cater worked, and whether she owned this flat, or rented it,” suggested Falconer, desperate to get the young man to tell him something – anything – to get him started.

  “She worked for the local authority as a clerical officer, but she had no need to work: she did it because she needed something to occupy her time. Her parents are very wealthy – my God! This will destroy them – and actually own this apartment block, and this particular one’s been signed over to her. That’s why she lived here: so that she could have her independence, and still be under her father’s care, if you see what I mean. If there had been any high jinks, it would have been reported to him by the concierge – complaints about noise, and that sort of thing.”

  “I completely understand, Mr Cutler. And what about you? Do you come from wealthy stock as well?” Falconer asked, hoping for an answer in the negative.

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” admitted Dominic. My parents have a huge house out in the countryside – quite isolated really – and it was them I went to see, after I’d wrapped Angela’s tree presents yesterday, before I came here.”

  “Carry on,” Falconer nudged him verbally, as he fell silent, and gazed off into the middle distance, maybe assessing the future life that would not now be his. Carmichael had tucked himself into a wooden-backed chair in a corner, folding himself on to its seat like a human ironing board, due to his height, and was busily taking notes, well-trained and needing no prompting, now that he was under Falconer’s tutelage. Carmichael made a lot of furniture look as if it belonged in Lilliput, and not in people’s everyday homes at all.

  “We had originally planned to get married this Christmas, you see, but my father is very ill, and would not have been able to make the ceremony – that’s why we postponed it, and I was just going to move in with her.

  “I knew it would be the last Christmas Eve I would be able to do things the way that I had done them as a child. Father always used to read ghost stories, to everyone who was there for the celebrations, in front of a roaring fire, and crack nuts as he did so, for anyone who cared to have a munch on them. He wasn’t fond of them himself, but he liked to crack them, and see others enjoying the ‘nuts’ of his labour. God! How can I make a pun when this has happened?” he asked, of no one in particular, except, maybe, himself.

  “It was something my grandfather used to do,” he continued, now recovered from the shock at his own unintentional words, “and he just carried on the tradition, as I had hoped to do, when Angela and I had a family to spend Christmas with.” This last statement reduced the young man to tears again, and Falconer called in Dr Christmas, to see if he would give him a sedative, or something to make him sleep, then asked PC Green to run the bereaved man home, so that he could get some rest.

  Unconscious was the best state for him, at the moment: a chance to let his mind work on all that had happened, and start to sort it out for him, so that he had everything in order, to deal with when he had had a little time for his subconscious to digest what had happened, and all the implications thereof. They could speak to him the next day, when maybe he’d be able to talk more coherently.

  “Can you do something about opening her up?” Carmichael asked the doctor, a little stunned by the callous wording of his request.

  “Nothing much on at the moment that can’t wait,” replied Christmas. “I can get on to it right away, if you want me to.”

  “Please. This peanut thing is nagging at me, and I need to know if she had any in her system that may have caused such a reaction. It would be a weird way to murder someone, giving them peanuts, disguised as something else, but nonetheless possibly effective. I just can’t see a motive, though, can you, Carmichael?”

  “What?” asked the big, friendly giant. “Oh, no, sir. Can’t think of a thing.” Carmichael had been gazing lovingly at the Christmas tree, with all the presents below it, no doubt imagining the fun and excitement going on in Jasmine Cottage, in Castle Farthing, where his fiancée Kerry lived, with her two sons from her previous marriage.

  He could almost see them ripping off gay wrapping paper, and exclaiming in delight at what had been bought for them; almost smell the turkey, cooking slowly in the oven, and all the other trimmings as well; not forgetting the Christmas pudding. Kerry had made this one, and he was anxious to try it.

  He had eaten there many times during their engagement, but this was their first Christmas together, and he hoped against hope, that her pudding was a suitable rival to his ma’s, but maybe that was hoping for too much. Kerry was so perfect in every other way, in his opinion, that he could forgive her the Christmas pudding, if that proved necessary.

  “Come on you, Davey Daydream! Let’s get you back to the bosom of your family-to-be. There’s not
hing more here for us to do, today. But, I’d have thought you’d have been up to your eyes in wedding preparations, instead of having enough time to celebrate Christmas.”

  “No, that’s all done and dusted, sir. Both families have been a real help in the arrangements, leaving me enough time to enjoy our first Christmas together.”

  “Oh, thank you very much, Carmichael. I never knew you cared,” Falconer answered, smothering a smile. He had intentionally misinterpreted Carmichael’s ‘our first Christmas together’, just to see how he reacted.

  “Don’t be silly, sir. Me, Kerry and the boys, I meant.”

  “I know you did. I was only pulling your leg. You get off and have a super day with them, and we’ll carry on with this business, the day after tomorrow, if nothing urgent shows up. It’s just bad luck, for everyone involved, that it’s Christmas, but the day after Boxing Day’s not quite so bad for being interrupted. Most people have had enough by then, and just want the whole business to be over and done with.”

  “You’ve no heart, sir. Where’s your Christmas spirit?” asked Carmichael, bemused by the inspector’s attitude to the season of goodwill.

  “In my Christmas drinks’ cupboard, where it belongs,” answered Falconer, walking away from the day’s unpleasant interruption, and thinking only of his own Christmas meal.

  STAVE THREE

  The Second Spirit – The Ghost of Christmas Restored

  25th December, 2009 – a little later

  When Carmichael returned to Castle Farthing where his fiancée lived (but where he would not reside until after their marriage, due to his old-fashioned moral principles), he found that Kerry had halted proceedings where they had left off, when he had so unexpectedly been called out.

  The stocking presents had been opened, as they had been when he received the telephone call from Bob Bryant, but she had delayed the opening of the presents from under the Christmas tree, in the hope that Carmichael would not be gone all day, and she realised she had been right in her instincts, when he walked through the door, barely two hours after he had left.

  “Daddy Davey!” the two boys, Kyle and Dean shouted, in their pleasure and excitement at his return. Not only was he back, to continue sharing Christmas Day with them, but now they could get at all the brightly wrapped packages and parcels nestling in a huge pile under the tree.

  Ten minutes later, Carmichael was settled with his huge mug, filled with hot, very sweet tea (for he was no drinker), and the room was filled with the joyous shouts of children, ecstatic not only with what they had unwrapped, but with the sheer magical atmosphere of the day.

  Back home, Falconer removed his guinea fowl from its temporary resting place, and popped it into the oven, which had only taken a few minutes to heat, and dealt with the rest of the trimmings that would accompany it for his, not quite solitary, Christmas meal, for he fully intended to share it with the cats, putting their bowls on the floor by the dining table, right next to his own place.

  He hadn’t quite worked out how he and Mycroft would pull a Christmas cracker together, nor how any of the cats would cope with being required to wear a paper hat, but these were mere details, and could wait until after they had finished eating, before he had to address them.

  Finished in the kitchen, he removed the apron, which he had worn to protect his clothes, (he was very fastidious about his appearance), and removed three small parcels from under the tree, its fibre-optic lights with their ever-changing colours adding some seasonal cheer to the rather sparsely adorned room.

  ‘Here you are, little friend,” he said, calling Mycroft over to him. “This is for you, from me,” and he proceeded to remove the wrapping paper for his pet. Inside was a small felt mouse, filled with ‘cat-nip’, which Mycroft immediately accepted delicately with his mouth, put down on to the floor, in order to give it a good sniff, then started to throw it up into the air and catch it, occasionally running across the room with it, to kill it to his complete satisfaction. Tar Baby and Ruby were just as pleased with their gifts, too.

  There were several more little parcels in a similar vein, waiting for the already delighted animals, for the feline trio could smell the cooking, too, but Falconer would save those for later, when his pets tired of this first offering.

  The smell of food floated enticingly on the air from the kitchen, making Falconer aware of its presence anew, and he sniffed, and sighed with anticipation at the gastronomic pleasures to come, in total agreement with his furry companions on this subject.

  STAVE FOUR

  A Seasonal Confection of Misdirection and Deceit

  27th December, 2009 – morning

  Carmichael called for Falconer in his old Skoda, seasonally trimmed with tinsel on its old-fashioned radio aerial and round the door handles, a tiny Christmas tree affixed to its parcel shelf.

  “Did you have a nice Christmas, sir?” the sergeant asked, as soon as the inspector had taken his uncomfortable place in the clapped-out passenger seat, having had to brush aside empty crisp packets and chocolate bar wrappers so to do.

  “I certainly had a nice peaceful time, and Mycroft, Tar Baby, Ruby and I listened to the Queen’s speech together, as is our habit. What about you? How was your first Christmas with your family-to-be?”

  “Absolutely fantastic, sir!” Carmichael declared, delight and happiness writ all over his face in large letters. “I can’t believe my luck, when I remember what I was doing this time last year. I must be the luckiest man in the world, I reckon.”

  “I think that applies to all four of you, considering the circumstances under which you and Kerry met,” replied Falconer, squirming and removing a now somewhat squashed tube of Smarties from underneath him. “We’ll go to Cutler’s apartment first, then on to his parents’ house, then, finally on to Miss Cater’s parents’ place. PC Green and WPC Starr did the honours, with the distressing job of informing her parents of their daughter’s death. Damned charitable of them to volunteer. I must say, I didn’t fancy doing it myself; not on Christmas Day, anyway.”

  “Me neither, sir. I think we owe them both a drink, to say thank you. Any news from Doc Christmas yet?” asked Carmichael, receiving an answer in the negative, which wasn’t surprising really, considering the time of year. He’d no doubt be in touch, as soon as he had anything for them.

  Dominic Cutler’s address turned out to be in an apartment block, of a similar housing class to that of his late fiancée, and he answered their ring at the external intercom with surprising promptness, almost as if he had been waiting for them, which, of course, he had. He had hardly slept since Christmas Day morning, despite being given something to aid him in that respect, and was desperate to know what they had discovered about Angela’s death.

  Inside, the flat was luxuriously appointed, but without overwhelming the visitor with its occupier’s obvious wealth. Everything was discreet, the colours muted, the atmosphere airy and relaxing. Dominic begged them to be seated and make themselves comfortable – his manners impeccable now the first shock had worn off.

  “I wonder if you can tell me about your movements, in detail, from when you went to your parents’ house on Christmas Eve, to when you found Miss Cater’s body on Christmas morning?” asked Falconer. Carmichael was seated slightly out of sight-line, so that his note-taking should remain discreet, and not unnerve the bereaved young man.

  “I know we went over this on Christmas Day, but I’d just like to recap, in case you’ve remembered something you forgot to tell me before, in your distress.”

  “No problem!” answered Cutler. “I just called round to see them, knowing it would be the last Christmas my father saw. He’s suffering from cancer, and is in the latter stages now. It won’t be long, for him, now – Last Chance Saloon, as it were. As I told you on Christmas Day, we just did the ordinary traditional things that we always did on Christmas Eve: the telling of ghost stories, and the cracking of nuts.

  “My mother gave me a rather valuable necklace for Angela, as a Christmas p
resent. It was one of the pieces of family jewellery, that she wanted her to have, now that she was going to be a member of our family. I concealed it in my wallet, when I went round to Angela’s, because I wanted to go home and wrap it, as a surprise for Christmas Day.

  “When I got to her flat, everything was just as normal, or as normal as it can be at this time of year. We were to spend the next day together, and she was already fussing about the ingredients for the Christmas meal. You know how women are!

  “She put a CD of carols on while she buzzed about in the kitchen, and I looked on, not daring to try to get involved, in case I made her lose concentration. Then we went into the living room, and she put on a DVD of Dickens’ Christmas Carol – the one with Alec Guinness. 1954, I think it was made, but it’s the absolute best one, and we put up the tree, which was a bit of a monster, but suited her place perfectly well.

  “After that, we … we … er … went to bed for a while.” Revealing such an intimate detail had obviously embarrassed Dominic, and his narrative ground to a halt.

  “Thank you very much for being so frank with us, Mr Cutler. Dr Christmas said there was evidence of sexual activity, and you have just given us a rational explanation for that. Please carry on,” Falconer encouraged him.

  “Then I came back here, wrapped the necklace for the next day, and went to bed. There’s nothing else to tell, except for me going round to Angela’s apartment, the next morning, letting myself in, a little bit pleased that she had not yet woken, so that I could play Father Christmas with the necklace from my mother. I knew she’d love it, and would probably wear it on our wedding day.”

  “Do you have a date for that, Mr Cutler?”

  “No, we hadn’t got round to that yet. We wanted it to be Christmas Eve, but, with my father being so ill, we decided that I’d move in here on January the first, and we’d set a date … afterwards – you know. When my father had … gone.”