Choked off (The Falconer Files Book 2) Read online

  Stoney Cross had become a hub for those of an artistic and creative bent, and was now polishing up its talents for the biggest show the village had produced in living memory.

  In the town of Carsfold, Marcus Willoughby was packing up his possessions in preparation for moving to his new home. He had everything ‘in the bag’ workwise between now and Friday, when he would take up residence in his recently purchased dwelling, and thought his new job was going very well indeed. Smiling smugly, he inserted the last few books into a box, and sealed it with parcel tape.

  Chapter One

  Tuesday, 1st September

  I

  The posters had been up for a month, taped in windows, glued to village noticeboards and pinned to the walls of the public house. They had been pasted on telegraph poles and fences, in fact anywhere that the glaring of the fluorescent yellow background would attract attention. The event had been four months in the planning, from the first nebulous idea, the first vague hope that it really could happen, through all the meetings and arguments, to today.

  Today the inhabitants of Stoney Cross began to put into motion their fabulous and exciting plan, the results of which would dazzle those from the surrounding villages and visitors alike. It would be a showcase for the multi-faceted artistic talent of the village’s inhabitants, and they waited in great anticipation for what would be ‘The Stoney Cross Arts Festival’ – with luck the first of many over the years to come. This was to take place over the weekend of Saturday the fifth and Sunday the sixth of September, with platforms and exhibition space to show off various artistic gifts harboured within this small community.

  There was to be an ‘Artists Trail’ round the homes of those participating, so that their works could be seen in situ: sculptures too heavy to move, water-colours, abstracts; all the categories one could imagine for the visual representations of art, within the limitations, of course, of such a small place.

  In the multi-purpose village hall there were to be musical recitals, poetry reading, excerpts from literary works, and a dancing display. The Inn on the Green and the teashop were girding their loins for this onslaught, while at the same time rubbing their hands with glee at the thought of such unexpected profits at the tail-end of the season. (The Festival committee had a strong aversion to the idea of scores of tiny feet thundering and trampling amidst their pretty, ordered village, and also feared for the exhibits, at risk of damage from sticky little fingers and the like, and had decided to stage the event when the schools had reconvened for the new academic year.)

  Front gardens had been mown, flower beds weeded, hanging baskets refreshed, and brass door furniture cleaned and polished until it smote the eye with its twinkling glitter. Stoney Cross was on parade, and would not compromise its reputation for being picturesque. The village’s collective consciousness shrugged off the word ‘twee’ like an unwanted hand on the shoulder, and concentrated, instead, on the idea of ‘the perfect place to live’, visualising it as envied by others who passed through, or who lived in the surrounding communities, wishing they could live there too.

  In the village hall itself, were the several inhabitants who had formed the Festival’s committee during its planning stage, plus Hugo Westinghall, a romantic novelist like his wife, and in attendance by invitation. Their two children played under public supervision on the village green, along with their black Labrador, Diabolo. Those gathered were giving the finishing touches to the ‘lick of paint’ to the walls that was deemed necessary for the presentation to the public of the jewels in the local artists’ crowns.

  Hugo was a small man, only about five feet six inches in height and, as the area he was working on rose higher and higher, he began to make little jumping movements to achieve his goal, leaving small spots of paint on the bald patch revealed by his fast-disappearing mousey hair.

  ‘Get a chair like me, you silly,’ called his wife Felicity, only five-feet-one herself, and in the process of graduating from a chair to a stepladder. They were both looking forward to the readings from their respective novels, and Felicity had re-hennaed her wispy hair in preparation for looking her best for her public.

  ‘Has anyone had any thoughts on additional publicity?’ called Sadie Palister from the other end of the hall where she was crouched, painting almost at floor level. ‘And I have no idea why I’ve been involved in this face-lift, as I shall be holding ‘open house’. You know my stuff’s much too difficult and expensive to move without a buyer footing the bill.’ Some of Sadie’s sculptures, especially the outdoor ones, literally weighed a ton.

  ‘Serves you right for being on the committee,’ shouted Hugo Westinghall from his new height on a chair. ‘I haven’t even had that pleasure, and here I am, paintbrush in hand, giving my all for your art.’

  ‘Shut up, Hugo!’ This was from Sadie.

  ‘What about the local radio station?’ Fiona Pargeter, the singer, spoke up in a penetrating, musical voice. ‘There’s been a new arts programme on that, for the last three weeks. It’s supposed to cover arty people and events: has a bit of music and something bookish every week.’

  ‘When’s it on?’ carolled Christobel Templeton (poet, and always on the lookout for a good rhyme for the word ‘purple’).

  ‘Fridays at three o’clock,’ Fiona announced to anyone who was interested.

  ‘What station?’

  ‘Radio Carsfold.’

  ‘Who’s the presenter?’ Sadie Palister had now given her full attention to Fiona.

  ‘I can’t remember his name, but he’s quite outspoken on behalf of villages and their inhabitants.’ Fiona had obviously been paying attention over the past few weeks. Climbing down from her supported plank, the singer flicked on the tea-urn and prepared to inform and educate. ‘As I said, it’s only been on for three weeks, and maybe he’d be glad of the material, as he’s only just starting up. It could be a win-win situation for both parties.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but you say he’s outspoken – about what in particular?’ interrupted Camilla Markland, harpist and local harpy, and a twenty-four carat bitch in many people’s opinion.

  Undeterred, Fiona started to recite the contents of the first trio of broadcasts. ‘Well, the first week he had a go at incomer-commuters, who have raised local house prices over the years, thus making it difficult for real locals to afford to buy properties in the villages.’

  There was a muted ‘Hurrah!’ from an unusually subdued Ashley Rushton, there with his partner Delia Jephcott, and still suffering from a humongous hangover after celebrating his birthday rather more vigorously than he had intended the night before.

  ‘What do you mean, Ashley?’ queried Jeremy Templeton.

  ‘We’re incomer-commuters ourselves,’ Ashley replied, but still in quiet tones, so as not to wake the little men with pick-axes who had taken up residence inside his head. ‘It’s us who’ve put the house prices up, so I say “hurrah’ for us”, for increasing our original investments.’

  ‘Point taken,’ Jeremy conceded with a self-satisfied smile, as the answer hit home.

  ‘The second programme,’ Fiona continued undeterred, but with a slight frown of irritation gathering on her forehead, ‘was about the number of buildings in villages which have been converted or totally refurbished and modernised. He said that that was destroying local history.’

  Again she was interrupted, this time by Minty Wingfield-Heyes, abstract artist. ‘Bollocks!’ she shouted. ‘If it wasn’t for people like us, this particular village would either be a museum, or a ghost town. We’ve saved it from disappearing into the earth whence it came,’ she finished, rather pompously.

  This received a cheer from all present, but Minty sent the ball straight back to Fiona. ‘And the third week? He sounds all right so far – a bit of a precious prat, but we can use him for publicity if he’s naïve enough to think that places like this could have survived without outside money.’

  ‘That was to do with weekenders …’

  ‘What? That
dreary soap opera the BBC will persist in broadcasting?’ Sadie was absolutely not a fan.

  ‘No, you fool! Weekenders who come down to their holiday homes and bring all their food and drink with them – everything with which to pander to their every whim, and never buy anything from the village shops. He also had a go at the aforementioned incomers who shop at the big supermarkets in the surrounding towns. Apparently we are “killing the local economy”. We’re the reason that village shops are closing down in their droves.’

  ‘Huh! Who needs that pathetic bunch of shops in the High Street?’ Sadie Palister was on a roll today. ‘There’s not one of them worth a light, as far as everyday living goes. Who’d miss them if they weren’t there?’

  ‘The organic foods are very useful for a healthy diet. I wouldn’t like to be caught short without bulgar wheat – or bran – and have to traipse all the way to a supermarket just to get it,’ Christobel Templeton offered, timidly.

  ‘But you wouldn’t die without it for a few days, would you?’ Sadie Palister persisted. ‘They do all that healthy stuff in the supermarkets, and you can have it delivered.’

  ‘I know, but it’s not the same, is it? It’s so nice to be able to look at, and touch and smell your food before you buy it, don’t you think?’

  ‘Not with fresh fish, it isn’t.’ Sadie had an answer for everything, and that seemed to close that particular part of the discussion.

  ‘Well, shall we ask him, then?’ Fiona Pargeter brought them back to the crux of the matter.

  ‘Ask him what?’ Ashley Rushton was still feeling rough, and hadn’t been paying attention, because his insides, feeling like the Bay of Biscay in a force nine, were commandeering his entire concentration.

  ‘Oh, keep up, Ashley!’ barked Fiona. ‘Ask him to report on our Arts Festival. He could say a few words about when it’s on, on this Friday’s programme, and he’d have the weekend to look around and get something for his next programme. What do you think, guys?’

  A ‘yes’ in unison answered her question and, at this happy juncture, they all abandoned their various positions and painting materials, and adjourned to the tea-urn for some well-earned refreshment, thoroughly puffed-up with self-importance at their generosity and largesse towards this as-yet unnamed and unsuspecting radio broadcaster.

  II

  Later that evening, many of the locals were gathered in the saloon bar of The Inn on the Green in eager discussion about the forthcoming Arts Festival. Around one table were gathered Lydia Culverwell the pianist, Delia Jephcott the flautist, and Camilla Markland the harpist. It was tonight’s ‘musical’ table.

  Around an adjacent table were clustered Sadie Palister, Minty Wingfield-Heyes, Christobel Templeton, Fiona Pargeter, and Felicity Westinghall. (Hugo was at home, ostensibly to look after the children; in reality, to put in a little more practice for his reading the next weekend.) Apart from Fiona, who was blatantly avoiding the company of her neighbour Lydia, this was the ‘literary and visual arts’ table.

  Back at the musical table Camilla was sharpening her claws. ‘No Ashley tonight, Delia?’ she asked. ‘He’s such a youngster. I’d have thought he would want to come out of an evening, instead of staying inside like someone middle-aged.’ (Meow!)

  ‘I freely confess that he’s a little younger than me,’ (he was twenty-eight to her forty-three, but that was by-the-by), ‘but he doesn’t have the stamina that those of us of a slightly more mature persuasion enjoy. Anyway, he’s still suffering from the hangover he spent so long courting last night at his birthday celebrations. He was as sick as a dog when we got home from the hall earlier, and when I suggested he might come out for a restorative glass or two, he turned positively green and headed straight for the bathroom again.’

  ‘OK, don’t get your knickers in a twist. I was just asking, wasn’t I?’

  ‘Maybe. But at least I don’t lie about my age,’ muttered Delia, under her breath.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Oh, nothing; just clearing my throat.’

  ‘He probably doesn’t need as much stamina as I’ve had to call on recently,’ stated Lydia Culverwell cryptically.

  ‘Why’s that, old bean? Got yourself a nice fit young bit of bum to keep you warm of a night?’ called Sadie Palister, shamelessly eavesdropping from the next table.

  Ignoring this interruption, Lydia continued, ‘It’s the constant noise nuisance from next door that’s really been getting me down. I was wondering if I could have some time before the Festival opens, to practise in the hall, away from all the discordant distractions.’

  There was a shouted exclamation in response to this, much louder than all the other voices in the bar, and from the direction of the other table. ‘I heard that!’ retorted Fiona Pargeter.

  ‘You were meant to!’ Lydia called back. ‘If anyone has to put up with noise pollution, it’s me, with you ‘ah-ah-ahing’ away all day, out of tune and in the wrong key. It’s like living next door to a cats’ home. Why don’t you just have some singing lessons, and then move to Land’s End or John O’Groats to practise?’ Lydia Culverwell vented her spleen with all the accuracy of a trained sniper.

  ‘I heard that, too!’ retorted Fiona.

  ‘Good!’

  ‘You spiteful old witch!’ (Lydia was a mere two years older than Fiona, thirty-six years to thirty-four – hardly a chasm. But all was fair in love and village war.) ‘What do you think it’s like for me, with you crashing and banging about on that bloody piano of yours, all day, every day. It’s like living next to a …a …a bloody poltergeist!’ So great was her anger that Fiona spluttered to find a suitable comparison.’

  Peregrine McKnight, one half of the management of The Inn on the Green, appeared suddenly between the two warring tables, and offered an olive branch. ‘I don’t know! Such artistic temperaments! Now, why don’t we just calm down, and I’ll bring you all drinks on the house, to seal a pact of peace. We can’t have the law in here, arresting you all for disorderly conduct, can we? Where would our Arts Festival be without you?’

  At this exact moment, his partner in management, Tarquin Radcliffe, oozed over with a large tray of drinks, appeasement writ all over his smarmy face. ‘Here we are, my darlings. Drink, drink, and fight no more. Smile, be happy, and accept our little gift of good luck to you all.’

  The mood lightened after just a couple of scowled glances, and a voice that had been previously drowned out by the outbreak of hostilities was lifted again in suggestion. ‘Why don’t you just borrow the key to the hall and practise there? As far as I know, Serena Lyddiard is key-holder at the moment. No doubt, she too would like to go in, to get a bit of practice. There can’t be much room in her house for dancing, and she’ll need to get the feel of the space before her performance.’ The sweet voice of reason came, unusually, from Delia Jephcott. Normally a dissenting character, she felt she had already got her money’s worth tonight, and was more interested in staying out late to annoy Ashley than in going home early after a row.

  This final suggestion effectively separated both tables and turned them back in on themselves, as other minds wondered about borrowing the key from Serena and having a little time to themselves, to ‘try out the acoustics’ (aka show off), and plotting how soon they could nip off to Blackbird Cottage to get their hands on this powerful piece of metal.

  Those at the musical table, inevitably, left first, closely followed by Fiona Pargeter, whose mind was running along identical lines. At the literary (and visual arts) table, Felicity Westinghall and Christobel Templeton were also anxious to be off, as they had similar aspirations for their recitations, and soon made their farewells, leaving just Sadie and Minty to finish off the pork scratchings. ‘Ah, what a thing it is, to be spiritual enough to dedicate one’s life to one’s Art,’ smirked Sadie to her companion.

  ‘Quite!’ agreed Minty Wingfield-Heyes, grinning back, ‘but only if you can get your sticky little hands on that key, and bag most of the time available for yourself. Thank God
we’re both exhibiting from home, or we’d probably be scratching each other’s eyes out to secure the most prominent positions for our work.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ murmured Sadie. ‘A-bloody-men to that!’

  Chapter Two

  Wednesday, 2nd September

  I

  It was Fiona Pargeter who took it upon herself to get in touch with Radio Carsfold to obtain the name of the lucky radio presenter, and instructions for getting in touch with him. As it was she who had listened to the programmes, and she who had told everyone else about them, she felt it was her duty to do so (apart from the fact that her melodious speaking voice might possibly be broadcast across the countryside for the enjoyment of others).

  The name she was given was ‘Marcus Willoughby’; the telephone number, another Carsfold one. Fiona’s hand displayed a minor tremble as she dialled it, but immediately stopped as a voice answered her summons. It was a deep voice, a deep, golden voice – rich, velvety and suntanned, and she was immediately enchanted. If anyone was going to be tall, dark and handsome, it had to be this man, she thought, automatically putting her hand to her hair. ‘Hello, is that Marcus Willoughby? Oh, enchanting to speak to you, too. I wonder if I could ask you the teensy-weensiest little favour?’ she enquired, making her voice deep and husky – what she thought of as her ‘sexy’ voice.

  ‘And what might that be, dear lady? Speak, and I shall positively rush to your aid.’

  ‘Oh! Well, thank you.’ Fiona was definitely flustered. ‘It’s just that we’re putting on – I mean, the village where I live is putting on an Arts Festival, this Saturday and Sunday, actually, and I’ve been listening to your programmes – so interesting and uplifting – and I wondered if you might …’ Here, she lost herself a little, but battled on bravely. ‘I wondered if you might come along to it, might even give it a mention this Friday, and then come along … Yes, just come along to it and maybe, oh, I don’t know, maybe you could do a few itsy-bitsy minutes on it when you’d seen some of it. I mean, it goes on all weekend, but I couldn’t expect …’