Christmas Mourning (The Falconer Files Book 8) Read online

‘What’s he said this time?’ Falconer asked him, taking a tentative sip of his coffee and finding it to his liking.

  ‘Yesterday he cornered her in Allsorts and told her some horror stories about pets lying on newborn babies’ faces, and smothering them, backing it up by saying that he worked for the BBC and had heard all about such events. He only shut up when the owner, Rosemary Wilson – you remember Kerry’s aunt, don’t you? – came over and heard what he was saying. She had him out of that shop so quick his feet didn’t touch the ground.’

  ‘Is that all?’ asked Falconer in all innocence, finding the story quite mild, and not realising what a hornets’ nest he was stirring up.

  ‘All?’ shouted Carmichael, drawing eyes from all over the canteen.

  ‘Shhhhh! Calm down, Carmichael, otherwise I’ll be able to sell tickets to this conversation.’

  ‘Well, when was the last time you spent a lot of quality time with a pregnant woman?’

  ‘OK, you’ve got me there.’ The answer was never, so perhaps he’d better find out just why his sergeant was in such a rage about it. Capitulating, he continued, ‘You win; but what about it?’

  ‘Their hormones are all over the place. The littlest thing upsets them out of all proportion, and they’re convinced that everything’s going to go wrong with the pregnancy, the birth, and for months after that.

  ‘The closer to the birth they get, the more ridiculous and outrageous the fears, but there’s no rationalising with them. Kerry’s getting herself into a right tizzy now there’s only just over a month to go, and this idiot just feeds her fears and creates new ones she hadn’t even thought of.’

  ‘Is it really that bad?’ asked Falconer. He’d always considered Kerry Carmichael a very grounded person, not easily upset or knocked off balance.

  ‘You should see her, sir. Sometimes she just cries, and there’s nothing I can do or say to help her, and quite often it’s because she’s bumped into him, and he’s set her off again.’

  ‘And what is his name?’

  ‘Digby Jeffries. He lives in one of those four new houses just to the south of the village green. He’s an old codger, or I’d have asked him to step outside to settle the matter long before now.’

  ‘Come on, Carmichael. We can’t have you assaulting old-age pensioners. That wouldn’t do the reputation of the police a jot of good. Have you tried to have a word with him and told him what effect he’s having on Kerry?’ Wise words, Falconer thought, but was then disabused.

  ‘Yes! He actually gave this horrible little giggle, then said he was just passing the time of day, and was I sure it wasn’t me being over-sensitive?’

  ‘Sounds a right arse. Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir. At least, not yet. I’ll try talking to him again, and see how far I get,’ Carmichael finished, and heaved a huge sigh. He really didn’t need this hassle. And, in fact, neither did Falconer. Not only did he have his monthly report to finish, but there had been a spate of burglaries of garden furniture and statuary that was trying him to the limit, and no one yet had reported a sighting of the van that might be transporting these heavy items from gardens to God knows where.

  Monday 6th December – afternoon

  Even though the weather was bitingly cold and the roads slippery, Carmichael had stated that he was going home for lunch, giving no reason other than he thought it might be a good idea. He’d been in a subdued mood for the final half-hour of the morning, but would offer no reason for it. After his departure, Falconer had sent out for sandwiches, not wishing to brave the severity of the temperature if he could avoid it, and spent a quiet hour with his current reading matter – statements about the stolen garden accoutrements.

  The hands of the old-fashioned wall clock had no sooner reached two o’clock when it seemed that time was repeating itself, and Carmichael stormed into the office again like an avenging angel, his face purple and twisted with fury. This time, without waiting to be asked, he burst into speech in a sort of strangled scream.

  ‘He’s done it again! She rang me just before lunch, but by the time I got there, she was in a right old state. Something’s got to be done about him!’

  ‘I presume you’re referring to Mr Jeffries again?’ asked Falconer in a quiet, calm voice. There were so many suspect vans registered locally that it had been like looking for a needle in a haystack, and he was quite glad of the interruption.

  ‘Yes I bloody well am! Mr bloody Jeffries had better watch out, or I’ll strangle the bloody life out of the old villain!’ This time, Carmichael’s voice was a low and dangerous growl.

  ‘Calm down, Sergeant. Just take a deep breath or two, sit down, and count to a hundred, or a thousand, if it helps, then see how you feel. Would you like me to have a word with this trouble-making old codger?’ asked Falconer, as Carmichael sank reluctantly into his chair. ‘Nothing official, you understand, but maybe I could drop into The Fisherman’s Flies with you for a half sometime, and you could point him out to me. I presume he uses the pub. Gossipy old-woman types like him usually do, to spread their poison and pick up new ammunition.’

  ‘Please, sir,’ agreed the sergeant, tears forming in his eyes, now that his fury had abated, and with real anguish on his face, ‘but not just yet. Let’s leave it a couple of days, and see if he gets bored with taunting her.’ His soft heart was breaking for Kerry, who usually coped with everything that life could throw at her without turning a hair. It could only be the effects of the pregnancy, but that didn’t make the situation any easier.

  ‘OK, so what horror story did he have for her this time?’ asked Falconer, dreading to hear what this interfering old ferret had come up with this time to frighten a woman within a few weeks of giving birth.

  ‘It was all about the number of newborn babies who are mutilated or killed by jealous pets who were in the household before they were born.’

  ‘Monstrous! Silly old sod obviously needs to take up a hobby, or maybe start writing horror stories to stop him getting under the skin of other people.’ This chap really knew how to stir up the emotions, choosing just the right material and delivering it at just the right time. He must be well-practised. Maybe a word from someone a little higher up the food chain would sort him out.

  Friday 10th December

  The raging roar started this time, presumably in the foyer of the station, and Falconer could hear it getting louder and louder as it approached his office. The office door nearly came off its hinges this time as it was flung open. Carmichael rushed through and headed straight for the nearest wall, beginning to bang his fists on it while uttering obscenities and threats.

  Deciding that distance was the better part of valour in this case – Carmichael was in one hell of a temper, and had very big fists and lightning reflexes besides – he spoke slowly and calmly, hoping to distract his sergeant from his assault on Market Darley Police property. ‘I presume Digby the Mouth has had another little dig. What did he say this time?’ he asked, laying aside the paperwork he had been trying to clear from his desk.

  It took a few minutes for Carmichael to stop thumping at the plaster, gather himself together, and sit down in the closest to a civilised manner as he could manage, given his current emotional state.

  ‘I was in the shower this morning, and Kerry only opened the door to collect the milk, and there he was; just happened to be walking past – my big, fat, hairy arse, he was. This time he’d dug up even more horror stories, and told her a tale of big babies – referring to my size, obviously – being the cause of a lot of internal damage to the mothers, sometimes even maternal death.

  ‘I had to go over to the shop to get some more milk. Kerry dropped ours, still in its bottle holder, with horror at what he was telling her. I took her over to her godparents at The Beehive, to spend the day there – though Marian seemed in rather a weird mood, and not really pleased to see us – then dropped the boys off at school. But, on the drive here, when I’d had time to take in what had actually happene
d, I felt my temper start to rise, and as I approached the station, I knew I’d have to get inside, or risk behaving the way I just did outside and have to be restrained.’

  ‘Thank God! I thought it might have been something I’d done,’ said Falconer, more to make the younger man smile than because it was true. This sort of occurrence was becoming tediously repetitive. ‘We’re going to have to do something about this. We don’t want Kerry to go into premature labour just because this joker gets his kicks from making other people feel uncomfortable or scared. And you say he’s like this with everyone?’

  ‘Yes. ‘Can you make it tonight, and come to the pub with me? If he’s there, maybe you could say something to him to make him stop.’

  ‘No worries. I’ll follow you home later, and we’ll just drop in and see if he’s in there. All I can do is my best, but I’ll try to put the frighteners on him if I can.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Honestly, I don’t know how I keep my hands off him.’

  At Falconer’s request, Carmichael telephoned Kerry at her godparents’ home that afternoon and told her that he would be bringing a visitor home that evening, but not to worry about food, as Inspector Falconer was going to pick up fish and chips for them all on the way. It would save his wife cooking, and she was so very tired now at this advanced stage of pregnancy.

  When they had done what they could for the day, Falconer followed Carmichael’s battered old Skoda, both cars stopping once so that Falconer could be given instructions for what the other members of the family would like, then they headed straight for Castle Farthing. They had gone slightly out of their way to the chip shop on the Upper Darley parade for although there had been a tragic occurrence there just after Easter, [2] it still produced the best fried food in the area.

  Kerry was back in her own home and greeted them with the table already laid for five, a pot of tea brewing in the centre, two plates of bread and butter, and all the condiments needed for a meal of this sort, but her face was puffy and her eyes swollen and red with weeping.

  It simply wasn’t fair, thought Falconer, that such a previously happy couple should have their simple existence blighted by the spite of a silly old man, whose obvious delight it was to tease and frighten the weaker and more vulnerable members of the community, and he felt his ire rising just at the thought of setting eyes on him.

  Carmichael had immediately taken his rotund wife in his arms and begun kissing her hair and murmuring words of comfort to her, while she told him that she thought there was something seriously wrong with Auntie Marian. She’d been strange all day – sort of distracted and forgetful, and now she was really worried about her.

  Carmichael did his best to explain that it was probably because Kerry was so sensitive and had been upset, that she was seeing something that simply wasn’t there in her godmother, and that they should just concentrate on their own worries before taking on those of other people. She’d feel a lot better when both Christmas and the birth were over, and she must just try to keep calm for the remaining weeks so that her blood pressure didn’t go too high.

  For want of anything better to do, Falconer looked round their developing home and realised what a good job they were doing, turning two cottages into one. Where walls had once been, separating the space into tiny boxes, now there were sturdy RSJs holding up the structure, and making large open spaces that were much more conducive to life in the twenty-first century rather than the nineteenth.

  The chimney that had been shared by both properties was now a central fireplace (surrounded by safety-guards, of course), the space opening out into what had been the cottage next door, to either side of it, making one room out of what had once been two tiny parlours and two minuscule dining rooms.

  Both kitchens had also been joined together at the rear, and a downstairs shower room added into the mixture. The only indication that this had once been two dwellings was the presence of twin staircases, placed centrally where the two cottages had once divided, but, as far as the boys were concerned, this only added to the fun of their home, as the two landings had now been joined too, and they could now race up one staircase, through the new opening on the landing, and down the other stairs – a grand game!

  This evening a hearty log fire burned in the grate and the atmosphere was cosy, the first few Christmas cards on display, adding to the atmosphere, as did the huge wicker basket of logs waiting to provide heat throughout the evening.

  Falconer took himself off into the kitchen, extracted two enormous roasting tins from the storage drawer beneath the oven, and loaded the contents of his still-steaming packages into them. He’d bought enough to satisfy even the appetite of a Carmichael, Davey, DS. As he did so, he thought of his first sight this evening of the two boys, Dean and Kyle.

  They were both squeezed into the seat of one armchair, the older boy with his arm around the younger, the younger one with his left thumb in his mouth, his right hand picking at the wool of the front of his jumper. To him, this was demonstration enough of how badly affected the boys were by their mother’s distress. Usually, at Carmichael’s entrance, they threw themselves at his legs, chattering away about their day and what they had done. Tonight they had sat in silence, cuddled together in the same chair for reassurance. He must do something to help.

  After a few more minutes of comforting his wife, Carmichael loosed his embrace and found Falconer looking at the cards on display on the sideboard, apparently unperturbed by Kerry’s display of distress, and her fears for her godmother, branded as just another symptom of raging hormones by her husband.

  ‘Sorry about that, sir,’ he mumbled, as he walked towards the kitchen, cheered to find that Falconer had turned on the oven and put the food in to warm. ‘I’ll just get the plates out.’

  The food proved to be a good reviver of spirits, being the boys’ favourite; for Kerry, something she hadn’t had to cook; and, for her husband, lots. Just lots! That was fine by him. After the meal, however, when Kerry was clearing the table and shooing the boys upstairs to the bathroom before putting on their pyjamas, Falconer sat down opposite his sergeant, and said,

  ‘We simply can’t put up with Kerry getting herself into that state. Tell her we’re off for a quick drink, and you can point this old joker out to me, while I think what on earth can be done about him. You say you’ve already had a word with him, and that’s had no effect. Well, that says something for the thickness of the man’s hide. If you’d had a word with me, I’d be terrified.’

  ‘But I bet you can be more scary than me, sir. You’ve got this sort of … presence of menace when you’re angry.’

  ‘Have I?’ queried Falconer, being totally unaware of just how intimidating he could appear when he was in a fury.

  ‘It must be your army training, sir, because you scare the wits out of me sometimes.’ Then, completely abandoning the subject, but leading to matters that arose from it, he called out, ‘Leave the washing up for me, Kerry love, and I’ll do it when I get back. We’re just slipping over to The Fisherman’s Flies for a quick one. I won’t be long.’ As he pulled on his warmest coat, a hand grabbed at his trousers, and he looked down to see Kyle standing there with an excited expression on his face. ‘Got a surprise for you, Daddy,’ he whispered, looking shyly at Falconer as he did so, ‘but you can’t have it until tomorrow.’

  ‘Lucky, lucky me!’ exclaimed his stepfather. ‘I’ll look forward to that all night. Now, you push off upstairs and get into the bath, because I think your mum’s very tired, and would like to have a rest in front of the fire.’

  ‘OK, Daddy, and …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I love you,’ said the little boy, flushing with the embarrassment of saying this in front of Uncle Harry, who didn’t know about this little nightly ritual.

  ‘I love you too, son. Now, off you go upstairs. Little angels,’ he commented to Falconer as he reached to open the front door for them.

  The wind took their breath away, blowing straight from the north with n
eedles of ice in its breath, which stung their cheeks and closed their eyes in self-defence. There must have been a light dusting of snow between their arrival and now, but under this, where the temperature had dropped even further, was ice, and the going underfoot was treacherous.

  Ignoring what anyone might say should they be seen, Carmichael put his arm through Falconer’s so that they could help each other balance, for the pathway to the green was like a skating rink. Ears, noses, and fingers were red and stinging when they reached the pub’s door, which was only across the green, and Falconer felt for anyone homeless who was outside on a night like tonight.

  Inside, the heat of the log fire and the lights and good cheer lifted their spirits. Falconer got them a half-pint of shandy each, as neither was much of a drinker, and they settled down at a table that had a good view of the whole bar.

  ‘That’s him, down there!’ muttered Carmichael, pointing discreetly at table level. ‘Sitting with his ‘new village’ cronies, all previously involved with the media in some way, and so very smug because they consider themselves so much better than the ‘turnips’ who have lived here for generations.’

  ‘But you’re an incomer,’ Falconer commented, as Carmichael had been a resident of the village for less than a year, and had only moved in after his wedding at New Year.

  ‘I know, but I’m bred from the same soil. There’s nothing hoity-toity about me, or any other of our neighbours, no matter how much money they’ve got or what they’ve achieved in the past. We’re all just villagers. But these incomers, they’re a breed apart, and they look down on everyone else, thinking themselves something special just because of what they did for a job.’

  ‘Give me a rundown, then. There’re five of them at that table: four men and a woman. Put yourself in ‘obs’ mode, and tell me what you know, and what you see,’ said Falconer, hoping to avoid a return of the anger that had completely overtaken his normally mild-mannered and polite sergeant that afternoon.

  ‘Can you see the one that looks just like a garden gnome?’ asked Carmichael, a storm clouding his brow with emotion.