Strict and Peculiar (The Falconer Files Book 7) Read online

  Their chat with Dave Hillman, the site manager, didn’t take long, and the time that had elapsed during their conversation with old acquaintances had been enough to allow the tiny SOCO team which had been assigned to this vandalism to arrive, so Falconer was happy that he was leaving the locus in safe hands.

  It was cosy inside Spinning Wheel Cottage, and Dimity had already brewed both a pot of tea and a pot of coffee by the time they arrived, for Noah and Patience had also been included in the invitation even though they only lived next door in Pear Tree Cottage. Both homes were situated on the Market Darley Road, just down Tuppenny Lane, and a left turn from the chapel.

  Although the sitting room of Dimity’s home wasn’t tiny, the presence of Carmichael in it made it look more like a room in a playhouse, so tall was he, and with a build to match. He had had to duck his head to go through the front door, and then again to enter the sitting room from the minute hall.

  A path was immediately cleared so that they could warm their hands by the blazing log fire, and Patience went into the dining room to fetch a couple of extra chairs so that they could all sit down.

  After Dimity had served them with the hot drink of their choice, goggling at the amount of sugar that Carmichael spooned into his cup, and handed round a plate of home-made biscuits, returned empty to her, in the hopes, of at least Carmichael, of a refill, she took her own cup and looked round at them all, sitting there enjoying the warmth of her home and her refreshments.

  ‘Such a nice reunion,’ she commented, then added, ‘but also, so sad, that Hermione will never be able to join us again.’ Hermione Grayling, a local author and long-time friend of not only Dimity, but of Charles Rainbird and Vernon Warlock as well, had been murdered back in January last, and Dimity still missed her regular company and their conversations about their shared history immensely.

  The sergeant was squeezed into what had appeared to be a rather roomy Windsor chair, before he had decided to sit in it. Now he looked like an adult squeezed into a similarly styled chair but made for the proportions of a child. He had decided that now was the time for him to make a contribution to the general conversation.

  ‘Anggy goffup?’ asked Carmichael, through a mouthful of oat- and chocolate-chip biscuit crumbs. This alien-sounding language was easily deciphered by those present as, ‘Any gossip?’, and Falconer suppressed a wince at his partner’s intrusive question, then was surprised by the eagerness with which the others gave their answers.

  ‘The Littlemores are still on the sauce, but I believe I mentioned that up at the chapel,’ was Noah’s contribution to the subject.

  ‘And Elizabeth Sinden – you remember Buffy? – she’s walking out with Craig Crawford,’ added Patience.

  ‘They’re doing a real old-fashioned job of it, too,’ interjected Dimity. ‘They go out on proper dates, and hold hands like teenagers in the street. It lifts the heart to see two people getting on so well together, without throwing themselves into bed in the first five minutes of their relationship.’

  Falconer was pleased to hear this, as he had considered Buffy Sinden a lovely person under all the heavy make-up and unsuitable clothes. She had determined, when he had last seen her, to turn over a new leaf, and it sounded like she was doing exactly what she had planned to do.

  ‘Not much else is going on, though,’ said Patience. ‘Nothing much ever happens in Steynham St Michael.’

  ‘Apart from our little contretemps at the beginning of the year, that is,’ concluded Noah, then blushing as he saw Dimity’s grimace, at having the subject raised again. ‘Sorry, Dimity,’ he apologised. ‘Me and my big mouth!’

  Abruptly pulling herself together, Dimity asked the two detectives, ‘And what, may I ask, brings you back to these parts again? I assume it’s something to do with the chapel? I was on my way there to see how they were getting on when we bumped into you.’

  ‘It is indeed, Miss Pryor. There have been reports recently about someone trespassing on the site – leaving bunches of flowers, that sort of thing. The latest, however, is a case of vandalism. Some writing has been applied to one of the newly painted walls … ’

  He was interrupted at this point by sharp intakes of breath from Noah, Patience, and Dimity, and they all looked shocked. ‘Whoever could have done that? What does it say?’ asked Dimity, her eyes wide with shock. ‘It’s had so much work done on it; I don’t see how anyone could have the heart to spoil it.’

  ‘The writing, which incidentally was done in red paint, to simulate blood, I think, is in Greek – Modern, not New Testament or Classical. It says, and I quote,’ he said, getting out his own notebook, ‘“The church has its own story. Someone has written it on the wall in blood.” From the grammar used, it would indicate that the writer is a woman, and the word for blood is written in the plural,’ he informed them.

  ‘It’s that bunch of crazies from the college,’ Patience stated, with certainty in her voice.

  ‘What bunch of crazies? What college? How do you know this?’ Falconer’s questions came along this time like London buses, in a trio.

  ‘We’ve heard it from various people as we’ve gone round in the library van,’ Noah informed them. ‘Apparently they’re from the Market Darley College of Further and Higher Education – that dump that’s trying to get university status. They might as well confer that status on the baboon house at the zoo, for all it means these days.’

  ‘Now, now, Noah, don’t get on your high horse,’ Patience admonished him, then, turning back to Falconer, and trying to look in two directions at once, to include Carmichael, informed them, ‘There’s a bunch of kids at the college who have decided that the old ways are best, then mixed those up with a load of mumbo jumbo and formed themselves a little cult. There’re not a lot of them at the moment, but the numbers are likely to grow, knowing how gullible young people are these days.’

  ‘I bet it’s them,’ growled Noah, darkly.

  ‘Do you have any idea who might be involved in this ‘cult’?’ asked Falconer.

  ‘Sorry, no.’ It was Patience who answered, and Noah and Dimity both shook their heads, while Carmichael scribbled a quick note in his pad to record the information.

  ‘Well, thank you very much for the tea and coffee, and the biscuits: but thank you, most of all, for the lovely warm-up in front of your fire. We really needed that, after standing in that draughty old chapel,’ Falconer said, rising from his seat, and indicating to Carmichael, with a look, that they’d better be leaving and get back to the station.

  ‘Lovely to see you all again,’ added Carmichael, his voice becoming slightly indistinct again, as he crammed a final biscuit into his mouth.

  [1] See Inkier than the Sword

  Chapter Two

  Friday 29th October – later

  Back at the station, Bob Bryant, the desk sergeant, indicated that he’d like a word with them, before they went up to their office, and they changed direction away from the staircase in answer to his hissed summons.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Falconer, hoping there wasn’t another murder for them. It was ‘brass monkeys’ outside, and, yes, he did know the origin of the expression.

  ‘You’ve got a new one, upstairs.’ he whispered, his head bowed down towards the desk top in conspiracy.

  Catching his drift, Falconer lowered his own head, and put it close to Bob’s. ‘A new what? Is it something exciting?’ he hissed, the sibilants echoing round the cavernous entrance like a nest of snakes.

  ‘A new DC. He’s been seconded from Manchester, apparently,’ Bob hissed back.

  ‘Why?’ asked Carmichael, in a normal speaking voice, and the other two men jumped, with the difference in volume.

  ‘It’s compassionate,’ the desk sergeant explained, his voice returned, now, to a normal volume. ‘His mother lives in Market Darley, and she’s just had a stroke: needs some help for a while. Rather than take unpaid leave, he requested to be stationed here for a few weeks, so that he can give her a hand with getting used to
life with less mobility.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he added, catching the look on Falconer’s face, ‘Social Services are involved too, and they’ll be installing equipment and stuff to make life easier for her. This lad’s just here to help her get used to it. He’ll soon be out of your hair.’

  ‘And where is he, at the moment?’ asked the inspector, a suspicious look on his face at the thought of this stranger going through the papers on their desks and in their drawers.

  ‘I’ve put him in the canteen, and settled him with a cup of coffee, a doughnut, and a newspaper. Don’t worry; he’s only been there about half an hour.’

  ‘I’m not worried, Bob. I’m merely concerned about the confidentiality of the papers left out on view when we were called out like that.’

  When they reached it, they found the canteen deserted, the only figure in it with his face shrouded by an open newspaper, and an empty plate and mug on the table in front of him.

  Approaching the table where the anonymous figure sat, Falconer called out, ‘Hello; I’m DI Falconer, and this is DS Carmichael. Welcome to Market Darley.’

  The figure still sat, immobile and silent, and it was only when Falconer looked round the paper barrier, that he discovered that their new DC, whoever he was, was fast asleep. Had it been Carmichael, he would have given a yell to wake him up, but as he didn’t know this man from Adam, he shook him gently by the shoulder, until he showed signs of joining the waking world.

  When the man appeared to have shaken the sleep out of his head, Falconer repeated the introductions he had made just a few moments ago, and held out his hand. It was taken in a half-hearted shake, and as the man shook Carmichael’s hand, the inspector surveyed what had been foisted upon him for the foreseeable future.

  The DC seemed to be about medium height – perhaps he wouldn’t get so many cricks in his neck, as he did when working with the mighty Carmichael – with short, slightly curly hair in a shade of mid-brown, blue eyes, and the beginnings of a beard. The facial hair was just too long to be designer stubble, and just too short to be a proper beard. He seemed to be reasonably well-muscled, and his skin had a slight tan, as if he had not long returned from holiday somewhere hot.

  ‘I’m Chris Roberts,’ he informed them, standing up in the presence of superior officers, although this seemed to be an awful struggle for him.

  ‘You haven’t come all the way from Manchester this morning, have you?’ Falconer asked sympathetically.

  ‘No, I came down last night, actually,’ he replied, covering his mouth with a hand as he yawned enormously.

  ‘In digs? Not sleep well?’ Falconer was still giving him the benefit of the doubt.

  ‘No, I slept like a log, and I’m back at my mother’s, so I’ve just moved back in to my old room,’ he informed them, his eyelids drooping.

  We’ve got a right one here, thought Falconer, and then had what he thought was a brainwave. ‘How old are you, Roberts?’ he asked.

  ‘Thirty-four,’ DC Roberts replied, innocently.

  ‘Ever been a student?’ the inspector asked him.

  ‘Oh, yeah. I was a student for far longer than I should have been. Just didn’t know what to do with my life. When I couldn’t sit around taking up space in education any longer, I decided to join the force. That was about two years ago.’ He was waking up now.

  ‘Let’s go to the office, DC Roberts,’ suggested Falconer, the spider inviting the fly to his web for a little chin-wag. ‘I’ve got a proposition to put to you. Have you ever been undercover before?’

  Carmichael wasn’t born yesterday, and he smiled as they walked along the corridor to the office. He’d twigged what Falconer was up to, and he thoroughly approved of the idea. That should not only get them quick results, but keep him out of their hair at the same time.

  ‘Can I impersonate a student?’ asked Roberts, in disbelief. ‘I’m a student through and through. I could pass for a student in my sleep, standing on my head, or with one hand tied behind my back. Of course I can impersonate a student, even if it is a mature one now.’

  This was the most animation the DC had shown since they had introduced themselves, and Falconer was pleased that his little idea was being so warmly received.

  ‘What exactly am I going to be looking for? Drugs, is it? It usually is, with students – not that I’ve ever tried them myself, of course.’

  ‘No, nothing like that. I need you to ferret out a cult.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘A cult. C-u-l-t.’

  ‘Sorry, I must have misheard you.’

  ‘Don’t apologise.’

  ‘Do we have any of the names of the cult members?’

  ‘No,’ stated Falconer, baldly.

  ‘A name for the cult?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, how am I supposed to find them?’ asked Roberts, a bit bewildered.

  Falconer finished playing with the DC and explained about the trespass and damage at the chapel and what the Butterys had told him about people from the college. ‘I suggest that you start with religious groups within the college. You know, the sort of thing that might be on a student noticeboard, looking to recruit new members.’

  ‘And what, exactly, am I supposed to be studying?’

  Pulling a couple of likely subjects out of the air, Falconer suggested that he try Comparative Religion and Philosophy. ‘I’ll get a brochure, to see that both courses are available and have places on them, but I want you in deep cover. I don’t want any members of staff to know about you either. You’ve only missed the first term, so you should be able to catch up quickly enough.’ Then he added somewhat maliciously, ‘With all that experience you’ve already had at college.’

  ‘Thanks, guv,’ replied Roberts, looking rather crestfallen.

  ‘And don’t call me “guv”. ‘Sir’ will do nicely, if you don’t mind. I’ll get in touch with the college, pretend to be your father, and get you enrolled, if you’ll be so kind as to give me your local address, and if you don’t hear from me in the meantime, get yourself off to the place, first thing in the morning. Scrub that! I want you in my office at sparrow-fart, so that I can give you some notes – which I shall prepare tonight – describing your background, and your religious upbringing, so that you’ll have some idea of the character you’re going to be playing, OK?

  ‘I want regular updates from you, so no swanning off home when the lectures finish. I shall expect you here every day to tell me what you’ve learned, and if anything unexpected happens, get in touch straight away. Here’s my card with my office and mobile number on it. I’ll write my home number on the back of it, so there are no excuses for not ringing.’

  ‘What shall I do for the rest of the day, guv – sorry – sir?’ asked Roberts, not quite sure how he felt about his new role.

  ‘Look on the internet, and see if you can find any information posted there on the Strict and Particular followers – anything that might give you a clue as to who you are passing yourself off as. Now, off with you. I don’t want to see you again until tomorrow morning – early, mind!’

  When he’d gone, Falconer found Carmichael sniggering to himself. ‘And don’t you go feeling all superior, either, Sergeant. If he hadn’t arrived, that would have been you going back to school.’

  ‘Sorry, sir, but he did look rather as if his get-up-and-go had got up and gone, didn’t he?’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more. Now tell me, how is Kerry getting on? Have they sorted out her due date, yet? I know there was some difficulty in working out exactly when you should expect the new member of your family to arrive,’ enquired Falconer, back to their usual, easygoing relationship, now that there wasn’t a new third member of the gang eavesdropping on them.

  ‘They now reckon it should be about the fourth of January, sir!’ answered Carmichael, his face alight at the mention of his wife Kerry’s pregnancy.

  ‘It might even be a slightly early anniversary present for you, then,’ commented Falconer, as Carmichael and Ke
rry’s first wedding anniversary fell on New Year’s Eve.

  If it were possible, Carmichael’s face shone even more with happiness. ‘Wouldn’t that be grand, sir?’

  ‘Only if you stick to soft drinks, and don’t expect to be able to summon a taxi,’ was Falconer’s answer.

  ‘I won’t touch a drop, sir, but they do say that first babies are always late.’

  ‘This may be your first child, Carmichael, but it’s Kerry’s third, don’t forget.’

  ‘God, how stupid of me! I just didn’t think! Thanks for the tip, sir,’ Carmichael answered, the first signs of puzzlement that had crossed his face dissolving, as he beamed with the thought of meeting his child a few days earlier than he had anticipated.

  ‘Do you know what sex it is yet?’ Falconer was curious, and wondered what a little girl would look like if she took after Carmichael.

  ‘No idea, sir. We said we didn’t want to know. That way it would be a surprise for us, and for the boys.’

  ‘Best way, in my opinion,’ said Falconer, closing the subject for now.

  Chapter Three

  Saturday 30th October

  Falconer had contacted the college the previous afternoon after he had dismissed Roberts and was in the office at a quarter-past eight, waiting for him to arrive for his briefing. The inspector had spent some time at home the evening before, preparing notes of all that he had learnt about the denomination, and had also consulted the internet to make sure that Roberts had done his homework.

  He didn’t want the DC to get into hot water because of lack of preparation, and have his cover blown. There was no telling what he may unearth at the college; things that may be totally unconnected with the graffito and the sect may come to his ears, and may prove very interesting indeed.

  When Roberts finally made an appearance at half-past nine, pleading an out-of-order alarm clock, Falconer had been drumming his fingers on the desktop for the last half an hour. When he had said ‘early’, he hadn’t meant a quarter to tea-break.