Choked off (The Falconer Files Book 2) Read online

  ‘Wherever did you get him,’ Squirrel beamed, a glint of joy, and also of hope, in her eyes.

  ‘He’s for you, dear Squirrel.’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly accept him,’ she said, but her look of longing told a different story. ‘They’re so terribly expensive. It’s just too much,’ she cooed, as she cradled the little dog lovingly in her arms.

  ‘Absolute rot, Squirrel! I couldn’t bear to see you suffering any more, so I went down to Carsfold in the early hours of Monday morning …’

  ‘You never?’

  ‘I most certainly did. And I dropped a note through the door for Mrs Outen – you know, that old lady that breeds Yorkies?’

  ‘But I can’t accept him! Because of the cost, you know.’

  ‘It’s not a matter of the cost,’ said Adella, smiling at the adoration and covetousness in the old woman’s eyes.

  ‘Then I’ll pay you back – every penny – if you’ll give me time.’

  ‘There’s absolutely no need, for he didn’t cost me a penny. I left a note explaining that I was in urgent need of a puppy, then I telephoned her the next day. She said she had what she called “a runt” left over from her last litter, that she’d be happy for you to have.’

  ‘Oh, how kind of her, and of you as well, of course. I don’t know how to thank you, but you make sure you pass on my thanks to her. No one could have given me a better present, and she must have looked after him well, because he doesn’t look a bit like a runt to me.’

  ‘I’ll pass your thanks on, and don’t think anything of it. Just give him a name, introduce him to Squeak, and enjoy him.’

  ‘Oh, I will, Mrs Ravenscastle! I will, believe you me!’

  On her way back to The Vicarage, Adella was aware of a good deed shining in a murky world. She just wondered how she was going to explain to Benedict that her gift hadn’t exactly been free – had, in fact, been rather expensive, and that they’d probably have to tighten their belts till Christmas. But she knew her husband, and he would probably just be delighted that Squirrel was no longer living in misery, and was having her life invigorated by the energy of a new puppy.

  V

  What with one thing and another, the afternoon had completely disappeared now, and lights were going on in shops, houses and streets. It was a dull day, and the weather, remembering that it should be getting into its autumn attire, had donned a cloak of iron grey that promised rain sometime during the evening, and the daylight had leeched away unusually early, cowed into submission.

  Carmichael, in his own car now, had trouble keeping up with the pace that Falconer set, so worried was the inspector about Serena. Falconer was already out of his car and hammering on the door as his colleague drew to a halt behind the Boxster. There were no lights on in the house. This could just mean that Serena had gone away for a few days, but everyone who had been interviewed had been asked not to leave the area if possible and, at least, let the police know if they couldn’t avoid doing so. There had been no call logged from Blackbird Cottage which, given Falconer’s frame of mind, could only hint at something sinister.

  He was frantic now, calling Carmichael to come round to the back of the house with him, where he picked up a heavy stone, one of many that lined a flower border. Hefting it in his hand to check its weight, he took a firm grip and broke a pane of glass in the back door. Carefully clearing away the biggest spikes of glass, he put his hand through the hole and turned the key before Carmichael could finish asking him what the hell he thought he was doing.

  VI

  Inside, the house was airless and still, the only sound that of the mewing of cats. Looking down, Falconer became aware that the animals’ food bowls were empty, as were their water bowls, and that he had two furry creatures weaving their way between his legs, calling for succour. Carmichael, soft-hearted as he was, began immediately to search the cupboards for cat food, replenishing their water bowls first, knowing that lack of fluid could be much more harmful than lack of food. His face was still a perplexed mask.

  Falconer, on the other hand, had raced into the living room, stopping to look behind the door and round the back of the sofa, before heading towards the stairs, taking them two at a time, so desperate was he to find either Serena, or some clue to her whereabouts. There was no one in the bathroom, the master bedroom, or the airing cupboard. What a state I must be in, to have looked in there, he thought. The last door he approached was that of the spare room.

  Opening the door to this last-chance saloon, the curtains of which were drawn together, he heard a slight moan, and caught sight of a figure in the single bed. ‘Serena!’ he yelled, rushing forward. At the same moment as he had called her name, Carmichael had shouted from the kitchen.

  ‘Ankle, sir! Got it!’ he yelled, and similarly headed for the stairs, taking them three at a time (well, he was a big lad!)

  He found Falconer staring at the figure on the bed, covered with a sheet. Having recovered his wits with his memory, he lifted a hand to flick on the light, as his superior officer kept muttering, ‘Not her! Not her! Where is she? What am I going to do?’ Falconer was just standing there, talking quietly but desperately to himself. ‘It’s not Serena, Carmichael! What am I going to do? Where is she? I need to know!’

  Carmichael led him gently to a basket-weave chair and sat him down. The figure on the bed was not, indeed, Serena, but then Carmichael had known it wouldn’t be. The detail that had eluded him for so long had been to do with on which ankle Ms Lyddiard actually wore her bandage. Finding it carelessly stuffed into the cupboard where the cat food was kept had been enough of a catalyst to produce the answer: both! When he thought back, it seemed to move from leg to leg, almost with a life of its own, and nobody had really noticed, being too caught up with their own lives and problems.

  Dragging his attention back to the figure under the sheet, he noticed for the first time that a gastro-nasal tube had been inserted, as had a fluid drip in the arm. A catheter bag drooped below the sheet, nearly full.

  ‘Call an ambulance, please,’ croaked a broken voice from the corner of the room, and Carmichael took his mobile out of his pocket to fulfil this quiet request from his still-caring but heartbroken superior.

  Carmichael, forward-thinking and insightful, also made a call for a SOCO team, and a uniform to collect two cat baskets from the station’s contact in the RSPCA. The uniformed officer could then hold the fort while he, Carmichael, took the inspector home, before returning to Blackbird Cottage to wind up the day’s proceedings. He had realised Falconer’s feelings for Serena, and thought he knew how he must be feeling. His current logic was, if Kerry and the kids came as a package so, then, did Serena and her two cats. He would take them in his car with the boss, as a sort of solace.

  After the short, silent drive Carmichael guided Falconer into his house and gently let him down into an armchair. He then made a pot of tea, placed the biscuit barrel on the tray, and carried the lot through to the sitting room, even going so far as to pour the amber liquid, and hand it to the inspector, who took it in a dazed manner. Falconer just sat holding it, staring at the cup and saucer as if he had no idea what they were, and was trying to find some rational explanation for why he had them in his hand.

  Carmichael then fetched the cat baskets, placed them gently on the floor and opened their doors. Mycroft would have to make of it what he would. He could like it or lump it, although it would be the inspector’s final say, as to whether they stayed, or whether they were too painful a reminder of their previous owner. He’d put his money on the former, though, knowing how fond Falconer was of cats.

  Before he left, he went through to the kitchen, set the cat flap to ‘in only’, and filled up the bowls already on the floor, getting extra ones out of a cupboard so that there was plenty of everything for all three animals. That might not prevent all of the ‘getting to know you’ fighting, there being no need to share a bowl for that, but it would certainly help towards discouraging it. The extra ‘ado’ that this n
ew admixture would create in the household should act as a distraction for Falconer. If he was forever having to make sure every cat got on with the other two, he would not be thinking about what he believed he had lost.

  Healing would take a long time and, promising to return when he had finished in Stoney Cross, to make his boss an omelette, Carmichael set off, once more, for the house in Stoney Stile Lane, wondering what on earth Summer had been doing in that bed, hooked up to drips and a catheter, and seemingly unconscious.

  VII

  Back in Blackbird Cottage, he found the ambulance already departed, the SOCO team just finishing up. ‘Find anything to enlighten us?’ he asked, seeming, as it were, to have deserted the ship, just when it was getting underway.

  ‘We found a spare set of keys in a kitchen drawer, took a look in the garage, in case there were any more undiscovered bodies. The car was still there, and it’s been confirmed that the exhaust was blowing. She’d tried to make some sort of repair with what appears to be the plaster they do your limbs up with – can’t remember the name for the moment – but it wouldn’t have been much good. Paris! That’s it!

  ‘We also found some ampoules of heavy-duty sedative in the bathroom cupboard – the sort you put into the bags of saline drips. And there were several more saline bags in the main bedroom. She’d got that poor girl knocked out in a proper little hospital set-up. I’ve got absolutely no idea at all what was going on. Have you?’

  ‘Sort of – I’m not sure.’ Carmichael was working on it.

  ‘Oh, and before I forget, there was an envelope fell out from between the pillows when the paramedics moved her. It’s addressed to Inspector Falconer. Here it is,’ and the officer handed over a white envelope, thickly padded by its contents. ‘Better see he gets to have a look at it, before we have to book it in as evidence. It may not shed any light on this little mystery but, if it does, we’re going to need it.’

  Carmichael carefully tucked the envelope away in his pocket, saw the remaining police personnel off the premises and made sure that everything was switched off and locked up. As he unlocked his car, he looked back at the cottage, sitting innocently in its pretty chrysanthemum halo, and, as he drove away to deliver Serena’s last message to the inspector, he thought, if only walls could talk!

  VIII

  Carmichael had been as good as his word, and had returned to Falconer’s house, given him the envelope, and made a fresh pot of tea and an omelette. The inspector had spurned the tea, pouring himself, instead, a very large glass of red wine. He did, however, consent to sit at the table in the kitchen and pick at the omelette, which was surprisingly good, despite his lack of appetite.

  By the time he had picked the last fragment from the plate, he had poured himself a third glass of wine, knowing that there were no answers to be found in the bottom of a glass, but not particularly caring. What a difference a day makes – wasn’t there a song that went like that? He couldn’t believe the high spirits he had felt only that morning, which already seemed a lifetime ago. He couldn’t believe the hopes he had held, the promise for the future; even, maybe, for the rest of his life. Now, here he was, in hell, his dreams shattered into as many pieces as the pane of glass in Serena’s back door, the future yawning before him, empty – a lonely void. He’d never experienced loneliness before, and was just making its acquaintance.

  Although Carmichael had thoughtfully cleared the plate and washed up before he had left, Falconer was still sitting at the kitchen table, swallowing mouthfuls of wine rather than sipping it, the nearly-empty bottle on the table, waiting to be drained. He took another swig, and put his hand into his pocket to remove the fat envelope that Carmichael had handed him on arrival. He sat for a while in silence, just looking at the handwriting, the tidy calligraphy that joined the letters of his name, and judged them as beautiful as the woman who had written them.

  Finally, he put the envelope down on the table, fetched himself another bottle of wine, filled his glass with the last of the first bottle, and sat down again. The time had come.

  Picking up the envelope and inserting his thumb beneath the flap, he had time to notice how every little move he made appeared to be in slow motion. Time was indeed elastic, but whether this was due to the wine he had imbibed, the fierce emotions he was feeling torn apart by, or a combination of the two, he had no idea, nor did he care. This was it! Like Pandora, he was opening the box, and letting out all the sins of the world. At that particular moment he had forgotten what had been left in the box afterwards – hope – but he neither thought about this, nor cared. All he could think about was the empty box.

  There were several sheets of paper, covered on both sides in tiny but immaculate writing. Leaning his elbows on the table, he began to read, his eyes moving slowly, not wanting to miss a single word, phrase or nuance.

  My dear Harry, he read,

  By the time you get this letter, I shall be either in prison, or gone, but I needed to let you know how I feel about you, before I disappeared completely from your life. I know I have a lot of explaining to do, but I shall come to that in the pages that follow. For now, I just want to write down how deeply I have felt for you since the moment we met.

  I have never felt an attraction like that before and, if you will forgive me for being so forward, I think you felt the same. I also think, given normal circumstances, that we would have made a great couple. It may even have been that we were able to have a child – I’m not quite too old yet! But it was not to be. I realise that we will never see each other again, and it breaks my heart!

  Please don’t look for me, my darling, for I’m very good at living a nomadic life, and have done so since my youth. Stoney Cross was my first attempt to settle down since I gave birth to my daughter – many, many years ago.

  Yes, you will have already realised that the young woman known as Summer Leighton is the result of a foolish infatuation from which I suffered while still a teenager. That man was so much older than me, but then, when does one ever listen to one’s parents? I certainly didn’t, but I also found myself unable to cope with the thought of an abortion. In my eyes then, as it still is now, abortion is murder. No one who doesn’t want to be pregnant in this day and age needs to be so. I was careless. I made a stupid mistake which I have been paying for ever since.

  I had the child, and handed it straight over for adoption, not wanting to hold it, to look at it, or to take any risk of forming a bond with it. Marcus – he was plain old Norman Clegg in those days, and I was young Jenny Linden – didn’t seem much taken with the idea of fatherhood at the time, either, so this seemed to be the easiest way to draw a line under the whole sorry experience.

  Anyway, to cut a long story short, Summer – for that is how I must now refer to her – had decided to trace her birth parents. I had changed my name before she came of age, to make myself harder to find, not realising that her father had also changed his, for reasons of vanity.

  He telephoned me, you know, twice – to let me know our daughter had finally caught up with us. He, an elderly man by now, seemed to revel in the fact that he had a pretty daughter he could hang on his arm for decoration, but he knew how I would feel about it.

  I nearly screamed when I saw him in the village hall, and pretended to sprain my ankle. (You must have guessed that I was rather careless about the bandage, but I didn’t think anyone else would notice. People are usually so caught up in themselves, so subsumed by their own ego, that they don’t notice little details about others, so I didn’t think too much of it.)

  But the thought that I might bump into him at any time made me determined to move on. Then, when he told me that our daughter had been to see him, and ‘verified her credentials’ as it were, I knew I had to do something about him before I left. The whole idea of having borne his child had grown to nightmare proportions. It was never anything to do with Summer as a person.

  Anyway, it was I who killed him, disposing of the weapons in the scrub at the edge of the field behind his
house. It was I who forwarded his broadcast to the radio station, in a fit of spite, for what he had done to the young girl (me) who was full of hope. I’d done some work in a hospital, and used to do a little bit for the hospital radio with short stories – recording them at home, then sending them in. I thought that, with everyone thinking I was incapacitated, no one would connect me with the murder – that I had a perfect alibi. But I hadn’t taken into account my daughter’s tenacity.

  It was also I, as you will have realised, who left poor Summer in the state in which you have obviously found her. There was nothing else I could do. I’d hoped that her father had not had the opportunity to identify me, but I was wrong. Then I hoped that he had not passed on where I was to her, and I was wrong about that too.

  When she turned up on my doorstep, I was stunned and repulsed at the same time – please don’t judge me for this, for she had her father in her eyes. I asked her in, of course, and made her a cup of tea, having made some excuse to go upstairs – actually to find some sleeping tablets to dissolve in her cup. When she passed out, I carried her upstairs – she was only a little thing, and I’m very wiry, having been involved in dancing and nursing which are both physically demanding jobs. I knew then that it was time to run, for I could not escape justice with her around. Discovery would have been inevitable, and I just couldn’t face it.

  I couldn’t, of course, kill her, for she was the innocent in all this. I just wish she’d delayed her visit and given me a day or two more to make my arrangements to leave. But she didn’t, and you know, now, how I dealt with that. I also put a letter in the post as I left the village, to the local police station, duplicating this confession, for the sake of the girl. She deserves some explanation.