Death of an Old Git (The Falconer Files Book 1) Page 3

  Inspector Harry Falconer replaced the telephone handset and looked across the office with an expression of disdain. ‘Come along, Constable Carmichael, you’ve been seconded to plain clothes and temporarily promoted, so now you’re an acting detective sergeant. We’ve got a murder on our hands so, let’s be getting you into some of the aforementioned apparel.’

  ‘Beg pardon, sir?’

  ‘Out of uniform, Carmichael. That’s what plain clothes means.’ Falconer sighed.

  Ralph ‘Davey’ Carmichael put down the statement he had been making such heavy weather of, his features a picture of awe and delight.

  ‘And it’s a real live murder, sir?’

  ‘No, a real dead one. Come on, man, look lively. We’ve got to get changed.’

  ‘Have we got time to bother with what we’re wearing, sir?’

  Falconer’s upper lip lifted almost imperceptibly in the wraith of a sneer. ‘If you think I’m going into the country wearing town clothes you must be mad. Anyway, what’s half an hour to a corpse? It’ll still be just as dead if we don’t turn up till tomorrow. By the way, do you have a car?’

  ‘Skoda,’ replied the younger man, eyes now agleam with anticipation.

  ‘We’ll take mine.’ Falconer drove a sporty little two-seater. As they descended the stairs, he eyed Carmichael’s bulk dubiously, and idly wondered if he had a shoehorn in the glove compartment.

  IV

  Harry Falconer tapped the steering wheel impatiently, as he waited outside the dingy terrace where Carmichael lived with his mother, current step-father and an assortment of siblings and half-siblings. Partly-dismantled motorcycles fought for space with lop-sided tricycles and dolls’ prams, amidst the forlorn clumps of weeds and mess that passed for a front garden.

  The inspector looked down approvingly at his own fresh attire. His trousers were lightweight twill with a hint of lovat, his shirt lemon, his waistcoat in discreet tweed, and his tie and jacket a muted brown. He looked (and felt) every inch the English country gentleman. But nothing lasts for ever …

  Carmichael finally emerged through the debris-strewn frontage in what he considered appropriate attire for the occasion, and Falconer stared in disbelief at the vision of sartorial inelegance that was his partner-in-crime. In place of his rumpled (but at least discreet) uniform, he now wore a pink, orange and green Hawaiian shirt, blue and purple Bermuda shorts, sandals (with regulation black socks), the whole ensemble topped off with an Arsenal baseball cap worn the right way round. Carmichael was probably the only twenty-something person in Market Darley, possibly in the world, who always wore his baseball cap the right way round, a fitting testimonial to his conservative attitude to life (if not to colour co-ordination).

  ‘This do, sir?’ he ventured almost shyly.

  ‘Get in quickly, man. Quickly!’ Falconer thought, but was too stunned to add, ‘Before someone sees you.’ An awful lot of people were going to see Carmichael today, and each and every one of them was going to remember who was with him.

  V

  There is nothing faster-growing known to man (or woman) than that which goes by the name of ‘the village grapevine’. The airwaves and the Green were thick with news, rumour and conjecture. Alan Warren-Browne had taken the unprecedented step of closing the post office during normal opening hours, and had retired to his bed where he lay, exhausted with shock, next to his wife who snored gently and peacefully, escaping her migraine with the aid of a sleeping tablet.

  Rebecca Rollason’s 999 call had initially summoned Constable John Proudfoot from Carsfold, a large village five miles south of Castle Farthing, and it was he who, realising that he was out of his depth, had called for assistance from higher up. His solid figure now guarded the closed front door of Crabapple Cottage. He stood there now, immovable and silent, perspiring gently, secure in the knowledge that he would soon be able to wash his hands of the whole messy situation and get back to some proper rural policing, like sheep-worrying, and possession of unlicensed shotguns. It was a rather muddled thought that made him sound quite criminal, but he knew what he meant, and that was all that mattered.

  Lack of solid information did not hinder the growth of the grapevine though, it merely meant that it had to rely more heavily on rumour and conjecture to stretch its spreading tendrils.

  At the vicarage Rev. Bertie Swainton-Smythe entered his dank, north-facing study to answer the summons of the telephone. Picking up the receiver he trilled, ‘Three, five, seven,’ thus immediately declaring himself to be what was known colloquially as ‘OV’ (as opposed to ‘NV’). Many village communities have their petty snobberies and, although not exclusive to it, this was one which Castle Farthing had embraced since telephone numbers ceased to have only three digits.

  To elucidate briefly, any resident who had been born in the village, or whose family had lived there for at least a hundred years, and who, furthermore, lived in one of the older properties with an old-style telephone number, was deemed to be Old Village. Anyone who did not fulfil these criteria was deemed to be New Village, including those who had always lived there but had moved to modern houses. Old telephone numbers shared the first three digits: new telephone numbers in the village only shared the first two digits, therefore, NV’s had to declare four digits when answering the instrument, or passing on their number to a new neighbour.

  The Reverend Bertie himself was, technically, NV as he had only been the incumbent at St Cuthbert’s for ten years. Married, however, to Lillian who had been born there, and who was niece to Martha who had, likewise, been born there, he had been tacitly accepted as OV in more than just his telephone number. It must be said, though, that his being a man of the cloth was largely responsible for the warm welcome he received in most villagers’ homes.

  But, to return to Bertie in his gloomy study: his cheery ‘Three, five, seven,’ was answered by the voice of his aunt-by-marriage.

  ‘Have you heard, Bertie? Has anyone sent for you yet?’

  ‘Heard what, Auntie?’ he asked, a knot of apprehension forming in his stomach.

  ‘About old Reg Morley.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Dead. Murdered.’

  ‘Surely he can’t have been murdered, Aunt Martha. Not in Castle Farthing. This is a nice village. People don’t get murdered here. It must have been his heart. He wasn’t a young man and he did smoke.’

  ‘Bertie, stop rambling and listen to me. When I went down to collect my paper the whole village was buzzing with it. They say that Alan Warren-Browne found him about an hour ago, but he’s gone to ground.’

  ‘How did he find him? I mean, how did he know he’d been murdered and hadn’t just passed away in his sleep?’

  The old lady’s voice took on an edge of exasperation. ‘How should I know, Bertie dear. All sorts of rumours are flying around. Some say he was in a pool of blood with his head bashed in, some are sure there was a knife in the place where his heart would have been if he’d had one, and others say that he was strangled and robbed. I went to find out what had happened to the poor dog, but that John Proudfoot was standing outside the front door doing a pretty good impression of all three wise monkeys. Why, when I remember how backward he was with his reading, and all the extra time I had to give him, I could slap him for trying to ignore me like that.’

  Bertie could easily visualise this encounter, and gave a little smirk, before he recalled the seriousness of the conversation. ‘Leave it to me, Auntie. I’ll go round right away. After all, I would have been his spiritual advisor, should the old gent ever have felt the need for such a thing,’ and with this he hung up the receiver and went in search of his old panama hat as protection against the heat of the sun.

  Both benches on the village green were occupied, and a suspiciously large number of people had suddenly been moved to feed the ducks on the pond. In fact, so numerous were they that the ducks had taken fright at the rain of stale bread and dry cake, and had fled, en masse, into the safety of the reeds in the centre of the
pond to ride out this unwarranted spell of popularity. The village shops were also doing a surprisingly brisk trade for a Monday morning. Rosemary Wilson and Kerry Long were run off their feet in Allsorts, as were the Heaths in the CFFC. Thirsty hordes filled the teashop and spilled out on to the few tables and chairs outside on the pavement. The air was full of anticipation and the hum of conversation, and all eyes were fixed, some blatantly, some warily, on that lone figure of authority guarding the door of number four High Street, aka Crabapple Cottage.

  Chapter Three

  Monday 13th July – midday

  I

  The solemn tolling of a lone bell echoed sonorously across village and fields. Those out and about on the green bowed their heads, some crossing themselves self-consciously. The bell tolled on for Reg Morley. Farmers and labourers in the fields stopped what they were doing, removed their caps and counted to see if the departed was young or old. As the tolls continued they relaxed a little. At least it had not been a child.

  It was into this sombre atmosphere that Falconer and Carmichael drove, pulling up just past Crabapple Cottage into a space, coned off by Constable Proudfoot, by the walled garden of the post office. Falconer locked his car and approached the uniformed officer, surprised to find his initial greeting ignored, as the perspiring constable’s lips moved silently, counting. ‘Seventy-nine, eighty, eighty-one, eighty-two, eighty-three … Sorry, sir. What was that you said?’

  ‘What on earth were you counting for, Constable …?’

  ‘Proudfoot, sir. Constable Proudfoot. Passing bell. I were counting.’

  ‘What in the name of goodness is a passing bell?’

  ‘Tells folk that one of their own’s passed on. The number of tolls gives their age.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ glowered Falconer, who always felt out of his depth when people went all ‘harvest home’ on him. ‘Where’s the body?’

  ‘Kitchen, sir.’

  ‘Nothing’s been touched, I hope.’

  ‘Well …’ Proudfoot looked a mite uncomfortable.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There’s sort of someone with him.’

  ‘Sort of? There can’t be “sort of” someone with him. Either there is or there isn’t!’

  ‘There is.’ Proudfoot’s colour was rising with his discomfiture.

  ‘Who? When? Why?’ Falconer’s high horse had just stepped forward to be mounted.

  ‘’Tis only the vicar, sir. Couldn’t see no harm in that.’

  ‘Couldn’t you, Constable Proudfoot? And what if the vicar is the one who did for this old gentleman, or it was someone he knows and wants to protect. He could be in there now destroying vital evidence, while you stand out here turning a blind eye and aiding and abetting him.’

  ‘But ’tis only the vicar, sir. He wouldn’t do nothing like that. He’s a man of God.’

  ‘With feet of clay, no doubt. Get out of my way, you bumbling fool, before there’s any more harm done.’ And, pushing the bulky man to one side, he beckoned to Carmichael (glinting like a jewel in his rainbow attire) to follow him, and bustled through the front door of the cottage, bristling with indignation.

  II

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, sir?’ roared Falconer. The earthly remains of Reg Morley were slumped in a Windsor chair by the range, a man in black kneeling before him, apparently examining his knees.

  ‘Praying for his immortal soul. And who might you be?’ asked the vicar, rising from his knees and extending a hand in greeting.

  ‘Inspector Falconer, and this,’ (he winced at the shambolic figure ducking under the low ceiling), ‘is Acting Detective Sergeant Carmichael. And you are?’

  ‘Vicar of this parish, for my sins. Bertie Swainton-Smythe. D.D.’ Their hands met briefly, more of a squaring-up than a tactile social ritual.

  ‘Indeedy?’ Falconer already felt wrong-footed.

  ‘No, no. D.D. – Doctor of Divinity. Sorry. Didn’t mean to catch you out.’

  Oh yeah, sure you didn’t, but Falconer kept this thought to himself.

  ‘That bell that was ringing when we got here. Do you always do that?’ Carmichael was always eager to learn where he could.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Bertie felt inclined to conversation, now that introductions, however shaky, had been effected. ‘Got to keep up all the old customs. The village expects it. We’re high church here, you know. Oodles of incense and enough genuflexions to create a surplus – bit of a pun there, I’m afraid: surplus and surplice. We have early communion and sung Eucharist every Sunday, Matins first and third Sundays of the month, Evensong, second and fourth.

  ‘What about the fifth Sundays?’ Falconer cut in, with a sarcastic edge to his voice.

  ‘Practically a day off, old chap, what? Ha ha! Get the old Eucharist out of the way early, and feet up for the rest of the day.’ Bertie was oblivious to sarcasm.

  ‘Right, that’s enough of this tomfoolery. Let’s get on with the job at hand, and stop clucking like a gaggle of old ladies. Vicar, turn out your pockets, and then I want you out of here. This is a crime scene, not a parish knitting circle.’

  Left to their own devices, the two policemen had their first opportunity to examine the body, although they could not yet move it, as first the police surgeon had to pronounce the life officially over, and photographs and fingerprints would have to be taken.

  Even at first glance, it was fairly obvious that the old man had been garrotted. His empurpled, swollen features supported this, and the fold in his scrawny neck, where whatever had been used to choke the life out of him, was just visible. He was slumped backwards in the wooden chair, his hands hanging over the sides, where they must have fallen when his struggles ceased, and he had lost his fight for life. A dark stain before the range and some shards of china showed where his drumming feet must have kicked a cup over.

  ‘Cocoa,’ decided Carmichael, who had dropped to his knees on the grubby floor to sniff the area.

  ‘Well done, lad,’ Falconer thanked him gratefully, eyeing the state of the brick-tiled floor and his own immaculate trousering. ‘Let’s see if there’s anything here for us, any signs of a forced entry, then we’ll get started on the neighbours, see if anyone heard or saw anything yesterday evening. We’ll assume evening because of the cocoa.’

  Even in the heat of summer, a musty, dank smell hung in the air and mingled with the aromas of dog and seldom-washed owner. A fly buzzed lazily at the closed window, no doubt drowsy from the stale air. ‘Come on, Carmichael.’ Falconer indicated with his head towards the front of the property. ‘Let’s go and play “Grass Thy Neighbour”.’

  III

  As a younger man, Falconer had served a number of years in the army, and those years had left their mark. He owed his immaculate appearance and painstaking attention to detail to this era of his life. He had also learnt, during this decade, to ‘learn’ his enemy before engaging him (or her) in combat. To this end, he would take initial statements from a great number of people at the start of an investigation and, without pressing them on any involvement on their part, would, with gentle encouragement, get them to ‘squeal’ on anyone they wished. After a little judicious cross-referencing and collation, he would end up with a useful list of accusations with which to begin his second round of statements. It was devious, but it got results, and it caught many an unwary witness on the hop.

  Leaving Constable Proudfoot to await the arrival of a scenes-of-crime team, Falconer pointed himself towards the village pub. It was as good a place as any to start, and it was nearly lunchtime. The church clock was just striking twelve and George Covington was drawing the bolts on the front entrance to the pub as they approached it. Not being a town pub, it was not open all day.

  The positioning of The Fisherman’s Flies was ideal, for its south-facing garden allowed maximum enjoyment of the sunshine for those who felt so inclined, its north-facing bar was a haven of coolness in summer, and a log-fire-heated snug was exactly that in the winter months. Stepping in
from the fierce midday July heat was like suddenly finding yourself underwater, and both policemen gave an involuntary shiver at the contrast in temperatures. Clematis, ivy and other vigorous climbing plants partly covered the pub’s windows in their scramble upwards, making the lighting in the bar dim and green-tinged, re-enforcing the sub-marine atmosphere.

  Ever-observant, Falconer had made a mental note of the licensee’s name above the door, assumed it was he who would take responsibility for opening up, and thus addressed the man now behind the bar by name. ‘Good day to you, Mr Covington. We’ll take a little refreshment if we may, and then, perhaps, we could have a little chat.’

  George Covington treated the introductions that followed with due solemnity, recommended the local smoked trout salad, and assured them that he and his wife would speak to them as soon as they had eaten.

  After their excellent salad (although Carmichael could not see what was wrong with a good steak and kidney pie, mushy peas, and chips with curry gravy), the landlord and his wife arrived together at their table, for although the tables at the front of the pub had filled rapidly, they had filled with the curious rather than the hungry. These ‘customers’ were more concerned with having a ringside seat for the unfolding village drama than with parting with any significant sums of money to maintain their places. They preferred to keep their money in their pockets, and their wits about them, in case they missed anything.

  George and Paula Covington appeared an ill-matched couple when seen together. He seemed a typical country fellow in his late fifties. Broad, balding, and ruddy-complexioned, he was slow of movement, quietly spoken, and had surprisingly large hands and gentle grey eyes. His wife was the chalk to his cheese. She was about a decade younger, although her age was difficult to determine due to the amount of ‘help’ that she gave her appearance. Her hair was abundant and hennaed, her make-up heavy. Her proportions were generous and enhanced by a low-cut, close-fitting, leopard-patterned top and a short, narrow black skirt. She wore black stiletto-heeled shoes and a multiplicity of jangling gilt jewellery. Her voice, when she spoke, was slightly husky, probably from the cigarettes that she appeared to chain-smoke, and belied her London origins. She also displayed an unfortunate tendency to giggle in a flirtatious manner when spoken to by anyone of the opposite sex.