Inkier Than the Sword (The Falconer Files Book 3) Read online

  As she picked it up to examine it, the address caught her eye, and she shuddered. The name of her house and road had been made up from letters and syllables cut from some newspaper or magazine, and been glued, in a sufficiently readable way, for it to be delivered, even if ‘Clematis Cottage’ had suffered a terrible fate.

  The postman knew – oh, he knew well enough where to deliver it. Hadn’t it been the postman or one of his predecessors who had renamed her home ‘Clitoris Cottage’ in local parlance? She had not long learnt of this rebaptism of her home, and now blushed furiously as she wondered how widespread the terminology was. Then she noticed there was no stamp, and took a quick peek outside the front door in case whoever had delivered it might still be in sight, but no luck on that front.

  Carrying the communication in front of her as if it were an unexploded bomb, she entered the kitchen, and sat down at one of the wheel-backed chairs at the pine table, without altering her position. Once seated, she cut under the flap with the spear of a thumbnail, and carefully removed the one sheet inside, holding it by the tips of her nails only, with the thought that, if this was what she thought it was, then she ought to be careful not to smudge any fingerprints thereon.

  As she looked at the crudely cut letters making up the message on the paper, her eyes widened, and she gasped, and continued to hold her breath as the sheet of paper fluttered from her now nerveless fingers onto the table top.

  How could anyone be so cruel? she thought; and then: how could anyone actually know?

  III

  The craft shop in the High Street wore its ‘closed’ sign like the pursed lips of an elderly spinster, as if it knew why its door had not been unlocked and the shop not thrown open to the more craft-minded members of the public.

  In Forge Cottage, in Tuppenny Lane, Amy Littlemore, one of the co-owners of said establishment, woke to find herself not in bed, but stretched out across the hall floor, at the foot of the open-plan staircase. The shape of her husband Malcolm, the other co-owner of the business, and her husband for longer than either of them cared to remember, was just discernible in the closed-curtained gloom, occupying a wing-backed chair. As she tried to remember what on earth had happened for her to end up in this scenario, she tried to move, and groaned, as various parts of her body cried out in protest. After a few seconds, it was clear to her that she had not chosen to have a little lie down on the carpet before going to bed the previous night, but had obviously reached her present position as the result of a fall.

  Although it wasn’t unusual for her to wake up with no recollection whatsoever of what had happened the evening before, it was unusual for her not to wake in her own bed. Malcolm usually deposited her there, if she had not been able to make it under her own steam, before he retired to his own room, where he could get a decent night’s sleep without her yelling out in her hallucinations, or snoring or urinating while unconscious.

  Trying to free her tongue from the roof of her mouth, she raised a hand to her left temple and felt what she surmised was dried blood. What on earth had happened to her? Why wasn’t Malcolm on duty to explain things to her, the way he usually was? She raised herself to her knees, clutched at the sofa and rose unsteadily to her feet, then gasped and raised both hands to her mouth before depositing herself on the sofa at the sight that lay before her.

  Malcolm looked dead, and it was all she could do not to scream. Reaching out tentatively, she touched his shoulder, then began gently to shake it. Malcolm groaned quietly, opened his eyes, saw his wife standing over him, opened his mouth and began to scream. ‘Aaarh!’ he yelled. ‘Get off of me, you mad cow! If you try that again I’ll have you locked up. Get off of me, you mad drunken bitch! You’ve gone too far this time. Now yer’ve got ter get some ’elp!’

  ‘Malc, what are you talkin’ about? What ’appened? Who attacked you? Was it burglars? Talk sense Malc, and tell me what ’appened?’ yelled Amy, frightened for both of them now.

  ‘You, yer soppy cow!’ he replied as she finally ground to a halt. ‘You ‘appened. I suppose you don’t remember, as per bloody usual. Well, I’ll remind you what ’appened, shall I? The way I always do, eh?’

  ‘What are you talking about, Malc?’ Amy asked, her voice still shrill with adrenalin-fuelled panic.

  ‘Yer broke a bottle over me bleedin’ ’ead this time, didn’t yer? And if that wasn’t enough for yer, yer gave me a good kickin’ as well, while I was down. I managed to get into the chair, but I reckon a few of me ribs is gorn. You’re gonner ’ave to get yerself some ’elp, my lady. This can’t go on!’

  ‘What am I goin’ to do, Malc? What’s gonna happen to me?’ Amy Littlemore was still confused and panicked, but her face had drained of colour as a little of her memory returned, the dried blood just to the side of one eyebrow standing out as gaudily as stage make-up.

  IV

  Back at Market Darley Police Headquarters, Inspector Falconer was getting a blow-by-blow account of his sergeant’s wedding celebrations, and enjoying every minute of it. It had not taken more than a few minutes from Carmichael catching sight of his boss’s wan and embarrassed expression, to the explanation that Harry Falconer, best man and respected inspector with the local CID, had passed out shortly after the celebrations had commenced, had spent the rest of the reception respectfully covered by the cloak of an uncle garbed as a Demon King, and had been sent home in a taxi when things had broken up at an unbelievably respectable hour. The guests had New Year’s Eve parties to go to, after all, and didn’t want to be delayed by an over-long wedding feast.

  The groom himself had escorted Falconer home in a taxi, put some dried food down for the cats, and left him to sleep it off. Most of what Falconer ‘remembered’ was a product of too much unaccustomed alcohol and an over-active imagination, and on realising this, the inspector came as close to hugging his sergeant as he ever had in their (purely professional!) partnership. His reputation was intact, and he would eventually unravel what was real and what was a product of the sordid side of his own imagination.

  His sergeant went a good way to assist this process by slotting a CD into a computer, and calling up what seemed like an inordinate number of photographs from the recent nuptials, and Falconer would look at as many as Carmichael was prepared to show him, for he, himself, appeared in very few of them, and in those, he was just an inanely smiling figure, covered to the neck with a voluminous black cloak.

  As relief flooded through him, Falconer was able to relax for the first time in nearly four days. Relief made him benevolent. He really began to see the amusing side to the idea of a themed wedding, and actually enjoyed meeting Carmichael’s family for the first time, twice, as it were.

  Chapter Three

  Insult to Injury

  Monday 4th January – continuation

  I

  The first call came as the two detectives were admiring a delightful shot of Mrs Carmichael senior, showing off her frilly garter from the depths of her very heavily petticoated Widow Twankey pantomime dress.

  ‘Detective Inspector Falconer speaking. How may I help you?’

  An explosion of high-pitched noise burst from the handset, as he held it away from his ear defensively. ‘Please calm down. I can’t understand a word you’re saying. Calm down and speak slowly!’ You’ve received a what? It actually said that, did it? I agree, very nasty. Just stay at home, and we’ll be there as soon as we can. ‘No, I don’t know if the use of language implies a threat to your safety either, and I shall need to see it before I get involved in any conjecture. Keep it safe, and handle it as little as possible. We’ll be as quick as we can.’

  As he put the receiver down, he noticed that Carmichael had also been answering a call. ‘I’ve got a poison pen letter. What’ve you got?’ he asked, feeling almost flippant.

  ‘Don’t know whether it’s a case of wife- or husband-bashing,’ the sergeant replied, looking perplexed. ‘That was one of them house-officers, young doctor whatsits from the A & E Unit. He’s just had a
couple in – married, like – and either they’re both bloody clumsy, if you’ll excuse my French, sir, or they’ve been at it hammer and tongs. He’s got a head wound needing stitching and three cracked ribs, and she’s got a black eye and bruises from here to kingdom come. At the moment, they’re as high as kites on painkillers.

  ‘He said he didn’t know what to do, not having seen anything like it before, and having heard that domestic violence is difficult to deal with, so he phoned us in the hope that we might just take a look in on them at home, to let them know that their situation is recognised officially, so that if one of them feels they need help, we’re already on the alert. What do you think, sir?’

  ‘Interfering little arse-licker!’ Falconer replied, then, remembering where he was, apologised briefly and asked where the couple lived.

  ‘Steynham St Michael,’ he was informed, and nodded slowly.

  ‘We’ll take a look in, then. My poison pen’s in the same village, so we might as well kill two birds with one stone, and respond to both calls. The poison pen could spread, and that insufferably self-righteous little prick at A & E could follow up his ‘so concerned’ call via his consultant, who might just be best buddies with Superintendent Chivers, and mention it in passing. Sometimes you have to be devious back, first, before they’re devious to you. That way, sometimes, you win.’

  ‘As you will, sir,’ answered a puzzled Carmichael. ‘Does that mean that we’re going to follow up both calls, then?’

  ‘Indeed it does, my newly married DS, so let’s shoot off into action.’ Relief had left Falconer in a very facetious mood and, although he realised he was acting rather strangely, he decided to enjoy it for a while, and stop being such a worry-guts.

  II

  Steynham St Michael was a drive of less than four miles, but the weather conditions had become atrocious since earlier that morning, when a watery sun had dripped a pallid light across the frost-bound countryside. Rime coated the bare branches of the trees and hedgerows, and the grass twinkled with hoar frost, and crunched underfoot. Above, a watery sky with just a tinge of pale blue prevailed.

  In the last hour or so, however, a covering of cloud had appeared, tentatively at first, but now built into a solid dome over everything, and the temperature had risen just enough to allow mist to rise in wraiths and swirls from the frost-bound ground, reducing visibility for the traveller of rural lanes, but not melting the frozen dew enough to allow him safe passage. Black ice was still a hazard that had to be taken into account too, if one did not want to finish the morning in a ditch or, worse, in either the hands of the inexperienced SHO at A & E, or being measured for a wooden overcoat by the final tailor of one’s life.

  Falconer drove, putting his faith not only in his belief in his own mortality, but in the mechanical soundness of his own vehicle, and Carmichael, as head of a new household, did not demur as his priorities and philosophies of life had changed considerably during his few days away from work.

  In the town, conditions were tolerable, but when they left the shelter of huddling buildings, Falconer found that it was like driving through cotton wool on an ice rink. Junctions suddenly loomed up at them, surely too quickly, as did trees and telegraph poles, menacingly bearing down on them with murderous intent. All sense of time and distance became lost in this cloud-haunted frozen dome and, even in second gear it was difficult to see more than a few metres ahead.

  They stopped twice to check on cars that had skated off the road – losers in today’s battle with the elements – and, having checked that no one was injured and that help was on the way where necessary, they continued their trek through suddenly hostile territory, if just a little more tentatively than before.

  They arrived outside the post office in Steynham St Michael a little under an hour and a half after they had left the police station, and stopped to ask for directions to their first destination, both silently thanking their maker that double yellow lines had not yet reached this rural outpost, for they would never have found a place to park in these conditions.

  ‘First left at the end of the terrace on our left, and Clematis Cottage is the only dwelling on the left before Farriers Lane bears off to the left. Got that, Carmichael? It seems to be everything left.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good, because in this weather, I’m liable to forget how to drive, let alone how to find Ms Sinden’s address. Correct me if I go wrong.’ But there was little likelihood of that as the instructions were so simple, and the cottage so easy to find, standing alone as it did and, in only a couple of minutes, they were drawing to a halt in front of a stone garden wall with a little hat of thatch running along its top, broken only by a metal gate with a semi-circular top, standing about two feet higher than the wall.

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s behind there somewhere,’ surmised Falconer, rubbing the windscreen with his sleeve and peering through the mist. ‘Best get on with what Her Majesty’s government pays us to do.’

  Once out of the car they could make out the shape of the building at the end of the short garden path. Although Clematis Cottage was not large, such were the weather conditions that its proportions were exaggerated, and it appeared to loom out at them, as they approached it. ‘Oo-er, sir. It looks a bit creepy doesn’t it?’ Carmichael commented and Falconer, although he had no intention whatsoever of agreeing with his sergeant out loud, mentally concurred that it did, indeed , look a little creepy.

  ‘But only on the outside, Carmichael,’ he said aloud. ‘And only because of the weather. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed, sir.’

  The door was opened almost instantly, as if Ms Sinden had been sitting at the foot of the stairs waiting for them, which indeed she had. She ushered them in hurriedly, as if they were enemy agents, and herded them into the kitchen where she had cups, teapot, and biscuits all laid out. ‘Please, please sit down and take tea with me. I really can’t talk about this without trying to dilute how I feel with a little cosy domesticity,’ she explained, ushering them both to sit down.

  ‘We can get the introductions over with, have tea and biscuits, then I’ll show you … it. I can be washing up while you look at it. I really don’t think I can bear to look at it again, even though I know what it says by heart.’ At this, tears began to track slowly down her unmade-up cheeks, and Carmichael took the chair next to her, patting her shoulder and making soothing noises.

  He really did have his uses, Falconer thought. He, himself, was no good at this ‘there, there, don’t worry, it’s going to be all right, we’ll catch the bad man (or woman, these days) for you’ stuff, but Carmichael had it down to a T.

  As Carmichael soothed and poured the tea, Falconer rose and wandered round the kitchen, trying to absorb anything he could about the woman who lived here. That she lived alone, he had already gathered from her telephone call earlier. That she either did not enjoy the services of a cleaner or was totally disinterested in the domestic arts, he was learning now.

  The dresser and shelves sported a good smattering of dust, and there were stains on the floor in front of the cooker, the sink, and where she obviously made tea and coffee. The lid of the pedal bin was proud of its usual position, and had obviously not been emptied for some time. A small vase on the windowsill behind the sink held dead flowers, and its rank water added to the undertone of neglect about the place.

  Retaking his place at the table, he swallowed his tea in one gulp, making his eyes water, as it was hotter than he had expected, then asked Ms Sinden if they could see the letter that she had phoned about. ‘Oh, do call me Buffy,’ she cooed, now restored to near-normality, now that Carmichael had paid her some attention, and she had the company of two strong men in the house.

  Falconer smiled noncommittally, while thinking that an error of judgement on his part that large would have her tripping him up, and appearing underneath him like greased lightning before he had even landed. Ms Sinden she would remain to him. Who in their right mind would hand a cannibal a knife and fork,
and a cruet set? It was all right for Carmichael – he was married! Oh, dear God, surely he wasn’t jealous of Carmichael now? Turning his mind firmly back to the here and now, he reached out for the piece of paper that was being offered to him.

  Even though it had been read to him over the phone, he was still shocked by the wording and the hatred it contained – the sheer spite of such a thing; the hurt it had been intended to inflict in so few words:

  How many more babies are you going to slaughter before you learn to keep your legs together, whore?

  Carmichael’s inhalation of shock was an audible groan, as he read what had been passed to him, and his whole countenance fell, as if the insult were directed at him. ‘How do people do it, sir? How do they sink to these depths? No wonder you were so upset, Ms Sinden.’

  ‘Buffy, please!’

  ‘Er, Buffy. No wonder you called us, and quite right too.’

  Shock and horror now over for this visit, Falconer wanted to get down to business, and asked if she had any idea who might have sent such a poisonous message, and if there was any link between the contents and reality; a harsh but necessary question, given the circumstances.

  ‘It has been necessary for me to terminate the odd pregnancy, due entirely to circumstances beyond my control, you understand. I was driven to it,’ she answered, wary now.

  ‘Can you tell me exactly how many, Ms Sinden – no, I won’t call you Buffy: it wouldn’t be professional. How many terminations have you, in fact, been – er – driven to, in the past?’

  Falconer had to ask her to speak up, as her answer was inaudible, and was staggered to hear her say, ‘Five.’