Strict and Peculiar (The Falconer Files Book 7) Page 3

  ‘What time do you call this, Roberts?’ he asked in a sarcastic tone, looking pointedly at his watch.

  ‘Half-past nine, guv,’ replied Roberts, totally unconcerned, and not having the sensitivity to catch the atmosphere. Carmichael was sitting at his desk, his body twisted round to watch the confrontation.

  ‘I told you to come in early, and early is what I meant. I’ve been sitting here for an hour and a half, and I didn’t expect to wait very long for you to appear. A broken alarm clock is one of the lamest excuses I have ever heard since alarms could be set on mobile phones, and don’t you dare call me ‘guv’! I’ve told you not to before, and I don’t expect you to forget. You’re a policeman, dammit! You’re supposed to have a good memory: it’s part and parcel of the job.’

  Carmichael ducked his head as if avoiding a missile while Falconer delivered this little speech, then turned silently back to his work, glad he was not the one on the receiving end of it. Roberts merely looked astonished at being upbraided so.

  ‘This is only a case of vandalism – sir,’ he pointed out, in calm and reasonable tones. ‘It’s hardly murder: just some kids with a pot of paint and a knowledge of Greek. It’s no worse than spraying ‘Up the Arsenal’ or ‘Man United for the Cup’ on a wall.’

  This attitude, of course, got right up Falconer’s nose. He liked to run a tight ship, and he didn’t appreciate this sloppy attitude, either to the act of vandalism itself or to good time-keeping. ‘I think you’ll find it’s my job to decide what’s important and what’s not. That’s why I’m the inspector and you’re the constable.

  ‘If I say a thing needs further investigation, and consider that it might lead to something more serious, then what I say goes. I also dictate whether or not I want you in my office early. I have signed you on for a course in comparative religion at the college, posing as your father, and I shall expect you to visit the college this weekend, and start attending the course, first thing on Monday morning. Do I make myself clear to you?’

  ‘Yes, guv – sorry, sir,’ replied Roberts, surprised and nonplussed by, in his opinion, his superior’s nit-picking attitude. Why waste police time on an act of petty defacement? ‘You couldn’t get me on the philosophy course, then?’

  ‘It was full, but then, that’s life,’ the inspector replied, not realising how neatly he had summed up the subject, in his reply. ‘And what’s more,’ he added, ‘the act of vandalism in the chapel might not mean much to one of you big city policemen, but I know how much hard work has gone into collecting the funds to carry out the work on the chapel, and how much energy has been expended on the work, by those locals who can be of use in its refurbishment.

  ‘It might just be an unimportant little building to you, with your miles and miles of concrete in Manchester, but in the villages around here, small things are important. We may not have many big-time villains in the villages, but we look after our own here, and investigate anything we think is of importance to the residents, no matter how petty you may consider the matter to be.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Roberts, getting the hang of it now.

  ‘So, what did you glean from the internet yesterday?’ asked Falconer, calming down a little.

  ‘Er, I didn’t actually have the time to check out anything. My mother needed some heavy housework doing, and I had my room to get in order, and my clothes to iron. As today was Saturday, I didn’t think there’d be any real hurry.’

  ‘Oh, you didn’t, did you? Did it not occur to you that the college has events and some classes at the weekends? Did you think it would be locked up and empty? Well, let me assure you that that is not the case. I wanted you prepared to go in today to start putting yourself about as a new student, and now you tell me you did absolutely no research yesterday, despite what I asked you to do?’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ replied Roberts, realising that this time spent on secondment wasn’t going to be the piece of cake he had surmised it to be. There was always something big going down where he usually worked, and he’d seen a secondment to a rural station almost as a holiday where nothing much would happen, and he could spend his time on a little light office work and skiving off whenever the opportunity presented itself.

  It would seem that he had had completely the wrong idea of this little sojourn, and he would be kept busy by this detail-crazy inspector, who was willing to weave an investigation out of virtually nothing at the slightest provocation. ‘What shall I do then, sir?’ he asked, uncertain of his next move.

  ‘You will take this print-out of all the notes I made and the information I gathered last night; at home; in my own time; for free, and you will study them, until you feel capable of starting your job as an undercover officer. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Shall I work in the main office?’

  ‘Yes. Find yourself a free desk, and go through what I’ve prepared for you, then come and see me again so that I can check out how much of the information you’ve retained.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Robert was now feeling very subdued. Falconer had pricked his pretty balloon, and he was feeling not only rebuked but caught out as well. He wasn’t a great fan of hard work, and he’d been rumbled, here, in this little station, within twenty-four hours of his arrival. Maybe there was something to be said for the anonymity of a busy urban station after all.

  When he had made his humiliated exit, Carmichael twisted his body round from his desk again, and commented, ‘Cor, sir! You gave him a real scorcher!’

  ‘He deserved it, Carmichael,’ replied Falconer, full of self-righteousness after this encounter.

  ‘And you sure delivered it, sir. I’m glad that wasn’t me on the receiving end of it.’

  ‘It could never have been you, Sergeant. One thing you have never been is lazy. Or work-shy,’ the inspector added. Outrageously dressed, behaving in a thoroughly child-like manner, having the appetite of a gannet – all those things, he could accuse Carmichael of being, but lazy or workshy – never. He was a hard-working young man, surprisingly old-fashioned in his attitudes to life, and exceedingly well-mannered. Carmichael always pulled his weight, and that was no light-weight matter, either, thought Falconer, realising how much he had got to know his partner since they had begun working together in the summer of the previous year.

  After lunch, Roberts knocked on Falconer’s door and said he felt ready to go to the college. Falconer bade him enter and sit down, then said, ‘Right, DC Roberts, I’m not going to throw a lot of questions at you. I want you to tell me, in your own words, what you know of the beliefs and practises of the members of the congregations of the Strict and Particular Chapels.’

  This, in itself, stunned Roberts. He had facts and figures at his fingertips to answer any question that was thrown at him, but this was a different matter altogether. He was going to have to tell his new boss the story of this tiny denomination, and he simply wasn’t very good at telling stories.

  ‘Uh, they were formed in the first half of the nineteenth century. Um, they were one hundred per cent strict on the Ten Commandments. Manners and morals were very important to them. And, um, they believed in the punishment of their own, for anything immoral or, ah, what they thought was bad, but not serious enough to involve the law. Er, they dressed very conservatively, and, um … they didn’t like mixing with people from the other churches, because they … they, uh, considered them impure.’ His face reddened, as he finished the end of his tale.

  ‘Very good, Roberts. You don’t seem to have much trouble with your memory, as long as it just doesn’t evaporate as quickly as you assimilated it.’ Falconer was fair, and always gave praise where praise had been earned.

  ‘Now, we have to discuss your appearance.’

  ‘My appearance – sir?’ The DC added this last, as he remembered how strict Falconer had appeared on the use of this mode of address.

  ‘Well, your hair’s a bit long, so don’t have it cut; and your designer stubble’s a bit untidy too, so leave that as it is. It all adds to
the verisimilitude of your appearance, but you have to dress like a student, too, albeit a mature one,’ the inspector explained, only to have an interruption to his train of thought, from Carmichael.

  ‘I could tell him how to dress like one of them from up the college,’ the DS offered.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Carmichael, but I don’t think that DC Roberts needs any sartorial advice from you. I have my own ideas about how I would like him to present himself,’ Falconer answered with alacrity, remembering some of the outfits the sergeant had arrived in for work since he had left the uniformed branch and become anything but plainclothes division.

  ‘Roberts, I don’t know what kit you’ve brought with you for this placement, but may I suggest jeans and trainers – not new ones – would be satisfactory, and if you have a T-shirt which is a bit anti-establishment or rebellious, that might cover the top half,’ suggested Falconer.

  ‘Well, I’ve got an F.C.U.K. T-shirt,’ he offered, and when Carmichael suddenly exploded with, ‘That’s rude!’ explained hurriedly that the letters stood for ‘French Connection U.K.’, just in case the boss man thought he was deliberately being offensive.

  Carmichael looked scandalised, but Falconer took it in his stride, saying, ‘I do know what the letters stand for, and I think that would be perfect, considering that none of them at that college can spell.’

  But this wasn’t quite true. One of them could spell perfectly in Greek, a very difficult language in which to spell, as it had five letters or combinations of letters that made the sound ‘ee’, and two letters that were both pronounced ‘o’. To use them correctly showed a considerable mastery and understanding of the language.

  ‘What about a coat, sir? It has turned very cold for the time of year?’ Roberts obviously felt the cold. ‘Would an old parka be OK?’

  ‘Provided it looks its age, it sounds perfect to me. Now, I suggest you get yourself off, familiarise yourself with the campus, and take a look at any student noticeboards you can find. Mooch around a bit, see if there are any students about, and see if you can locate anyone else who might be on the comparative religion course – that sort of thing. Any questions?’

  ‘When and how do I report to you, er, sir?’ asked the DC.

  ‘By e-mail, for the record, and by telephone if it’s anything urgent. It doesn’t matter too much about telephoning, as long as you’re not overheard by anyone who will blow your cover. Got it?’

  ‘Got it, sir.’

  ‘Off you go, then, Roberts, and no lolly-gagging at home. Get changed straightaway, and get yourself over to that campus. There shouldn’t be much doing tomorrow, though, with it being Sunday, so if you’re rostered for duty you might as well come into the station.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Although, come to think of it, I’ve got tomorrow off. What about you, Carmichael?’

  ‘I’m off, too,’ said Carmichael, smiling at the thought of a day with his family.

  ‘I believe I’m not actually scheduled to work, either,’ added Roberts.

  ‘In that case, do what you can today – no skiving, mind – and I’ll see you bright and early on Monday morning.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  DC Roberts exited Falconer’s office, determined to do a good job. Something about the inspector had inspired him, and he would act on this inspiration to be a more dedicated officer. Goodness knows how long this would last, but he’d better take advantage of it while it did.

  When he’d gone, Falconer looked at Carmichael, to see him looking unusually morose. ‘You’re not jealous of the new boy, are you, Carmichael?’ he asked, with a smile.

  ‘What, sir? No, sir. It’s not that. It’s something completely different that’s playing on my mind.’

  ‘Tell Uncle Harry then,’ ordered Falconer, unusually informal, for once.

  ‘There’s this bloke, moved into Castle Farthing about six months or so ago – not very long after Kerry and I got married – and he’s been an absolute pain in the wotsit, to everyone. Oh, I don’t mean that he’s foul-mouthed, or violent, or anything like that, but he likes to pick on something a person might be sensitive about, and then, I suppose you might call it, teases them whenever he sees them. I don’t think he realises how much he’s upsetting people. He just looks on it as this great big joke.’

  ‘Like what?’ asked Falconer.

  ‘Well, do you remember the Brigadier?’

  ‘How could I forget him? That was on our first case together,’ Falconer replied, smiling at the memory of the bluff military man.

  ‘Every time he sees him he stands to attention and hums the theme tune from Dad’s Army. Whenever he goes into the general store – that’s called ‘Allsorts’, if you remember – he asks whoever’s on the till where they’ve hidden all the liquorice. When he goes into the pub – that’s The Fisherman’s Flies, sir – he calls out, asking if the fisherman’s flies are open or not. That’s the sort of thing he does, and he tries to take over anything that’s being organised.

  ‘He was a right pain in the arse over the Harvest Festival, if you’ll pardon my French, and I thought the locum vicar was going to lump him one, not long before the day of the service. It’s that sort of thing. Nothing awful, individually, but put together, he’s a very unpopular man, although he seems to think he’s the life and soul of the village.’

  ‘This isn’t like you, Carmichael, to get all bent out of shape by something like this,’ Falconer commented.

  ‘No, it’s not, sir, but he caught me on the raw, this morning.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I took the little doggies out for their morning walk, and he was on his way to the shop. They were having a sniff around on the green, checking the tree trunks for other canine visitors. You know what dogs are like, sir? They do like to pick up their messages.

  ‘Anyway, he was just about to pass by, when he stopped dead and burst out laughing. I looked up to see what he was laughing about, and he was staring at me and the two pups – well, I suppose they’re not pups any more, really – so I asked him what he was laughing at.

  ‘He only went and said he was laughing at me. Young Longshanks, he called me! And he said that the dogs looked like a couple of cotton wool balls on strings. ‘There goes Young Longshanks and his two fluff-balls on a string,’ was what he actually said, and then he added that he always had a good laugh when he saw me taking them out.’

  ‘And that’s all?’ Falconer was amazed at how thin-skinned Carmichael appeared to be over this matter.

  ‘It’s not what he says, sir, it’s the way he says it. He’s got up just about everybody’s nose. Someone’s going to have to have a word with him, before too long. I don’t suppose you fancy …?’

  ‘No, I don’t! Get your mother over, and get her to give him a good verbal mauling. That’ll shut him up for good.’ Falconer had met Mrs Carmichael senior at Carmichael and Kerry’s wedding, and he was terrified of her.

  For once, Roberts acted exactly according to his instructions and, by just after three o’clock, was passing through the large glass doors of the entrance to the Market Darley College of Further and Higher Education.

  Straight ahead of him, a corridor ran off into the distant indoor darkness, but either side of this corridor, on the wall facing him, were two enormous noticeboards covered with various notices and messages relating to different aspects of college life.

  One had a cluster of missives, both in print and handwritten, notifying anyone who cared to read the board of meetings of the Local History Society, and advertising for new members. Another part of the board – the main portion – concerned sporting events, both within the college itself and in the surrounding area. There were also reminders about practises for various sporting activities, and team lists for fixtures.

  The other board had a small section reserved for the philosophy students, which was only half full. Philosophy did not appear to be a publicised subject at this particular college, even though the course was full. The re
mainder of the board concerned social events for the students, and notices for the department of comparative religion. One caught his eye straight away.

  Leaning forward to read it, he saw that it was for the discussion group that applied itself to local religious beliefs, practices, and history, and appeared to be run by someone called Jocasta Gray, who had signed herself as Head of Comparative Religious Studies. That would certainly be worth a look, he thought, pulling out a piece of paper and a stub of pencil from the pocket of his thoroughly disreputable parka.

  The notice stated that there was to be a meeting on Monday evening, here at the college, and he made a mental note to attend. There might be some useful information to be gleaned from the students who attended, but he’d have to be subtle in his questioning. If anyone from the college had an interest in the Strict and Particular Chapel in Steynham St Michael, it was bound to be this group.

  From this starting point in the huge entrance space, he took himself off to the information desk, to see if there was anyone on duty who could be of use to him on this quiet day in the educational week.

  The desk was unattended, and a ‘closed’ sign sat prominently in the middle of it, but he espied a chubby girl with her lank hair in a plait quite close by, stuffing some leaflets into an information stand, and he wandered over to her to see if she could be of any help to him.

  She blushed an unbecoming shade of crimson when he greeted her, a look that definitely didn’t complement the broad band of acne sprinkled across her nose and cheeks. On her forehead, three or four large spots were vying for supremacy.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb your work,’ he apologised very prettily, ‘but I’m starting late on the comparative religion course on Monday, and wondered if you knew anything about it, or the other people on the course.’

  At this point, the girl turned an even darker shade, approaching beetroot, this time, and answered, ‘Actually, I’m on the course, myself. I’m Elspeth Martin, by the way.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Elspeth Martin,’ Roberts said, holding out his hand to shake hers, then realising her age, remembered what an old-fogeyish thing this would be to do, as a student, and briefly retracted it, as she stared at it in incomprehension.