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

  ‘That’ll be two pounds fifty,’ declared the man in the serving hatch, and Falconer looked at him with some surprise.

  ‘Surely that should be two pounds?’ he queried. ‘It says that tea’s a pound a cup.’

  ‘Not the way your mate takes sugar, it’s not. That’s extra! If everyone took sugar like ’e does, I’d be out of business in a fortnight. Now, pay up, and less of yer moaning.’

  ‘We’re policemen, you know!’ Falconer stated, with dignity.

  ‘Then you should know when one of yer innocent public’s bein’ robbed. And that’s me, with all that sugar wot ’e’s put in ’is tea. Now, give us yer money and get orf, outta my sight. And if yer comes back again, bring yer own bleedin’ sugar. I can’t be givin’ out the whole year’s supply from a small Caribbean island to customers like ’im every time ’e wants a cuppa. Tell ’im ’e’s to bring ’is own next time!’

  Falconer ‘got orf’, indicating for Carmichael to follow him, not knowing whether to lose his temper at the bare-faced cheek of the vendor or laugh his head off. He’d have to see what mood he was in before he decided.

  ‘That’ll be fifty pence, Carmichael,’ he declared. ‘I don’t mind paying for your cuppa, but I’m damned if I’m going to pay for your sugar as well.’

  Carmichael solemnly rummaged around in his pocket and produced a fifty-pence piece, which he handed to the inspector in silence.

  ‘Thank you,’ he growled, feeling a bit embarrassed at his petty meanness now that Carmichael had actually paid him the supplement.

  About fifteen minutes later they drew up outside ‘Honeysuckle’ in Dairy Lane. Word had got round, as it does in a village, and Vernon Warlock and Charles Rainbird were also waiting for them, having left ‘back in ten minutes’ signs on their shop doors. Gossip was much more important that lacklustre sales.

  As the two policemen were ushered in, Charles Rainbird announced, in a rather theatrical voice, ‘An inspector calls! Well, the writing’s really on the wall, now.’ There was a groan from the assembled villagers, who turned their attention away from this feeble witticism and towards the two figures representing law and order who had just entered the now rather crowded room.

  ‘Oh, thank the Lord you’re here!’ exclaimed Dimity, rising from her seat.

  ‘The cavalry to the rescue, as usual!’ declared Bryony. No one else spoke.

  ‘I understand that there’s a corpse in your chapel?’ Falconer asked, anxious to get whatever details he could before visiting the locus.

  ‘It’s that man who was working there, who did the plastering and painting,’ volunteered Patience. ‘I think his name’s Steven Warwick.’

  ‘He looked like he’d been thumped in the face, and he had a very nasty wound on his right temple,’ offered Craig.

  ‘And there was an old tablecloth covering him. Whoever did it left him lying there, on the altar. That’s disrespectful, that is,’ Elizabeth exclaimed, in the rush of information.

  The two shopkeepers, Vernon Warlock and Charles Rainbird, remained silent. They hadn’t been there, and had seen nothing. They were only at Bryony’s cottage because of the efficiency of the village grapevine, and had gone there to lend their support to the ladies, neither of them considering that Craig Crawford was much of a man, what with his schoolboy train sets and model countryside.

  ‘Does anyone have a key to the chapel?’ Falconer asked, at once practical and wanting to get on with the job.

  ‘I have,’ said Dimity, leaning over the back of her chair, to extract it from her coat pocket.

  ‘Thank you very much, Miss Pryor,’ he said, taking the proffered lump of cold metal. ‘DC Carmichael and I will visit the scene of the crime, consult with the police surgeon – or Forensic Medical Examiner, as he’s taken to calling himself now he’s got all those nice shiny new qualifications – then return here, to take statements. Should any of you wish to go home in the meantime, I’m sure we’ll find you without too much trouble.’

  Without any further ado, they left, and made their way (by car, because of the temperature) to the chapel, with Falconer muttering away to himself, ‘Forensic Medical Examiner! Blasted new-fangled terminology! That man’s getting ideas above his station. Paddington!’

  Carmichael, who was only semi-tuned-in to what the inspector was mumbling, suddenly asked, ‘The bear?’

  ‘What bear?’ asked Falconer, suddenly jolted out of his little rant.

  ‘Paddington,’ stated Carmichael, trying his best to get the gist of things.

  ‘No! The station! Don’t you listen to anything I say?’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  Arriving at the chapel they found Dr Christmas newly arrived and twisting and turning the ring of the door handle in hopes of getting inside and away from the wicked north wind.

  ‘Hurry up, Harry!’ the doctor cajoled the inspector. ‘I’m dying of hypothermia here!’

  Falconer obliged, and, still muttering away to himself under his breath, all three were soon standing at the far end of the aisle, looking down to the altar, where something lay covered with an old table cloth. It was difficult to discern the colour at this distance and in this light, and they soon began to make their way towards the thing underneath its surface.

  The inspector gave a low whistle, and said, ‘Well, the writing really is on the wall, as has just been pointed out to me.’

  Falconer produced a large evidence bag from the small attaché case he had brought with him and, after pulling on a pair of protective gloves, so as not to contaminate the evidence, Dr Christmas lowered the cloth carefully inside the waiting receptacle.

  What this action revealed was the corpse, orientated north to south, its head pointing north. This probably signified nothing, but Carmichael drew out his notebook and made a note of it just in case. Christmas declared life extinct, and made a note of the time, before taking a closer look at the injuries visible. Although the less serious of the two wounds, it was the one to the face that drew their attention. The man had evidently sustained a fairly powerful blow to the face.

  ‘This was done about the same time as that wound on the head was inflicted,’ declared the doctor. ‘There was little time for the tissue to swell and bruise. I think the eye socket may be cracked – can’t be sure until I get him back to the mortuary – but if it is, I’d have expected maybe just a little more swelling and bruising than we’ve got.’

  ‘What about that blow to the head?’ asked Falconer, as Christmas moved his face as close as he dared to the damage area without actually touching it.

  ‘I can’t say anything for certain now, but you know that. My initial gut reaction is that the blow was inflicted by our old friend, the blunt instrument. I can’t see any traces of splinters of wood in the wound, and I’m going to make an initial guess, given the power behind it, that whatever he was hit with was made of metal, or some-such non-brittle material.

  ‘Now, I know that’s not very helpful, or particularly clever, but I can’t do anything until after the SOCO team have taken all their photographs, fingerprints, and samples, so you’ll just have to be patient, Harry.’

  ‘Any idea when he died?’ Falconer asked, knowing he was pushing his luck, and might end up with the rectal thermometer inserted into his own body.

  Dr Christmas put a hand on the body’s chest, where the winter-weight shirt was slightly open, then gently tried to manipulate one of the hands without disturbing its position.

  ‘You’re pushing your luck, old boy, but I’d make a fair guess, without any official confirmation, that this happened sometime last night.’

  ‘Thanks for that, Philip. We really appreciate it. We’ll leave you to wait for the SOCO boys and girls now, and go off to see if we can glean any information from the neighbours. Oh, no!’ he suddenly cried out, slapping one hand to his forehead.

  ‘What is it, sir?’ asked Carmichael, concerned once again about the mood of his superior.

  ‘You know who the nearest neighbours are, don’t you
Carmichael?’ the inspector asked, his face a mask of tragedy.

  ‘Forgotten!’ answered Carmichael, economically, not wanting to waste words when he could see the heat escaping from all their bodies into the air in the form of clouds of vapour every time someone spoke.

  ‘The drunken Littlemores!’ exclaimed Falconer, and Carmichael gave a groan.

  ‘Malcolm and Amy, Olympic drinkers,’ he said, shaking his head in despair. ‘We’ll never get any sense out of them,’ he concluded.

  ‘Especially as someone commented that they were still on the sauce when we were here about the Greek graffito,’ Falconer replied, in agreement. ‘They have a problem remembering which way is up most days, and on bad ones, they couldn’t find their own arses with both hands and a mirror.’

  ‘Sir!’ burst out Carmichael in admonishment.

  ‘Well I feel like that today,’ was Falconer’s rather weak excuse, and it was left to Dr Christmas to restore some sort of normality – given the circumstances of them being there together – to the situation.

  ‘I’ll get this done as soon as possible, and let you know the results tout suite,’ he promised.

  ‘Make sure you do,’ replied Falconer, still seething with the injustice of having to return to Steynham St Michael only months after having worked on a murder case here before.

  Monica Raynor returned to her estate agency on the Market Darley Road rather later than she had planned after lunch, only to find the office locked and deserted. That was odd, because Quentin had promised that he would cover for her until her return, and here he was, gone. He could’ve let her know on her mobile that he was going out, she thought, then remembered that she had switched it off before she left the office.

  On her desk was a note that read simply, ‘Gone out. B back B4 5’, with Quentin scrawled under this message. She checked his diary, but there were no entries for appointments or viewings this afternoon, and she wondered where he’d gone. He didn’t respond to his mobile either, but she could hardly complain about that, as she hadn’t had hers switched on either.

  He was either in need of complete peace and quiet or up to something, or both. At the moment she didn’t care which it was, and sat down at her desk and removed a half bottle of vodka from her bottom drawer; the one she always kept locked.

  Taking a deep slug straight from the bottle, she thought, what the hell! Badger’s Sett’s only just down the road. I can get a lift from Quentin, if he’s back, or I can simply walk. It’s only a few yards away, and at this comforting idea, she raised the bottle to her lips again, and drank deeply of its contents.

  Falconer and Carmichael approached the Littlemores’ home, Forge Cottage, on foot as it was only just across Tuppenny Lane. The light was fading fast at this time of year and with the overcast conditions that had prevailed throughout the day, and as they crossed the road, they could see the cottage, ablaze with lights, like an ocean liner at sea during the dark of night, and hear music seeping out of every crevice, which must mean it was very loud indeed when one considered that they had double glazing throughout the property.

  Carmichael rang the bell as Falconer stood back to avoid getting caught in anything that might issue from that front door with unfriendly intent at being interrupted mid-binge.

  It was Amy who answered the summons after only the third ring, her hair dishevelled, the top two buttons of her blouse undone beneath her cardigan, and a strong smell of ouzo emanating from her. It was only then that Falconer identified the blaring music as Greek.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Littlemore,’ Falconer greeted her, suddenly realising how appropriate the couple’s surname was – ‘just a little more, please’. ‘We’d like a word with you and your husband …’

  At this point she interrupted him, holding one hand up to an ear, and shouting, ‘Whassat? Can’ ’ear yer!’

  ‘Could you turn the music down, please, Mrs Littlemore?’ he requested, only to get a similar response, this time with the other hand cupping the other ear,

  ‘Speak up, love. Can’ ear yer ’cos of this bloody loud music!’

  ‘Mrs Littlemore, may we come in for a minute? We need to speak to you and your husband,’ the inspector shouted.

  ‘’Ang on a minute. I’ve go’ ter turn this bloody music dahn. Can’t ’ear a bloody thing,’ she announced, and disappeared back into the house, inadvertently shutting the front door on them.

  They waited for two or three minutes, and when she hadn’t returned, Falconer turned to Carmichael with a deep sigh of displeasure. ‘She’s forgotten about us, drunken old sot. Give that bell another long push, Carmichael. We’ll have to see if we can get her to come back to the door.’

  This time, it was Malcolm Littlemore who greeted them, leaning forward, trying to hear what Falconer was saying, but being defeated, as had been his wife, by the volume of the music coming from inside the house. ‘’Ang on a mini’,’ he said. ‘I’ve gotta turn tha’ bloody music dahn. Can’ ’ear myself fink, with that racket blarin’ out,’ and he too, disappeared back inside the house.

  Fortunately, he didn’t close the door on them, and they entered, without permission, to try to rouse the inebriated couple sufficiently to ask them if they’d heard anything the night before. Just before they entered the living room, as noisy as a night club, now that they were closer to the source of the music, Falconer turned to Carmichael and mouthed, ‘Fat chance!’ before entering the room and turning off the music himself, his ear-drums protesting as he approached the equipment.

  ‘Oh, ’ello again. Oo le’ you in, then?’ asked Malcolm, smiling a welcome at them. ‘Come in an’ ’ave a li’l drinky wiv us. We’re ’avin’ a late ’Allowe’en par’y. Yer welcome ter join us, if yer wan’ to.’

  ‘’Ave a li’l drinky-winky,’ echoed Amy, standing at practically a forty-five degree angle at the other end of the room, as she fought to keep her balance.

  ‘We’ve come about the murder over the road, at the chapel,’ Falconer announced, in a slightly louder voice than normal, assuming that their ears would probably be a little jaded by the volume of what they had been listening to.

  ‘No needs ter shou’, old boy,’ slurred Malcolm, and waved an arm at the empty sofa, a gesture indicating that they should take a seat.

  ‘You do realise there’s been a murder in the chapel, don’t you, Mr Littlemore, Mrs Littlemore?’

  ‘Whassat?’ asked Amy, finally losing her battle with gravity and toppling over to the floor, glass still in her hand.

  ‘Steady on, ol’ girl,’ chided Malcolm, moving to her aid. ‘Bi’ unsteady on ’er pins, is our Amy. Go’ sumfink wrong wiv ’er inner-ear,’ he informed them, tapping his right index finger against his nose and winking.

  ‘Mr Littlemore,’ bellowed Falconer. ‘Will you be opening up your shop tomorrow?’ he asked, realising that they were fighting a losing battle with these two today.

  ‘Shouldn’t fink so. Know wha’ I mean, squire?’ Malcolm slurred, looking at them both through bleary eyes.

  Good God! thought Falconer. It’s only late afternoon, and they’re absolutely rat-arsed.

  ‘P’r’aps in the ar’ernoon,’ Malcolm added, hopefully.

  ‘We’ll come back and see you then,’ the inspector announced. ‘Thank you very much for your time this afternoon.’ He stressed the last two words, in the hope that it may make them realise what a state they were in so early in the day, but it was like water off a duck’s back to these two, he supposed, and nodded for Carmichael to follow him out of the house, to get back to interviewing people who were stone cold sober.

  Malcolm Littlemore staggered politely to the door, fulfilling his role as host, as he perceived it, in his drunken state, and waved them off cheerily, calling, ‘Do come back soon!’

  When they arrived back at ‘Honeysuckle’, the same crowd was still present, and as Bryony let them in they could hear that conversation had turned, temporarily, to the Hallowe’en party of the night before, and Dimity was holding forth about
times gone by.

  ‘When I was young, we didn’t have any celebrations – whatever you like to call them – for Hallowe’en, although we children always tried to pay a sneaky visit to the graveyard, to see if, indeed, the dead would walk; but if Guy Fawkes’ Night fell on a Sunday, the fireworks were let off on the Saturday night before. To let off fireworks and have a bonfire on the Sabbath was taboo. But now, anything goes, it seems,’ she ended, her voice sad and wistful.

  ‘No respect for anything these days, the younger generation.’ This was pronounced in Vernon Warlock’s slightly lugubrious tones, and, having met the man, Falconer wondered if he had ever been young. He had got the impression that Warlock was born old and cranky.

  As the two policemen entered the room, the sound of conversation fizzled and died, and all eyes were swivelled in their direction.

  ‘Anything to report?’ asked Charles Rainbird, a dreadful old gossip, and always willing to put himself forward if it meant learning something interesting.

  ‘Nothing, except to confirm that the dead man is Steven Warwick. I was able to do that, because he was pointed out to me, when we visited before, to view the graffito. I think at this point that you know as much as we do. I’ve left the scene in the care of Dr Christmas, to see to the SOCO team, and the only thing for me to do now, before I leave the village, is to have a word with all of you who found the body today.’

  ‘Do we have to go now?’ asked Charles Rainbird, referring to himself and Vernon Warlock.

  ‘You weren’t involved in the discovery of the body, were you?’ Falconer made it a question, rather than a statement. It was best to keep every resident he could on his side.

  ‘I’m afraid not, but we could tell you where and when we last saw the chap. That might help, mightn’t it?’ Charles wasn’t giving up on being at the epicentre of the action without a fight.

  ‘If you’d like to go into the dining room – if that’s all right with Mrs Buckleigh?’ he queried.

  ‘Quite all right, Inspector. Use whichever room seems the most appropriate,’ called back a voice from the kitchen, where Bryony was brewing yet more coffee and tea, and wondering, now that the afternoon had moved on a little, whether it might be more appropriate to offer sherry.