Glass House (The Falconer Files Book 11) Page 8

  Finally, it boiled over. He’d spent rather more than a small fortune in Market Darley earlier today to greet these new neighbours and, although he realised that the peacocks had caused some disruption, as had the workmen before them, none of it was directly his fault.

  The workmen had just done a normal working day, and he was already in talks to remove the peacocks from the premises. What more could he do?

  ‘You’re just a bunch of small-minded, bigoted, thoughtless, intolerant gits!’ he shouted, so that more than the Trusslers heard him. ‘Here I am, slaving away over a hot barbecue, having spent hours shopping for all the ingredients, and preparing them before you all arrived, and everyone who gets the chance has a go at me.

  ‘Well, I’ve had enough. Someone else can take over at this bloody fire. I’m going off to get a triple gin and tonic, and you can all go to hell, as far as I’m concerned.’

  He realised straight away that Chadwick was on his way back outside, because he heard his voice from the kitchen, clearly saying, ‘Right, back to me, now.’ He was an egocentric little tyke, but he couldn’t help having fallen for him. Maybe he was at a funny age, or something.

  As this little incident was unfolding, Chadwick was just emerging from the house in freshly laundered shocking pink trousers, only to be immediately accosted by a very sharply dressed young man smelling strongly of an expensive designer aftershave.

  ‘Good evening, Mr McMurrough. I thought I’d better introduce myself to you, as you’d been civil enough to invite me to your house-warming party, I’m Robin Eastwood from River View, and I’m delighted to meet you. I always watch your chat show.’

  ‘Do call me Chadwick. A pleasure to meet you, too, Robin – if I may make so bold – and I’m so pleased that you like my little show.’

  The two positively twinkled at each other, and an invisible message passed between them. As Bailey pushed his way past into the kitchen, Chadwick gave an exaggeratedly theatrical sigh and turned back to his new acquaintance.

  ‘It would seem that something or someone has upset my partner and he’s left the barbecue unmanned, so I’d better fill the breach. You go inside and get yourself a drink, then we can have a lovely chat and get to know one another a bit better,’ he positively simpered.

  Chadwick swayed unsteadily over the flaming coals and charred meat, while Robin Eastwood minced exaggeratedly into the kitchen, his mind working nineteen to the dozen.

  In the kitchen, as both Bailey and Robin were testing their drinks, with an exploratory sip in Robin’s case, a glass-emptying gulp in Bailey’s, there was a scream from outside, and a babble of voices suddenly filled the air.

  ‘What the bloody hell?’ queried Bailey, abandoning his glass and running outside to see what all the fuss was about. There was a crowd round the barbecue, and when he elbowed his way through it, he caught sight of Chadwick lying very still on the grass.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked, immediately falling to his knees to check whether his partner was still breathing, as Dipsy Daxie also arrived on the scene and began to lick his master’s face in concern. Yes! He was unconscious, not dead. But for how much longer? Had he been hit? wondered Bailey, feeling round the back of his head, his hand coming out without any tell-tale blood stains. There were certainly no egg-like lumps present. Had he been poisoned, then?

  He must phone for an ambulance immediately, and for the police, for this looked like yet another attempt on the young man’s life, and it had to be stopped before he was actually killed.

  Rising to his feet and extracting his smartphone from his pocket simultaneously, he shouted as loud as he could, ‘Party’s over! There’s been an accident. I’m calling for an ambulance right now,’ while he thought, this is probably no accident to one of these people here. One of these ‘guests’ wants my Chad dead, and this is his or her fourth attempt. It’s got to be stopped before it goes any further.

  Market Darley

  Harry Falconer was still in his office when the call came through on his mobile. Bailey had wasted no time ringing either his home or his office numbers. Now he had established that there was an ambulance on its way, his next priority was getting in touch with the police as expediently as possible.

  Carmichael was just putting on his light jacket to go home, for they had both worked late catching up on necessary paperwork, when the inspector took the call, and a hand raised in his direction immediately halted him.

  When the call ended, Falconer gave his sergeant a grave look and said, ‘Apparently there’s been another attempt on Chadwick McMurrough’s life. An ambulance is on its way, and it could be poison this time. Put your jacket on properly, but give Kerry a call on the way over. We have to go to Fairmile Green again, to talk to the people who were there. He collapsed during a house-warming party.

  ‘Luckily, it was by invitation only, and Radcliffe can give us the names of all the people who attended. He had, apparently, just come outside from the house after having had to change his trousers, and he had left his drinks glass on the table by the barbecue. Easy enough, then, for someone to slip something into it on the pretext of examining the food, or chatting to Bailey Radcliffe. Childishly simple, really.’

  ‘Any idea how many of them were at this party?’ asked Carmichael, hoping that it had been a fairly intimate affair. He didn’t relish the thought of dozens of interviews.

  ‘With the chat show’s production team and their partners, nearly thirty; including three children, and one baby, thirty-one in all, but I think we can discount the small fry, so that makes twenty-seven adults.’

  ‘Any with a grudge against McMurrough or Radcliffe?’ Carmichael actually had his fingers crossed as he asked this one. Please God let this be a simple case as, with a celebrity involved, it would no doubt father a lot of media interest.

  ‘Oh, just about all of the neighbours, and he’s not sure about the production team. McMurrough’s not flavour of the month for all of them.’

  ‘Great!’ Carmichael had a dreadful sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that this was going to be a very tricky case indeed, even though no one was dead – yet.

  Falconer turned to him, as he drove, and said, ‘I know what you’re thinking, and I feel exactly the same. This is going to be right in the glare of the public’s gaze, and I’m not looking forward to it any more than you are.’

  As they pulled up outside Glass House, it was behind a local television news vehicle that had made it there before them. They must have had a tip-off from one of the guests who was ‘in the business’, so to speak.

  Falconer nearly growled out loud, so angry was he, but he squared his shoulders, assembled his ‘no comment’ features on his face, and got out of the car, Carmichael, with a completely blank expression, on his heels.

  Chapter Six

  Friday

  Market Darley

  Chadwick McMurrough’s bed in the Market Darley Hospital was surrounded by admiring nurses, as it was not yet visiting time. He had been diagnosed as having been administered a dose of Rohypnol – the date-rape drug – sufficient to incapacitate him for a few hours, but to do no lasting damage, and he was waiting for the doctor to come and pronounce him fit to go home.

  He’d already phoned Bailey and given him the approximate time of his discharge, and was spending the intervening interval basking in the limelight from both staff and patients. He was never happier than when surrounded by adoring fans, lapping up their delight in his company, and making him feel special.

  There was no chance that he would be detained in the ward any longer, and he was looking forward to getting back home and things getting back to normal. He felt none the worse for his ordeal, and was just anxious to put on his over-the-top clothes again, and get back into the big wide world. He had a show to record tomorrow evening, and he did not want to be distracted from his mental preparations for that.

  In the police station, Harry Falconer received a call on his mobile from Bailey Radcliffe about eleven o’clock, informing
him that McMurrough had recovered from the latest attempt on his life, and was now at home, deep in preparations for one of his shows that evening.

  ‘We’ll be right over to interview him, sir. Thank you for letting me know,’ Falconer said, into the phone.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know if he’ll approve of that. He’s deep into his prep for tonight’s recording,’ replied Bailey, somehow having overlooked this outcome of his call.

  ‘That’s what’s known as “tough luck”, sir. If he wants us to take these attempts on his life seriously, then he’s got to allow us to do our job. We’re leaving right away; you’d better warn him, so that we’re not a nasty surprise. I want him to try to remember everything he can from last night.’

  Carmichael looked up at this, and got up from his desk, realising instantly where they were going, and that that going was now.

  They both grabbed raincoats from the stand on the way out. As so often happens in this green and pleasant land, the glorious weather had lasted only a short while, and the rain was lashing down now.

  Fairmile Green

  ‘Why on earth does he have to come today? I’ve got to get au fait with the details of these guests. For God’s sake, I’m not dead. Couldn’t he have left it until Monday, when I’ll be as free as a bird?’

  ‘Chadders, someone’s been trying to kill you, and you want the inspector to delay his investigation by a few days? Do you realise what you’re trying to do? You’re going to give the killer days of carte blanche in which to have another go at you.’

  ‘Don’t blow everything out of proportion. I’m sure he won’t strike again before next week.’

  ‘How on earth can you be so certain?’ asked Bailey.

  ‘Oh, Bails, I expect he’s got a life too, and it is Friday night tonight. Bet you your bottom dollar there are no more attempts before Monday.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you’re so calm.’

  ‘Because the police won’t let something serious actually happen to me – not after last night.’

  ‘You’re a queen, not the Queen. I can’t see them giving you any special treatment.’

  ‘Well, you’ll just have to be extra vigilant on my behalf, won’t you, ducky?’

  When Falconer’s car drew up outside Glass House, it was nose to tail with what looked like the same local television van that had been parked there the night before, and he swore under his breath. ‘Come along, Carmichael. Time to run the gauntlet again. We’d better renew our vow of silence.’

  The weather was still filthy, and the windows of the local news van had begun to steam up. It simply was too unpleasant to be out and about, trying to do a piece to camera, when there was a positive Niagara streaming down one’s collar.

  Bailey opened the door quickly and ushered them in, as two other vans arrived almost simultaneously, one from a local paper, the other with the slogan of a national daily along its sides.

  ‘In quick, gents. We don’t want to be overrun with reporters, do we? ‘

  ‘Very Madame Butterfly weather,’ commented Falconer, to which he only received blank looks.

  ‘One fine day,’ he first quoted, then sang, before understanding broke over both countenances.

  ‘Lucky we had the barbecue yesterday,’ Bailey said, merely as a time-filler, as they entered the living room, only to receive a huge frown of disapproval from Chadwick.

  ‘If we hadn’t had the barbecue, someone wouldn’t have spiked my drink and I would have been saved a stay in hospital,’ whined McMurrough with a pathetic expression. ‘It’s lucky I wasn’t killed.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Chad. I just didn’t think. You know what I mean, though. And if we hadn’t got all those complaints and grouses over with in one fell swoop we’d have had them coming round in dribs and drabs for days and days, spoiling each one, as they polluted it with their moans and groans.’

  ‘True,’ Chadwick had to concede. ‘I suppose you two gentlemen want a statement from us.’

  ‘If you please, sir,’ replied Falconer, as Carmichael got out his notebook.

  ‘I’ve made a list of everyone who attended, along with their addresses – I needed the local phone book for that. Couldn’t remember which houses some of them professed to come from.’

  ‘That will save us a lot of time, Mr Radcliffe. Thank you very much. Very thoughtful and efficient of you.’

  They were interrupted, at this point, by a barrage of knocks on the front door, and someone seemed to have their finger pressed firmly and unrelentingly on the doorbell.

  ‘Damned press again. I’m not answering it. We’ll just have to wait until they give up.’ Bailey had evidently had more than one round of this un-looked-for attention, and got up from his seat, let down all the blinds, and turned on the lights. ‘We’ll just have to manage like this, given the circumstances. I hope you don’t mind.’

  Following this lowering of the blinds, the letterbox rattled, and they all had a vision of someone looking through to see if they could discern anything of interest from this very limited view. This was followed by what was, now visible in the artificial light, flashes of bright light emanating from the flap.

  ‘I don’t believe this. Now they’re taking pictures through the letterbox. Well I won’t put up with it,’ stated Bailey in an angry growl, got up from his seat again and went to a large wooden storage-cum-display unit. From a door in this, he removed a large roll of parcel tape, stalked over to the front door, and taped up the letterbox against further media assault.

  ‘That should sort the nosy buggers out. Now, can I get you chaps a cup of tea or coffee?’ With the banishment of further intrusion upon their meeting, Bailey’s social manner had returned, and he smiled politely at his guests.

  Suddenly Chadwick hissed urgently and uncomprehendingly at him, ‘Bails – syrup!’ This had the effect of Radcliffe nonchalantly putting a hand to his head, making some sort of calculation, and moving the hand briefly to his left, so that it appeared his whole head of hair moved. If they could work that one out, then good for them – at the moment, he didn’t really care.

  Both policemen chose coffee, and he left for the kitchen to rustle up a cafetière of the fresh, hot, fragrant liquid. Chadwick tuned in to the present, whereas before, he had been lost in a brown study, and asked them if they’d like to start questioning him.

  Bailey was back in only five minutes, and set his tray down on the coffee table. The questioning would have continued, but the sight of Carmichael sweetening his drink caused a hush to fall on the room, and he looked up to find all eyes on him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘How many spoonfuls of sugar did you just put in your cup?’ asked Bailey, fascinated.

  ‘Six.’

  ‘And did you mean to?’ So was Chadwick.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He always takes six sugars,’ confirmed Falconer. ‘It’s nothing unusual. He’s a big lad and he needs to get sufficient energy from somewhere.’

  ‘He certainly is big, isn’t he?’ commented Chadwick, looking the sergeant up and down, and causing him to feel particularly uncomfortable. As he put it to Falconer later, ‘It was like he was undressing me with his eyes. I could never be female.’

  ‘Now you know how most women feel a lot of the time,’ the inspector had retorted somewhat tartly, shaking his head to dispel the horrible vision his mind had just conjured up, of a female Carmichael, but thinking that, sometimes, it was good for men to know how uncomfortable they made women feel with their searching glances.

  From what both McMurrough and Radcliffe told the two detectives, neither of them had noticed anyone lurking near Chadwick’s glass when he had left it on the table by the barbecue, and they had both discussed the evening, and decided that this was when something must have been added to his drink.

  ‘We’ll just have to do the rounds of the neighbours, then, and see if any of them were more observant,’ concluded the inspector. ‘Mr McMurrough, when would be a good time to speak to your production team, which I
have been reliably informed joined in the house-warming festivities before the unfortunate incident?’

  ‘Not today, if you can help it, because we’re recording a show tonight, and they’ll be up to their eyes until that’s over and done with,’ replied Chadwick.

  ‘But it’s not on tonight, is it? Have they changed its slot?’ asked Carmichael, anxious not to miss one of his favourite programmes.

  ‘No, it’s just recorded in advance. It can sometimes become a bit volcanic, with my, er, temperament,’ – here, he had the grace to blush, confirming that his temperament was ninety per cent fictional – ‘and the volatility of some of the guests.

  ‘We started going out live, but one of our early guests went ape-shit in the studio, and we had to cut the broadcast to restore order, and eject the person responsible. That may be fairly good for viewing figures in the short term, but it won’t be tolerated in the long term, so now we always record in advance, so that the tape can be edited of anything we consider it unwise to broadcast,’ he concluded.

  ‘And now, if you’ve finished with your questions, I have to get on. There are a lot of facts and figures that have to be memorised before I interview my guests, and I need them at the forefront of my mind before we start recording.’

  Market Darley

  The two detectives ran from the car park to the entrance to the police station, their mackintoshes over their heads as the rain was still coming down like stair rods.

  ‘That’s one helluva list he gave us, sir,’ Carmichael shouting above the noise of the torrent, as a rumble of thunder sounded in the distance.

  ‘Roberts should be in the office by now. We’ll take him along with us this afternoon. I’ll get him on the blower to as many of these as he can find in, and sort us out a proper list of visiting times. That should be the most efficient route to take. We can always try those that weren’t at home at the end.’