Strict and Peculiar (The Falconer Files Book 7) Page 8

  ‘Anyway, in the refectory, this Elspeth girl introduced me to some other students, not all on the same course, but all members of the discussion group and, of course, I said I wanted to come along.’

  ‘Good man!’ put in Falconer.

  ‘So, I went to the meeting, and it was really all about the Strict and Particular denomination, but there was something said that indicated there was a hard core of members that had formed, and met as the advanced discussion group. I couldn’t really find out anything about that. It was covered up by a story of it being people who’d been in the group for some time, and wanted to take the discussions further than was appropriate for those just being introduced to the subject. My arse, they do.

  ‘I’m going to find a way to either infiltrate that, or spy on their meetings. I don’t know what they’re actually up to, but I’m determined to find out.

  ‘Then, when I left the college, I saw that Elspeth’s was just about the only car left in the front car park, apart from mine, so I pretended to have trouble with my engine, and she fell for it, hook, line, and sinker. She offered me a lift home in her own car, just like I’d intended she would.’

  ‘I hope you didn’t let her take you right to the door. There’s no knowing what she could find out about you if she had your real address and went round discreetly questioning the neighbours.’

  ‘I thought of that, sir.’ Great! He’d remembered to address the inspector as ‘sir’! ‘I got her to drop me off at the big roundabout just outside the town; claimed I was going to see a mate before I went home.’

  ‘Well done, Roberts!’

  ‘But that’s not all, sir.’ Yes, he was really getting the hang of it now. It was coming much more naturally to him. ‘When I opened the door to get into the car, there was this big pile of heavy dark cloth on the front seat, so I picked it up to fold it and put it on the back seat, and she went ape-shit – excuse the language, sir.’

  ‘How exactly did she do that?’

  ‘She started shouting at me like a mad woman, got out of the car, snatched it out of my hands, and put it in the boot, asking something like how dare I think I had the right to interfere with her possessions? She was really weird about it.’

  ‘That’s very interesting, Roberts. Well done! Keep up the good work, and don’t forget to report to me every day. It’s for your own safety, as well as for the progression of the investigation.’

  ‘Yes, guv – I mean, sir,’ Roberts concluded, and considered ending the call before he could be chastised again. He was quite enjoying being a student, so far, but he toughed it out. ‘And by the way, I’ve seen this weird ice-cream van – that’s twice now –, just leaving the vicinity of the college. I wouldn’t normally mention something like that, only it seemed so odd to see something like that doing business outside a college. A school, I could understand, but the students here aren’t exactly children, and I’m sure they would rather spend their student loans on beer than ice-cream. God knows what he thought he was going to sell, out there at that time of night, but it’s so cold, I didn’t really feel like indulging in a ‘ninety-nine’. God! I remember the good old days, when 99 was a higher number than the price of the things!’

  The call ended and Falconer was rather pleased. So, there were a couple more pins to go into his map, although in his excitement about hearing about these extra two sightings, he had forgotten to tell Chris to keep his eyes peeled for any more appearances of the highly suspicious van. He just wasn’t used to running an undercover officer, and he realised he wasn’t doing a really efficient job of it. And he still hadn’t given him the details of the murder, to heighten his awareness of the danger of his situation. He couldn’t even send him a text or a ring on his mobile, as that might blow his cover, if one of the other students got hold of it. He must tell him when he rang again.

  As Falconer put down the phone, Carmichael entered the office, a big, goofy grin on his face. ‘What’s got into you, to make you so happy?’ asked Falconer.

  ‘Nothing, sir. It’s just that when I was leaving the house this morning, I looked at Kerry – she looks like she’s swallowed one of the Hallowe’en pumpkins, whole – and I just felt like bursting with pride. Here I am, a married man, with two lovely stepsons, and my very own first child growing in my wife’s belly. How lucky can a man get?’

  ‘Hrmph! That’s enough about ‘bellies’, Carmichael. Could put a man off his coffee,’ answered Falconer gruffly. He didn’t like to hear anything about women’s conditions or the problems peculiar to their sex, and shied away from anything that promised unwanted detail in these areas.

  ‘Dammit!’ exclaimed Falconer, apropos of nothing that Carmichael could discern. ‘I forgot to ask Roberts about Sunday night, and I didn’t tell him about the murder either. I daren’t phone him myself: I might blow his cover. I’ll just have to wait until he calls in again.’

  Changing the subject, he said, ‘Do you think you could have a quick word with Bob Bryant on the desk: see if Green and Starr are on duty? I’ve got a little job I want them to do, and it’s probably better done sooner than later.’

  PC Merv Green and PC Linda ‘Twinkle’ Starr appeared in Falconer’s office in due course, and he asked them to go to Steynham St Michael to do some door-to-door enquiries round the rectangle formed by the Market Darley Road, Tuppenny Lane, Farriers Lane, and the High Street, and to include Dairy Lane in their visits.

  ‘And no skiving off to canoodle!’ he warned them. They had begun going out with each other, and Falconer knew Green was completely smitten to the point where he wasn’t looking for a quick leg-over, but treated his new lady friend with some old-fashioned respect. But he didn’t want temptation to get the better of them with just the two of them in the car together and all those handy little rural hidey-holes.

  He wanted them to find out if anyone had seen any unusual vehicle, or strangers, perhaps acting suspiciously (he really was asking for the moon, here) in the area, anytime between Sunday, late afternoon, and very early Monday morning. Whoever it was might have been observed passing through on their way to the chapel and been noticed by someone who didn’t realise the significance of what they’d seen.

  He then applied himself to the map he had been creating, of sightings of ‘Mr Spliffy’ and his ice-cream-and-drugs van. Remembering his conversation with Roberts, he made sure that there were two marker-pins outside the college gates. It might be worthwhile getting Roberts to keep an eye out for the van and take a note of whatever number plate it was displaying on each of any sightings.

  From the uniformed branch he already had six different registration numbers, and the one he and Carmichael had noted down themselves when they had first seen it and been suspicious of it. [2] There must be some way they could track it to its lair, and get a warrant to search wherever it was kept.

  In Steynham St Michael, Green and Starr were received warmly. Not only did the residents they visited feel indignant that there had been a second murder in their village in less than a year, but were also scandalised that the body had been discovered in their newly refurbished chapel, which was also, hopefully, to become a tourist attraction in the coming season.

  Arriving as they did at lunchtime, they found many people at home who would have been at work had their call been an hour later or an hour earlier, and PC Starr was a real hit with Vernon Warlock and Charles Rainbird.

  Both men invited them in for a cup of tea, and Vernon Warlock, often irritable and scratchy, behaved with a great deal of charm, given that he had an attractive young woman in his living room. Merv Green he tended to ignore, but he made up to ‘Twinkle’ Starr in a charming, almost Edwardian way, she responding with the odd flutter of the eyelashes and a come-hither-ish look.

  Charles Rainbird was in his element, having always been a terrible flirt despite his sexuality. He was what some called a ‘greedy’, not showing a particular preference for which side he batted for, as long as he got what he wanted. Twinkle caught on to his flirtatious natur
e immediately, and responded to it, in the hopes that he might have something for them, but he was rather more interested in her, and it took Merv taking her tiny hand in his to stop the verbal pursuit of his ladylove by this old rake.

  On being questioned later by Starr about this unprofessional show of affection in public, he defended himself by saying that he needed to put the old boy off the scent because she was spoken for. He didn’t want Rainbird to make a nuisance of himself at the station, claiming he’d seen things that he hadn’t just because he wanted to see her.

  ‘How gallant of you, Merv. And am I spoken for, then?’ she asked, looking up at him bashfully.

  ‘You can bet your shirt on it, baby,’ replied Green, smiling at her with appreciation, and the fact that she was indeed his.

  Having turned the sign to ‘closed’ at the office because she needed to go home to freshen up, and Quentin had unaccountably disappeared, Monica Raynor was also at home when they called on her, although she had only just arrived there.

  When she opened the door to them she nearly swooned, her face drained of colour, and her mouth gaped open.

  ‘Are you all right, madam?’ asked Green, stepping forward to take her by the elbow, before she drooped to the floor.

  ‘It’s Quentin, isn’t it?’ asked Monica, her mind responding like lightning to finding two police constables on her doorstep, and dragging up what she could to cover her shock and fear.

  ‘I’m sorry, madam, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who exactly is Quentin?’

  Monica’s body visibly relaxed, and the colour started to come back to her cheeks. ‘Nothing’s happened to Quentin, then?’ she persisted, then added, ‘Quentin is my husband, and he disappeared from the office – the estate agent’s office – when I was out. He left no note or message, and I’ve no idea where he’s got to.’

  ‘We have no information whatsoever about your husband, madam. Perhaps he just fancied a breath of fresh air, or he’s off on an appointment that wasn’t made until after you went out. I shouldn’t worry too much. He’ll turn up, and there’ll be a totally innocent explanation for his absence.’

  Her shock having now abated, Monica asked them in and offered them coffee. It was Twinkle who accepted the offer, but only on the condition that they could use their facilities before they left, as they had been lucky enough to be offered refreshments by other households they had visited that morning.

  ‘Have you heard about the dead body that was discovered in the Strict and Particular Chapel in Tuppenny Lane?’ Merv asked her, and she nodded, colouring slightly for reasons unfathomed.

  ‘Yes. It’s all over the village. Nobody seems to be talking about anything else, and it gets a bit wearing after a while,’ she replied, with a slight hardness in her voice.

  ‘Did you ever meet the deceased?’ asked Green, Twinkle sitting with her notebook on her knees under the kitchen table, taking discreet notes.

  ‘I did, as a matter of fact,’ Monica admitted. ‘I wanted a quote for some decorating in the house, and I knew he did painting and decorating as well as plastering. They sort of go together, don’t they? When you take off old wallpaper, it often takes some of the plaster with it, and then you need someone else to make good, before the decorator can get going. He seemed perfect, offering both services.’

  ‘When did you last see him, Mrs Raynor?’

  ‘I really can’t remember,’ Monica replied, taking a big gulp of coffee, then choking on it. It had been the dregs left in her cup that she had so hastily drunk, and she had a mouthful of grounds.

  ‘Did you see anyone you wouldn’t expect to see, or anyone strange about the village between Sunday evening and very early Monday morning; or any vehicle that you didn’t recognise that caught your eye?’

  ‘Nobody. Nothing, I’m afraid,’ she answered, shaking her head to emphasise her answer, now that she was recovered from her little misadventure with the contents of the bottom of her cup.

  At this point, Monica was feeling a little more like her old self and, looking Merv up and down, asked him if he was married, a naughty twinkle in her eye. But Merv had his very own Twinkle sitting beside him at the kitchen table, and told Monica that he was already spoken for, adding, ‘unfortunately’, to his statement, just to tease Starr.

  He knew a man-eater when he met one, so he wound up the interview, getting Twinkle to give her a card with the station’s number on it, should she remember anything that might be pertinent to their investigation. There was no way he was going to give her a card that was anything to do with him. She’d eat him for breakfast! And spit out the bones.

  In the late afternoon, Falconer had two communications: one from forensics, and the second from Philip Christmas.

  The forensic information was that there had been oil stains detected on the clothing of Steve Warwick. There were also some fibres on his clothes, as yet unidentified, but they would send a detailed report so that CID could look out for any possible matches to them as they went about their investigation.

  They’d also taken paint scrapings of the new graffito, and photographs of the writing itself, and the conclusion that had been reached was that it had been a completely different brand of paint from the first defacement, and, even though the alphabets were different, it was obvious that they had not been daubed by the same hand.

  The second communication was telephonic. ‘Hello there, Harry,’ the familiar tones of Doc Christmas greeted him, as he put the handset to his ear. ‘How’s it hanging?’

  ‘How’s what hanging?’ asked Falconer, not being aware of the expression.

  ‘Oh, never mind. Just a figure of speech,’ the doctor replied, then continued, ‘I’ve got some information for you on the exact location of the murder.’

  ‘Go on,’ Falconer encouraged him.

  ‘It was too damned cold in that chapel to do much, and although I noticed it when the SOCOs had done their job, and the body had been carted off in the meat wagon,’ – sometimes he could sound very cold-hearted – ‘I realised that he hadn’t been killed where we found him, on the altar.’

  ‘You mean the body was moved?’

  ‘Spot on! It looks like he was walloped on the head at the side of that area, near an old bookcase. The carpet’s red, but much too red in one area, and I think someone must have struck him from behind while he was standing there. Had there been carpet covering the whole area where the altar stands, the drag marks would have been visible in the tread, and there would have been fibres adhering to the backs of his shoes, but with a flag-stoned floor, I don’t doubt the forensic boys have got nix.’

  ‘Aha, well, there you’re wrong,’ declared Falconer, in triumph. ‘They’ve definitely got some alien fibres that aren’t from his clothes. It’s just a job of working out where they could have come from. Some will probably be from that carpet where he was killed, but as for any others – needle-in-a-haystack job, really. And now you tell me that the body was moved. That would’ve taken a bit of muscle-power! He was no light weight for someone to lift up to that stone altar,’ he concluded.

  Christmas gave Falconer his last little present. ‘And the blow to the face: that was definitely inflicted at the same time as he was killed, give or take a very small passage of time, so they’re definitely connected. Always happy to pass on good news, Harry boy.’ No one else could get away with addressing Detective Inspector Harry Falconer in this off-hand manner: Christmas was an exception. They had hit if off from the start of their professional relationship, and Falconer now thought of the doctor as a regular member of the team.

  ‘Always happy to receive it, Père Noel! Just let me know when you’re going to have some to pass on,’ he replied facetiously, smiling despite his petty little outburst.

  ‘I’m going to have a good rummage round in his insides, now: see what he had for his last supper,’ Christmas informed the inspector.

  ‘Oh, what fun you have in your job. I wouldn’t do it for all the tea in China.’

 
‘I know you’re not overly fond of the gory stuff. And do you remember when your Carmichael threw up in the mortuary when I was in the middle of one of my little treasure hunts?’

  ‘How could I forget? I’ll not let him play round at your place again in a hurry.’

  ‘My mum wouldn’t let him in,’ joked the doctor, then rang off to commence his gruesome task.

  When he’d put the phone down, Falconer’s face fell. Even if Warwick had been murdered in the chapel, they were still going to have to search for the weapon.

  Just to be on the safe side, however, he’d get Green and Starr out to the village again in the morning. The light had gone now, and the red of blood is the first colour to become unidentifiable in poor light. They might just take a stroll round the vicinity of the chapel and the graveyard to see if there were any signs of either a scuffle, or a blood-stained blunt instrument. Fat chance, but it had to be done.

  Finally, just before he left the office, Roberts had called in, but had nothing to report, other than that he was trying to ingratiate himself both to Elspeth and Jocasta Gray, in the hope that he might be invited to join the ‘inner circle’ of the discussion group to find out exactly what they got up to.

  Falconer thanked him for his call (much use it had done the investigation!), reminded him to keep a low profile, and to use his ears rather than his mouth, if he wanted to stay undetected. ‘Bugger!’ he exclaimed loudly. ‘I still didn’t give him the details of the body found in the chapel. What the hell’s wrong with me?’ It’d just have to wait until his call tomorrow.’ Except that, although he didn’t know it, it would be too late by then.

  Back home for the evening, Falconer grilled himself a salmon steak, baked a potato in the microwave, and opened a supermarket bag of pre-chopped salad. Really! He was getting lazy about his food. It was probably the shorter days, and the fact that everything fresh had been imported from so far away, that his conscience pricked him if he even thought of buying anything.