Choked off (The Falconer Files Book 2) Page 9

  Of Squirrel, there had been no sign since the tea-throwing incident, and she and her little Yorkie were beginning to be missed. With this in mind, the vicar walked across to her cottage in Church Lane after saying a lone evensong. The little house was in darkness, and at first there was no answer to his knock. At his second knock, however, a muffled ‘wuff’ was just audible and, knowing that there was a key below the heavy doormat, he retrieved it and let himself in.

  The house smelled stale and unaired, a foul undertone bringing Squeak to the fore of his mind, but downstairs there was no sign of life. The living room was undusted and untidy, overcrowded with ornaments, recent purchases from car-boot sales piled on chairs and under the table. The kitchen was a complete mess, with dirty crockery in the sink and on the kitchen table, and flies buzzed around Squeak’s empty food bowls. Venturing upstairs, he followed the faint doggy noises and found Squirrel in her bed, her little dog at the foot of it, both of them looking weak and forlorn.

  Instantly taking in the situation, he carried the feather-light dog down to the kitchen, where he opened a tin of dog food and filled the water bowl, opening the back door as he did so, with the twin intentions of letting in some fresh air and letting out the flies, along with the foul smell from the dog’s ‘accidents of necessity’. Squeak had obviously not had access to the garden for some time – his nose had confirmed this when he had first opened the front door.

  He then proceeded to open a tin of soup he found in a wall cupboard and put it on to the hob to heat, while he made a pot of tea. There was no edible bread to be found, but he felt that was not of too much importance, as Squirrel had obviously not eaten for some time, and would need to go gently with her stomach at first, so as not to overload it.

  Taking these offerings upstairs, he fed the old lady, then persuaded her to go to the bathroom for a long-overdue clean-up, finding fresh sheets in a chest at the foot of the old brass bed and changing them before her return. It was an hour later when he left to go home, taking the soiled linen with him and promising that he would set up a rota of visitors, both for company and household chores. Her shopping he would see to himself, taking Squeak with him for a little much-needed exercise and an opportunity to conduct some business of his own.

  These arrangements made, he returned to The Vicarage, seething with fury that the mere presence of Willoughby in the village could have had such catastrophic effects on one of his flock. And he, personally, would find it hard to forgive him for what had happened in the past, and the blasphemous things he had said in God’s house just a few days ago. For once, prayer did not seem to be doing any good.

  Christobel Templeton had taken a surprisingly short time to recover from her public humiliation and the realisation that she was no poet. She had turned, instead, to the planning of a gory murder story, in which a thinly-disguised Marcus Willoughby was the victim, dying horribly, slowly, and in agony. Not only was it therapeutic, but it dispelled her embarrassment and anger, and gave her something to do. A distraction from memories, and a view to the future.

  But she was soon to lose interest in this, as the humiliation flooded back, and plunged her, once more, into despair. If she was no poet, then she was probably no author either, and her life felt empty and pointless again, the initial adrenalin rush of wreaking her revenge seeping away, like rainwater into the ground.

  Minty had adopted the same attitude as Sadie after a long chat on the telephone and, knowing that her work was good, had agreed to join Sadie to see if they could get a joint display in Market Darley, with the help of an old friend who had rather a large van. That way, others would get to see their work, and could judge it for themselves.

  Sadie had been highly amused by the contact lens incident and had bought herself a new pair. She now sported one vivid blue and one rich chocolate-brown lens, to the consternation of everyone who encountered her, and was delighted with the effect she was having on people she knew. She liked this look, and would have some fun swapping them around – one day, right eye brown, the next, left eye brown. What a great effect she would have with strangers and viewers of her sculptures. They’d remember her, and no mistake.

  Late Thursday evening, after closing, Summer Leighton parked at The Inn on the Green and knocked vigorously at the door. Inside, Peregrine and Tarquin, both a little grumpy at the slackening of trade after the rush over the Festival weekend, had fallen to discussing the offensive remarks passed by their customers on the local radio celebrity since his last visit to The Inn, and re-visiting his offensive remarks about them.

  Although they were all too aware of homophobia, much of it had disappeared over the last few years, leaving more of a laissez-faire attitude. People might still think it, but, especially around here, they didn’t say anything, which was fine. Those who did were usually telling a joke, or making a point about different lifestyles. Marcus’s tirade had been different, however. He had been all ‘hail fellow, well met’ until they had refused to serve him, then he had shown his true colours. And they had not been pretty, but full of hatred, bigotry and spite.

  The conversation was cut off so abruptly by the knock at the door that the sudden silence could have been the result of a radio being turned off. They were aware that Summer would be arriving that night as she had booked a room that morning, but they had expected her a little earlier than this. They also knew of her relationship to Marcus Willoughby (that homophobic bastard!), but didn’t want to lose custom by offending one of their customers, especially one who had made a booking, and would more than likely patronise their establishment for refreshments during her stay.

  As they mounted the stairs to the letting rooms, Peregrine went in front of her to show the way, Tarquin behind, making a face and poking his tongue out at Peregrine, because he had been left to carry her bag, and it weighed a ton. Maybe Willoughby was building an extension, and Summer had offered to bring the bricks, he thought sarcastically, as he felt the strain on his shoulder muscles.

  ‘You haven’t seen anything of my father, Mr Willoughby, have you?’ she asked, sounding just a little uncomfortable with using ‘my father’ in relation to Marcus.

  ‘He hasn’t been in since Sunday night, Ms Leighton,’ answered Peregrine, who addressed all women as Ms these days unless told otherwise, lest he cause offence.

  ‘What, not at all? Not even out and about in the village?’

  ‘Sorry, love.’ Tarquin was not so politically correct. ‘I’m afraid he was a teensy bit annoyed when he left us, so maybe he’s sent us to Coventry.’

  I’ll walk up and see him tomorrow, Summer decided, scratching her head and thinking. ‘I’m going to have a long lie-in in the morning,’ she decided, out loud, ‘ then sometime late-afternoon-ish, I’ll head on up there. It’s funny, you know, I haven’t had a reply to my telephone calls, my e-mails or my texts. He must be very busy.’

  Settling himself on the bed in her room rather presumptuously, Tarquin gave her a brief account of what he knew concerning the events of last weekend, but did it in such a way that the seriousness of it all was not emphasised, giving the impression that it was all a rather jolly collection of misunderstandings, and just rather bad luck. She was not, therefore, alarmed at his tale, and settled down to unpack, leaving her plan to visit The Old Barn late tomorrow afternoon unrevised.

  In fact, nobody had seen Marcus since Sunday, when he returned home from The Inn. Nobody at all – except one!

  Chapter Ten

  Friday, 11th September – afternoon

  I

  Every radio except one was tuned to Radio Carsfold well before three o’clock that Friday. Those who had participated in the Festival waited in dread; those who hadn’t, in high anticipation of as good a dose of Schadenfreude as they were likely to get for some time to come. One radio stayed, of necessity, silent.

  After the opening jingle came the programme announcement. ‘And now for our weekly dose of the arts, with our very own Village Culture Vulture, Mr Marcus Willoughby.’ There
was a miniscule pause, and Marcus’s unmistakeably haughty voice began to intone.

  ‘Now, last week I told you about an Arts Festival that was going to take place in Stoney Cross on the fifth and sixth of this month. I want to offer my apologies at the very beginning of the programme to any of you who decided to attend …’ Hackles were already beginning to rise in Stoney Cross.

  ‘For any of you who did not attend the art exhibition in the village hall, let me tell you, you were the lucky ones.’ Marcus’s voice was already sounding just a little off-kilter, not quite the precise enunciation they were used to. As Peregrine remarked to Tarquin, ‘Maybe he had ‘the drink taken’.’

  ‘All I can say about it was that all the visual exhibits were unspeakably amateurish. They were, each and every one of them, badly executed, with no eye for proportion, perspective or colour …’ In his cubicle at the radio station, his producer sighed, and wondered why they had ever taken a chance on this man. They knew he was controversial from his arts reports in the local paper. Malice of this level, they had not expected. Still, he’d not checked the contents beforehand, and would have to continue with the broadcast now. It didn’t matter what he did; he would be damned either way.

  ‘… and as for the Artists Trail – oh my goodness, I wished I’d stayed at home and stuck pins in my eyes. At the home of Ms Sadie Palister, I thought there had been a recent delivery from the quarry, until I realised that what I was looking at were her finished works. Need I say more?

  ‘Just before that visit, I had called on Ms Araminta Wingfield-Heyes who imagines herself an abstract artist. Well, abstract her works may be, but art, they certainly are not. Had they been smaller, they would have been less painful on the eye and one’s sensitivities, and I respectfully [ !] suggest that she paints miniatures in the future, and hangs them face to the wall.

  ‘I turn now to the performances in the village hall on Sunday last, an experience, the likes of which I hope never to have the misfortune to repeat. The “show” (listeners could hear the inverted commas) was opened by Ms Lydia Culverwell on the piano. I don’t know who told her she could play, but, I for one, have never heard such a badly fingered cacophony. To paraphrase the words of one of our late, great comedians, she might possibly have been playing all the right notes, but definitely, without a shadow of a doubt, not in the right order. And if I may add to that, not in the right village, for I wished her anywhere but where I was.’

  As the programme continued, so the clarity of Marcus’s speech deteriorated, his next little poisoned needle preceded by a discreetly muffled hiccough. ‘The next offering was a flute recital, given by Ms Delia Jephcott, and it would have been better if she’d tackled the ‘Unfinished’, because she screeched through a portion of her piece, then fled from the stage,’ he lied cattily, ‘And that was the best bit, because we didn’t have to suffer any more of her appalling playing …’

  As he droned on, tempers were rising, fists clenching and teeth grinding in Stoney Cross. Everyone had worked so hard for their Festival, and here was this incomer, this nobody, stamping all over their efforts and trampling on their dreams, without a thought for their feelings. Hostile thoughts were forming, as were even wilder ones of revenge, but still the listeners did not switch off – mesmerised by the now-familiar voice, unable to disengage themselves from its spite.

  ‘… Pargeter, who calls herself a singer. Well, let me tell you, dear listeners, I’ve heard better from an East End pub on a Saturday night after closing time. This was definitely an act of piracy – death on the high Cs.’ As he concluded these acid remarks, his voice rose in pitch and volume, beginning to sound a little demented.

  Calming down slightly, his contumely continued. ‘Ms Camilla Markland, a lovely girl I have had the pleasure of meeting before,’ he drawled, his voice now with a lascivious tone, ‘and would not mind meeting again… Anyway, I digress!’ Here, he seemed to pull himself together, and got back to the assassination in hand. ‘This delightful lady is unfortunately deluded, believing as she does, that she has mastered her chosen instrument: the harp. I have a feeling that she was cured of her delusion in that village hall, for she left, sobbing, as if enlightenment had indeed struck.

  ‘Now, moving on the literary section of the performances …’ Christobel Templeton finally summoned up the strength, not to turn off the little radio, but to hurl it to the floor and stamp on it, like a child throwing a tantrum. ‘I can’t stand any more,’ she shouted. ‘Doesn’t he think I was humiliated enough on the day?’

  ‘I agree,’ her husband said, putting his arms around her. ‘It’s not as if you’re a professional. It was done with a good heart, and I would have thought that he’d have had the common sense to see that. He’s just using the Festival to further his reputation as ‘fearless and controversial’, as he no doubt believes it to be. Forget it and come and have a nice cup of tea.’ Jeremy was doing his level best to be a ‘knight in shining armour’. He knew he should have persuaded her against reading her verse, but she had been so excited at the prospect, and now look where it had got them. Thank God she had lost her nerve, and managed to avoid the cutting words Marcus would have produced, had he heard her entire offering.

  ‘… unacceptable and unbearable twaddle. The sort of doggerel that sounded as if it had been written by a seven-year-old.’ Other radios had not been destroyed, and continued to broadcast his contumely. ‘Now, after Ms Templeton came the only passable few minutes of the whole shebang. Hugo, Hugo West … West,Westinghall – that’s the chap – well, he, at least, is a published author and, although I don’t like the whole romantic novel thing – the genre – Hugo’s effort wasn’t too shabby. But then we had his – hic! – wife, Felic-ic-icity.’ Marcus was beginning to disintegrate before his listeners’ very ears, and a lot of head-scratching, actual and metaphorical, was being carried out in Stoney Cross, and at the radio station.

  ‘The whole thing was slushy, sloppy, ungram… ungrammat-at-at-ical, and drowning in a sea of unnec-ecessay wor’s. Prob’ly the worst load of unimagin-aginative an’ banal drivel I’ve heard for man’, for man’, – for many – for ages.’ His voice was running down like a musical box, when the radio broadcast a yell of surprising volume, there was a short period of grunting and scuffling, and then, silence.

  After two minutes, actually a very long time in broadcasting, the producer’s voice cut in to apologise for this loss of transmission, and offered them, in the meantime some music, while the radio station sorted out its ‘little technical problem’.

  As others were left wondering what on earth this meant, Summer, who had been listening in the bar of The Inn on the Green, rushed outside, pounded up School Lane and into the High Street in the direction of The Old Barn. She knew nothing about radiophonic technical problems, but she did know that she had been unable to contact her father for days, by any means that she had tried, and that final few seconds of the broadcast had sent her into a panic. Something dreadful had happened, she was sure, and she wouldn’t be calmed until she had seen him.

  She saw him, all right.

  II

  In the police headquarters in Market Darley, DI Harry Falconer was in a brown study of his own, contemplating the outcome of a recent case in the village of Castle Farthing, and the unsatisfactory conclusion that it had reached. He should have been more astute – should never have allowed the possibility of such a thing happening. [1]

  He raised his chocolate-brown eyes to the ceiling and frowned at the memory, as the phone on his desk began to trill its urgent summons. Shaking his head to summon his mind back to the present, he lifted the receiver and listened. ‘Oh, not another one, surely? … Where, this time? … Good God, not in another one of those God-forsaken villages? Who, this time?’ There was a longer pause as he listened to the explanation. ‘In the middle of a radio programme? I don’t believe it! Death on the air, as I live and breathe! Who will I take? … Oh, no, not again! This cannot be happening! OK, OK. Yes, I’ll just give him a shout.�
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  Falconer ran his immaculately manicured fingers through his short dark hair, and expostulated, ‘This area gets more like … Midwinter Murders every day. Nothing happens for years, then two murder investigations come along at once. And so it looks like I’ve got the part of Inspector … Carnaby.’ The incident at Castle Farthing had only just been wrapped up, and here they were again, with another corpse on their hands. Checking his attire with a quick glance down, he decided that he would have to go home and change into something less expensive, opened the office door, and bellowed, ‘Carmichael! I have need (he groaned inwardly) of your company.’

  A voice called, ‘Coming!’ and, a minute and a half later, a uniformed policeman, nigh on six-and-a half feet in height, ducked slightly to enter the room. ‘You called, sir?’ asked this apparition, hair sticking out at all angles, uniform jacket buttoned askew, and a pen behind one ear.

  ‘I did indeed, Carmichael. My usual sergeant is currently on paternity leave.’ Falconer almost spat out the last two words, disgusted at how namby-pamby the world had become since he was a child, and continued, ‘and Steve Milligan is on sick leave for stress, the selfish sod, probably hoping for early retirement on medical grounds; so you’re going to have to go home and get changed. You’re going to be my Acting DS on another murder case.’

  ‘Another one, sir?’ Carmichael’s face registered a mixture of delight and disbelief. How could he get this lucky?

  ‘Your ears did not deceive you. Now, get off home, and try to dress like a human being – and preferably not an American one. I don’t want to be seen in public with someone who looks like a Hank or a Zeke. Now, jump to it, and I’ll pick you up from your place.’ Looking at Carmichael’s shirt collar, stained with dirty finger marks, he sighed and said, ‘Stick your tongue out for me.’ Carmichael did so, without question, and sure enough, it was stained purple. He’d been sucking the wrong end of his ballpoint pen. Again!