Music to Die For (The Falconer Files Book 6) Page 9

  There was no answer from the vicarage either, but then Myrtle remembered that he would not quite have finished his confirmation class, and had probably unplugged the phone, so that they would not be interrupted. ‘Why don’t we just go round to his house?’ she asked.

  ‘Rather you than me,’ interjected Geraldine Warwick, who lived next door to him.

  ‘Why’s that, then, Gerry?’ asked Myles, wondering if the man had taken, like himself, to naked sunbathing.

  ‘There’s such a ghastly smell, every time I go out in the back garden. It’s been like that for a couple of days now. The bins aren’t emptied till Monday, but it smells as if he’s got a dead cat in his, and I wouldn’t put it past him, putting down poison for the little darlings as if they were vermin. He’s got a real cruel streak in him, if you ask me. You’ve only got to look at the way he treats us, and we’re human beings.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past a man like that to put poison down, either. There’s not a sentimental bone in the man’s body,’ Myles agreed.

  ‘Well, let’s go and take a look, shall we?’ suggested Wendy Burnett, hurriedly packing away her oboe.

  ‘We can go round to the back and check that bin out, if he’s really not in, and make sure he hasn’t done anything absolutely beastly.’ This suggestion came from Fern Bailey, who was very sensitive to criticism, and hadn’t got over what Dashwood had said to her in earlier weeks. She’d quite like to see him reviled for some sort – any sort – of other unacceptable behaviour.

  Myles took charge of the situation. ‘We’ll go to the front door first, and approach this situation like civilised people, just calling round to see why he didn’t turn up for band practice. If nobody answers, we’ll cut round the back way to his back garden, and see if we can’t just get a peek into his dustbin. Without evidence, this is all just conjecture.’

  Once out of the rehearsal building, their instruments locked in for safety, they decided to approach from the rear, as it would look odd to anyone who was out and about, to see a straggle of a baker’s dozen of people making their way down the High Street at this time of day.

  Off down Dark Lane they went, not knowing whether they felt foolish or confrontational, silent with thought, as they passed the back of the hall, The Parsonage, and St Back-to-Front’s, finally reaching Back House Alley, which, after a right hand turn, took them on to the Stoney Cross Road. A left hand turn, and they were outside the front door of Wheel Cottage.

  At this point, Geraldine Warwick owned up that she had brought her instrument with her, in case they didn’t manage to resume playing that evening. It was, after all, only a piccolo, and not heavy or bulky, like a cello or a double bass. ‘I’ll just pop it through the door,’ she said, guiltily, knowing that she would not have to trudge back to the rehearsal hall, now, ‘And then I’ll be right behind you.’ Geraldine always felt better when she was behind someone else, being shy, self-effacing and easily upset.

  Myles rang the doorbell and banged on the knocker, but there was no answer to his summons. He tried again, with a similar lack of success. ‘The curtains aren’t quite together, even though it’s early for them to be drawn. See if you can see through the bit where they don’t meet. You’d think he’d have the windows wide open on a sultry night like tonight, wouldn’t you?’ he asked, also wondering why the man had already drawn his curtains, when it was still perfectly light outside.

  Gayle Potten, always up for a bit of nosy-parkering, squashed her face against the window pane and peered inside, suddenly pulling back with a look of disgust on her face. ‘There seem to be an awful lot of flies in there,’ she said, wrinkling her nose. It’s not easy to see, because it’s rather gloomy, but I can just make them out, crawling all over the place, and I can hear their buzzing through this window. It’s only single-glazed, and hardly any use as a sound barrier.’

  Myles gave the door one more hammering, then suggested they made their way round to the back of the house. ‘We’ll have a look at that dustbin, then see if we can’t make ourselves heard at the back. If he’s skulking in there for some reason, he might have taken refuge in the kitchen, never thinking we might advance from the rear.’

  Although Wheel Cottage’s frontage was right on the edge of the road, and had a fine privet hedge all round its boundary, it was easy to see where Campbell Dashwood’s predecessors had pushed a way through where the hedge met the house, and it was still visible, although a little more overgrown than it must have been when he first moved in. ‘I’ll go first,’ volunteered Myles, ‘and hold the branches back for the ladies. When we’re all through, regroup, and we’ll approach en masse – a united front – to show our disapproval of his non-appearance after all the fuss he made about us not starting on time, and arriving promptly.’

  It didn’t take long to wriggle through the gap in the hedge, although Vanessa Palfreyman had a bit more trouble than the others, being rather, as her mother put it, ‘big-boned’. Once more all together, they began to pussy-foot round to the back door, but soon the smell hit them, and they variously covered their noses, or fished out handkerchiefs to use as filters. The further they went, the stronger the smell became, and when they reached the back garden, one or two of them gagged.

  ‘Check the bin,’ ordered Myles, forgetting for a second about the foul smell just long enough to put up his hands and twiddle the ends of his moustache – in his mind, he was back in the RAF.

  ‘Bin’s empty,’ reported Lester Westlake, none of the women having the stomach to look, in case there was something gruesome under the lid.

  ‘It seems to be coming from the house. Look! He’s got the top light of the kitchen window ajar. We’d better try to get inside and see what the hell’s going on.’ Myles was in his element, having his troops obey him without question, and taking charge of the situation without challenge.

  ‘But it’s not even locked,’ gasped Gayle Potten, trying to ignore the signals from her stomach that it couldn’t stand much more of the stench it was being asked to cope with. ‘The door’s open!’

  That stopped them all in their tracks. Someone would now have to go in there and find out what was making that ghastly smell. It was Myles to the rescue again. ‘This is no job for a lady,’ he announced, with great bravado. ‘You stay out here, and we men will go in and track down the source of the smell, and what exactly the situation is.’

  ‘Too right we’ll stay out here, and what’s more, I, for one, am going back round the side of the house where it doesn’t smell so bad. If I stay here another minute, I’m going to throw,’ exclaimed Gayle.

  ‘Me too,’ agreed Wendy Burnett. The other women nodded their heads, not wanting to open their mouths again with that filthy whiff in the air, and they all retreated back round to the hedge to await developments.

  From the relative fresh air of the perimeter, they heard the creak of the back door, as it was pushed open, and then there was absolute silence for a few seconds, followed by a positive bellow. ‘Bloody hell!’ echoed round to the side of the house, followed by, ‘Let’s get out of here! We’ve got to phone the police.’

  Within seconds, the herd of men arrived to join them, with the exception of Edmund Alexander, who had had to have a quick peek, and then proceeded to be sick by the side of the house, heaving until he ran out of ammunition.

  ‘Myles, you look as white as a sheet. What the hell did you find in there?’ asked Myrtle, observing the faces of the other men, which were also pallid, and screwed into a variety of expressions of disgust and nausea. ‘Tell me! Tell us, before we explode!’ but there was suddenly an unseemly rush, in which she instinctively joined, to go round to see what all the fuss was about, then a general regret, as they wished they had not been so precipitate.

  ‘He’s dead!’ said Myles, in a voice that sounded as if it did not believe itself, as the group reappeared at the side of the house, each looking as nauseous as Edmund . ‘He’s in there, dead as a doornail, the place full of flies, and there are maggots in his eyes
and … I can’t even think about it at the moment. It’s just too ghastly, and I truly wish you ladies hadn’t gone off like that to have a look. It was bad enough for us men. You will have nightmares for the rest of your lives, now.’

  ‘We know! We saw!’ said Myrtle, in a strangled voice, regretting giving in to her curiosity.

  ‘I think I’m going to have nightmares, anyway,’ declared Lester Westlake, fighting to retain the contents of his stomach. ‘I don’t think anyone, man or woman, is ever prepared for a sight like that. God, it must have been the heat this week that made him look that bad: that, and the fact that he hadn’t shut that little window, letting in the flies, to do that to him.’ He shuddered, and gave an enormous swallow, still engaged in the fight with his insides. ‘What are we going to do about it?’

  ‘Well, the first thing we’re going to have to do is inform the police. Can we use your telephone, Geraldine?’

  ‘Of course you can,’ she agreed, ‘but there’s not much room in my little cottage for all of us to wait for them.’

  ‘Agreed! I suggest, as our instruments are all safely under lock and key, that we close the back door – don’t worry, I’ll do it – then adjourn to The Grange for a stiff brandy or two, and wait for them there. There’s no benefit in us hanging around like a gang of teenagers in a bus shelter, is there? I’ll go in next door with you, Geraldine, and make the phone call, and you lot can get off to The Grange – you do have a key with you, don’t you, Myrtle?’

  ‘In my shorts pocket,’ she confirmed.

  ‘Right, well, off you go, and we’ll join you in a few minutes. It shouldn’t take long to report this, but it may take rather longer to get someone here to take charge, so I’ll tell them to call at The Grange, and we’ll all be waiting there for them. What’s the time now?’

  ‘Ten past nine.’

  ‘Then we should be back at the house by half-past. See you then.’

  Practicalities taken care of, Myles and Geraldine entered Tile Cottage to make the fateful telephone call – the one that would make this nightmare a reality, and bring God knows what in its wake.

  Chapter Seven

  Friday 16th July – telephone conversations

  I

  Duty Sergeant Bob Bryant: Hello, Market Darley Police. How may I be of assistance?

  Myles Midwynter: I’d like to report finding a body.

  BB: A dead body, sir?

  MM: Of course, a dead body!

  BB: Of an animal or a person, sir?

  MM: Of a person – a very dead person.

  BB: And who is this calling, sir?

  MM: Mr Myles Midwynter from Swinbury Abbot.

  BB: And who exactly is dead, sir?

  MM: His name’s Campbell Dashwood, and he lives – lived – in Wheel Cottage on the Market Darley Road.

  BB: And how did he die? Was there an accident?

  MM: No, we just found him dead at his home – in the kitchen, to be precise.

  BB: And who would we be, sir?

  MM: The members of the village band.

  BB: So, let me get this straight, sir. You, and all the members of the village band, went round to this Mr Dashwood’s house, and found him dead in his kitchen? Is that correct?

  MM: Perfectly!

  BB: This wouldn’t be a joke, would it, sir? Or something you’re doing for a bet?

  MM: No, it bloody well isn’t a joke! I’ve sent the women back to my house, and at least one of our number has lost the contents of his stomach, at what he saw in that kitchen.

  BB: Sorry, sir, but I have to ask. There are so many hoax calls these days, you wouldn’t believe it.

  MM: Well, you’d better believe this, because I’ve seen it with my own eyes, and smelled it with my own nose. He’s very dead, and it must have happened some while ago, because of the insect infestation. Hurmmm! Excuse me, but I felt a wave of nausea just describing it.

  BB: I’ll get some officers on it right away, sir. Are you staying there, or is there a number where we can reach you?

  MM: No, I am not staying here. Nobody’s likely to pinch that thing, nor pass by it to pinch anything else. The back door’s not locked, so you won’t have any trouble getting in. I’ll be at home with the other band members. My number’s Market Darley 717507. I’ll be waiting for you. Oh, yes, how stupid of me. My address is The Grange, Beggar Bush Lane. It’s easy enough to find. If you go to The Leathern Bottle in the High Street, there’s a small road right opposite its car park. I’m the second house down, on the left.

  BB: I’ve got that. Thank you very much for reporting this, sir. We’ll be right on to it. Goodbye.

  MM: Goodbye.

  II

  DI Harry Falconer: Hello, Falconer speaking.

  Bob Bryant: Sorry to bother you on a Friday evening, but it seems we’ve got an unexplained death on our hands.

  HF: Accidental, natural causes, or murder?

  BB: We don’t know yet.

  HF: Where is it?

  BB: Swinbury Abbot.

  HF: Well, that’s a new one on me. Who found the body?

  BB: If you can believe it, the whole of the village band.

  HF: Oh, bloody hell! It’s going to be one those mad village cases again, isn’t it?

  BB: Looks like it. The address is Wheel Cottage, Stoney Cross Road, and I understand that the back door isn’t locked.

  HF: Do you have the name of the informant, and a contact number?

  BB: It was a Mr Myles Midwynter, telephone number Market Darley 717507.

  HF: And where does Mr Midwynter live?

  BB: The Grange, Beggar Bush Lane.

  HF: Where in the name of God is that? Oh, never mind, I forgot I’ve just installed a sat-nav, so I’ll never get lost again. I’ll get in touch with Carmichael, and you get a SOCO team and Doc. Christmas out there. Have you phoned old Jelly? (This reference was to Detective Superintendent Derek Chivers, who had earned the obvious nickname.)

  BB: Will do. Have done. Apparently it’s a squelchy one, so have fun.

  HF: Have fun yourself, Bob, and thanks a blinking bunch, for landing me with this at the start of another weekend. Why can’t criminals work office hours? That’s what I’d like to know.

  BB: There’s no answer to that one. Goodnight, Harry.

  HF: Bugger off, Bob.

  III

  Detective Sergeant ‘Davey’ Carmichael: Hello.

  DI Harry Falconer: Is that you, Carmichael?

  DC: Oh, hello, sir. I didn’t expect to be hearing from you, at this time on a Friday night. What can I do for you?

  HF: We’ve got a body in Swinbury Abbot.

  DC: Oh, blast!

  HF: Are you in the middle of something?

  DC: Yes, but it doesn’t matter. It’s not something that has to be finished tonight. I can easily slip out of it.

  HF: I’m not even going to ask what that means. Look, I’ll pick you up; save taking two cars. Bob Bryant says it’s a nasty one, so a few minutes aren’t going to make any difference either way.

  DC: Righty-ho, sir! That means I don’t have to stop until you arrive.

  HF: Please, Carmichael; the mind boggles. No, no; don’t explain, or I’ll probably end up sorry that I asked. Just expect me sometime within the next twenty to thirty minutes. Bob’s already getting on to sending out a SOCO team and Christmas.

  DC: OK, sir. See you soon, then. Goodbye.

  HF: Goodbye.

  IV

  Back at The Grange

  Rev. Church: Good evening. The Parsonage. Rev. Church speaking. How may I help you?

  Myles Midwynter: Hello Vicar, Midwynter here. We’ve got a bit of a tricky situation up here at The Grange, and I wondered if you would come over and lend a hand. There are some of your flock in need of some comfort.

  Rev. C: Is it absolutely vital, Myles? I had to go into the school to give a talk to the infants this morning, I had choir practice this afternoon, the confirmation class overran, and this is the first bit of free time I’ve had all d
ay.

  MM: To state it bluntly, Vicar, Campbell Dashwood is lying dead in his kitchen, and the band found him less than an hour ago. Some of the ladies are very shaken up.

  Rev. C: Not another word, Myles. I’ll grab an apple, and I’ll be right with you. You can explain everything to me then. I’ll go now, and get out my bicycle. Goodbye.

  MM: Goodbye, Vicar.

  Chapter Eight

  Friday 16th July, 2010 – evening

  I

  As DI Harry Falconer drove over to Castle Farthing, he wondered how he would find his DS attired this time. During their last case together, Carmichael had become enthralled with old American police and detective shows on the television satellite channels, and had done his best to emulate them, to the immense disapproval of his inspector.

  Falconer had originally been surprised to find his colleague coming into work with his head shaven, and sucking a lollipop – that had been Kojak – the first of many. He had managed to forbid him to wear false facial hair to emulate Hercule Poirot, to dress like a cowboy ( McCloud!) or to wear a deer-stalker hat – Sherlock Holmes – and had made it clear that there were to be absolutely no violins, ever.

  Well, Carmichael should have his violins tonight, along with a host of other instruments.

  When he knocked on the cottage door, Carmichael’s wife, Kerry, answered the door, with her mouth full of pins. Instead of risking several unscheduled piercings, she motioned him inside, and pointed to Carmichael, who was standing on a stool in the middle of the room, his head bent so that it didn’t bump against the ceiling. He was draped in what looked like a long, black garment, which was in the middle of construction.

  ‘Oh my God, Carmichael! Not Miss Marple. surely?’

  ‘No, sir,’ answered Carmichael, but before he could offer any other information, Falconer carried on with his speculations.

  ‘Well, if it’s Cagney and Lacey, don’t expect me to play the part of Mary-Beth. If, for any reason, and I can’t think of one off the top of my head, I should be unlucky enough to have to dress like a woman, there’s no way I’m playing the part of a frump, so you can count me out now.’