Music to Die For (The Falconer Files Book 6)

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘We’ll be exhausted after all those people.’

  ‘Absolutely knackered, in my opinion, sir.’

  ‘Carmichael, language!’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  Halfway there, Carmichael asked in a rather desperate voice, ‘Do you think we can stop somewhere? Somewhere there are trees or bushes?’

  ‘Why? Do you want to make a den, or something?’

  ‘No, sir. but I’m absolutely busting!’

  ‘Didn’t you go before you went out? I’ll bet you always remind the boys to ‘go’, before taking them anywhere,’ Falconer commented.

  ‘Of course I do, and I did go before we left, but I had three cups of coffee with my breakfast, and that great big glass of orange squash, and now they’ve gone right through me and are desperate to get out again.’

  ‘Three cups!’ thought Falconer. ‘Three of Carmichael’s cups! He knew that cup, and it must hold the better part of a pint. And what must have been nigh on a pint of orange squash! He had no option but to find a convenient place, and fairly quickly. There was no way he wanted his sergeant leaking all over his car’s immaculate leather upholstery.

  Pulling up abruptly by a stand of trees, he left Carmichael to conduct his business behind one of the trees, and leant on the bonnet of his car, his back to the stand of trees, and observed nature going about its business, all around him, on this glorious day. There was barely a breath of wind, and the sky was a clear blue, and cloudless. The good weather was obviously getting itself out of the way before the children broke up for school holidays, as it seemed to every year, and the children were, consequently, left trapped indoors, bored and driving their parents mad for six whole weeks.

  Just above tree level, he spotted a kestrel hovering, and kept it in his sights, because of its connection, no matter how tenuous, with his name; and then feathered death, on silent wings, dropped softly down, and another tiny life was extinguished, somewhere in the field opposite him. Well, that was nature for you: beautiful, miraculous and enchanting, but full of death and suffering, just like the human world. With a sigh, he stopped his daydreaming, and got back into the car to wait for his sergeant.

  III

  When they arrived at Tile Cottage, there was still crime tape across the boundary of Wheel Cottage, but there must be someone from the police in there searching, for Falconer noticed that all the windows had been flung open, not only to disperse the smell, but the flies as well. It had struck him, the night before, as akin to a particular scene from ‘The Exorcist’, and it had sent an unexpected shiver down his spine.

  ‘Funny,’ Falconer said to Carmichael. ‘I’m sure Proudfoot should be on duty here this morning’

  Suddenly the said John Proudfoot emerged, red-faced, from the ancient privy at the side of the house, clutching the local newspaper and a crumpled pack of cigarettes.

  ‘Get back on duty, man!’ snapped Falconer to the hapless DC. Carmichael shared his boss’s ire and glared at Proudfoot as they strolled back to the main road, to continue their enquiries.

  It was lucky for them that it was a Saturday, and most people would be at home, rather than at work. It was a double-edged ‘lucky’ though, as all their investigations seemed to start at the weekend. Maybe the weekend was a time when frustrations, after a bad week, were vented, sometimes in violence. Maybe people just drank more at the weekend, in the relief of a couple of days off from the daily grind. Falconer didn’t have the explanation, but he knew only too well what the outcome was, as far as he and Carmichael were concerned.

  Geraldine Warwick opened the door at their first knock, and, getting a better look at her in daylight, they saw a pale-skinned woman, with hair of an anonymous colour that was less like brown than it was dead mouse. It was cut short and straight, and her face had a dissatisfied expression on it, as if life had never quite lived up to her expectations.

  ‘Come on in,’ she invited. ‘I remember you from last night. Would you like a cold drink? It’s scorching out there.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs Warwick.’

  ‘Take a seat in the sitting room, and I’ll bring some lemon squash through.’

  The sitting room proved to be small, the furniture anonymous, not showing any particular style or character. The walls were painted a bland magnolia, the floors, of old-fashioned flagstones. The oatmeal curtains were pulled closed at the front of the room to banish the heat of the sun and keep the room a little cooler, and the general atmosphere was of utility.

  No ornaments were displayed on the mantelpiece, or on either of the two simple wooden tables that were set by two armchairs, a sofa making it a trio of seating, but in a miniature sort of way. The suite had obviously been chosen to fit the room, and must have been quite difficult to find, given the sofas on offer to customers today that would not even go up the stairs or through the door of most modern-build apartments.

  Come to think of it, how on earth did young couples buying brand new houses get wardrobes into bedrooms that would barely contain a double bed? And then Falconer remembered that there was a ‘credit crunch’, and no one could get a mortgage, nor sell their house, in a market that seemed to move only in a downwards direction. And there was always Ikea, for that life-shortening experience of self-assembly furniture.

  Returning with a tray of condensation-bedewed glasses, Geraldine put down the tray on one of the small tables and handed out the tumblers, stopping to smile, as she surveyed Carmichael’s huge bulk squeezed into one of her miniature armchairs.

  ‘I hope we don’t have to call the Fire Brigade to get you out of that, or that’ll make all three emergency services within twenty-four hours, with the ambulance, last night …’ Her voice trailed off, as she remembered what the ambulance had been summoned for, and then dismissed in favour of a coroner’s vehicle, and her pale face, if possible, became a little bit more pallid.

  ‘Of course, that’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed Falconer, but I’d like to ask you to tell me a little bit about the individual band members first, to give me an idea of their characters, you see? You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Oh, no. I’d be glad to.’

  Surreptitiously removing his notebook and pen from the pocket of his Hawaiian shorts, which had, so far, received nothing more than a surprised stare, Carmichael did his best to become invisible, and prepared to take notes.

  ‘There’s not much to tell really, except that, until Mr Dashwood arrived, we used to meet once a month at The Grange, have a nice meal and a few drinks, and then play for a while afterwards, then he – Dashwood, that is – changed the practices to once a week, and I wasn’t quite so keen. I mean, I feel under-used as it is.

  ‘Since the musical director before last, no one’s been able to write me any parts, and the only thing I can do to join in is a bit of schoolkid maracas, and other silly basic percussion instruments, or play the flute part an octave higher. I would play the melody, but that woman on the flute refuses to play ‘second’ flute, and I can hardly play ‘second’ at a higher pitch than her ‘first’ so I’m stuffed either way. And I have, personally, been stuffed by that woman in a lot of ways.’ Here she broke off, and her eyes swam with tears.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter?’ asked Falconer, pinned to his seat, as he usually was when any emotion of this sort was displayed.

  Carmichael, more practical, managed to wriggle out of his armchair without actually having to trail it behind him, like a snail with its shell, and went to sit with her on the tiddly sofa: there was just about enough room for both of them, even though Geraldine was of a small build. Putting an arm round her that was ape-like in its length, he spoke quietly to her until she sniffed, and wiped her eyes with a tissue. ‘I’m all right now’, she said in a slightly tremulous voice, ‘and I’d better explain that little wobble.’

  Carmichael slotted himself back into the armchair – it was a bit like Lilliput in here – and took charge of his notebook once more. ‘I used
to be married, you know, and I lived here with my husband, and we were very happy. That is, until that fat cow, Gayle Potten,’ she almost spat the name, ‘got her claws into my husband, Peter. They met at band practice, as it happens: he played second clarinet to Myles’s first.

  ‘I don’t know what it is about her, but Peter fell for her, and they had been having an affair for six months before Muggins found out about it. Then, when I faced him with what I knew, he cleared off, leaving both of us behind. We went for a quickie divorce, and I believe he’s remarried now, and living somewhere up north.’

  ‘Did you have children?’ Falconer asked, surreptitiously scanning the room for any evidence of toys.

  ‘No. Peter didn’t want any, so I went along with it, thinking I had a companion for life so it didn’t matter,’ she explained, somewhat sadly.

  ‘But you stayed in the band?’ Falconer was somewhat surprised at this.

  ‘How could I not, and let her see that she’d ruined my life and broken my heart? It became a matter of principle, but I don’t know how I’m going to able to face it now the meetings are every week. I don’t know if I can stand it! And it really turns my stomach when I see her canoodling with Harold Grimes. She got over Peter just like that.’ Here she snapped her fingers. ‘And within a month or so, she’d taken up with Harold.

  ‘She’s a right old slapper. She’s divorced too, you know. Twice! So she certainly knows how to get through men. Oh, and this is something that isn’t common knowledge, but I know about, because I went round to The Grange one day, for something or other – I forget what – and when there was no answer to the door, I went round the back, and there they both were, Myles and that Potten woman, and they were both stark naked, him taking photographs of her.

  ‘I mean, I know he likes the whole naked scene, but for her to join in, with him a married man – well, I think it’s disgusting. I haven’t said anything to anyone else about it, and I slunk off that day without being seen, but it made me hate her even more. What if Myles is her next target? She’ll drop Harold, who is older, and doesn’t have such a fine house, and steal Myles from under Myrtle’s nose, without a thought to what she’s doing to other people.

  ‘I was invited round to hers last Saturday, and I had to really steel myself to go, but I got through it, and even though someone else had caught Myles strolling around in the buff, I kept my mouth shut about seeing those two together, and with a camera. And I only made one bitchy comment, so I ended up like a wet dish-rag emotionally, but proud of myself, for not screaming, or crying, or doing any of those thing that I really wanted to do.’

  Here, she stopped, almost out of breath, so worked up had she been during her rant, and Falconer was able to turn the subject back to the previous evening, but they learnt nothing they hadn’t already heard, except for the fact that she had brought her instrument with her when they went to Dashwood’s house.

  ‘Why did you do that? Did you think you wouldn’t be returning to the practice, or did you know you wouldn’t? You didn’t go round to see Dashwood sometime between Sunday midday and last evening, did you?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ she denied, vehemently. ‘I brought it back with me because it’s very small and light to carry, and because I hadn’t heard any noise from the house for a couple of days at least. I thought we’d find he’d gone away on holiday, and just forgotten to let us know. So, of course, there was no point in having to go back to the meeting rooms, if I lived next door to him.’

  ‘Did you have a music stand? That’s not quite so easy to carry.’

  ‘No, I usually share Wendy Burnett’s. The oboe doesn’t have a lot to do either, so, when everyone else has four sheets we’ve usually only got one each, with dozens of bar’s rest to count.’

  ‘So you just thought Dashwood had gone away?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you remember when you first thought that this might be the case?’

  ‘No. A couple of days – no – longer. Oh, I don’t know. I don’t spend my time listening, to see if my neighbour’s at home or on holiday.’

  ‘And you didn’t call round there for anything?’

  ‘Call round on him? You must be joking. I’d rather stick pins in my eyes.’

  ‘Well, thank you very much for your time, and please let us know if you remember anything else. I’ll give you my card, so that you can contact me if anything comes back to you.’

  [4] See: Murder at The Manse

  Chapter Eleven

  Saturday 17th July, 2010

  I

  Their next call, by coincidence of geography, was actually to the much-maligned Gayle Potten, who lived just a few steps further down the Stoney Stile Road, but on the opposite side, at 3 Columbine Cottages, a row of eight dwellings that used to be accommodation for farm labourers, long ago, before the machines took over and the farmers had to diversify, lest they succumbed to being the victims of a dying breed.

  Gayle, as mentioned before, could have done with losing a good deal of weight, but this did not prevent her answering the door in a skimpy bikini top, and a matching, almost invisible, thong-style bikini bottom. In fact, there was so much of her actual bottom visible, as she wobbled off into the house in front of them, that Carmichael didn’t know where to look, he was so embarrassed, and things just got worse when she turned round again and presented them with an eyeful of her ripe melon-like breasts, the nipples barely covered by her minuscule top.

  Taking off her sunglasses, she took one look at Carmichael, and hooted with laughter. ‘And what have you come as, today?’ she asked, between guffaws. ‘Is it “befriend a clown day”?’ she asked, addressing this remark to Falconer, who summoned the dignity to ignore her rudeness, and said:

  ‘I wonder if you’d mind putting on a bathrobe or something, Ms Potten. My sergeant, young as he is, is subject to sudden rises in blood pressure, and it would be a kindness to him, if you would just cover yourself rather more than you are at the moment,’ requested Falconer, a totally innocent expression on his face.

  ‘No problem,’ she answered. ‘I was out in the garden soaking up the sun, but now I’m indoors, I’m rather chilly, so I’d have had to get a robe anyway. Won’t be a minute,’ she assured them, and disappeared off upstairs, to cover her largesse.

  ‘Thanks, sir. I thought I was going to be sick. You know how dodgy my insides can be. But why was it me that had to have the high blood pressure? You’re older than I am,’ he complained.

  ‘Because I’m an inspector., that’s why. Quite simple, really.’

  ‘Thanks a bunch, sir. She was awfully rude about my summer gear, wasn’t she? Shhh – here she comes, thundering down the stairs like a baby elephant.’

  Gayle re-entered the room wearing a thin cotton bathrobe, but the effort was better than nothing. At least less of her was actually visible, and Carmichael’s stomach was no longer in any danger of rebelling. Although she wore the robe loosely, she still managed to reveal some cleavage, but her hair, now falling over the front of her shoulders, covered a multitude of sins.

  And, in fact, her hair was a real shining glory of very long, thick, dark tresses, with individual hairs of pure white shining here and there. It was natural, but looked like the most expensive highlighting job in the world, and she knew it, and was justly proud of it; as good a reason as any, not to have it all hang down her back, out of sight.

  ‘Would you gentlemen prefer to sit in the garden?’ she asked, receiving a vehement and unison ‘no’ to this question, Carmichael’s eyes bulging at the thought of her removing the robe to catch a bit more of the sun.

  ‘Can I perhaps interest you in some refreshments? Tea or coffee? Perhaps a cold drink?’

  ‘No thank you,’ said Falconer. ‘We’ve just had something, so we’re all right for now.’

  While she had been upstairs, he’d noticed how different this home was from the last one they’d visited. It was very feminine, the sofa and chairs being upholstered in a cheery lilac, the scatter cushi
ons a hot pink. Abstract and colourful framed prints adorned the walls, which were painted in a muted wheat colour, making the room fresh and bright, and very inviting.

  ‘We’d like to start by asking you when you last saw Mr Dashwood.’ Carmichael, taking his cue, made himself as unobtrusive as a man of well over six feet in height and wearing Caribbean-coloured clothes can, and prepared himself to take notes.

  ‘Until last night, I hadn’t laid eyes on him since last Sunday lunchtime,’ she answered.

  ‘You didn’t call round to see him at any time in the meantime?’ Falconer asked.

  ‘Absolutely not! I wouldn’t have gone to visit that man about anything, even if you’d paid me. I know it’s not right to speak ill of the dead, but he was completely obnoxious. He picked holes in everything I played, and he even had the unutterable nerve to ask me to dress more modestly. Bloody cheek of the man!

  ‘I dress how I like, and my clothes reflect who I am. Who was he, to say I ought to cover myself up. That’s suppressing the real me, that is. I mean, it was only for practices. We don’t have a uniform or anything, and we always wear black clothes when we perform in public. I could have throttled him. Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘I didn’t mean that literally. It’s just a figure of speech.’

  ‘I know, Ms Potten. We all do it, and don’t think anything of it until something like this happens, but I gather you weren’t on good terms with the deceased when you last saw him.’

  ‘I certainly was not! I detested him, and so did everyone else in the band. Take poor Edmund Alexander, for instance.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He always played the piano or keyboard accompaniment for rehearsals, and for performances. We’ve got one of those portable Yamaha things that we can transport easily, you know. He also played the organ for the church services every Sunday, and never minded turning out for weddings or funerals, or anything else.