‘I think you’ll find that Midwynter will refer to them as artistic, rather than dirty, but we’d better put a line between her and Myrtle Midwynter, who may resent it bitterly. Oh, and Harold Grimes as well. A man so besotted, would naturally resent his beloved shedding her clothes for another man, no matter how artistic it was claimed to be,’ Falconer gave as his considered opinion. ‘Now, who’s next?’
‘Harold Grimes – I say, sir; is your name Harry short for Harold?’
‘It most certainly is not!’ retorted the other, glaring at him as if he had been gravely insulted. ‘It’s short for Henry.’
‘Like that vacuum cleaner with a face?’
‘If you must, Carmichael,’ Falconer admitted, with a heavy sigh. ‘But don’t go spreading that about. I like being called Harry. I’ve been called Harry since I was in the nursery, and I’ll not put up with being addressed as Henry because you can’t keep your gob shut. Understand? Not a word! Not even to Kerry!’
‘Completely understood, sir! You should know better than expect me to blab. I told you what my real name was on our first case, and you’ve been discreet enough never to mention it since.’ [see: Death of an Old Git]
‘Right! Let’s get back to work, and no more said on either name. Agreed?’
‘Agreed, sir!’
‘We’ve already got Grimes linked to Myles Midwynter. Apart from Dashwood, can you think of anyone else he wasn’t getting along with?’ asked Falconer, furrowing his brow in thought.
‘Not really. He seems a fairly laid-back old man – I mean, he’s not ancient, or anything like that, he’s just not young, and he looks as if he said ‘goodbye’ to middle-age quite a while ago.’
‘Well put, Sergeant. So, who’s next on our list of dastardly murder suspects?’
‘Fern Bailey. I can’t really see her getting in a tizzy with any of the others. We’ve heard nothing about any fallings out, and she appears to be a fairly mild woman.’
‘Excellent evaluation, Carmichael. It’s that double bass player next, isn’t it? Remind me of her name, if you would be so kind?’ Sunday was really bringing out the gentleman in Harry Falconer.
‘Vanessa Palfreyman, sir.’
‘Oh, yes. Not only did she hate Dashwood, but for some reason she didn’t go to the church service before they did that sound test. I wonder why that was? We’ll have to ask her next week. You never know, it might have some bearing on the murder, though I can’t imagine what.
‘However, the devil’s in the detail, Carmichael, the devil’s in the detail, and we must never forget that. And she said that she thought Myrtle Midwynter was really out for Dashwood’s blood. Perhaps you ought to draw a line between the Palfreyman woman and the vicar. It’s possible they had a falling out over something. Whatever it was, we need to know.’
‘Then it was Lester Westlake.’ Carmichael nearly spat the man’s name.
‘Now, now, little green-eyed monster, Carmichael,’ Falconer soothed.
‘I’m not jealous. I just don’t approve of how he earns his money. As far as I’m concerned, it’s dirty money, and he’s a dirty blighter.’
‘I tend to agree with your sentiments, but not quite so strongly. I don’t think there’s anything there to interest us. He doesn’t seem to socialise with the village, apart from band practices; keeps himself to himself, guarding the nature of his wicked job. I’m sure that that’s how he feels many of those in the village would judge it to be, and so he chooses to live anonymously.’
‘Did you see that flash car he had in his drive?’ Carmichael asked, resentfully.
‘Don’t let it get to you, Carmichael. A car is only an extension of the penis, isn’t it?’ Carmichael’s face flushed bright crimson at such an explicit biological term being bandied round the office, especially on a Sunday, but the inspector ignored his reaction. ‘And that is the particular organ – not the car,’ continued Falconer, unfazed, ‘that gets him all those nice juicy tips – I said tips. Stop laughing! So, his job and the car go together, in his mind. It’s the respectable representation of his organ, and promises of things to come, to his clients, if you like.’
‘You’ve got a flash car, sir!’ stated Carmichael, still giggling like a girl.
‘That’s completely different, and don’t you ever forget that, Sergeant!’
‘No, sir. Sorry, sir!’
It took a moment or two for Falconer’s temper to simmer down a bit, and for Carmichael to recover from corpsing (if such a thing is possible without a stage), for Falconer had, finally, been so affected by the giggling, that he had been moved to join in, simply because the sound was so infectious; but they got straight back down to business, when the mood was slightly more sober – or rather, they didn’t.
‘That was when we took a break for lunch, and had a bite in The Leathern Bottle, giving you an opportunity to change into your old trousers – I still can’t believe you haven’t got any jeans!’
‘Well, I haven’t, but what say we take a break now, and go along to the canteen. They may still have some doughnuts left, and, I don’t know about you, but I’m a bit peckish.’
‘Lead on, sir. I’m starving! As per usual!’
II
In the canteen they found Bob Bryant, tucking into an apple Danish, a huge cup of tea sitting on the table in front of him, and Falconer went over while Carmichael got their coffee and doughnuts – one of the latter for Falconer, and three for himself!
‘Not on the desk, Bob?’ Falconer greeted him.
‘No, Merv Green came in for something, and said he’d hold the fort for a while so that I could have a break. There’s not much action down there, anyway. Dead as a dodo, on a lovely Sunday like this.’
Carmichael approached with a loaded tray, and the other two noted that he had put two bananas and a chocolate bar on the tray, as well as what he had been dispatched to fetch.
‘Got to keep my strength up,’ was his only comment, when he saw the direction of their gaze.
‘Seen anything of old ‘Jelly’ recently?’ asked Bob Bryant innocently. This was a reference to Detective Superintendent Chivers, whom Bob knew was the bane of Falconer’s life, always hauling the inspector over the coals for something he had done, or had neglected to do.
‘No, thank God,’ Falconer replied, unable to help himself take a quick peek over his shoulder, as if naming the man might summon him as well.
‘Did you know he and I sometimes used to work together, in the old days?’ asked Bob, whose fish had just taken the bait he had so subtly cast upon the conversational waters.
‘Did you? That’s news to me,’ said Falconer, looking interested.
‘Oh, I could tell you some tales about that one, so I could. There wasn’t a trick he wouldn’t pull or a corner he wouldn’t cut to get the result he wanted, and he was a dab hand at getting other people to do his dirty work for him, I can tell you. He was also as rough as a badger’s bum in his habits as well, and absolutely shameless.’
‘Do go on. This doesn’t sound like the Chivers we all know and fear,’ Falconer encouraged him.
‘Well, I’ll tell you the sort of ‘don’t give a shit’ character he used to be, and the story that’s just come to mind is totally apt, given what I’ve just said. Back in those days, he was a DS and I was just a uniformed PC. Anyway, he was sent out one night on surveillance, with strict instructions to stay alert – he said that would be OK, because he’d always been a ‘lert’. There was to be no listening to music, or reading the newspaper, and definitely no having a little doze to pass the time. It was imperative that he was attentive on that job.
‘Anyway, the time gets round to eleven-thirty, everything black as pitch, out there in the sticks, where he was watching this place, and the station radioed him to say that the surveillance had been aborted, as there’d been a leak.
‘Well, there was no answer from his radio, and none of us had anything like a mobile phone in those days, so they just kept on trying his radio. Ten minutes go p
ast, and still no response, and the old chief started to get worried. Ten minutes was a long time not to answer your radio, even if you’d stopped for a jimmy riddle in the hedgerow, so I was allotted a car, and told to drive out to where he was supposed to be, and see if everything was all right.
‘I was only young then, and quite worried about what I’d find when I got there. I had all sorts of gruesome thoughts in my head, and then I saw the car. It was parked half on the road and half on the grass verge. The interior light was on, because the driver’s door was wide open, and when I got out and approached it – carefully, mind – I could hear the radio squawking away, for anyone in the vicinity to hear.
‘But there was no one in the car. It was completely deserted. That’s when I really got worried. What if he’d been rumbled, and then been kidnapped? Even worse, what if he’d been rumbled, and they’d done him in, and just dumped the body somewhere nearby? I was nearly peeing my pants, when I got round to having a bit of a scout, calling out ‘Guv! Guv!’ as loud as I dared, and scouring both sides of the road for him.
‘I was just about to give up, and report him missing, when there’s this really loud noise, of what sounded like someone trying to get through the hedge, and they were doing it just about where I was standing. God, was I frightened! I thought they’d done for him, and were coming back for me, too.
‘So, I move away from the hedge, locating where all the noise is coming from, and I have my torch in my hand, ready to dazzle the bugger with, when out steps Chivers, looking exactly like he’d been pulled through a hedge backwards. “Where the hell have you been?” I asked him, furious at the worry he’d caused me, and not giving a fig, that he was my superior in rank.
‘“I’ve been for a ‘tom-tit’,” he replies, cool as you like. “Can’t I even take a dump in peace these days? So, what the hell do you want?”
‘“You’ve been where?” I asked, thoroughly confused by now.
‘“Into that field. If you take a look through that gap where I squeezed through, you’ll find it’s full of cabbages.”
“What do cabbages have to do with it? I don’t understand.”
“Well, You’ve got to think of the nature of cabbage leaves, if you know what I mean.”
“I don’t”, I replied, still none the wiser.
“They’re nice and crinkly, aren’t they?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, calm enough to remember my place by now.
“And there ain’t no toilet paper in a field full of cabbages, is there, son? But a nice crinkly outer leaf does a lovely job when there’s nothing else to hand. All those wrinkly bits clean your rim off a fair treat.”
‘And that was that. He just got into his car, called in, and was told it was all off, and then drove away, without even a goodbye, or a backward glance.’
‘I don’t believe it!’ exclaimed Falconer, laughing nonetheless.
‘He can’t have done!’ Carmichael stated, shocked at how coarse the superintendent’s behaviour was being related as having been when he was younger.
‘I swear, on my mother’s life, that every single word of that story is the gospel truth; cross my heart and hope to die. Anyway, lads, got to let poor old Merv get back on patrol. And if you like, when we three meet again, I’ll tell you another. Promise! Ta-ra!’
‘When shall we three meet again …’ muttered Falconer.
‘Don’t know, sir,’ answered Carmichael, taking the statement, of course, literally. ‘But I bet you didn’t know that Bob Bryant’s first name is really Trevor.’
‘Never! Oh, that rhymes!’ declared Falconer. ‘But, how the dickens do you know that?’
‘I have my sources, sir,’ said Carmichael, dropping a slow wink to the inspector.
‘So why does he call himself Bob?’
‘For the same reason that you and I don’t use our given names: it’s simply a matter of taste!’ For a moment, the sergeant sounded very nearly upper-crust.
‘Come on, you – Mr Master-Spy – back to the office. We’ve wasted enough time in here, listening to fairy tales.’
III
Back at Falconer’s desk and the large sheet of paper, they set to, once more, to try to map the tensions between the various members of the band.
‘Who’s next?’ Falconer asked, as Carmichael picked up his notebook and attempted to find his place in it, but they were interrupted by the ringing of the telephone, and Falconer reached for it, while Carmichael froze, his finger firmly between two pages of his notes.
‘Market Darley CID, Detective Inspector Falconer speaking. How may I help you?’
‘It’s me, Harry; Philip Christmas. I tried your home number, but you weren’t answering, so I just thought I’d try the office first, knowing what a workaholic you are. Then it would’ve been your mobile, but I’ve got you now, so that doesn’t matter anymore.’
‘Anything to report?’ asked Falconer, hopefully, and automatically turning the phone on to speaker so that he would not have to waste time explaining everything to Carmichael afterwards.
‘Indeed I have. Firstly, the victim seems to have received a blow to the throat, right about where the Adam’s apple is located, and secondly, it would have taken a considerable amount of effort to shove that thing in. It went right through his heart, you know. Oh, and I estimate that he died nearer to Monday than Friday. Definitely the early part of the week, but that’s about as close as I can get, given the condition the body was in and the action of the hot weather.’
‘That’s all very interesting.’
‘And get this! I’ve examined that spike. It’s not a skinny little thing, nor is it anything like a sharp knife. Granted, it is a spike, but it was never an arrow, and it’s old, so the end was blunt – hence the amount of force needed to get it into his body. You’re either looking for a very strong person here, or a maniac, and I don’t know which.’
‘Thanks a lot for that, Philip. We’ll bear it in mind when we’re looking for someone to frame for this one.’
‘Pull the other one, Harry. You’re one of the most honest men I know. Now, away and do your job, so that you can get home, and put your feet up for just a couple of hours on a Sunday evening. Bye.’
‘Goodbye, Philip.’ Falconer ended the call and gave a low whistle. ‘So, there was an injury we didn’t know about – hence no signs of a fight or even a scuffle – and we’re looking for someone who’s strong enough to have pushed that spike right through his ribs and into his heart. Very interesting!’
‘I wonder if it was a lucky blow, or whether we’re looking for someone who knew exactly what they were doing?’ asked Carmichael.
‘Don’t know yet, but we can get back to everyone we interviewed, and try to find out if any of them have ever taken classes in self-defence or the martial arts. If it was someone adept at one or the other, we don’t even need to be looking for a man – it could just as well be a woman. And as for the spike, if you’ve got your victim out spark-o, you haven’t got him struggling against you as you try to push the spike through his flesh, so again, it could have taken time and effort, rather than sheer brute strength.
‘Now, let’s have a look at these people again, and consider the inter-band tensions, then try to see if we’ve got someone here who didn’t need much to push them over the edge; and a nudge from Dashwood did the trick, and homed all their anger in on him. I’m almost beginning to feel sorry for him. He was, after all, only trying to improve their playing: it was just that he took it all so seriously, and they were just, if you’ll excuse the pun, playing at it. So, what’ve we got?’
‘That first lady we went to see seems to have a lot of axes to grind within the band,’ offered Carmichael.
‘The one next door to Dashwood, in Tile Cottage? Played the piccolo and ‘miscellaneous percussion’? Makes you think of saucepans and biscuit tins, doesn’t it, that expression?’
‘I’m sure she would be mortified if she could hear you, sir,’ the sergeant gave as his opinion on this comme
nt, and then continued, ‘Geraldine Warwick’s her name. If you remember, she really got her knickers in a twist about Myles’s trolling around naked, then about Gayle Potten going round to The Grange and being photographed in the buff.’
‘Yes, and she really took offence at the Potten woman and Harold Grimes’ canoodling. Not surprising really, considering that her husband had an affair with the woman, then ran out on both of them. That really is a big bundle of axes, but she’s so tiny, if I remember correctly. Do you think she’d have had the strength to do what was done to the man?’
‘People can find extraordinary strength if they are angry or passionate enough about something. You hear stories of women lifting cars because their child is trapped, and then having no idea how they managed to do it,’ replied Carmichael, giving an example of this phenomenon.
‘True. So what else have we got? That ‘first’ and ‘second violin’ seem to have been at loggerheads since the band started.’
‘That’s Gwendolyn Radcliffe and Cameron McKnight, and she certainly seems to be the winner in this situation. I can’t really see her murdering the very chap who gave her a chance to play the part she’s coveted for years, can you, sir?’
‘No, but Cameron McKnight’s a completely different proposition. He’s got that opera singer ‘sort of’ living with him – Oscar Littlechild, that’s his name – and he didn’t seem very happy about us finding out about him. You can bet your boots, that his presence is a deadly secret, known by no one else in the village.’
‘Closet queer?’
‘Carmichael! Live and let live!’
‘Sorry, sir. Only using it as a verbal shorthand description.’
‘In that case you’re forgiven, but if you want to use it at any time in the future, I’d be happier if you used the initials, CQ. I know you haven’t got a prejudiced bone in your body, but if anyone else heard you say something like that they might see it as homophobia.’
‘Got it, sir! What about that Edmund Alexander? He’s absolutely against change of any kind. He seems to want everything to stay exactly as he remembers it as a child. I know his only beef seems to be Dashwood, and he gave the impression that he had taken it in his stride.’
Music to Die For (The Falconer Files Book 6) Page 18