‘Maybe you fancied them, too, when you were little, or maybe you thought they’d keep the tops of the fruit trees tidy. How would I know? You’ve got such a weird mind.’
‘Hmph!’ McMurrough made a gruesome face at his significant other and flounced out of the room to view his new acquisitions, calling back over his shoulder, ‘You wait to see what’s next,’ in a triumphant tone of voice.
Market Darley
Falconer had left DC Roberts back at the office blowing up balloons, and Merv and PC Starr hanging a ‘welcome home’ banner. His job was to collect a tray of cream cakes from the bakery in the market square and convey it back to complete the preparations for Carmichael’s return, and these he now conveyed up the stairs to the CID office, ready for the hero’s welcome that his sergeant so richly deserved after all he had been through in the last few months.
The banner had been affixed so that it was the first thing the DS would see when he came through the door, and the two PCs had vacated the room for the canteen, to have a little light lunch before attacking the pastries a little later. Roberts was surrounded by balloons, but they were on the floor, lying like a clutch of multi-coloured aliens’ eggs, instead of tied into small groups and affixed to the ceiling. Roberts himself was slumped over his desk huffing and puffing as if he had just run a marathon.
‘What the hell’s the matter with you, and why aren’t these things strung up?’ barked Falconer, his temper, as always with Roberts, as short as a winter’s day.
‘I’m wiped out with all that blowing up, guv’nor,’ replied Roberts, playing for sympathy he was never likely to elicit from this particular source. ‘I think I may be developing asthma.’
‘What did you just call me?’ asked Falconer, ignoring the DC’s plight.
‘Sorry. Sir!’ replied Roberts, realising he was on to a loser here. ‘I’ll just get the string and tape and get it finished.’
‘You’d better. He’ll be here in a few minutes. Get a move on! And no stringing one long one with two round ones and going for the “are-they-really-rude, I-simply-didn’t-realise” look. And there’s no more sick leave for you for the next ten years after all the time you’ve taken off since you came here. I want to make that crystal clear.’
‘You can’t accuse me of swinging the lead. I was in hospital on all three of those occasions,’ replied Roberts in a hurt voice.
‘So you say,’ said Falconer acidly.
Fortunately, they were interrupted at that moment, by the sound of cheering from downstairs, and the sound of a number of feet on the stairs. ‘He’s here!’ declared Falconer, beaming from ear to ear and forgetting about his beef with the DC.
The less colourful – sometimes – brother of the Jolly Green Giant loped into the room with a beam of pure pleasure to be back where he belonged, and Falconer rushed forward to pump his hand so hard that Carmichael winced, and suddenly the office was bursting with people, all welcoming back one of their own, who had come so close to losing his life in service to the Force.
By the end of the afternoon, everything felt back to normal and, as Falconer drove home, he suddenly remembered he was having dinner with a friend on Wednesday evening, a fact he had completely forgotten in his preoccupation with Carmichael’s return.
Once a fortnight he shared an evening meal with Heather Antrobus, a nurse he had met while visiting his DS in hospital. She had been involved in his day-to-day nursing, and she and Falconer often met by the sergeant’s bedside. They also crossed paths in the hospital canteen where Falconer often ate when visiting, and she was trying to catch a brief meal-break.
Inevitably, they had talked about her patient, and he found her both intelligent and possessed of a sense of humour that was just about identical to his own. She was half-Irish, short, and a little on the plump side, with copper beech-coloured hair and impish green eyes, and he enjoyed her company enormously.
When Carmichael had been discharged to convalesce at home, she and Falconer had agreed to meet outside duty hours whenever possible, for a simple supper and agreeable conversation, and he looked forward eagerly to these occasions. Not only did they distract him from bitter memories of a woman who had entered his life briefly and almost destroyed it, but he always felt on top of the world afterwards, putting this down to the good laugh they always shared with these meals.
Fairmile Green
McMurrough and Radcliffe were sitting in the drawing room of Glass House with the television blaring loudly in the corner to try to block out the cries of their new charges, or rather, as Radcliffe preferred to think of them, as Chadwick’s latest little follies.
He was aware that his partner had already realised that maybe he’d made a tiny error of judgement by locating these screaming monsters on his own property, but he was as stubborn as a mule, and it would be some time before he got around to admitting he had made a mistake.
‘Come along, Dr Doolittle,’ Radcliffe shouted, above the unholy racket of the television at loud volume, in competition with the peacocks establishing their new territory. ‘Let’s go down the pub. At least with the fruit machines, video games, and jukebox it’ll be quieter down there.’
‘Point taken,’ replied McMurrough. ‘Although we haven’t actually been inside it to see what it’s like, yet.’
‘Well, this feels like just the right opportunity to find out. Get your shoes on and we’ll mince down there. I’ll just nip upstairs and change my shirt, and I’ll meet you outside.’
The Goat and Compasses was right at the other end of the High Street, and as they strolled down to it they could still hear the cries for help from the back of Glass House. ‘This isn’t going to endear you to the neighbours,’ opined Radcliffe, and with a sorrowful shake of the head, McMurrough had to agree with him, although he still asserted his right to keep whatever pets he chose to.
The pub had no jukebox, no video games, and no fruit machines and was, in fact, a haven of calm. It was only early evening and there were few customers. The tables outside were deserted, but the couple chose to drink inside, where the incessant high-pitched cries were inaudible.
The interior was just what a village pub should be, with shining horse-brasses, copper pots and pans, and a variety of pint pots belonging to regulars, hanging up behind the highly polished bar. They didn’t manage more than a couple of gin-and-tonics each before they were thoroughly rattled by the complaints of every customer who came in, having a good old moan with the landlord about the mysterious cries that were now audible from every corner of the village.
What the two new arrivals had failed to notice was that those already present in the bar, and those that arrived after them, gave the newcomers a long, hard, staring at, then went into little huddles of two or three, commenting in lowered tones on the ‘odd couple’ who were drinking in the corner.
‘Have you seen the colours that younger one’s wearing? A pink shirt and custard yellow trousers aren’t, in my opinion, suitable for a nice respectable pub like this. And I’m sure I know his face from somewhere, but I can’t put my finger on where.’
‘That older one’s wearing a toupee. That’s completely undignified, if you know what I mean. Me, I just run the razor over mine when I’m shaving. There’s nothing wrong in being bald.’
‘Aren’t they the ones that have moved into The Orchards?’
‘Oh, it’s not called that any more. That name mustn’t have been good enough for them. They’ve got a new sign with “Glass House” on it; a big one – etched glass or something similarly fanciful, as if wood wasn’t good enough for them, like it is for the rest of us!’
The two residents of the village, aware only of the complaints about the noise, which were not spoken quite sotto voce, sipped their drinks, oblivious to these other complaints expressed in more hushed tones.
Returning home before dusk, they entered the house only to find a peacock in the hall, and peacock shit on the brand new white shag-pile carpet. The first verbal response was from McMurrough, who s
aid shamefacedly, ‘Oh God, I’m sorry!’
‘This is down to you, is it?’ asked Radcliffe, wrinkling his nose in distaste.
‘I went outside to scatter some of that feed that was brought with them when you were upstairs changing your shirt,’ he explained. ‘I must have left the wall open.’ This wasn’t as daft as it sounded, for what would have been patio doors in any other house, were extremely over-sized in this one, to aid the illusion of a glass wall.
‘You mean they’ve been able to get in since we went out?’ asked his partner, aghast.
‘’Fraid so. Sorry.’
‘You will be. They’ve probably crapped all over the place. I just hope they’re no good at doing stairs: terrible stain to shift, peacock poo.’
‘Is it?’ asked McMurrough with horror.
‘How the hell should I know? I’ve never had peacocks in my life, but I bet the stains are just about indelible. Now, I’ll get those doors shut and locked, and you can check there aren’t any of those superannuated chickens upstairs doing ghastly things in our room.’
As Radcliffe closed and locked the huge doors, there was a thump, and a series of thuds accompanied by a scream.
Market Darley
Falconer got a call from Bob Bryant at the station about ten o’clock, informing him that there had been what the caller described as ‘an attempt on his partner’s life’, out at Fairmile Green. The partner was some sort of celebrity and, after disturbing Superintendent Chivers at home, he had been advised to use senior officers, and not send out uniformed PCs. ‘Jelly’, as he was known, was very sensitive to anything media-related, and was wary of being portrayed in a bad light, if he didn’t send someone of sufficient rank to attend the incident.
Taking down the address as Glass House, High Street, Fairmile Green, Falconer gave Carmichael a call, just to check that he was feeling up to going out late in the evening. If not, he would have to take Roberts, and he didn’t fancy that one little bit; certainly not with a celebrity involved, as Roberts would probably be star-struck and do something embarrassing like ask for an autograph.
Carmichael was, however, feeling fit and raring to go. He’d been bored out of his mind during his convalescence, and couldn’t wait to get involved with a new case. ‘Are you OK to drive?’ asked Falconer, beginning to behave like a mother hen. It was only a trip of two-and-a-half miles for him, but more like ten for Carmichael.
‘Of course I’m OK to drive. How do you think I got to the station today? Give me the address and a ten-minute start, and I’ll meet you outside the property.’
After a minute or two, Falconer found that he could not face another eight minutes of pacing the floor getting paranoid about something else happening to his sergeant, and set off early; thus he was already parked up when Carmichael’s battered and rusting old Skoda pulled out of Stoney Cross Road and crossed Market Street to where the inspector’s Boxster was already waiting for him.
As the two men locked their cars, Falconer said, ‘I must have got here quicker than I anticipated,’ not only to make Carmichael think he’d only just arrived, but to cover his own embarrassment at being such a worry-guts. It would never do for Carmichael to realise his boss was turning into an old woman.
‘It looks like this place has had a bit of work done on it,’ commented the younger man, as Falconer rang the bell, then started with surprise as the clearly recognisable but, at present, unidentifiable theme tune of a television programme rang out in tinkling form.
The door was answered by a man somewhere in his late forties or early fifties wearing a good, but not that good, wig, and an expression that denoted extreme anxiety. Without preamble, this study in fear informed them, ‘They must have got in when we were down the pub. Forget-Me-Not forgot to close the back doors, and anyone could have got in. It’s a miracle we weren’t cleaned out at the same time, but setting a booby trap was just spiteful.’
‘Why don’t we go inside, and we can talk about whatever’s happened a little more calmly,’ suggested Falconer, moving to insert his foot over the door jamb.
‘Oh, where are my manners,’ replied the, for the moment, unidentified man in the toupee, and preceded them into a sumptuous drawing room, the back wall of which was almost entirely made of glass.
‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ commented Falconer, while Carmichael just stood, his mouth agape, catching flies.
‘Nice of you to say so,’ replied their host. ‘By the way, I’m Bailey Radcliffe, and my partner, Chadwick McMurrough, is upstairs having a little lie down. It was he, you see, who was the victim of this attempted murder.’
‘Chadwick McMurrough?’ squeaked Carmichael. ‘The Glass House? Cockneys? Chadwick’s Chatterers?’
‘That’s right. Are you a fan?’ Radcliffe was interested to find out. He was much more at ease now the cavalry had arrived.
‘He really makes me laugh,’ replied Carmichael, his face breaking out into a wide grin. ‘I’ve been in hospital, then convalescing at home, and his programme was one of the things that kept me sane. He asks such outrageous questions, and the looks on his guests’ faces when he does is priceless.’
It was now Falconer’s mouth that gaped open in surprise that his sergeant should watch such candyfloss pap.
They were almost immediately distracted, however, by the pattering of slippered feet down the stairs, and Chadwick McMurrough, in the flesh, tripped – although not literally, this time – through the door, his face wreathed in smiles as he approached the policemen with his hand outstretched.
McMurrough, being the sort of person he was, had already crept down as soon as they had been admitted, and had been shamelessly eavesdropping, before creeping back to the landing, from whence he had descended for a second time, but with a slightly heavier tread.
Falconer shook the outstretched hand briefly, but Carmichael almost curtsied in honour, as he pumped the minor celebrity’s hand for rather longer than appeared necessary or appropriate, as introductions were made.
‘Shall we get down to business then, gentlemen?’ queried Falconer, feeling slightly queasy at the hero-worship in Carmichael’s eyes, and Radcliffe waved them towards a pair of white sofas that proved to be feather-stuffed, something that Falconer didn’t discover until he sank so far down into one that his knees were almost round his ears. Carmichael looked even more ridiculous, given his enormous height.
McMurrough took one look at the sergeant and said, a wicked smile lighting up his face, ‘My, they breed ’em big round here for the Force, don’t they? Tell me, are there any more at home like you?’
Although Carmichael was married now and had two step-children and one of his own, his mind still flew back to the chaotic over-crowded nest that had been his childhood home.
Carmichael merely gulped, then croaked, ‘Yes. Lots,’ in reply, thinking how jealous his brothers, and possibly his sisters too, would feel when they found out that he had met – actually met – the famous Chadwick McMurrough.
Radcliffe interrupted, saying, ‘Don’t tease the poor man, Chaddy. He’s not used to you and your wicked comments,’ but McMurrough, so easily distracted, was now watching with great enjoyment how Carmichael was going to be able to manipulate his pen and notebook, when his knees were higher than his nose.
‘Would you care to sit in a more upright chair?’ asked Radcliffe with a sigh of exasperation, as he watched McMurrough snicker behind his hand at the incongruous sight of what looked like a stork trying to take notes.
Carmichael finally settled on an upright, very trendy, wooden chair. Falconer asked, with some frustration in his voice at the delay, ‘Do you think we could get on with what actually happened.? I’m sure you gentlemen want to get off to bed as much as we do,’ then blushed a rich crimson as he examined, in retrospect, what he had just said, conscious of a hastily suppressed snigger from McMurrough, who had also seen the interpretation that could be applied to the inspector’s words.
‘Shut up, Chaddy, and leave the poor policemen alo
ne. I’ll do the talking, for now, if you don’t mind, Mr Gobby.’
They got no further than this before there was a cry of ‘help’ in a female pitch of voice, from the garden, and Carmichael shot up from his chair and raced to the rear glass doors, scrabbling at the mechanism to open them.
‘Leave it, Sergeant,’ advised Radcliffe with a sigh of exasperation. ‘It’s only a peacock. They do sound awfully human, but it was soft lad here’s idea to get them, so he can work out what to do with them. They’re driving me out of my mind already, and they only arrived earlier today.’
Carmichael re-took his seat, his face now as red as the inspector’s, at this monumental gaffe. What did he know of peacocks? They were moving in high circles here, and no mistake. When he’d set off for the station just after lunch, he had had no idea he’d be hobnobbing with a celebrity before bedtime.
‘Now, I’ll tell this,’ began Radcliffe, with a glare at McMurrough, ‘up to the time that our little victim fell down the stairs, then it’s up to you what you want to do about it, Officers. We went out for a drink earlier, to get away from the awful sound from out back. Just before we left, I went upstairs to change my shirt, not knowing soft lad here had gone out into the garden to throw some food for those screaming monsters. Guess who forgot to close the doors properly and lock them?
‘We didn’t discover this until we got back, and all seemed to be well, so we locked up, and my significant other here went trotting off upstairs. The next thing I knew there was this awful girly scream, and he bounced down the whole flight like a lead balloon, a positive rainbow in motion.
‘Once I’d got him on his feet and given him his dummy dipped in gin to pacify him, I had a look to see what he’d stumbled over, and there was a trip-wire stretched across the staircase, two steps down from the top. It could only have been put there while we were out at the pub, and only be made possible because Chaddy forgot to lock up.
‘To my mind, that indicates that we were being watched, and the fact that whoever it was, was able to get in, was just by the purest bad luck, for us – or rather, for him over there; the one covered in bruises, I don’t think! Any ideas how we go about tracking down whodunit?
Glass House (The Falconer Files Book 11) Page 2