Glass House (The Falconer Files Book 11)

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘Hello there, Mulligan. Would you like a nice biscuit?’ Kerry’s voice sounded, so the huge creature had evidently reached the kitchen.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Carmichael. Sorry about this, but I think Mulligan just wanted to say hello,’ the hapless owner excused himself.

  ‘No problem, Mr Moore. Mulligan’s always welcome here. You know that,’ she replied, her last words almost drowned out by two whoops of childish delight and, some excited high-pitched yapping.

  ‘I think the rest of the family has just realised we’ve got a visitor. Don’t worry about it, Mrs Moore,’ said Carmichael with a smile.

  ‘But, from the smells, I assume you’re just about to eat.’

  ‘No problem. We always have dog food in this house, and I don’t see any reason why we can’t rustle up a bowl of something tasty for one of our favourite animals. You leave him here to play for a while, and I’ll bring him back when the children go to bed – see if we can’t tire him out a bit for you.’

  ‘That’s so kind of you,’ Mrs Moore replied, and called her husband back out to the door.

  ‘Now, what’s this problem you’ve got with the kennels?’

  ‘They won’t have Mulligan,’ she told him. ‘We’re going on holiday early on Monday morning, and we’d booked him in for a fortnight. Then, this morning, they phoned and the owner said they wouldn’t be able to take him any more, because his wife is terrified of him, and he’s such a big softie, really – Mulligan, that is, not the owner of the kennels.

  ‘And you know our daughter can’t have him – we told you all about that last Christmas, when you so kindly stepped into the breach – and we don’t want to have to cancel our holiday. We do so like the Algarve, too,’ Mrs Moore added, pleadingly.

  As if to emphasise the urgency of the request, Mulligan whined pathetically, and offered his paw to Carmichael, as if in entreaty.

  ‘Don’t give it another thought,’ Carmichael replied with a broad grin, accepting the paw and shaking it solemnly. ‘We love having him here. Just bring him and his bits and pieces on Sunday, then you can get your packing done in peace.’

  ‘Oh, you are a darling!’

  ‘You’re a diamond,’ said Mr Moore. ‘I don’t care what other people say about the police. I think you’re great.’

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Carmichael, slightly puzzled by this dubious compliment. ‘Bring him along on Sunday, and you can pick him up when you’re back and unpacked.’

  Going back into the kitchen, he apprised Kerry of their extra lodger, this one four-legged. ‘I do love Mulligan,’ she said, then added in a voice with more urgency in it, ‘I know you’ll have to get in a big supply of dog food and biscuits, but could you do it tomorrow and, while you’re about it, pick me up another gas bottle – maybe on the way home from work? I’ve got a couple of days left in this one, probably, but I don’t like to run too short.’

  ‘Will do,’ replied her husband, making a mental note to do as his wife requested. She didn’t often ask anything of him, and it was the least he could do to respond promptly to the few requests she made, and this last one was of prime importance, out where they lived.

  Although people in nearby towns who had no friends or relatives out in the sticks would hardly credit it, mains gas did not, as yet, reach as far as the villages, and they had to survive with bottled gas for both hobs, and fires, the latter whether static or mobile.

  Market Darley

  Harry Falconer also had not long arrived home – to a blessedly empty house – and had made himself a good, strong cup of tea, had a bit of a sit and a ponder, and now proposed to phone Heather with his explanation for why he could not put her up. He sat with fingers crossed, hoping for similar luck to that which he had had for her acceptance of his muddle-up for a roast meal this Sunday.

  He had not long ago received a call from Carmichael telling him that everything was hunky-dory for her to stay with them, and he thought he had his story finely tuned, now, for credibility.

  Falconer: Hello, Heather? Harry here.

  Heather: Hello there. To what do I owe this pleasure?

  Falconer: It’s about you having to leave the nurses’ home, and needing somewhere interim to stay while you wait for the legalities on your flat sale and purchase to be completed.

  Heather: Is this call to tell me I can move into yours?

  Falconer: Not exactly. I’ve made arrangements for you to stay with my sergeant, Davey Carmichael. He’s married with children, but his home is two cottages knocked into one, so there’s plenty of room.

  Heather: Oh! (surprised). That’s very kind of them, but why? I thought I could just stay with you.

  Falconer: There are unforeseen problems with me having people to stay.

  Heather: And they are what? (huffily).

  Falconer: I’ve never explained to you fully about my cats.

  Heather: Your cats? What’s so special about your cats that they stop me staying with you?

  Falconer: There are five of them, and three of them used to belong to murderers. My original cat is still getting used to not being an ‘only’, and the last one to arrive – well, we don’t know anything about her past at all. I’ve not had four of them terribly long and know virtually nothing about what they endured before they moved in with me, but I do know that they’re very easily upset. His crossed fingers were now for the lies he was telling, rather than for good luck.

  I am their stable home now, and I don’t want them to be unsettled and feel they can’t come into the house because someone new and unknown has supplanted them. I know how sensitive you are to feelings (in a wheedling voice) and I felt that, of all the people in my acquaintance, – (don’t slip into pomposity just when victory is in sight) – you would understand.

  Heather: I think you’re mad, but I sort of see where you’re coming from.

  Falconer: I’m very sorry about the situation, but I don’t really have any choice. If anyone comes in, they disappear out of the cat flap, and don’t come back again until they know the coast is clear. If you moved in, heaven alone knew when I’d see them again.

  Heather: I believe you; thousands wouldn’t.

  Falconer: I’ll give you a ring about our next meal, OK?

  Heather: Agreed. Bye. I’ll wait to hear from you then, and you can give me the number for where I’ll be staying.

  Falconer: I’ll do that now, then you’ll have everything you need.

  He was being as cagey as possible. After his chilling dream of the previous night, he was well and truly spooked. He had neither made a firm arrangement with her for their next meal, nor asked her if she’d like to make coming in for coffee a regular part of their outings.

  Fairmile Green

  Bailey Radcliffe had had a quick latte, then got straight into the car and driven to Market Darley to raid the shelves of its supermarkets, so that they had sufficient food and drink to serve their guests that evening.

  His mind was awash with items that he needed to purchase: red wine, white wine, gin, tonic water, whisky, beer; that would do for drinks, with some squashes and juice. Now for food: pork chops, lamb chops – very pricey – sausages, burgers, rolls, bags of salad, baking potatoes. Better get some veggie burgers and sausages as well, in case there were any food freaks amongst their neighbours.

  Oh, and he mustn’t forget nibbles for while people were waiting for food to cook. This was going to cost a fortune. Lucky that Chadwick was paying, then – it was his idea, so he was responsible for any expenses incurred.

  Meanwhile, back at the house, Chadwick was busy putting together a couple of large lasagnes for anyone who wanted to eat before the food on the barbecue was ready. He was very conscious of people’s differing tastes, so he very deliberately made sure that one of these dishes was vegetarian.

  What he would not advertise was that he had ‘accidentally’ fried off the vegetables for this in lard, out of sheer badness. Michael Jackson hadn’t patented the word, after all, and the lettuce munchers would neve
r notice what he’d done if he didn’t say anything about it.

  Later, as they were dividing the meat (and vegetarian options) on and into metal trays ready to be cooked, while Dipsy got underfoot making little begging yips, Chadwick asked rather apprehensively, ‘What if no one turns up? We haven’t had any RSVPs. Oh, do get out of the way, Dipsy. It’s no wonder I trod on you, if you will wander between my feet like that.’

  ‘Did you put RSVP at the bottom of the invitations?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, there you are then. I’ll tell you what,’ Bailey began in a soothing voice. ‘If no one comes to our party, the food will keep until tomorrow, then you can ring the production team from Chadwick’s Chatterers, and we’ll make it a party for your show.’

  ‘You’re absolutely brilliant, my clever darling. Have you done anything about getting my character back into Cockneys yet?’

  ‘Not yet, but I’ve planted a few seeds in a few minds, so that, when I do, it’ll be almost as if it’s their own idea.’

  ‘You always were a cunning bastard. Look at the way you lured me from Gareth’s arms.’

  ‘That was nothing to the way you lured me away from Darren’s clutches, Chad.’

  ‘Aren’t we naughty, Bails?’

  ‘Yes, but nice – decidedly nice boys, don’t you think?’

  ‘Oh, you are awful,’ replied Chadwick, as he checked his lasagnes’ progress in the oven. They were very nearly done. ‘Oh, my God! Apart from the obvious, they’ll all be straight, won’t they?’

  ‘Yep. Apart from the obvious, I expect we’re the only two gays in the village.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘By the way, I went along to the first house in Market Street with the invitations to our little soirée, and I put them into the doors of all three houses in Old Darley Yard, where your darling ex lives. It was the only way I could keep tabs on the guy with the petition. I’ve got the nasty feeling it was about us.’

  ‘Just as well,’ replied Chadwick drily, as it felt like ‘back to me’ time.

  Elsewhere in the villages, local voices were raised, again, in anger.

  ‘I’ll not cross his threshold, the shallow little git.’

  ‘I’ll not change into my best for those two bleeding faggots.’

  ‘Who the hell does he think he is, thinking he just has to whistle and I’ll come to him?’

  ‘I’ll complain quietly, if you like, but I’m going to have my say, if it kills me.’

  ‘Who do they think they are, summoning us as if we were the village peasants, in need of a square meal?’

  ‘How he’s got the nerve to think I’d want to socialise with the two of them, I simply don’t know. Not after what happened.’

  ‘Well they can bloody well put up with the kids for a couple of hours. I’ve had them all day, and I could do with a break. If their stuff’s too precious for little hands, they’d damned well better keep the doors shut, hadn’t they?’

  It didn’t matter what was said, however. Everyone who had received an invitation was hell-bent on seeing the inside of that house, now it had been gutted and had new owners, whatever their beef with them was.

  The first guests arrived five minutes early at twenty-five past six. Fortunately, the party-throwers had finished their preparations just before six o’clock, with the lighting of the charcoal, so that it would be heated up by a reasonable time. They didn’t want this to turn into a late night.

  The early arrivals were, in fact, the gaggle that composed the Warren family from Myrtle Cottage. Both Christopher and Christine composed their lips into smiles as they were bidden enter, but their eyes were hostile, and had the glint of anger in them. With them came four children, one a babe in arms.

  At sight of the open back wall, the three ambulatory small people set off for the garden at a run, and Bailey and Chadwick welcomed their parents more formally. This was, however, doomed not to be a long visit.

  Bailey went to the open back wall to keep an eye on the children for safety reasons, as the barbecue was alight, and found them chasing the peacocks with great whoops of childish delight. ‘Stop that immediately!’ he called, and went outside to herd them back into the house, leaving the birds sulking, either in the shrubbery or their little wooden house, in fear.

  Once inside, the children discovered Dipsy and, no sooner had Bailey procured their parents a drink, than he heard a roar of rage from Chadwick emanating from the kitchen. ‘He’s not a toy dog. He’s real, and you’ll really hurt him. How dare you try to poke him in the eyes!’

  Before Radcliffe could make a move to leave the sitting room, three short forms hurtled into the room, all of them having burst into tears at being chided twice in a very short space of time. They simply didn’t know the rules where peacocks and domestic pets were concerned, and felt that they should not be admonished if no one had explained things to them.

  Bailey and Chadwick, similarly, didn’t know the rules with children, and didn’t realise how heavy-handed they could seem.

  Christine immediately took umbrage on her offspring’s behalf, thrust Aron into his father’s arms (thus starting him off to grizzle) and put her arms around the other three. ‘Did the nasty man shout at you, my darlings?’ she cooed, a velvet maternal machine now, her whining about being stuck with them all day, before they had left home, now completely forgotten in her defence of them.

  Knowing they were on to a good thing here, the three children sobbed even harder, until Christine stood up and said, ‘Come along, Christopher. We’re not staying here to see our children mistreated. Them and their bloody peacocks. We’re going home. Now!’

  On their indignant march down the path, they met one set of next-door neighbours, just about to enter by the gate. Noticing this new arrival, Bailey and Chadwick didn’t even bother closing the door between visitors, but stood with it open, smiling brightly at the next arrivals, and hoping that their visit would be slightly longer and a bit more successful than the last one.

  Once again, the mouths were smiling, but the eyes told a different story. This couple also looked as if it had a score to settle, but was willing to keep the lid on it for now. Inviting them in and supplying them with a drink each, they had no time to talk, as the doorbell rang again, and the Sutherlands – for this is who they had been – were succeeded by the Trusslers.

  After that, a steady stream of people arrived. Invitations had been issued to eleven households in all and, although the Warrens had already exited in a huff, there were still plenty of guests to supply with drinks and tempt to nibbles. As they were all from the same village, they also knew each other, so conversation flowed in a very satisfactory way.

  The only awkward moments were the arrivals of Gareth Jones and Darren Worsley. Even these two entered the throng with a fair grace, but as both had ulterior motives for being there, that was hardly surprising.

  Bailey took himself out into the garden to barbecue the various offerings he had purchased earlier that day, and Chadwick took up duty in the kitchen by their supply of drinks. If anyone wanted to talk to either of them specifically – probably to complain about the birds or even, maybe, the workmen – both of them were easy enough to find.

  Both of the hosts had noticed a significant difference between how the couples had dressed. It was obvious that the guests had a bone to pick with them, and this was no surprise, but the two sexes had dealt with registering their disapproval in how they dressed for their first visit to the newly refurbished property.

  Mainly, the men had opted for a very casual look, showing their displeasure in tatty old jeans and washed-out T-shirts. The women, on the other hand, had dressed to the nines and, literally, put on the war paint, to go into battle.

  Two of the men, namely Darren Worsley and Gareth Jones, having identified that they were the aggrieved parties at this gathering, had formed a small huddle in a quiet part of the garden and were having a grand bitch about who had suffered the most humiliation and potential loss of glit
tering future.

  Representatives of the other neighbouring properties approached either Bailey or Chadwick individually, attempting to have an, in the main, civilised discussion about their distress at the disruption the various noise nuisances had caused in their households.

  An eavesdrop around the various guests would have gleaned the following conversations.

  On a bench, well away from the barbecue and Jacuzzi, Gareth Jones was putting his case for having lost the most, as far as future lifestyle was concerned. ‘He was nothing, when he was with me. The only thing he did was put in an application form for that damned silly show.

  ‘I told him he was wasting his time – what did I know? I thought he had a very slim chance of being chosen for it and, if he was, he would only be humiliated and ridiculed with the clever way they edit the film for however long he lasted.

  ‘I had absolutely no idea that he might actually win, and suddenly be the flavour of the month. That part in Cockneys was just out of the blue, and the vain bugger did nothing but boast about how famous he was, and what a glittering future he had ahead of him.

  ‘I told him not to take anything for granted, and I felt vindicated when he only had the part for a few weeks, but then along came the offer of the chat show, and all my warnings of caution were blown out of the water.

  ‘And he’d got mixed up with one of the directors on Cockneys, so I was for the chop even when he was in that, although I didn’t realise it at the time. I just thought his distraction was due to getting used to the change in his fortunes. I must admit, I thought things were about to look up, and was really looking forward not to having to watch where all the money went.

  ‘Then, boom! I was dumped good and proper. Chad just said he’d taken up with someone else who was “in the business”, and it was all over. He said it never would have worked with us because of his new position, and I was merely his past – callous bastard.’