‘You can’t believe how poignant it was, down on my haunches beside the river, with a soaking wet wig in my hands, and my future just a few feet away, drowned and no more.’
After about a quarter of an hour of desultory questioning in which nothing new was disclosed, Falconer alerted Carmichael, preparatory to leaving, and told Chadwick about the hourly check by patrol cars, warning him to be extra vigilant of his own safety.
‘What about having your mother over to stay for a while, just until we’ve got this thing wrapped up, and the culprit behind bars?’
‘Are you out of your mind? Have that raddled, nosy old gannet actually stay in my house – not a chance. Actually, Robin here has said he’ll stay over, just in case I can’t sleep, and I’ve got an alarm system, though I haven’t used it yet. We’ll just have to take it from there.’
When they reached the kerb where their cars were parked, Falconer put a hand on his sergeant’s shoulder to delay him getting into his vehicle. ‘One moment, Carmichael. Has anyone made any comment about the way you’re dressed this evening?’
‘No, sir,’ replied the sergeant, looking down at his body in puzzlement. ‘Is there something wrong with it?’
‘Allow me to enumerate your garments. You have on a pair of hot pink and bright orange paisley-patterned knee-length shorts. Above, you are attired in a lime green T-shirt with the words “The Stranglers” on it. Below, you are sporting fluorescent yellow flip-flops. Does that seem appropriate attire for a detective sergeant attending a murder scene?’
‘It was late when you phoned, sir, and it is quite warm. I was just lying around in what I changed into after work. I didn’t think to go upstairs and put on something different. I thought it was more important I got to the scene of the crime as quickly as possible.’
‘Which you certainly did. You must have driven like Lewis Hamilton to get here so quickly. May I suggest that, in the future, you consider the suitability of what you are wearing before going out of your front door, and drive at a speed that won’t put your name on the statistics that record those who died on the local roads this summer?’
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. But I got his autograph before you arrived.’
There was a moment’s silence, then Falconer took a deep breath. ‘Are you telling me that, after escorting a man home who has just found the murdered body of his life partner, you actually had the brass-necked cheek to ask him for his autograph?’
‘It was nice and quiet. It seemed like a good time to me,’ replied the sergeant, surveying the inspector quizzically.
‘And did you really think it was appropriate to turn up to the scene of a death with “The Stranglers” emblazoned across your T-shirt?’
‘You said on the phone he’d drowned.’
‘I never said that nothing had been done to him before he’d drowned. What if his murderer had taken him by the throat until he was unconscious, and then thrown him in the water. Your T-shirt would have been the height of bad taste, then, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’
‘Good night, Carmichael.’
‘Good night, sir.’
‘And bear in mind what I’ve said.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Carmichael was bloodied but unbowed, and he smiled as he fingered the scrap of paper in the pocket of his shorts with the all-important signature. Kerry would be over the moon when he showed it to her.
Chapter Nine
Saturday
Market Darley
Falconer’s first task was sending off a forensic team to see what was to be found at the cordoned off part of the river where Bailey Radcliffe’s earthly remains had been man-handled ashore.
He also took a phone call from Detective Constable Chris Roberts, still off sick with mumps. ‘Sorry to bother you, gu … sir.’ He’d stopped himself in the nick of time from referring to his senior officer as ‘guv’. ‘I’m still feeling rather rough, but I’ve got to the point where things aren’t as bad as they were, and, to be quite frank, I’m bored out of my mind.’
‘I can understand that.’ Roberts was a young man who lived on his own like Falconer, but was a good deal more social in his habits. Falconer thought briefly. If the man wasn’t standing – slouching – in front of him looking mutinous, he found he didn’t annoy him so much.
‘I’ll tell you what, when I’ve got all the notes together, I’ll get one of the patrol cars to drop you off a copy of the file. Sometimes not being so involved helps people to see things more clearly and, if you come up with any brilliant theories or suggestions, just give me a ring.’
‘That’s brilliant, g … sir.’ He’d really have to be careful, he thought, remembering how Falconer had flown off the handle before when he was addressed as ‘guv’. ‘I’m desperate for something to take my mind off my swellings and getting my teeth into something totally unconnected will distract me from what’s wrong with me.’
‘Still need that wheelbarrow?’ asked Falconer, in an attempt at humour.
‘I think I could manage with a carrier bag now, sir. And it won’t be long before I stop being infectious and can come back to work.’
‘Good.’ Maybe the boredom he was experiencing would make him more appreciative of having plenty to occupy him in his job.
‘When shall I expect the file then, sir?’
‘Sometime later today, when all the reports from forensics are written up, and I can get Carmichael to find the time to copy everything for you.’
‘You’re a diamond, sir.’
‘Er, thanks, I think.’
Carmichael arrived as the inspector ended the call, still looking inordinately pleased with his snatching of the opportunity of getting his current hero’s autograph, the evening before.
‘You do realise we’ll have to re-interview everyone we spoke to yesterday, don’t you, Sergeant.’
‘Why?’
‘Because between us speaking to them and now, there’s been a murder.’
‘That’s an awful lot of interviewing we’ve got to do.’
‘It is, but it looks like we can discount the crew from Chadwick’s Chatterers now, as they weren’t anywhere near Fairmile Green last night.’
‘Providing it’s the same person, sir.’
‘Whatever do you mean by that, Carmichael?’
‘Providing that the person who murdered Bailey Radcliffe was the same person who was making attempts on Chadwick McMurrough’s life.’
‘Great! I had it all straight in my mind, and there you go, complicating everything. That’s fair enough. We don’t have any proof that it was the same person, so we’ll have to treat them as two separate cases until we believe otherwise. Damn your eyes.’
‘Sorry, sir, but you wouldn’t want old Jelly on your back telling you that you hadn’t considered all the possibilities.’
‘No I would not. The man’s practically a psychopath, and everything I do seems to enrage him. Well spotted, Carmichael. I’ll make sure they’ve got separate case numbers.
‘I think I’ll just give Doc Christmas a ring. Sometimes he stays up into the early hours to do a post-mortem, other times he rises at ‘sparrow fart’, to get one out of the way. He’s very keen on this aspect of his work.’
‘Which is more than I am,’ replied Carmichael, who found the cutting up of what had once been a person very upsetting indeed, both mentally and physically. He had been known to leave the scene of a post-mortem before now, just to find somewhere convenient to be sick; and to suffer nightmares afterwards. ‘Thank God he didn’t ask us to go to this one. I had a particularly good and solid breakfast this morning, and I don’t fancy a rebate.’
Doc Christmas had, indeed, finished the post-mortem, and confirmed that Bailey Radcliffe had been hit on the back of the head with a blunt instrument before being introduced to the waters of the Little Darle to drown.
‘His stomach contents showed what I expected; a fairly light meal taken about two-and-a-half hours before, and approximately three-quarters of a pin
t of lager and the remains of a packet of crisps – no suspicious substances – all as anticipated.
‘There was water in the lungs, consistent with samples of the Little Darle taken at the scene. There were no fibres or anything to help us identify the weapon, but it left an oval imprint – about an inch and a quarter across, in “old money” – just the one. It doesn’t seem much to knock a man out, but Mr Radcliffe had quite a thin skull, and it did more damage than I would have anticipated.’
‘Any idea what it could have been, or what it was made of?’
‘No idea at all what it might have been, but at a guess, I’d say it was made of metal, for something of that small diameter to have knocked a full-grown man unconscious – even one without the thickest skull in the world.’
‘Great! Where do we start?’
The doctor responded by singing the first few lines of a particular ditty made famous by Julie Andrews – well, he was a great fan of The Sound of Music.
‘Very funny. I’ll have to get a forensic team to start with the shed, outhouses, and garages, then move on to vehicles and houses – if the budget can stand the cost of such a thorough search. We need to get the number of suspects down first, though, otherwise it’ll take them weeks. Those two had made enough enemies to be impressive.’
‘Good luck, Harry. I’m glad I just had to fillet the body. Your job’s much more complicated than mine.’
‘You can say that again.’
Fairmile Green
Just after lunch Falconer and Carmichael headed back towards the crime scene, having decided to try to interview those that they had not been able to speak to the day before. They could try the ones they had already had a word with afterwards, just to get up to date, as it were.
The pub landlord would also need to be interviewed, for his account of what had happened in the pub yesterday evening, in case there was a clue there as to who had attacked and killed Bailey Radcliffe. Then they’d have to have another word with Chadwick McMurrough now he’d had a chance to absorb the events of the night before, and how they affected him.
They decided to start their marathon at Glass House, to get the bereaved out of the way first. Having parked right outside, they rang the doorbell, only for it to be opened by an almost unrecognisable Chadwick.
Instead of the flowing kaftan and the ridiculous trousers of the previous evening, he was wearing some very smart chinos and a black silk shirt, and his hair was dyed a Scandinavian blond, and set up in spikes rather than gelled into almost a helmet as it had been before.
A pine table in the kitchen was just visible as being set for two, and, as Falconer’s eyesight and sense of smell were both excellent, there was both smoked salmon and caviar on it – these appeared to be common foodstuffs in this household. Dipsy was pawing at the closed sheet of glass which separated him from such luxuries, having been banned to the outside of the house for the duration of lunch and, in the sitting room, could be seen the outline of another person.
‘Do come in, gents,’ Chadwick bade them. ‘And please excuse the mess in there. Bailey was going through his flies – fishing flies, that is – and he never put them away before we went out last night. You remember Robin Eastwood from last night? I’m just treating him to a little lunch to thank him for all his support after my tragic loss.’
‘Very kind of you,’ murmured the young man already seated in an armchair, looking very much at home.
‘The least I could do, dearie,’ replied Chadwick automatically, using his hands to indicate seats for the two detectives. ‘Do sit yourselves down, and ask whatever it is you need to ask. Don’t mind Robin,’ and, for some unknown reason, frowned at his guest.
‘No, it’s all right. I’ll take a walk round the garden while you’re otherwise occupied.’
‘Well, mind those bloody peacocks. Apparently there’ll be someone coming over to pick them up on Monday. I don’t know who, because Bailey wrote down the arrangements in the desk diary, and I simply could never read his handwriting. The man should have been a doctor, his scrawl was so illegible.’
‘You seem to have recovered from your loss with remarkable speed, if you don’t mind me saying so, Mr McMurrough,’ declared Falconer, in disbelief at this almost light-hearted attitude.
‘Oh, hadn’t you heard? We gays are awfully shallow; incapable of real feelings, you know. In fact, many people say that I have hidden shallows rather than hidden depths.’ Although Chadwick said this with a smile, it was a particularly world-weary one for one so young as he.
‘I’m putting a brave face on things, Inspector. I have a show to record tonight, and I need to be in complete control of my emotions to be able to do that.’
‘Of course,’ mumbled Falconer apologetically. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’
When they were all settled and Carmichael had his notebook and pen at the ready, Falconer began with, ‘Can you tell me who was in the pub last night? Then we’ll move on to any personal enemies that Mr Radcliffe may have had.’
‘I’ll start with the second part first. Bailey got on with everyone. He was a very sociable and even-tempered creature, and the only person I know who had a personal grievance against him was Darren Worsley, his ex. As an afterthought, maybe you ought to include my ex in there, too. If I’d stayed with him and not been tempted to stray, Bailey and Darren might’ve still been together; although I doubt it, considering how much Darren had begun to drink.
‘Also, on further thought, there would also be anyone from the vicinity of our garden, which does stretch right behind all the other houses along here, because of the peacocks – or, going back even further, because of all the disruption of the building works we needed to have done before we could move in.
‘I suppose, on reflection, there must be quite a few round here who hold grudges against us for disturbing their peace. Both of us got endlessly button-holed during the barbecue, by people wanting to complain about something or other.’
Carmichael was scribbling away furiously in his usual mixture of genuine shorthand, and his own idiosyncratic abbreviations. It had taken a long time, but Falconer had almost got the hang of reading his sergeant’s notes. It would be some time, however, before he was fluent, and he could extract only about sixty per cent of what was written in the man’s notebook.
‘And at the pub?’ Falconer prompted the new ‘suicide blonde’.
‘Please excuse me if I start to put these fly boxes away. They’re driving me mad, sitting all over the place making the room look untidy. I can talk while I do it.
‘As expected, I got the usual bunch of fans around me to keep the attention where it should be – on me.’ At this, he shot them a rather lame smile. ‘There were a few locals in whom I hadn’t met. Who else? Let me see. Oh, yes. Fairly early on, Gareth Jones put his head in, hoping for a quiet drink on his way home from work, but he saw me and launched himself into a first-class hissy fit. Must still hanker after me, I suppose.
‘I can’t positively identify anyone else, I don’t think. Hang on, there was that bloke that turned up at the party with his wife and kids, then went off with them in a huge huff just a few minutes later. I can’t remember his name, though. And, of course, Robin looked in for a half not long before closing time.’
‘I see your memory’s coming back to you,’ said Falconer drily.
‘It’s amazing, isn’t it? If I remember anyone else, I’ll give you a ring, but could I have another card, please. Your last one was in Bailey’s pocket and, for obvious reasons, I don’t have it any more.’
‘Could you tell Mr Eastwood when he comes in that we’ll be calling on him sometime this afternoon? If he has any other plans, perhaps he could consult your card and give me a ring on my mobile, so that we can arrange a more convenient time.’
‘Surely you could talk to him here and now,’ countered Chadwick, looking puzzled.
‘It would be better in private, sir, if you don’t mind.’
‘Nothing to do with me, Inspecto
r. I’ll see you out.’
Once outside again, Carmichael turned to Falconer and said, ‘He does seem to have got over it very quickly, doesn’t he?’
‘Dammit! I should have asked if the property was in joint names, or whether it was just in his. If both their names were on the deeds, that gives someone else outside the household a motive. After all, his share must go to someone, although I suppose it could go to McMurrough.’
‘They haven’t been an item that long, sir. He may not have had the opportunity to change his will. That might mean that his previous partner may have been left his share of the house.’
‘Damn! That’s another suspect for us to find and add to our ever-growing list.’ Falconer’s mood had already started to deteriorate since they had arrived in the village. ‘And what’s all this with the blonde spiky hair?’
‘Maybe it’s his idea of a new start, sir – a sort of clean slate.’
‘Well, it didn’t take him long to wipe the old one clean, did it? I fancy a change of scenery. Let’s leave the places down here till last, and start down Old Darley Passage – blast – I hope that Worsley’s sobered up. I meant us to get back to him this morning. No matter, if he’s drunk again, or still drunk, I’m going to take him in and put him in a cell until he’s fit to talk to us.
‘We can finish off the first half of our interviews at the pub, then come back down here to finish off.’ Falconer had decided that that was how it would be, and if it cheered him up a bit, Carmichael was happy to go along with it.
They called first, as they had done the previous day, at the house with the ‘2B’ sign, but this time the door was opened to them by a young man with red curly hair and very freckled skin. ‘Mr Westbrook?’ enquired Falconer.
‘Correct, but do call me Dean,’ replied the householder. ‘Do come in,’ he invited, as they displayed their warrant cards. ‘This must be about what happened last night. I heard about it on the local news at breakfast time.’
‘Quite correct, Mr … Dean.’
Glass House (The Falconer Files Book 11) Page 12