‘If it isn’t somebody local, then do you think they might have had a common connection in the “gay world”, if such a thing actually exists?’ asked Carmichael.
‘Don’t say things like that. Do you know how far that opens up the field of suspects? We could be years on this one case alone. Even for a multiple murder, that’s a bit of a slog.
‘But we do have two homophobic couples right here on the doorstep, so to speak: the Fairchilds and the Catchesides. Maybe we need a further word with those two pairs of lovelies.
‘I also seem to remember that one of them offered a religious slant on homosexuality at first. That can get people really hot under the collar, and incite them to things they would never normally consider doing.
‘Remember that first case Roberts ever worked with us? We – and he – know only too well how people can work themselves up into a state of religious hysteria, and then there simply are no rules.’
At that moment, the doorbell rang, and Carmichael admitted Doc Christmas, showing him straight into the living room.
‘Hello, Harry. Another stiff for me?’
‘Shhh! His mother’s just through there in the kitchen,’ Falconer whispered, pointing towards the doorway. Returning to a normal volume, he said, ‘Right, Carmichael, let’s get back to Mrs Worsley, to see if she’s got anything to tell us that might be pertinent to this terrible situation.’
Mrs Worsley had, in fact, reverted to a sort of motherly/housewifely role, and had just made a pot of tea. ‘I thought it would do us all good,’ she said, her eyes no longer drowned in tears. ‘We can drink it while we wait for my lift home, which it’s was very kind of you to arrange.’
As they sat back down round the old table, Falconer asked her about her relationship with her late son. ‘He was always different, even as a kiddie,’ she confessed to them. ‘Never liked football, or any of those rough-and-tumble boys games that my husband loved to play with the other lads.
‘Those two never seemed to have anything in common, and most of Darren’s friends at school seemed to be girls, but not girlfriends, if you see what I mean. When he ‘came out’ to us that was my husband finished with him. It made me feel protective, though.
‘When I was a kiddie, people like that had a very hard time of it; shunned by family and friends alike, and they usually had a hard time of it finding work, too.
‘I thought it would be like that for my Darren, as well, but times have changed and, apart from his drinking, which just got worse and worse once he didn’t have to work any more, he led as close to a regular life as he could, considering that he was sharing his bed with another man.
‘He told Radcliffe that he was sacked from his job, but he wasn’t. He left work because he didn’t like the boring job he did, and felt life owed him a better lifestyle, and that was his downfall. If he hadn’t given up work, maybe he wouldn’t have drunk so much, and we wouldn’t be sitting here contemplating his passing today.’
Falconer tried to interrupt, but she held up her hand to forestall him. ‘It’s his nan I feel sorry for. When our Darren moved in with another man, she said it was just a phase he was going through. She refused to believe that they shared a bed, and had this touching belief that they were just best mates, and probably spent their evening looking at girlie magazines together.
‘She was as pleased as punch when he moved out and rented this house. Said he’d come to his senses at least, and that he’d soon find himself a girlfriend, and that then we could look forward to the sound of wedding bells. This’ll just about kill her. He was her favourite, you know.’
Another summons at the front door announced that Mrs Worsley’s ride home had arrived. As Carmichael went to answer it, she rose from her seat and headed for the door into the living room. ‘I just need to say goodbye to my boy, for the last time,’ she said, and the tears began again to roll down her cheeks.
Falconer tried to forestall her, in case Doc Christmas had him turned face down with a thermometer up his bum to check his rectal temperature, but she managed to slip through his grasp. Luckily, the doc was just doing up his bag, preparatory to leaving. He may have moved the body to examine him thoroughly, but he had returned it to the position in which the two policemen had found it, and all was well.
Mrs Worsley leaned over the shell of her son and, rather touchingly, kissed him on the cheek, murmuring, ‘Good night, son, sleep tight. I love you.’ Then she practically marched out into the hall, as if she couldn’t wait to get out of the house, and called a brief goodbye over her shoulder, as she went through the door and back into the outside, everyday world.
‘I reckon this one was some sort of poisoning – maybe alcohol, but I can’t be certain until I’ve had my wicked way with him. There was certainly no violence involved, though. From what I can see, there’s not a mark on him, not that I’ve had time to check all the nooks and crannies, if you get my meaning,’ Doc Christmas informed them with his usual pragmatism.
‘I think we’ll just make those other two calls I mentioned earlier, and get them over with,’ said Falconer, now in the car and heading back towards Smithy Lane, which was the official address for both couples he intended that they talk to again.
At Church Cottage, both Vince and Nerys were home, and it was Vince who opened the door to them, his face crumpling into a scowl as he identified who his visitors were.
‘You’d better come in, but we can’t give you too long as we’ll be eating soon,’ he said, as welcome, ushering them inside where the smell of frying was in the air – nothing healthy, then.
‘I doubt whether the village grapevine has got the information to you, yet, but Darren Worsley from Old Darley Passage has been poisoned. Apparently someone left a bottle of wine on his doorstep, and it contained a little something extra that proved fatal.’
Although Falconer was jumping the gun a little, telling them this, he had no doubt that his suspicions would be confirmed once the wine had been analysed and the post mortem had been carried out.
‘Nothing to do with us, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ said Vince, defensively. ‘Come in here a minute, Nerys; there’s a couple of fellows here want to know if we killed Darren Worsley – you know, that poof that used to go with that fellow from Glass House that got killed.’
Nerys joined them, making the smell of a hot frying pan even stronger. ‘That’s nothing at all to do with us, but that’s the third one of those dead now, and I don’t call that a bad thing.’
‘It’s a bit of a result, actually,’ added Vince, on firmer ground now that his wife had joined him.
‘Do you know anything about a bottle of wine that was left outside his door? That’s all I want to ask you, apart from where you were between the hours of eight a.m. and twelve noon on Sunday.’
‘So you reckon us for that Eastwood chap as well? Well, I’ll tell you this; we might hate the perverts of this world, but it’s not our place to eliminate them. We just make our feelings known when necessary, and you can put that in your pipe and smoke it. If you want to discuss this any further, I’m afraid my solicitor will have to be present.’
The two detectives retreated at this threat. Falconer didn’t want solicitors to be brought into things at this stage of the enquiries. It was much too early, and any suspicions they had were far too tentative to talk about arresting anyone – with the exception of that unfortunate incident on Saturday morning, which Chivers had insisted upon.
He still felt bad about that, and even worse, now the man was dead, and just hoped that the press never found out about it – they’d have a field day, and might even suggest that police persecution drove him to suicide. Oh hell!
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘Let’s get round to Woodbine Cottage and talk to the unlovely Fairchilds.’
At Woodbine Cottage they found that all three family members were currently in residence, even Rufus being back from college and not back out for the evening on the rampage with his mates.
The noise coming from
the house drowned anything that Roger said in greeting; all they could see were his lips moving. Without trying to make himself heard to them he went to the foot of the staircase and bellowed, ‘Shut that blasted racket off and get down here now, Rufus!’
There was no response at all to this stentorian order, so he went halfway up the stairs and repeated it, this time causing the deafening drum and bass to cease within a few seconds, and for Rufus to appear at the head of the stairs.
‘What d’yer want now?’
‘It’s the police.’
‘The pigs? Again? This is police harassment,’ the teenager shouted down belligerently.
‘Get yourself down here immediately, and you’ll speak respectfully if you open your mouth at all, miladdo.’
Rufus mooched sulkily down the stairs, eventually to join his parents in the living room. ‘What d’yer want now?’ asked Rita, not best pleased to see them in her house again.
‘We’d like to know what you were doing between the hours of eight and twelve on Sunday morning, and whether any of you has been in the vicinity of Old Darley Passage in the last couple of days.’ Falconer was unspecific, because he suddenly felt that he was wasting his time.
‘We know that young Eastwood’s got his just desserts, but what’s that about Old Darley Passage? Has one of the shirt-lifters there got his comeuppance at last?’ Roger Fairchild was almost dribbling with anticipation to the answer of his unspeakable question. There seemed to be no room for ‘live and let live’ in this household.
‘Mr Worsley has been murdered. Someone left him a poisoned bottle of wine on his doorstep.’
‘Well, when you find out who did that, let me know and I’ll buy him a pint.’
‘The Lord abominates men who lie with other men,’ contributed Rita, just to add even more to the distasteful atmosphere.
‘And are you regular churchgoers?’ asked Falconer, and was overjoyed at their reply.
‘We go,’ spat Roger, defensively.
‘Not every week, but we go sometimes,’ added Rita.
‘Then you’ll know the Christian advice on forgiveness, and heed the Church’s teachings on tolerance of others and loving thy neighbour.’ Falconer trumped their ace with a victorious smile. ‘Would you care to answer my questions before we go?’
When they left, he made hand-washing motions, so glad was he to get out of their company, that he actually felt sullied. Homophobia was alive and well and living in the villages, apparently in peace and tranquillity. There should be a law against it.
As they headed back towards Market Darley, Falconer spoke only once. ‘What a week it’s been, and it’s only been five days.’
‘Quite, sir.’
Back in their office once more, they updated their records, Falconer finally closing down his computer and sighing deeply. ‘Carmichael,’ he said in a world-weary voice.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied the sergeant, looking up and noting that the boss was preparing to go home, and taking the welcome hint.
‘Tell me what you think about this. There were five gay men in that village – to our knowledge; there may be more – and, of those five, three have, so far, been murdered. Would it be perceived as prejudiced if I suspected one or other of the other two of being guilty, or is it more likely to be someone from their wider lives who is responsible?’
Carmichael sat in contemplative silence for at least thirty seconds, then he replied, ‘Don’t know, sir. We can think about that tomorrow. Kerry’s doing lamb stew and dumplings tonight, and I’ve been thinking about it all day.’ It was time for him to fill the tank again.
Chapter Fourteen
Wednesday
Market Darley
Falconer had spent the first thirty minutes of Wednesday morning at work in Superintendent Chivers’ office, being lectured on the responsibilities of an inspector of police to his community at large, with particular reference to arresting someone when they were the obvious suspect.
As Darren Worsley had also fallen victim to the Grim Reaper, he had transferred his suspicions to Gareth Jones. ‘He had a perfect motive for doing away with that first chappie – the one you said wore a wig. He’d had his … boyfriend, if I must use such an expression, stolen from him, and was just exacting revenge on said boyfriend’s new partner – the one who had done the stealing in the first place.’
‘So why was the solicitor killed?’
‘Maybe he saw something, and had to be done away with. Maybe he’s leading a double life, and his death’s nothing to do with the first one.’
‘And Mr Worsley? What was the motive for his death?’
‘If the solicitor was leading a double life, maybe Mr Worsley saw something, or maybe … I don’t know, but there must be some explanation for this mass slaughter of the members of a minority group.’
‘You don’t suspect Chadwick McMurrough, then?’
‘You don’t want to go there, Inspector. Appear to pick on a man in the public eye like that, and you’ll bring down the press on all our heads, and we can do without that. You make sure you treat Mr McMurrough with kid gloves and, remember, from what I’ve read in your case notes, it was Mr McMurrough’s life that was threatened in the first place.
‘It can hardly be a celebrity whose own life was in danger who’s going around carrying out these awful murders, can it? No, you keep well away from McMurrough, or we’ll all be on the front page of The Sun and the Daily Star, for police harassment of a media darling.’
‘But, we wondered if maybe the booby traps had been set for Radcliffe, and he was the real intended victim.’
‘Utter balderdash. Why would anyone want to hurt Mr Radcliffe in his own home? What was he, in the great scheme of things? A director on a soap opera? Who on earth could have had a murderous grudge against him?’
‘His ex-partner.’
‘Don’t talk rubbish. You know as well as I do that his ex-partner’s dead.’
‘But what if there’s more than one murderer in this case?’ Falconer was getting absolutely exasperated. ‘Jelly’ didn’t mind who had done the killings, as long as the media wasn’t brought in on Chadwick McMurrough’s behalf. He felt the superintendent was practically handcuffing him, but he had a few lines of enquiry left that he had to carry out, which did not involve the new star of television talk shows.
He had a couple of phone calls to make on another case he was working on and wanted to catch up with DC Roberts and his lumpy mumps, then he’d pick up Carmichael, and they could make their way back to Fairmile Green. He wanted to talk to Terry Watkins of The Goat and Compasses again, and he wanted to try to catch Gareth Jones at home, possibly on a lunch break.
When he wandered back to his office, however, he was stopped in his tracks by the sartorial disaster that met his gaze. Carmichael was already in residence. He sat hunched over his desk, totally unaware of the effect he was having on the inspector’s sense of good taste.
‘Where in God’s name did you get that suit, Carmichael?’ he asked, almost in awe of his sergeant’s ability to appear to be in fancy dress without having any idea of how he looked to others.
‘I found it in my granny’s loft,’ he replied, still unaware of Falconer’s horror. ‘She said it was my granddad’s and I thought it looked rather cool.’
‘But, it’s a demob suit,’ Falconer almost squeaked, looking at the wide chalk stripe and the obvious cheapness of the material. ‘And where did you get that shirt?’
‘That shirt’ had a loud paisley pattern that screamed ‘retro’, but not in any trendy or nice way. It was an absolute horror, and the inspector had not yet had the courage to pay any attention to the man’s tie.
‘And you expect me to take you out with me in that get-up? You expect me to be seen in public along with you wearing those abominations?’
‘You’re just out of touch with modern fashion, sir,’ replied the sergeant, with a gentle smile at what he considered his boss’s out of touch state, a far as clothing went. He had ceased, ov
er long familiarity, to notice how elegantly Falconer was usually dressed, and how fastidious he was about his appearance.
‘If we weren’t going to Fairmile Green, with Castle Farthing much too out of the way to call off in, I’d make you go home and change into something a little less “shouty”. That outfit screams as if it were suffering terrible torture; rather like what my eyes are going through just having to look at you, Sergeant.’
‘That seems rather a harsh judgement, sir.’
‘It’s a vote for good taste and sanity. I mean, have you actually looked in a mirror this morning?’
‘Of course I have.’
‘And did Kerry make any comment on how you were dressed when you left home?’
‘No.’
‘Did she look at you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did her face tell a story.’
‘Look, sometimes she and I just don’t share the same taste.’
‘Sometimes I don’t think you have any taste at all. We’re off to Fairmile Green again. May I suggest that you, at least, don’t wear the jacket when we’re actually interviewing members of the public.’
‘But the jacket covers the shirt.’
‘I know, but the jacket itself is so awful, that leaving it behind is the most considerate option.’
‘No skin off my nose.’
‘And you can take that off as well,’ said Falconer, pointing towards Carmichael’s chest. Now he had seen the tie, and it was a seventies confection of the browns and beiges so beloved of that decade, with a representation of a barely clad female on the front of it.
‘I suppose that is your dad’s, as is the shirt?’ he asked wearily.
‘I found those in the loft too,’ replied Carmichael in a slightly hurt voice.
The inspector thought Carmichael had outgrown his ‘no dress sense’ madness when he left home on his marriage, and was no longer a prisoner of the ‘first-up-best-dressed’ necessity of living with several brothers, but the influence of his wife had not cured him either.
Glass House (The Falconer Files Book 11) Page 17