Glass House (The Falconer Files Book 11)

by Andrea Frazer

  Lately he had been rather better on the dress front, but in his hope of a cure, Falconer, it seemed, had been sadly mistaken, unless this was a one-off aberration harking back to their early days together. He had his doubt the other evening, when they had to go to Fairmile Green together. Now, only time would tell.

  Grabbing his sunglasses from his desk and putting them on before he left the office, lest he should be blinded by the mobile rainbow that was his sergeant, Falconer marched out of the office, a determined and brave expression on his face.

  Fairmile Green

  By the time they reached the village, the pub was already open – it started serving earlier in the summer months than in the winter, to maximise passing tourist trade, all of which helped to keep the landlord in the style to which he had become accustomed since all-day opening had been legally approved.

  There were a few souls in the bar, but it was easy to order their drinks and corner Terry Watkins down at one end of the bar. ‘I’m glad you two’ve come back. I was slightly less than honest with you the other day, and would just like to put you straight about things concerning young Eastwood. I will also say that I don’t usually gossip about my customers, and I’d be grateful if you didn’t tell anyone where you got the information I’m about to give you.’

  ‘Is that so, sir? We’d be grateful if you would enlighten us, and of course we won’t reveal you as a source.’

  A slight air of tension had ensued, which Carmichael completely shattered by asking for three packets of chicken-flavoured crisps. He hadn’t eaten for a few hours and was peckish.

  Handing over the rustling handful and taking the cascade of small change which he had received in exchange, Terry Watkins leant his bulk against the bar and began, in confidential mood, to pass on the information he had previously withheld.

  ‘I told you young Eastwood used to come in here quite often for a drink towards closing time. I left you, I think, with the idea that he just liked a bit of fresh air before going to bed. Well, that’s not quite the full story.’

  ‘Really? What is, then?’ Falconer’s curiosity had really been piqued. Carmichael was too busy stuffing his mouth with crisps to take notice.

  ‘You’ll know by now that he was gay. He was also a risk-taker in life. His real reason for coming here – which I might say, was mostly in the summer months – was cottaging.’

  ‘Cottaging?’ exclaimed Falconer, totally dumbfounded at the thought of a pillar of the community indulging in such a practice.

  ‘Co-mmphm-ttag-crunch-crunch-ing?’ asked Carmichael, suddenly re-joining the real world around him.

  ‘Eastwood? That dapper young man that we met?’ Falconer was still in a state of disbelief.

  ‘What’s – mmphmmn – cottaging?’ asked Carmichael, aware that some momentous news had been imparted, but unable to understand exactly what this was.

  Falconer leaned over and whispered into his ear, while the sergeant’s face became redder and redder, and his eyes began to bulge. Finally, he was moved to speech. ‘No, sir. Never.’

  Both Falconer and Terry Watkins nodded in affirmation of what had just been passed on to him, and Carmichael very nearly choked on his crisps.

  ‘The tourist trade was his main area of stalking, and that’s why he came in fairly close to closing time; so that if there was anyone who was a little backward in coming forward, they would have had a few drinks by then, and be feeling a bit more relaxed and adventurous.’

  ‘Did he have any luck the night that Radcliffe was killed?’ Falconer asked, with some urgency in his voice. Whatever the answer, it could have some impact on what had happened, and might either point to his involvement, somehow, with the death of Bailey – maybe turned down, and took exception to it – or to his own death, with the return of whoever he had picked up.

  ‘I don’t think so, but I can’t be exactly sure. Not too long after I’d served him his drink, a load of those fans of that young ’un down at Glass House came up for refills. The older man had left, and the young ’un had gone out to wave him off, so the fans from his table all rushed to get another drink in before closing time.

  ‘It was while I was dealing with this sudden pre-last orders rush that Eastwood abandoned his empty glass and swanned off into the night, and I didn’t actually see him leave with anyone ‘on his arm’, so to speak. No, with consideration, I don’t think he’d found a punter that night.’

  ‘And McMurrough came back to the bar? After how long?’

  ‘I’d been struggling to recollect his name. Thanks for that, and he did come back after, oh, I suppose, a few minutes. I couldn’t give you an exact time because I was still busy, it being everyone’s chance to get one last drink in, and it being Friday night and all.

  ‘And I was very glad when he and all his followers left. Not only was there a lot of noise from that table, which doesn’t normally bother me, because this is a public house, but it was that little pseud’s voice.

  ‘Over and over again, I heard him say the same thing, and his voice is high-pitched enough to stand out in a crowd.’

  ‘What was it he kept saying?’

  ‘“And now back to me.”’

  Falconer cleared his throat to give himself the opportunity to bring the conversation back to where they had left it, before they went off on this tangent. ‘And Eastwood never came back?’

  ‘Nope. I reckon he realised he’d missed his chance that night.’

  ‘You had Gareth Jones in as well, didn’t you?’

  ‘Just the quick look in, but I told you about that last time we spoke. He went off pretty sharpish, and no, he didn’t come back later. If I’d been asked, I’d have said it was a fairly quiet night all round, except for that one table, and that nothing much had happened. I’d never have guessed that there had been murder done only a few steps from this licensed premises.’

  ‘Is there anything else you can recall about any of the people involved in these three murders, that you think might be of use to us?’

  ‘Not really. And the only thing that is of interest to me is that, now Darren Worsley’s been done for, my takings are definitely going to go down. He didn’t do all his drinking at home, you know; a lot of it he did in here, but that’s tailed off recently.

  ‘I suppose if we listen to those two old women, Mrs Gossip and Mrs Rumour, he’d got to the end of the money he’d got out of the house he used to share with Radcliffe, and was drinking more at home because it was cheaper.

  ‘He still came in here quite often for an early one, which I reckon was purely for the chat. It must’ve been quite lonely for him, pouring booze down his neck, home alone, considering how a bit of the old ‘merry juice’ makes you want to talk non-stop.’

  ‘Maybe he talked to the wall, like Shirley Valentine,’ put in Carmichael, unexpectedly alerting him to the fact that he must have finished his multiple packets of crisps.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d have seen that film, Sergeant,’ commented Watkins in surprise.

  ‘Oh, I like old films. I saw it on the telly late one night, and thought it was really good, especially when she’d served her husband’s steak to next door’s dog. Made me think of Mulligan. He’s a dog that lives a few doors from us. Did it remind you of him, sir?’

  ‘I can’t say that I’ve ever thought about it but, now you mention it, I can see the resemblance. Oh, excuse me a moment. There goes my mobile.’ Falconer reached into his trouser pocket and extracted his phone, which was blaring out Alice Cooper’s ‘School’s Out’ in its idiosyncratic, tinny way.

  Although he didn’t set it on speaker, the hysterical voice on the other end of the line could easily be heard. The inspector held the instrument slightly away from his ear, as Chadwick McMurrough wailed out his tale of woe.

  ‘I need you to come here at once, Inspector. I’ve been getting silent phone calls. And I do know someone’s there, because I can hear them breathing. I heard about Darren, and this all started yesterday evening.

  ‘
I need you here for my protection, because I think I’m next. Whoever this is, is going to do for me next, I just know he is; I can feel it in my bones. Oh, get here as fast as you can, before I pass out in sheer fear. And see what you can do about all those reporters outside. Tell them they’re causing an obstruction, or something else police-y. I need you here so I can feel safe.’

  ‘And what do you suppose I can do for your safety, sir?’

  ‘Just being here will be good. We can talk about what you can cause to happen when you get here.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to wait a little while. I can’t just drop everything and run to your side. If you’re in really urgent need of a police presence, I can get a patrol car to drop round to you, to keep you company until we arrive.’

  The young star suddenly took a turn for the better, and said, ‘Oh, don’t be so melodramatic. I’m sure I’ll survive, if you take a while to get here. Come through the side gate; I’m in the garden soaking up the sun – always so scarce in an English summer, don’t you think?’

  ‘OK, sir,’ agreed Falconer, surprised at the chameleon-like quality of the young man’s moods. ‘We are actually in the village, but we do have another call to make, and we will need to get some lunch.’

  At this, Carmichael pricked up his ears. Crisps are not really a satisfying snack, and with his large six-foot-five frame to maintain, his belly was beginning to think his throat was cut.

  ‘Well, don’t be too long.’ The note of anxiety was back in the young man’s voice again – how mercurial he was.

  ‘I need to make the other visit, but we’ll pick up something on the way, to save time. I notice there’s plenty of choice of takeaway food down the two main streets.’

  ‘I’m sure I can find a couple of fine bone china plates for you to use, although I don’t know if I have one large enough for a meal for your sergeant. He is built on the big side, isn’t he?’

  Falconer ended the call quickly, not liking the tone of lechery that had accompanied this last sentence, and he didn’t think Carmichael would appreciate being the object of desire of Chadwick McMurrough, no matter how big a fan of his he was.

  He only hoped that McMurrough behaved himself when they arrived. The man had been quite flirtatious with Eastwood on the very night that Bailey was murdered. He didn’t much fancy spending the whole of their proposed visit to Glass House with its owner hungrily eyeing up his colleague.

  They stopped the car halfway down the High Street and walked the few yards down Old Darley Passage to the house ‘Or Not 2B’ for a little chat with Gareth Jones. As the only other gay man, apart from McMurrough, left alive in Fairmile Green, maybe he could give them a different perspective on the case.

  They interrupted him packing a suitcase, and Falconer enquired if he was going away on holiday. ‘No, I’d hardly call it a holiday. This whole business has spooked me badly, and I’m going back to me mum’s for a bit. I don’t feel safe here any more. If you like, I’m running away, but at least that means I’m still alive, which is more than can be said for some.’

  ‘You feel you might be in danger, then?’

  ‘Definitely. Look at it from my point of view: apart from me and Chadwick, there were only three other men of our persuasion in this village – namely, Bailey Radcliffe, Robin Eastwood, and Darren Worsley. They’re all dead – murdered. Now, this may not be a gay vendetta, and I’d be happy to be wrong about that, but I want to be still alive to actually have an opinion on it.

  ‘I’ll be safer at me mum’s, and it’s not too bad there. At least they accept me for what I am, which is more than Darren’s father did. And I’ll have me sister for company, if I want it. And she’s not averse to accompanying me to a gay bar or two – she says she’s probably a fag hag, but can’t help enjoying the company of “queers”, as she calls us.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d be good enough to give DS Carmichael here your forwarding address and a telephone number where we can contact you, should we need to speak to you again.’

  ‘No problem,’ replied Jones, and scribbled the details down on a page torn from a notebook that had been lying around, handy for just this sort of purpose.

  Back out on the main drag, once more, Falconer scoured the parades of retail establishments on both sides of the road. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘We’ve got the choice of a restaurant or a bakery on this side, or a sandwich bar or a burger bar, across the stream. What do you fancy, Carmichael?’

  ‘Well, the restaurant’s out, as we said we’d get something takeaway, and I don’t think the burger bar would be a good idea either. I don’t want to get grease and ketchup all over my dad’s shirt, or my granddad’s good suit trousers.’ (‘Good’ wasn’t exactly how Falconer would have described that particular item of clothing.) ‘I think on the whole, we ought to discount the bakery, and call into the sandwich shop. They usually have a good selection these days.’

  ‘Sandwich bar it is, then. Get in, and we’ll go back towards the pub and down Market Street, then we can take the car straight down to Glass House, and join its owner in the garden, which I believe was where he said he was sitting. I must say, it really is quite warm today, isn’t it?’

  ‘Couldn’t agree more, sir,’ replied Carmichael, glad now, that he had taken off his jacket and tie. ‘Shall I drive?’

  As they had come out, as usual in Falconer’s beloved Boxster, the answer was an unequivocal ‘no’, and the inspector was at the wheel as they made their way to the sandwich bar, which was halfway down Market Street.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Fairmile Green

  They did as Chadwick had bidden Falconer, and entered Glass House’s rear garden by way of the side gate. Stretched out on a sun lounger with a glass in his hand, and a small table by his side, they found Chadwick McMurrough who must have, just for a moment, forgotten to look terrorised.

  Two other loungers had also been set out, evidently in anticipation of their arrival and, on a cast iron table with four chairs round it, stood an open bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and a jug of what appeared to be orange juice.

  Hearing their approach, he sat up and immediately adopted a helpless expression, full of trepidation, suitable for one who went in fear of his life.

  ‘Thank God you’ve arrived,’ he said in a breathy and vulnerable-sounding voice. ‘I’ve been so worried. Take a seat, do, and if that’s your lunch in that carrier bag, then feel free to eat it. I’ll go in and get you a couple of plates.’

  As good as his word, he went into the kitchen, while the two detectives settled themselves at the table, this being a more suitable place to eat than on a sun lounger.

  Within less than a minute, a fine-quality plate was set before each of them, and their host assumed his prone position on his lounger. ‘Do excuse me if I carry on catching the rays, only there’s not much opportunity to do so in this country, so moody is its weather.’

  It did not take the two men long to dispose of their sandwiches, and McMurrough immediately offered them a glass of Buck’s Fizz to wash it down with.

  ‘It’s a bit early in the day for us to consume alcohol, and we don’t normally drink while we’re on duty, but if you have any lemonade, a lemonade and orange juice would be most welcome,’ replied Falconer, taking real pleasure in uttering that old phrase ‘not while we’re on duty’.

  Once again, Chadwick disappeared into the kitchen, and came out with two tumblers filled to the brim with the requested beverages. The two men moved over to the loungers to appear more sociable and put this particular witness at his ease.

  ‘Do you mind if I lie down again?’ asked Chadwick.

  ‘You carry on, sir. But do tell us if anything else has come back to you since we last spoke, or if you’ve learnt anything that might be of interest to us,’ urged Falconer as he and his sergeant adjusted the loungers to a more upright position suitable to the dignity of policemen about their lawful business.

  A look of low cunning passed over Chadwick’s face, before being replace
d again by his innocent one. ‘Did you know that Robin Eastwood was into rough trade?’ he asked provocatively, accompanying his question with a little smirk of superiority.

  ‘If you mean did we know he was cottaging, yes, we did, as a matter of fact. Do you think that has any bearing on things?’ Momentarily, McMurrough looked surprised at their knowledge.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ the young man replied however, now looking slightly more serious. ‘If he’d been picking up casuals, couldn’t it have been one of those that did for him? It’s a risky business, picking up complete strangers – and letting them into your homes, if you’re really stupid. Even going up a dark alley with them isn’t very clever. Anything could happen.’

  ‘And your point is, Mr McMurrough?’

  ‘Do call me Chad or Chadwick, please. And my point is, he could easily have been killed by one of his casual punters.’

  ‘He was killed before he’d even got up.’

  ‘So that has to mean that he went to bed alone, does it?’ That gave both policeman pause for thought.

  ‘I see what you mean. Oh, excuse me, there goes my mobile again.’

  Falconer retrieved his phone again, got to his feet and began to wander around the garden, then he headed back to the metal table, extracted a tiny notebook from his trouser pocket, with a pencil down its spine, and began to make notes with one hand, while holding the phone between his jawbone and shoulder blade.

  When he re-joined the other two, they had gone back to Bailey’s murder, and McMurrough was suggesting something along the lines of what Terry Watkins, the landlord, had suggested.

  ‘What if, as Eastwood obviously didn’t manage to pick up any trade – how could he? The place was full of my fans, not his touristic prey – and he was miffed when he left the pub.

  ‘What if Bailey had stopped to look at the stream or something like that – maybe into a shop window, although I can’t think of any of them that would be of particular interest to him. What if he tried it on with Bailey, and got given the cold shoulder?