‘Maybe he was so furious by then, obviously feeling horny, and not being able to find a partner, that he walloped Bailey one …’
‘With what, sir?’
‘I don’t know, do I? Something he had about his person, I presume, and Bailey just fell into the stream and hit his head, or something, on the way in.
‘And have you given any thought to my ex-partner, Gareth Jones? He might have done in Bailey because he thinks he stole me from him. Then, he might have got wind of Eastwood sniffing round me, and done the same thing again, purely out of jealously and spite.
‘I can even come up with a motive for doing away with Worsley, too. Did you know the two of them used to have long cosy chats about us, which eventually turned into back-biting sessions? Perhaps Gareth confided things to him that he wished he hadn’t mentioned, and wiped him out to prevent him using them against him.’
It was beginning to seem as if ‘the lady’ doth protest too much. McMurrough was certainly generous in the way he hurled around suspicions and accusations.
‘Do you know that Jones has a dossier of photographs and other things about you that he intends to go to the press with?’ Falconer suddenly interjected.
‘There you go, then. He was preventing Worsley from selling his story first. The early bird gets the most headlines and column space, after all.’
‘Don’t you mind, Chadwick?’ asked Carmichael, amazed at how cool the young man was, given what he had just been told.
‘Not at all. There’s no such thing as bad publicity. Anything that gets me into the rags is good for my career, and I don’t begrudge Gareth the money. He works very hard as an electrician, and I don’t envy him anything at all about his life. But I, personally, could make a very good case against him as the person responsible for these three deaths.
‘I reckon you ought to take a good, long, hard look at my ex-partner, and decide what he’s really capable of. You might be surprised.’
The mention of Jones being an electrician gave Carmichael pause for thought, when he remembered the booby trap that had given McMurrough a nasty electric shock, but the man had appeared to be totally without guile or guilt when they had visited him a bit earlier, and he had mentioned his profession with no prompting when they had first spoken to him, without a trace of shiftiness in his manner.
Neither he nor Falconer had laid much importance on Jones’ profession, so much had happened in this village, but maybe that had been an omission they should not have made.
Surely Jones couldn’t have pulled the wool over their eyes so convincingly if he had three deaths on his conscience, but it would explain why he was packing a bag to go away. He’d have to have a quiet word with Falconer later, to see if he wanted to pay a return visit to Old Darley Passage. Carmichael mentally crossed his fingers that they had not both made a bad error of judgement.
A voice broke into his reverie. ‘But that’s enough about the past. Now, back to me.’
At that moment, Falconer’s phone broke out joyously again into ‘School’s Out’, and he momentarily walked off again for the sake of privacy. Once again, he circled back round to the table and wrote in his miniature notebook.
This time, when he re-joined the other two, they were talking about Darren Worsley’s untimely death. ‘That man would have drunk anything if it had a booze label on it,’ Chadwick was declaiming, then went thoughtful for a moment.
‘I hope you don’t find it odd that I’m drinking champagne after yet another acquaintance’s death, only I’m having another bit of a celebration about getting that part in Allerton Farm – a bit of a coup for me, that was.’
Carmichael, ever a fan, decided he wanted to know more. ‘Wouldn’t you rather have gone back into Cockneys, sir … Chadwick?’
‘Bailey was trying his best on my behalf, but he wasn’t really getting anywhere, so I decided to cast my own net upon the waters, so to speak, and it came back with a live fish in it.’
‘What about those other similar programmes?’ Carmichael wasn’t giving up until he had the ins and outs of a duck’s arse. ‘What about Mafeking Street – that’s been running, like, for ever, and it’s got very high viewing figures – higher than Allerton Farm, anyway.’
‘Granted, but both Mafeking Street and Cockneys have a murderous filming schedule, as they go out with so many episodes a week, and I would like a bit of a social life left after work, if you don’t mind.’
‘OK, then, what about Fouracre?’ asked the sergeant, with a smirk. It was a soap opera all about young people, and marketing directly at young people, almost a natural slot for McMurrough to try for.
Falconer’s phone rang again, but the two younger men hardly noticed him leaving them once more to conduct his telephonic conversation.
‘What, with all those youngsters about all the time – a lot of them even younger than me? I’d not only have to be looking my absolute best every minute of the day, but I’d need to employ someone full-time just to keep an eye out for crow’s feet, grey hairs, and any other visible sign of ageing, like not wearing the latest fashions, or knowing what the latest drink is. Do you know what a Jager Bomb is, Sergeant?’
‘No, and call me Davey, please.’ I’ll have one last try, he thought. ‘What about A&E? That’s got a good mix of ages in it, and it only goes out once a week, and has a sister show that you could move over to if they run out of stories for you in that series.’ Carmichael watched a lot more television now that he was married, and most of what they watched was Kerry’s choice.
‘Smart choice, Davey.’ Chadwick made great play of pronouncing Carmichael’s forename with much emphasis, raising a smile of pride from him, that such a celebrity had actually used his first name (even if said forename was really Ralph and not Davey).
‘I had seriously considered approaching the makers of A&E, and I haven’t completely ruled it out. It just depends on the meatiness of the storylines I get given in Allerton Farm. If I’m just going to be along the lines of ‘the only gay in the village’, then they can stick the part, after I’ve investigated the possibilities of becoming a regular on the once-a-week show.’
‘And now I must tell you about Jager Bombs – and Irish Car Bombs.’
‘Waste of time, Chad. I don’t really drink, and I’ve never really recovered from my first taste of tequila with a couple of my brothers. We did it the traditional way – salt on the space between the thumb and forefinger, slice of lime waiting.’
‘I know,’ chimed in Chadwick. ‘You lick the salt, throw the shot of tequila down your throat, then bite the slice of lime. Tequila slammers, they called them, because you’re supposed to slam down the glass as soon as you’ve necked the shot.’
‘That’s it. I passed out after only four shots – I even missed the table trying to focus enough to slam down my glass – and they dumped me on the sofa and carried on till they’d finished the bottle. I woke up the next morning with a mouth like the bottom of a budgie’s cage and a feeling that I’d completely lost the evening.
‘Hey, do you mind if I use your loo?’ Carmichael couldn’t bear to use the word ‘lavatory’, but didn’t like the sound of ‘toilet’ either. ‘That orange juice has gone straight through me.’ He was also conscious of the liquid he had consumed in the pub, and was beginning to feel desperate.
‘Not at all. Through to the hall, then over on your right. You can’t miss it. It’s got a sign on the door that says “Little Boys’ Room” .’
‘Thank you very much, Chadwick. I’ll be right back.’
As Carmichael disappeared into the house, McMurrough began enquiring of Falconer if he knew about Jager Bombs and Irish Car Bombs. The inspector let him ramble on about how to make these two explosive drinks while he digested what he had learnt from the three calls he had received on his mobile since they had arrived here. There was certainly a lot of food for thought to get through, and he rather hoped that Carmichael wouldn’t hurry back. He had a lot to digest, and could leave McMurrough to witter on
in his egotistical way for as long as he saw fit to. The odd nod of the head should keep him happy.
Carmichael was just entering the kitchen, on his way back to the garden, when he suddenly thought it would be nice to have some ice in their next drink, as they weren’t planning to leave in the near future, and he’d rather been enjoying himself, talking to someone who regularly appeared on TV and in the gossip columns.
He caught sight of a glass bowl on the work surface, and picked it up as a worthy vessel in which to carry ice, then he approached the upper half of a fridge freezer and opened the door.
Hello, whatever was a mobile phone doing in the freezer, hidden under the ice-cube bags like that? And what else was in here? He’d never seen anything like that before, he thought as he took out what looked exactly like a giant match with a metal head. It didn’t look like a kitchen tool at all, but perhaps his new friend Chadwick used it to break up the ice.
Slipping the phone in his pocket, he went outside again, bowl of ice in one hand, and brandishing the strange giant match-shaped thing in the other.
Falconer was, once more, sitting at the metal table, and saw his sergeant emerge, and what he held in both hands. McMurrough was lying on his sun lounger, still droning on about the recipes for the most hip cocktails on today’s scene.
Falconer’s eyes stood out of his head in surprise, and he rose as soundlessly as he could, and signalled to Carmichael to keep silent, while getting an evidence bag out of his brief case.
‘I only went to get some ice, sir,’ said Carmichael, in direct disobedience of a mimed order from a superior officer, but he hadn’t given the game away yet. Falconer signalled for him to put the mystery object into the bag, then put it into his case, a finger to his lips, to indicate a return to the previously sought silence.
McMurrough stirred slightly on his lounger and asked if Davey would mind pouring them all another drink. That was the end of a relaxing interlude.
‘I found something in your freezer, Chadwick,’ the sergeant suddenly announced, once more breaking an order, and moving McMurrough to try to struggle to his feet.
‘Stop him, Carmichael! Don’t let him get away!’ shouted Falconer. For a few seconds, Carmichael looked at a loss at what to do, having no understanding whatsoever of Falconer’s urgency in this matter, but it certainly drove all thoughts out of his head about paying a return visit to Gareth Jones.
‘Sit on him, man! He mustn’t escape!’ shouted Falconer, now sounding desperate to detain McMurrough. ‘Carmichael – SIT!’ It worked for dogs, didn’t it?
Out of sheer desperation and a sense of professional loyalty, Carmichael sat – like a good doggy.
Falconer called for a patrol car.
Chapter Sixteen
Market Darley
McMurrough was taken to the police station in Market Darley, and Falconer saw him through the booking-in process.
‘So you’d given up on it being one of the neighbours, had you?’ asked
ael, once they were back in the office and preparing to question, what Falconer was now convinced, was the murderer.
‘If I hadn’t, those phone calls I got while we were at Glass House would have been the final nail in the coffin of one of the neighbours being responsible. And now there had been three murders, it seemed too unlikely that we were looking for more than one murderer. The odds against that happening must be phenomenal.’
‘What were the phone calls about, sir, and who were they from? There were three, if I remember correctly.’
‘Spot on. The first one was from Doc Christmas about the blood tests on Worsley. He found ketamine again, and he said there was enough in his bloodstream to have killed a bull elephant. Someone wasn’t taking any chances of him surviving.’
‘What made you think of McMurrough in connection with that information?’
‘Just that he moves in the sort of circles where drugs can be obtained easily. He frequents television studios and night clubs. The things are available in those sorts of places, and he had quite likely taken advantage of that availability, to aid him in his tangled scheming.’
‘And the second phone call?’
‘Now that was interesting. It was a report from forensics about stains found on the rug in Robin Eastwood’s house. You remember how it was almost all parquet flooring, with just the odd – and expensive, I might add – rug scattered here and there?’
‘Rather cold, I thought that. I like my fitted carpets, especially in the winter.’
‘Quite,’ replied Falconer, who also liked his comfort. ‘Anyway, there were some small stains on the rug at the bottom of the bed, where the body was found, and samples were taken, in case they proved relevant to our investigation. It only turns out that they were peacock poo.’
‘No!’
‘Yes, and who was the most likely person to have carried peacock excreta into his house, other than McMurrough? How suspicious, then, that the stains were on the rug in the bedroom. They must have got there when he stabbed him.’
‘And the third call, sir?’
‘That was the most interesting of all. It was about the fingerprint on the bottle that contained the spiked wine that killed Worsley – God, this is getting to be like ‘The House that Jack Built’. I expected only the victim’s fingerprints to be on it, but there proved to be a perfectly clear thumb print of a second person, as well; one which our guys were able to identify from those we took for elimination purposes. Guess whose?’
‘McMurrough’s?’ As
ael had been listening to the inspector’s explanation of his telephonic communications, he had also removed the phone he had found in the freezer at Glass House from his pocket, and was absent-mindedly playing with it.
‘Absolutely right.’
‘What was that thing I brought out to you that looked like a giant matchstick?’ asked the sergeant, the object in question brought to mind because of the presence of the mobile phone.
‘It’s called a priest, and it’s used by fishermen to knock their catches on the head with once they’ve landed them.’
‘Didn’t Radcliffe go fishing?’
‘He did indeed and I think, if there are any prints on it at all, they will prove to be McMurrough’s, although we could do with some more concrete evidence to strengthen the case against him.’
As he finished speaking, there was a strangled yell from
ael which, in more refined circles, would have been a cry of ‘Eureka!’ – I have found it!
‘What is it,
ael?’ asked Falconer. What are you playing with there?’
‘It’s a smartphone. I found it in the freezer at Glass House, too. I just put it in my pocket and forgot all about it, what with the excitement of the arrest and everything, I only just got it out to look at it.’
‘So, what have you found?’
‘It’s only a photo of McMurrough actually wielding that matchstick thing. It’s photographic evidence of the first murder.’
‘Hallelujah!’ replied Falconer, acting completely out of character and doing a little dance of triumph round the office. ‘I’ll get down to our little celebrity now, and see what he has to say for himself. I wonder why he didn’t just throw the phone away.’
‘Somebody would have found it and taken a look at it. Even if he’d smashed it up, there’s no telling what the geeks could get out of its remains.’
‘And it survived being in the freezer. That’s top marks for the manufacturers, then. Log it in as a piece of evidence, and we’ll go and get our Mr McMurrough put in an interview room for us.
‘At least we’ve got a motive for him taking out Eastwood now. I smell blackmail, even though I got the impression, the night Radcliffe was killed, that they were flirting, when we went to the house afterwards.’
DC Roberts chose that exact moment to phone, to ask if they’d thought of Radcliffe’s partner as his murderer, the closest person to the victim often being the culprit.
‘You’re spot on, Robe
rts, but a little bit too late, I’m afraid. We’d already worked it out for ourselves,’ Falconer informed him, not quite truthfully. ‘Better luck on the next case, when you’re back in the office on active duty.’
McMurrough was a skinny, hunched bundle on the hard chair in the interview room, looking faintly ridiculous in his trendy outfit. No longer did he appear as an up-and-coming soap star, but more like a little boy in fancy dress.
When Falconer and
ael entered the room, he didn’t even bother to turn round, but merely swivelled his eyes in their direction. There was no hope in them. That had died back there, in the garden of his pretentious house, where, fortunately, no peacocks roamed any more. They, at least, had been taken care of, and carted off to more suitable accommodation than a private garden.
Falconer put the usual information onto the tape recorder when he started the recording, as to date, time, and those present in the room. ‘Would you care to tell us about the death of your partner Bailey Radcliffe, Mr McMurrough?’ he asked.
‘For the tape, Mr McMurrough is not answering the question,’
ael intoned in a serious voice, now that his latest hero had seriously blotted his copy-book.
‘We also have Mr Eastwood’s smartphone, so you now know we have photographic evidence that it was you who killed him,’ Falconer pressed him.
At that, the apathetic figure raised its head and glared at them. ‘It’s all over, then?’ it asked.
‘It’s all over, Mr McMurrough, but it will be considered as in your favour if you make a clean breast of things right now, before this thing drags on any further.’
For nearly a minute, the only sound in the room was the sound of the recording equipment, then Chadwick seemed to shake himself, moved to a much more upright position, and looked at the two men opposite him squarely.
‘OK, you’ve got me for that.’
‘We’ve also got forensic evidence that you are also responsible for the deaths of Mr Eastwood and Mr Worsley, so you might as well tell us the whole story.’
This was a little exaggerated, as they only had evidence of his presence in Eastwood’s bedroom, and of him having handled the bottle of wine that killed Worsley, but they needed to shake him somehow.
Glass House (The Falconer Files Book 11) Page 19