Choked off (The Falconer Files Book 2)

by Andrea Frazer

  Back at his home, a nineteen-fifties detached house with a clinical and minimalist interior, Falconer carefully hung up his light linen suit on the wardrobe door, deciding that he needed something just a little warmer (and cheaper!) for his trip into ‘banjo country’, as he thought of it. He would take the linen suit in for pressing on the way to Stoney Cross, so that it was presentable the next time he wanted to wear it. An ex-army man, it was a job he should have undertaken himself, but life was too short and his working hours too long. He liked his free time to be just that – free.

  Starting the engine in his Boxster once more, he headed off in the direction of Carmichael’s home in Victoria Terrace. His Acting DS lived in a rather ramshackle extension at the back of his family’s terraced house, the latter recognisable by the number of derelict and abandoned vehicles in its front garden. Carmichael’s ‘private residence’, which Falconer had mentally dubbed ‘Carmichael Towers’ (which would also do as a physical description of the man himself, because, boy, did he tower) could only be reached by a back alley-way to the rear of the house. Falconer had attempted it once, after a downpour, and would not be repeating the experience, as he had practically ruined a very nice pair of hand-made Italian shoes.

  Sounding his horn in a blaring flourish, he waited in the road outside the house until his – he could hardly bear to think the word – partner appeared; which he did within a few seconds, showing his usual flair for fashion and style. Today he was in tartan trews and a Deep Purple tee-shirt, a disreputable black leather jacket, considerably scuffed, completing the outfit.

  Falconer looked at his Acting ‘Watson’ and sighed deeply. Sherlock Holmes never had to lead a docile bull around with him. There was no whiff of the bovine about Dr John H., who had always had his dependable service revolver with him when in a tight situation. As, in fact did Holmes himself. Falconer absent-mindedly frisked himself as he experienced these thoughts, then leant across to open the passenger door.

  ‘Sorry about this, sir,’ Carmichael said, before Falconer had had the chance to speak, ‘only, it’s me mam’s wash day, and you know what it’s like in our place – apart from my uniform, I’m sometimes surprised I don’t have to go out in my sisters’ clothes.’

  ‘God forbid!’ his superior replied, slipping the car into gear, and trying to ban from his mind any visual image produced by Carmichael’s last remark. It was just too beastly to imagine – Carmichael in drag!

  ‘How old are you, Carmichael?’ he asked as they headed towards the village of Stoney Cross.

  ‘Twenty-seven, sir,’ his passenger replied, keeping his eyes on the road in front; in fact imagining he was driving this much-coveted car, and having to fight the urge to make ‘broom-broom’ noises as his superior changed gear and accelerated.

  ‘Good grief! I thought you were much younger than that.’

  ‘I joined straight from school, sir, and I’m working for my sergeant’s exams at the moment.’

  Falconer nearly veered off the road towards a ditch as he heard this. If Carmichael won his stripes, he might be moved permanently into plain clothes; they might become long-term partners. He shuddered at the thought, and decided he’d have to ask for a divorce. He and Carmichael would suffer from irreconcilable differences, and no judge could fail to grant him his decree.

  Changing the subject, the inspector asked Carmichael what he thought about the decline in British farming over the past few decades, as they were now driving through the countryside, and the silence in the vehicle was giving him the willies. He found his passenger surprisingly knowledgeable on the subject, finishing with the statement that he used to work on a farm in the school holidays.

  ‘But, how?’ Falconer questioned, not knowing how to phrase his question tactfully.

  ‘What? How did I manage to work on a farm when I was brought up in a council house?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘I ’ad a bike!’ explained the acting sergeant, a smug smile on his face at having outwitted a superior officer.

  III

  DI Harry Falconer parked his car in the car park of The Inn on the Green, realising that this was the best place to start off. Landlords knew everybody and everything that went on in a village, and the original 999 call had been made by a Mr Peregrine McKnight, of this very address.

  When they entered the bar they found it full, an unusual occurrence for this time of day, even on a Friday. Summer had been heard yelling herself back to The Inn after her visit to her father’s house, and word spread in a village, better than soft butter on a slice of freshly-baked bread. All those who had been involved in the Festival were present, some with alcoholic drinks, others with soft drinks or coffee, but all gathered together, united in confusion and dismay at what had transpired, and anger at what had been publicly broadcast that afternoon.

  That none of them regretted Marcus’s death was a given; that they all regretted that it had happened in their village was also true. The words ‘some maniac passing through’ and ‘some other poor git he’d vilified in the past’ had been spoken by a few, but there was a general feeling of vulnerability in the air. The residents of Stoney Cross were the latest victims to be knocked down in Marcus’s verbal coconut shy, and they herded together now, like nervous animals, seeking comfort and safety in numbers, unaware of this as an instinctive action of self-preservation.

  Initially invited into the back room to follow on from Peregrine’s 999 call, Falconer paused a moment, asking everyone present that, should they wish to leave, would they also be good enough to leave a note of their name, address, and a telephone number where they could be contacted, with Acting DS Carmichael, whose hulking form and intimidating attempt at plain clothes were cowing some of the more nervous souls present. So saying, he went behind the bar and disappeared through a door between two lines of optics, to find himself in a small, but exquisitely decorated and furnished sitting room.

  Looking around the room in quickly suppressed surprise, his first question was about how Peregrine had received news of the death. After the explanation that their paying guest was the victim’s daughter and had visited her father, only to find him in no state to receive her, Falconer wanted to know where the young lady in question was now.

  ‘She’s upstairs in her room having a lie down,’ Peregrine explained, but when Falconer asked for directions, he was given a look of discouragement. ‘I wouldn’t, if I were you, not just now, anyway.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ Falconer was puzzled at this reluctance to let him at the finder of the body – his prime witness, as she now was.

  ‘Because the young lady was in a bit of an hysterical state, and Tarquin – my business partner – has got these tablets for his insomnia …’

  ‘You didn’t give her one?’ Falconer was aghast, then blushed at the way he had worded his question. ‘A tablet, that is,’ he added, somehow making things worse.

  ‘Two, actually.’ Peregrine had the grace to blush at his foolishness. ‘Sorry, old chap, didn’t think. Just wanted to stop her yelling and calm her down a bit. I know she’s not used to them, so you’ll probably get no sense out of her till the morning.’

  Falconer felt like throwing a tantrum. ‘Good God, man! Don’t you see what you’ve done? You’ve nobbled my witness, like a bloody race horse in the Grand National. You’ve obstructed my investigation, held up my questioning, and have caused a gross waste of police time – and that last one’s a criminal offence, buddy.’ He was incandescent at the stupidity of the man.

  ‘Sorry, old son,’ was Peregrine’s only answer, and, though he didn’t like it, Falconer knew he was going to have to damned well lump it.

  ‘Right, let’s get it on with Joe Public out in the saloon,’ he declared, with a weak attempt at humour, and exited the little room to return to Carmichael.

  The arrival of The Police (very much with initial capitalised) had had a remarkable effect on the fullness of the bar, and when Falconer re-joined his partner, Carmichael had
a considerable list of contact details, but was in the company of only one other, who turned out to be Tarquin of the Tablets, as Falconer now thought of him. He could add no more details to Summer’s return to The Inn but, as one half of the eyes and ears of the village, was willing to go through Carmichael’s list with them, and give them some details of to whom they referred: little thumb-nail sketches to get them going. Well, it was better than nothing, and the three of them sat down at a table, to be joined, almost instantly, by Peregrine, now recovered from his ‘bollocking’, and eager to add his two-penn’orth.

  Both halves of The Inn’s management loved the opportunity to dish a little dirt, when offered it on a plate, as it were. In their opinion, gossip made the world go round. Money was just a rather pleasant ‘extra’, and they eagerly provided details of their customers, each interrupting the other in his enjoyment of the activity. About the Festival, they were very forthcoming, and when the two detectives left the premises, it was with a full load of ‘stuff’ with which to challenge their interviewees, should that be necessary.

  First, however, they needed to visit The Old Barn to view the body. A local PC had been entrusted with the role of ‘guard dog’, scene-of-crime officers had arrived shortly afterwards (not having had to change into less expensive clothes first!), and Falconer and Carmichael were eager to join them and learn what they could from the body and its locus.

  [1] See Death of an Old Git: The Falconer Files book 1.

  Chapter Eleven

  Friday, 11th September – later that afternoon – and early evening

  I

  As they entered the drive of The Old Barn, the now-sorry sight of Marcus’s beloved phallic symbol, his TVR, greeted them. All four tyres had been slashed, and it sat well down on its haunches. In addition, a sharp object had been used to give some un-commissioned art work to the long sleek bonnet. In unsteady scratches were the words ‘world’s biggest prick’; so the victim had not been Mr Popular, then. Noting these desecrations, Falconer and his ‘mock-Scot’ sidekick made their preparations to enter the actual scene of the crime.

  Having changed into the required white forensic suits, overshoes (there had been none large enough for Carmichael’s size fifteen feet, and he had had to settle for one pair on the toes of his shoes, and one pair on the heels, both held together by tape, to stop him contaminating the locus), and all the other gubbins involved these days with entering a crime scene, they ducked under the blue-and-white tape fluttering its ‘keep out’ warning, eager to see exactly what had happened. Falconer and Carmichael entered the house, to be immediately confronted with what looked like a bizarre scene from a modern ‘blood, guts and gore’ crime story.

  They had entered by the French windows, finding themselves in a good-sized room with a desk, an office chair, a sofa, and a sea of boxes, some unopened, others in the process of being unpacked. A few of the smaller ones that had been by the desk were on their side, their contents spewing out onto the floor. The desk lamp was still lit, and Marcus Willoughby was slumped in its light, his head on the desk, the deep depression on his skull seemingly spot-lit, above a red sheet of blood. Round his neck was a ladies’ silk stocking, tied very tightly from behind, then formed into a bow, as if he were gift-wrapped, ready to be presented to his Maker.

  The computer monitor was a few inches from his white-stubbled scalp, the keyboard moved to the right-hand side of him. If he had been using it when he was killed, he must have typed as if he were playing the very top notes of a piano, with his body slewed to the right at an extremely uncomfortable angle.

  His face was purple, his tongue protruding, and when, with permission from the SOCOs, Falconer lifted the head he could see that the side which had rested on the desk was an even darker colour – from post-mortem lividity, he had no doubt. Someone had evidently wanted to do a thorough job on this chap, and had staged it as a show-piece. He shuddered as he looked once more at the head wound and the stocking.

  Casting his eyes down to one of the overturned boxes by the desk, he noticed a reflection of light from a metal surface, and immediately identified some common DIY tools. He had no idea whether one of these had been used to strike the death blow, or whether the stocking was applied first, and a blunt instrument had been used when the murder turned out to be a little more difficult than had been expected. It might even be that the blunt instrument had been brought to the crime scene by the murderer. At the moment, however, there was evidence to support either theory. All he knew was that Marcus Willoughby was as dead as a door-nail, and he had another case of murder on his hands.

  The computer would be examined by the police, should they think it had played any part in his demise, and, given the fact that his recorded programme had reached its destination, and even been broadcast, there was a high possibility that it would be leaving its current home at The Old Barn for a very thorough examination. Falconer had spoken briefly to the show’s producer on the evidence of the broadcast passed on by Peregrine, before he had left the office, and had placed his lap-top in the boot of his car before he had left to change his clothes.

  After an initial examination of the scene, Falconer sought a word with the attending doctor, who had been about to leave when they arrived. This individual had stayed behind for a word with the SOCOs and, as Falconer approached him, turned and called, ‘Hello, Inspector. We meet again!’

  With surprise, Falconer recognised Dr Philip Christmas, with whom he’d had dealings on the Castle Farthing case. ‘Hail fellow, well met!’ he replied. ‘I didn’t expect to run across you quite so soon, and in such similar circumstances.’

  ‘Case of proximity, I assure you. I share my surgery between three villages: Castle Farthing, Monday and Friday; Stoney Cross, Tuesday and Thursday, in Corner Cottage just off the Market Darley Road; Steynham St Michael, Wednesday, and Saturday morning,’ he explained, long-windedly and unnecessarily. ‘I managed to wind up my appointments in Castle Farthing, and high-tailed it here as quickly as possible. I say, Inspector?’

  ‘Yes?’ replied Falconer.

  ‘We really must stop meeting like this!’

  For once, Falconer could think of no reply, but noticed the twinkle in the doctor’s eyes, and grinned. They had shared an honest and open professional relationship in the aforementioned case, and the inspector felt reassured that things would remain the same for the duration of this one. Making his farewell, he returned to Carmichael with the beginnings of a feeling of familiarity – like an old team at a reunion – and hoped it would last. He stopped for a short while before leaving, to think.

  He now knew that the initial opinion on cause of death was either strangulation, or trauma from a blunt instrument, that the time of death, nay, the day of death, for this was not a recent incident, was believed to be Sunday the sixth or perhaps Monday the seventh. It was too early to be any more precise without detailed evidence from the post mortem, but he ordered that this information be kept from public consumption for the time being, leaving him to be the judge as to whom, and when, he would let this detail out.

  As the victim had lain there so long it would be interesting to see when anyone suspected of this crime would pitch their alibi – whether they’d go for the obvious assumption, that he had been killed on the night of Thursday the tenth, on the eve of the broadcast, or whether they’d have a cast-iron alibi in place for when the actual time of death was revealed. Of course, a clever murderer was capable of a bluff, or even a double-bluff, and a double alibi, but he hoped he would have the experience and instinct to see through anything of that sort.

  Anyone who produced an alibi for Thursday was either innocent, or too damned clever. If they then produced a cast-iron alibi for the Sunday night as well, he was dealing with a smart bastard. Anyone who produced an alibi for just Sunday night was either the murderer, or simply telling the truth. At this point, he realised that he was merely confusing himself, and that these speculations were not helping him at all. What a tangled web there was, for him to
unravel. He must remember not to get involved explaining these thoughts to Carmichael, or they would both be drawing their pensions before he had finished.

  To Falconer’s knowledge, from his visit to The Inn, Marcus had been in the pub on the evening of Sunday the sixth, until being ejected, about a quarter to eleven, so that shaved a bit off that estimate. Given that it would have taken only a short time to walk home – no, wait a minute, to stagger home, because he had been in his cups. That would have taken some time longer, and what if he hadn’t gone straight home? And what if it was Monday? It was useless to speculate at this stage.

  Stop being predictive, he told himself. First gather evidence, record it, correlate it, study it – then speculate like hell, if you can’t see any pattern emerging. Gathering Carmichael on his way, they left the house, discarded their fancy dress costumes (in Carmichael’s case, only the top layer), and Falconer went to the boot of his car to fetch his lap-top.

  Both settled in a fairly cramped manner in Falconer’s car (for having Carmichael in his vehicle was a bit like giving a lift to a haystack), he played the podcast of that afternoon’s programme, having downloaded it using the bonnet for a desk, there being no spare space inside the vehicle to do anything more active than breathe.

  The voice of the dead man filled the air from beyond the Great Divide (in this case, the distance between Carsfold and Stoney Cross), Falconer diligently taking down names, as Marcus executed his character assassinations. His state of inebriation was soon discernible, and the two colleagues looked at each other for a fraction of a second. By the end of the broadcast – the ghastly end – they compared lists. The only name that didn’t appear on both of them, with the obvious exceptions of husbands and partners, was that of Serena Lyddiard.