It would have been easy to have avoided being seen, he added, with a nod to the high hedge that fronted the house, and the lack of a porch light, which had been noted when they arrived. ‘A very petty economy,’ he had added,’ especially when it came to scaring off burglars, or at least making them visible if they decided to use the light to help them open the door.’
Falconer agreed with him wholeheartedly. There had also been no mention of the piercing bleep of smoke alarms. He simply could not understand the mentality of a householder who would install expensive double glazing throughout, then save a pound or two by not having any security lighting or smoke alarms. It was almost an invitation to be boiled alive in their own juices, should there be a fire, and they were overcome with smoke.
He took the piece of paper with the passer-by’s details, wandered across to Carmichael again, and suggested that there was nothing useful they could do here now, so they might as well go and try to get some sleep. Tomorrow would be a busy day, and they’d need at least some rest before tackling it.
He dropped Carmichael off at about two o’clock, and by a quarter to three was in his own home, freshly showered, and just climbing into bed with a mug of hot chocolate to help him sleep and calm his seething brain. He’d need that organ to be fresh and ready for action tomorrow, too. There was something here he didn’t understand. Lots of little things kept nibbling at his subconscious, like a school of tiny fish, but as soon as he turned his attention to what they were trying to tell him, they turned and flashed away, impossible to focus on.
Carmichael too was in bed, having scooped up the dogs and carried them up with him to his room, for extra comfort. There were some things that were too ghastly to imagine, and the warmth and snuffling from these two tiny creatures, together with the ladylike little snores of his wife Kerry, should distract him sufficiently to be able to drop off. Any nightmares were just a risk he would have to take.
Chapter Nine
Monday 4th April
I
The day after Easter Day may be Bank Holiday Monday to some, but to those who work in the emergency services it is just another day on the calendar. In fact, with those who have to continue to toil to keep our household supplied with electricity, gas, live radio and television broadcasts and newspapers ( there are even newspapers available now on Good Friday!), and shops opening seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day in some cases, there are precious few in the population who can take the day as a period of leisure – with the exception of teachers, and those ancillary to school services.
The deadbeats, indigents, and long-term unemployed who usually hung out in the street outside the temporary police station had, however, taken their possession of a Bank Holiday seriously, and appeared to be enjoying a lie-in, as the street outside the ex-Mr Bankrupt was curiously empty of those who habitually waited to taunt the police whenever they entered or exited the building.
Despite their experience of the night before, Falconer had made some time to have a quick fiddle with his post cards on the corkboard, adding information from the night before, and occasionally shuffling them around, to see if the different date positions would stimulate his deductive processes, but nothing leapt out at him.
Even after the truncated sleep they had had to endure, both Falconer and Carmichael were in the office early, clean, and fresh, and with a greater determination to solve this case before anyone else lost their lives. It had been confirmed that the fire was no unfortunate accident, but the result of deliberate arson, and was now being treated as a case of murder, the second in this self-effacing and unprepossessing village within a week.
They surveyed each other in exasperation at the lack of progress, and the only consolation that Falconer could think of was to state that the Graingers were definitely out of the frame, because they didn’t smell of petrol or paraffin, or anything else flammable, when they had so kindly arrived bearing tea and sympathy.
‘But we never really thought they were involved, did we?’ Carmichael asked listlessly.
‘No,’ the inspector replied, with no enthusiasm whatsoever. ‘Plover declared them to be of spotless character when I spoke to him, so there wasn’t really any possibility that they were involved, was there?’
‘No, sir,’ replied the sergeant, scratching his head as he thought.
At that moment, the telephone on Falconer’s desk rang, and he grasped it, as a drowning man grasps at a straw. Maybe this would be a breakthrough for them. Maybe this call would provide the answer to all their questions.
It was Rev. Lockwood, and Falconer’s ‘expectation-ometer’ plunged to zero. ‘Sorry to bother you, given the recent tragic events, but something slightly out of kilter happened yesterday while I was out doing the morning service, and I’ve read in books that anything out of the ordinary, in a situation like this, could prove important.’
‘Absolutely correct, sir,’ the inspector agreed, suppressing a yawn, a peculiar habit he had formed when in conversation with men of the cloth. ‘Fire away.’
‘It was something that happened just before Dove and I got home from church, and Ruth was on the phone to her sister. I’m sure it’s got nothing whatsoever to do with what’s been happening in the village, but here it is, for what it’s worth. Ruth had arranged the time of the phone call so they could have a good old sisterly chin-wag, while the house was empty.’ There was a slight hesitation.
‘Go on,Vicar,’ Falconer prompted him.
‘Sorry, I was just wondering what it could mean, if it means anything.’
‘What what could mean, Vicar?’ Falconer was beginning to feel his usual exasperation with what seemed the habitually woolly thought processes of priests and vicars everywhere.
‘Well, it would appear that Ruth heard the back door open, and some noises, as if we’d come home, so she called out that she was just coming. The next think she heard was a small squeak of what she has now convinced herself was alarm from a possible intruder. Not realising this at the time, however, she just went through to the kitchen expecting to find the two of use raiding the biscuit barrel, and found the back door swinging open – it hadn’t been locked as she would be in – and later, she noticed that the unclaimed plate from the bake sale was missing.’
‘Do you think the owner had come back to collect it, and was surprised to find the house occupied?’
‘I suppose so,’ agreed Septimus.
‘I wonder why they didn’t call out and make themselves known,’ Falconer wondered out loud.
‘I’ve no idea on that one.’
‘How many people knew that Ruth would not be at the service,’ asked Falconer. This could be useful information after all.
‘Just about everybody. Since we moved here, she’s always gone to early communion on both Christmas and Easter days, so that she can get on with ordering our celebration days in uninterrupted peace.’
‘Did she manage to see anyone leaving the garden, or perhaps on their way out from The Rectory?’
‘No. She didn’t realise there was any hurry, as she thought it was us, and, although she heard the gate go, she couldn’t see anyone once she’d turned the corner of the house. I’m sorry about that, Inspector. She just didn’t realise that it could be important. Well, you don’t do you? Hindsight is a wonderful thing.’
‘And foresight can be even better,’ added Falconer, but he said it to himself, and silently, for every piece of unsolicited information was precious, and could prove to be the key to a case. ‘I’m just about to leave for Shepford Stacey. Shall I call in when I arrive?’
‘Please feel free. I’ve been out on a few parish visits this morning, so I can give you the mood of the locals, and their reactions to this tragedy, before you call round to find out for yourself. They might have been a bit more candid with me, as I’m not a stranger and they know it’s not my nature to gossip.’
‘Mine neither, Vicar.’ There was a gasp of surprise and embarrassment on the other end of the line. ‘No need to apolo
gise, Vicar. My colleague and I will be with you as soon as we can,’ he informed his caller, and got up to get his jacket, with a glance at Carmichael, to urge him to do likewise.
As they exited the blessedly un-picketed doors of the building, the phone on Falconer’s desk began to shrill. After what seemed like an eternity it stopped, and the phone in his house began to ring its urgent summons, but this attempt to contact him also went unanswered. His mobile number must have been unknown to the unsuccessful caller, for it remained stubbornly silent. Which was a pity really.
II
It was raining feebly but steadily, the fair weather of the previous two days being thoroughly quenched with low cloud and the constant light but persistent drizzle that manages to soak to the skin, while being mostly unnoticed by those who don’t wear glasses.
The remains of High Gates consisted of a blackened shell boasting no windows, doors, or roof, and would need to be demolished, for there was no way even to make it safe, let alone refurbish. A skeleton crew of fire officers were in attendance to damp down the last of the smouldering debris, and in case one of these smouldering areas tried to reignite the fire.
Smoke drifted lazily up from the wreckage, to be met by the fine veil of water that was falling from the sky, combining with it, and producing what should probably be referred to as a cross between fog and smog.
There was definitely fog, because the temperature had dropped a number of degrees since the sunshine of the day before, and the ground, still wet from the rains of a few days ago, and with the overnight dew fall, had produced a fog that seemed to rise from the ground in wraiths and tendrils, as if there were an underground fire that was rising, in an effort to meet its brother from the night before.
There was also definitely smog, as the acrid wisps from the smouldering ruin commingled, to produce a cloud that made anyone who came into contact with it cough, as the firemen were doing now, as they moved closer to the front wall of the destroyed house to investigate a brief flash of colour somewhere inside.
The Graingers, in Number Five, Blacksmith’s Terrace, woke late. After last night’s emergency and tragedy, they had retired late, and spent hours tossing and turning, their minds preoccupied with what had happened and what was happening. Sleep had been elusive, impossible in fact, until about four o’clock, when they both achieved a state of unconsciousness within five minutes of each other.
Virginia rose now, tired because her body clock was slightly out of whack, and descended the open treads of the staircase to the kitchen to put the kettle on. As she stood at the sink while this vessel filled, she looked through the window and across the road, confirming that it hadn’t been just an extremely vivid nightmare which had disturbed her so. The house was really gone, and Harriet was undoubtedly dead.
Whatever would Harriet’s parents say, she thought, when they got back from visiting her grandmother? Events weren’t supposed to occur in that order, children dying before their parents and, in this case, even their grandmother. Life was a fair cow sometimes, and there was absolutely nothing you could do, but accept what was thrown at you, and get on with it. Her mother would have said, ‘play the hand you’re dealt’, but then her mother was full of silly little sayings for every eventuality, and she could be a real pain in the arse.
As the water boiled, she gave Richard a token shout, then assembled the necessary crockery for morning tea. If he didn’t come down, she’d take it up on a tray. It was when she was pouring the water into the pot, the sound of the kettle heating now extinguished, that she first heard the noise. From the kitchen, it sounded vague, unidentifiable, but not a happy sound.
Moving to the living room at the rear of the house, the sound resolved itself into a muffled sobbing, coming from the other side of the wall. For a moment she stood, doubting her own senses, wondering if she was imagining something summoned from the distress of last night, but in the end, she realised that the sound was real, and its only source could be Caroline Course.
The woman had not seemed at all moved the night before, as she had stood at her bedroom window, a strange expression on her face, given the circumstances. Maybe she had been hit by the reality of what had happened before her very eyes, during the night – maybe one disturbed by nightmares – and there she was, in a strange place, and all on her own.
Virginia’s neighbour and very good friend in Little Marden was called Caroline, and this only contributed to the softening of her heart, and the part of her that was a natural comforter.
III
On the journey down to Shepford Stacey, Falconer gradually became aware of a strange crackling and popping noise coming from the seat beside him, but did not dare take his eyes off the twisting, turning, narrow country lanes to investigate visually. It sounded vaguely like the crackling and popping of the timbers of the burning house, and he hoped he wasn’t having an aural hallucination.
Pulling into a convenient farm gateway, he asked, ‘Can you hear that crackling noise, Carmichael, or am I going mad?’
‘Wh-crack-at pop w-sizzle-as th-crackle-at, s-snapppp-ir?’ asked the sergeant, the volume of the mysterious noise increasing as he opened his mouth to speak.
Turning towards his colleague, Falconer noticed a pink froth on Carmichael’s lower lip, and gave a high-pitched shriek. Surely his sergeant hadn’t contracted rabies? He knew it was a rural area, but rabies was supposed to be safely contained across the Channel. Though he wouldn’t put anything past Carmichael – even going to the trouble of taking a quick daytrip to France so that he could be bitten by a rabid animal, just for the hell of it.
‘What the hell is that?’ he asked, pointing, but with the back of his hand resting on his throat, just under his chin, so that his digit would not have to get any closer to his passenger than was absolutely necessary.
‘Whizz-Sp-pop-ace D-crackle-ust, s-crack-ir,’ answered Carmichael with a convulsive swallow and a sigh of appreciation, which filled the car with the strong scent of artificial strawberry flavouring.
‘What in the name of God is Space Dust, Sergeant?’ asked Falconer, annoyed now that he knew the answer, and realising that he had acted like a bit of a ‘wuss’ before.
‘It’s crackling candy, sir,’ Carmichael answered, as if even an idiot ought to know about that particular line of confectionery. ‘When you put it in your mouth and it gets wet, it starts to fizz and explode – quite loudly. I used to love it when I was a kid, and now they’ve reissued it. I got some for the boys, but I couldn’t resist taking a couple of packets for myself, for old times’ sake. Would you like some?’ he asked, holding out a small paper packet with rockets and cratered planets printed on it.
‘No thank you, Sergeant, and I’d be very grateful if you didn’t eat it in my car again. It’s very distracting when I’m driving, and besides, there are some things best done behind closed doors, and I, personally, consider that the consumption of this ‘Space Dust’ is one of them. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Y-pop-es, sir,’ Carmichael replied. ‘Sorry, sir. A bit got stuck to the roof of my mouth. It won’t happen again, I promise you.’
‘Not if I can help it, it won’t,’ was Falconer’s final pronouncement on the matter, and he pulled on to the road again, their journey continuing in total silence.
IV
At Shepford Stacey, Falconer steered the car once more into the car park of the Temporary Sign, but did not undo his seatbelt, or get out of the car. His head bowed in thought, he asked Carmichael, ‘Who do you fancy for this one, Sergeant? Have you got any favourites running?’
‘Not sure, sir. The only one I would consider to have a motive for the here-and-now is Seth Borrowdale, but I don’t get the feeling that he’s a physically violent or vindictive man. I think he’s all mouth, but just can’t be arsed to do anything. Every other motive seems to stem from so long ago. How could anyone keep up that level of hatred over that amount of time?’
‘I don’t know, Carmichael, but I’ve got a feeling in my water,’ (Th
ere was a quiet ‘Yuk!’ from Carmichael) ‘that the solution to this case lies in the past, and, as far as I’m concerned, the household with the most motive is the Baldwins’. Every member of that family had an axe to grind with our Mrs Finch-Matthews, and who’s to know how that has simmered and grown over the years?’
‘I suppose there are four of them; and at least three of them seem to have hated Mrs F-M’s guts. Maybe they blamed both women: Audrey for not having banned skipping earlier, and Miss Findlater for being a wet hen and not challenging her decision.’
‘Exactly! Frank Baldwin says he was at work last Thursday, but he’s surely capable of slipping out and doing a little freelance murdering, isn’t he?’ Falconer wasn’t feeling quite as facetious as he sounded. ‘Stevie’s had her activities curtailed for life. Her mother thinks that her disability is to blame for her having an illegitimate child. And, for all we know, Granny might be away with the fairies, and at this very minute may be burying her box of matches from last night, and casting about for her next victim.’
‘Don’t be silly, sir. I hardly think that’s likely,’ replied Carmichael, thinking that the inspector’s remarks had been in rather bad taste. (15-love to Carmichael.)
‘Stop being such a sissy, Sergeant, and give me a hand here.’ (Falconer had just evened the score to 15-all) ‘I can’t solve this all by myself.’ (Oh yes I can. 30-15. Falconer loved Wimbledon.)
‘Look, what about the Borrowdales? I know I said it wasn’t likely, but do you want to go round there to see if we can find out where the head of the household was last night?’
‘And the mistress of the house, sir. Women are just as capable of setting a fire as a man,’ commented Carmichael, with a slight smirk. ( 30-all.)
‘But more likely to need to be there, after the children go to bed, in case one of them wakes up. They’re more likely to want Mummy, aren’t they?’ (40-30 to Falconer.)
Pascal Passion (The Falconer Files Book 4) Page 16