Shadows and Sins (The Falconer Files Book 13)

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘Mrs Walker, did you ever meet the previous tenant of this property?’ Falconer interrupted in desperation.

  ‘She’d already done a moonlight flit when we first looked around the place,’ she began. ‘Seemed an odd thing to do at the time, seeing as how the landlord had just had the whole place redecorated. I wouldn’t have left straight after that sort of facelift for the house, but there’s no accounting for taste, is there? Perhaps she didn’t like the colour. Furnished, it was then, but we had our own stuff, so we asked if it could be stored, so that we could have our own stuff about us. Taken us our whole lives to get nice pieces together to make a comfortable home, and we didn’t want to have to give them up just because we’d moved.

  ‘She’d been gone some time. The landlord said she just left without a word of warning. She didn’t even stop paying her rent, but just took off and told nobody where she was going. He didn’t know she was gone until he came over to do a routine inspection of the place, found it empty, and asked around a bit, to find out that no one had seen her for ages.’

  They really must speak to the owner of the property, Falconer thought. And the continuation of the payment of rent would explain a lot. Annie Symons hadn’t meant to leave her home so, therefore, had had no reason to cancel her regular payments to the owner.

  Thanking Mrs Walker profusely for her information – more than he needed, nor, in fact, wanted – he dragged Carmichael away from his fascinated concentration on the life detail with which Mrs Walker was providing them, and up the short garden path of number three. Before he could knock at the door, the inspector’s phone rang and he answered it to find Doc Christmas on the other end. ‘Do you want to come in and have a look at these remains?’ he asked in a jovial, conversational manner. ‘They’re fascinating. The eyes have gone, of course, but the pattern of decomposition is fascinating.’

  ‘No way, Jose,’ replied Falconer, ending the call rather abruptly and rapped firmly on the door-knocker. There was no answer. He knocked again and sent Carmichael round to the back to see if there was anyone in the kitchen. Mrs Walker popped out again and informed them that a builder lived there on his own, and would be out at work until after the light went, and later, if he was working indoors.

  Number four proved to be owned by another retired couple, the Petersons, who had only lived there five months, and number five was empty. This wasn’t getting them much further along. Numbers six, seven and eight also had no one at home, and Falconer was determined to get Tomlinson to come back here either out of working hours or at the weekend.

  Leaving Castle Farthing in a cloud of exhaust fumes – he really needed either to change his car or have it serviced – the two detectives set off for Stoney Cross, only about two-and-a-half miles to the west, to speak to the landlords of The Inn on the Green.

  Chapter Four

  The public house with its attached restaurant was not quite as they remembered, having been given a fresh coat of white paint, its window frames and doors gleaming with a coat of new black gloss. It was a great oblong magpie of a building, but inviting. The inside had been similarly tarted-up, its scarred wooden floor having been replaced by trendy flagstones, the horse-brasses taken down, and armchairs had appeared in a variety of tartan upholstery.

  Its huge fireplace, which used to hold only dried flowers and a screen, now boasted an over-sized gas log fire. No real logs for these two landlords. They may be of sufficient build for lugging them, but they wouldn’t fancy getting splinters in their well-manicured hands. Without the sheer magic of burning logs this feature did, however, have its fair share of patrons who liked to sit and gaze at the gas-fed phenomenon. The place now looked thoroughly eclectic and modern, and boasted quite a few of the lunchtime clientele, either sitting with bar meals or at tables in the restaurant, bringing home to Falconer just how early they had eaten.

  Tarquin Radcliffe and Peregrine McKnight were both present behind the bar genially dealing with orders, both big-framed and broad, wearing unexpected pastel colours. Both seemed to have put on a bit of timber since their last meeting, a combination of fat and muscle which was at odds with their camp behaviour.

  ‘Hello, gentlemen,’ Tarquin hailed them. ‘Look, Perry, it’s our favourite lawmen. What can we get you for your imbibing pleasure?’

  ‘Two coffees. If you would be so good – oh, and the sugar bowl for DS Carmichael. We need to ask you a couple of questions.’

  ‘How can we help you, dear hearts?’ Peregrine had become even more ‘mumsy’ than before.

  ‘We’re making enquiries about the murder of a Ms Annie Symons, whom we believe used to work occasional shifts for you. We’ve already spoken to George and Paula Covington at The Fisherman’s Flies in Castle Farthing, so we’d like to know when she last did a shift for you.’

  ‘What, Annie, murdered? Do you hear that, Perry? How absolutely ghastly, Inspector,’ said Tarquin.

  ‘Frightful. Murder again, and only a couple of years after the last time. Whatever is life coming to in the countryside? This is hardly East End gang territory, now, is it?’ commented Peregrine.

  Both Falconer and Carmichael remained silent as the joint owners expressed their horror and surprise, fussing with some paper napkins in their disapproval.

  ‘You check the records, and I’ll get the coffees,’ trilled Tarquin, waving them to a table and coming out from behind the bar. There may have been some doubt about this couple’s relationship in the past, but there was none now. Tarquin had a thatch of sandy hair and brown eyes, and Peregrine, salt-and-pepper hair and greenish-hazel eyes, but apart from this they were now practically indistinguishable.

  After consulting an iPad to access all their business records, Peregrine called across, ‘April 12th 2009, for your information.’

  ‘And you say she’s been murdered?’ asked Tarquin, still not quite taking in the information, as he returned with a tray with two steaming cups on it. Peregrine flapped a tea towel at a local to come and take over behind the bar while he left it for a good gossip.

  As he joined them at the table, Carmichael was counting the spoonfuls of sugar that he dropped into his coffee, ‘One, two three …’ his tongue protruding from his mouth and muffling the numbers. Falconer confirmed the demise of their former staff member, drawing the unexpected piece of information from Tarquin that they had not had a lot of luck with their fill-in staff. ‘We tried to get in touch with her for a bit of help when we had that big arts festival in Stoney Cross the other year, with all that murder and mayhem. You remember, that was when we first came across you two delightful chaps. But we had no luck, but we also couldn’t get another of our occasional workers. It seems to have been a bad time for getting a bit of support behind the bar.’

  ‘… four, five – six,’ concluded the sergeant, as he started to stir the now turgid beverage.

  Falconer took a few moments of silence, then asked them who this other member of staff was. It wasn’t that he had a suspicious mind, but he had a nasty churning in his insides that he took to be a hunch, and he just had a feeling that something was going to come of this remark. It could, however, just have been the mention of the Arts Festival, and he had to fight to get the image of Serena out of his mind and replace it with Honey’s. Whatever was wrong with him? It was like this village was infested with memories.

  ‘Suzie Doidge,’ supplied Peregrine, determined not to be left out. ‘She lives at King George III Terrace, or at least she did. She’s not been near nor by since.’

  ‘Could you tell me a bit about her?’ Falconer’s investigative instincts were up and running. What if it was not only two women who had disappeared? Far-fetched as this might sound, he didn’t want to let this matter ride.

  ‘All we know is what Reverend Ravenscastle told us.’ Tarquin was back in the limelight.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘When we couldn’t get hold of her – it seemed that her phone had been cut off. I say, that does sound like the old days, doesn’t it – we asked the
vicar, as he happened to be visiting this establishment, and he said he thought she’d left the area, although he didn’t know where she’d gone or when, because she wasn’t a church regular.’

  ‘I shouldn’t say this, but I believe she was claiming benefits and not declaring her shifts here. But I don’t suppose it can do her any harm now she’s gone away.’ Peregrine really had his claws out now.

  ‘And could you confirm the last shift she did for you?’ asked the inspector, definitely on the hunt for a mystery.

  Peregrine slipped back behind the bar, poked around on the iPad, and called out, ‘Nothing since Easter 2009, Inspector. April 10th, to be precise. It’s so much easier to check these things since we transferred our paper records to the iPad. What a coincidence – both of them here on the same weekend. I never really thought about it before.’

  Without turning a hair at this further endearment, Falconer replied, ‘Many thanks for that, now could you tell us where can we find the vicar?’ Carmichael was too busy to speak; concentrating instead on scooping out the last of the foam from his coffee from the side of the cup.

  Tarquin suggested they try the vicarage and the church, and if they couldn’t find him there to come back to see if he’d called in for afternoon tea. ‘Very popular, we are, for afternoon tea, dear heart.’

  ‘And could you remind us where these two properties are?’ Falconer had to suppress a wince.

  ‘Out of here, turn left; down School Lane to the T-junction with the High Street, then right and down a bit for the church, and the vicarage is just after it. You can’t miss it.’

  As they approached the vicarage, Falconer had a wave of memory. He was not surprised when a tall, gaunt man with thick, white, wavy hair, grey eyes, and glasses opened the door to them. From a distant room came a squawk of, ‘’Uck off.’ Rev. Ravenscastle was the man with the cursing parrot.

  ‘Just ignore Captain Bligh,’ this apparition in the clerical collar advised them, and asked what he could do to help them. ‘Don’t I know you two?’

  ‘Ge’ stuffe’,’ floated down towards them.

  ‘DI Falconer and DS Carmichael, sir,’ replied the inspector, feeling the hairs on his head almost stand on end as the bird shouted the unmentionable ‘see-you-next-Tuesday’ word.

  ‘I do apologise. Used to belong to a seagoing gentleman of rather immoderate language, I’m afraid. We can’t be in control of all the things that are willed to us, can we? And I couldn’t bear to have him destroyed just because his language is a bit ripe. It’s not as if he knows what he’s saying, is it?’

  Falconer couldn’t argue with this, presuming that the vicar was referring to the parrot and not its previous owner, and they followed him down the hall and into his study, where he asked them to take a seat and enquired how he could help them.

  Not even knowing if the woman had disappeared or just been unavailable, Falconer felt quite silly, but nevertheless asked the vicar about Suzie Doidge.

  ‘She’s left the area,’ Rev. Ravenscastle replied curtly.

  ‘Do you know when or where she went?’

  ‘Quite a while ago, and I’ve no idea where.’

  ‘Did you know her well?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘How did you know she’d gone?’

  ‘My wife, Adella, picked up the information at the Mothers’ Union.’

  ‘How is your wife, sir?’

  ‘Gone.’

  ‘She’s away?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She’s left you?’ This last was asked very tentatively, as he considered it would be a sensitive subject for a man of the cloth.

  ‘She has departed this life,’ came the curt reply.

  ‘I’m so sorry, sir. Was it sudden, or was she ill?’

  ‘She took her own life.’

  There followed a stunned silence.

  ‘She really perked up after that awful business a few years ago – you remember? That’s when we met – and she got Squirrel a puppy. Do you remember Squirrel? The woman who used to hoard things excessively? But then our daughter, Ruth, was diagnosed with breast cancer, and she seemed to lose heart again – my wife, not Squirrel.’ His conversation was really quite muddly.

  ‘She took an overdose of paracetamol when I was away overnight and, when I found her, she was far past saving.’

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ muttered Falconer, unable to think of anything else to say.

  The mood was shattered by the creaking of the door, which had been left ajar, and by a quiet ‘wuff’. A dachshund waddled into the room, immediately capturing Carmichael’s attention, and he swooped off his chair and down to the floor to pet the dog.

  ‘Say hello to Satan,’ announced Rev. Ravenscastle. ‘I don’t know if you’ve met before, but he’s my constant companion now, along with Captain Bligh, of course.’

  ‘This little man is the reason I fell so in love with Dipsy Daxie,’ explained Carmichael to anyone who would listen. He scratched the dog at the base of his tail, an action which was greeted with a contented sigh. Falconer rolled his eyes, remembering how his sergeant had taken on his own dachshund from the RSPCA after one of their recent cases. He hadn’t known how much Carmichael had been affected by his brief meeting with the vicar’s dog. It explained a lot.

  ‘Who or what is Dipsy Daxie?’ The vicar was now confused.

  ‘My dachshund,’ replied the sergeant, a broad grin on his face as he petted the dog.

  ‘Satan and I have something very important in common,’ continued the vicar, no longer curious. ‘We both wear dog collars – although we officially work for different sides, don’t we, Satan old lad?’

  The dog squinted up at his master with great affection as he extricated himself from Carmichael and waddled over to Ravencastle’s chair.

  In an attempt to retrieve the situation, the inspector returned to the matter at hand and asked if the reverend could describe Ms Doidge to him. Ravenscastle closed his eyes briefly as if calling an image to mind, then spoke.

  ‘She lived alone; had short brown hair; not married or divorced; no children. I think she was in her late twenties. King George III Terrace, if my memory serves me correctly. I did call round a couple of times after Perry and Tarquin said they couldn’t get hold of her, but she certainly seemed to have left the property.’

  Knowing he shouldn’t ask, Falconer couldn’t help himself from adding the question, ‘How is your daughter, sir?’

  ‘They didn’t catch it early enough. It’s spread, and she’s terminal now. I visit her in a hospice every other day. She won’t last much longer.’

  How could one reply to that information? Falconer rose and said they’d see themselves out. As they reached the front door, the raucous screeching voice of the parrot called, ‘Sod off,’ after their retreating figures.

  As they went back to the car, Falconer gave a great sigh, and said, ‘How tragic was that? I had no idea what to say.’

  ‘Me neither, sir,’ agreed Carmichael, who hadn’t really been paying attention, but wanted to sound as if he had taken in every detail.

  ‘At least we know the woman’s disappeared, too, or appears to have done. We’ll have to look into it, but she sounds very similar to Annie Symons, doesn’t she? Lives alone, single, quite young, not in any regular employment.’

  ‘So where is she?’ wondered Carmichael.

  ‘And is she alive or dead?’ mused Falconer. ‘And we desperately need a photograph of her. When we get back to the office, I’ll get Tomlinson to trace the owner and get a key, to see if there’s anything inside the house that can help us.

  The inspector still felt uneasy about the chain of events that seemed to have been triggered by the death of Marcus Willoughby in Stoney Cross, including his own disturbing memories of Serena Lyddiard, and wondered if the ripples on the pond that ensued after any murder would ever end, or just keep resonating for the rest of the lifetimes of those involved.

  That evening, Falconer took an inventory of his furry
lodgers, calling their names out loud for reassurance. ‘Tar Baby, Ruby!’ – these were the two cats he’d taken on after his first love Serena had fled the country, a fluffy black monster and a red-point Siamese. ‘Mycroft!’ – his first cat, a seal-point Siamese, slunk guiltily from beneath the sofa, and the inspector hoped he had not disturbed the dismemberment of a mouse or vole.

  ‘Meep!’ he called, for the Silver Bengal he had taken on from a rather intimidating lady and, finally, ‘Monkey!’ who had moved in on Carmichael as a stray, a tiny scrap full of mischief and independence, a pure bred Abyssinian.

  Monkey appeared, coming down the stairs with a trail end of loo paper in her mouth, and he rushed up to where she had been, realising that he must have left the bathroom door open at lunchtime by mistake – a move that was always the precursor to a lot of mess to clear up. A sea of shredded toilet tissue greeted him but he was aware he could do nothing about it until he had collected a rubbish bag, and returned back downstairs to sort this out.

  He heaved a sigh of relief that they were all present and correct as the cats milled around his legs in the kitchen. He opened the kitchen cupboard to get out a large tin of tuna – not that he wanted to bribe them into loving him, but just to say thank you for not running away, then he collected a black bag to clear up the mess in the bathroom.

  Carmichael spent a quiet evening watching an episode of Monk that he had recorded, as Kerry had elected to go upstairs to bed early. As he had plenty of idiosyncrasies himself, Carmichael loved the antics of the American detective with OCD. Kerry, a deeply tired woman at the moment, had remembered nothing further about Annie Symons and did not know Suzie Doidge, and had fallen straight to sleep with nothing nagging at her mind.

  When Carmichael finally got upstairs, his wife was lying on her back fast asleep. A slight dribble of the white indigestion mixture she swigged nightly to combat the acid from which she suffered while pregnant every time she lay down, issued from a corner of her mouth.