Strict and Peculiar (The Falconer Files Book 7)

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘There was no way I fancied walking all the way back to the pub at that hour of night, on an unlighted road in the freezing cold, and with that fog. Of course, I gave it a go, but within a couple of yards it was so slippery I fell flat on my back and completely winded myself. I could hardly see my hand in front of my face, and I thought, if something big comes down this little road, in these weather conditions, I’m going to be minced – I must admit to not being the most adventurous and courageous of men, Inspector – so I went back to the car, got the emergency blanket,’ (for one of his ‘lovelies’, no doubt!) ‘and decided it was safer to stay where I was and hope to attract the attentions of a passing motorist, and hope one passed before the morning.

  ‘By golly, it was a cold night. Fortunately I’d taken an overcoat and scarf with me, and I had the extra blanket from the boot, so I wrapped up as best as I could, and spent a wakeful night, wishing I could turn the blasted engine on when it got too cold, and trying to doze in between times.’

  ‘He was absolutely frozen when he got in,’ put in Monica, for once, showing genuine concern for her husband. ‘I told him to take a hot shower and go straight to bed, but he insisted in coming in to work, even if it was just for the morning.’

  ‘So, who did eventually come to your rescue, then?’ Falconer queried.

  ‘There was a passing milk-float, about six o’clock. He didn’t have a mobile with him, but he said he’d pop into the first pub he came to on his rounds, and promised to stop there when he delivered the milk and get the landlord to send out the AA. It took over two hours for someone to find me and get the problem fixed, and by then I was chilled to the bone,’ he concluded.

  ‘And where was he headed?’ asked Falconer.

  ‘Oh my God!’ exclaimed Quentin, slapping a hand to his forehead. ‘He must have been on his way here, to Steynham St Michael. I was so cold I wasn’t thinking straight. I could have got a lift with him back home, albeit it a slow one, and not had to carry on my vigil, waiting for the AA to show up. What a dick I am!’

  ‘I presume, then, that he stopped at the Ox and Plough,’ commented Falconer, trying to suppress a smile. At this detail, Monica’s hearty laughter echoed round the office, filling it with the sound of her realisation of exactly what Quentin had done. ‘He could’ve dropped you off right outside our door,’ she spluttered.

  Ignoring her, her husband responded to Falconer’s comment. ‘No doubt you’re right on the button, and that’s just across the road from home. How am I ever going to live this one down? I’ll be the laughing stock of the village!’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Falconer, still fighting his mirth. ‘We’ll have a word with the landlord of the Ox and Plough, and the milkman, if you can remember which dairy it was from, to save us time, just to confirm what you have told us. It was the Royal Oak you visited in Market Darley, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s a bit strong, isn’t it?’ asked Quentin. ‘I was only broken down, not robbing the Bank of England.’

  ‘Not really, Mr Raynor. Last night was a busy night, and a number of incidents occurred in the vicinity, which it is our job to investigate. If, however, your story is the unembroidered truth, then you have nothing to worry about, have you? I shall have to go now, as I have a number of other calls to make. Did you say which dairy the milk-float came from?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t notice,’ mumbled Quentin, feeling very embarrassed.

  ‘Never mind: we’ll track it down for you,’ said Falconer, not knowing whether Quentin would see this as a threat or a relief. What if Quentin had been with one of his ‘bits of skirt’? No, he was making fiction out of fact. He didn’t really believe that Quentin was lying. It was just such a coincidence, so many things happening on the same road in one night: what with the car being burnt out just near it, Quentin breaking down, and Doc Christmas finding Chris’s unconscious body.

  It was a wonder the doctor hadn’t noticed Mr Raynor’s broken-down car, but then a man can’t be expected to be aware of every detail in his peripheral vision as he concentrates on the road ahead, and it had been a foul night, what with the freezing fog and the plummeting of the temperature to leave the countryside dusted with a thick frost. It would have been enough of a job just to keep to the right side of the road, and not slip on any of the black ice that had developed as the night wore on.

  They called next into the Ox and Plough to speak to Mike Welland, landlord of that licensed premises. The pub was closed now for the afternoon, as it wasn’t one that had opted for all-day opening, but a side door bore an electric doorbell, which Falconer duly rang in the hope of raising some attention from inside.

  Within a few seconds, the door was opened by a large man with sparse greying hair combed across his bald patch, and his belly hanging over the belt of his trousers. ‘Mr Welland?’ enquired Falconer, sizing up the man and deciding how perfectly built he was to cope with any trouble that arose when about his business of providing alcoholic beverages for his customers should they get a bit exuberant in drink.

  He bade them enter, and offered them, surprisingly, a cup of coffee, which they gladly accepted. Sitting in the deserted bar, sipping their scalding drinks, Mr Welland confirmed that the milkman had asked him to send an SOS to the AA for a man, early that morning, and he had obligingly done so. That was the extent of his knowledge, having no idea whether the AA had responded or not. Without hesitation, he confirmed that the milk float had been from the Home Farm Dairy, a Market Darley-based supplier, who had always provided the pub’s milk during his tenure there.

  When asked about the events of the previous night, however, he put his coffee cup down on the table with a shaky hand, spilling a few drops as he did so. ‘That was damned scary,’ he informed them. ‘I was just taking Jake – that’s my dog – for a little walk, seeing as he had something on his mind that wouldn’t wait till morning. Well, I often go down Tuppenny Lane, and let him do his ‘business’ on that bit of waste ground beside the library. Patience was always at me to clear it up and take it home with me, but I can’t stand the feel of it through the plastic bag. It makes me want to throw up.

  ‘Anyway, off I went last night, turned into Tuppenny Lane as usual, but after a few steps – I was just passing the chip shop – I thought I saw movement in the churchyard beside the chapel, and I stopped dead. The light wasn’t good, and that foul freezing fog had begun to come down so visibility wasn’t great, but it looked to me as if there were a monk or something, creeping round the gravestones.

  ‘It damned near made me do what I’d brought Jake out to do, I can tell you,’ he informed them, with a rather false laugh. ‘Then, I thought, big man like me, I ought to take a look, so I walked on a bit further, peering through the mist to try to catch sight of it again, but it had gone; like it had just disappeared into thin air. Jake growled a bit, but I didn’t hang around. I’d seen enough for one night, so I gave a tug on the lead, and we headed back here, and I let him do his ‘doin’s’ in the backyard.’

  ‘And you’re absolutely sure of what you saw, Mr Welland?’ asked Falconer.

  ‘If I wasn’t, Jake’s growling would’ve confirmed it for me. I might not have been positive that there was someone there made of flesh and blood, but he was.’

  ‘That’s been very helpful, Mr Welland. Thank you for your time,’ said Falconer, concluding their visit.

  ‘Can I get you another coffee before you go?’ the landlord asked.

  ‘No, thank you. We have other calls to make, and I don’t want to take up any more of your time,’ Falconer replied, heading for the side door through which they’d entered.

  Before they could take their leave of the pub, however, a vast hairy figure bounded out of a now-open door, and landed with its paws on Falconer’s shoulders, drooling happily. ‘That’s our Jake, announced Mr Welland proudly, close on their heels. ‘He’s a friendly fellah, ain’t you, boy?’

  The dog looked lovingly into Falconer’s eyes and panted its approval of its new pla
ymate. ‘I wonder if you could just …’ Falconer pleaded.

  ‘Come on down, Jake. The gentleman doesn’t have time to play. Maybe he’ll come back another day and throw a stick for you.’

  As Welland explained evidence of Jake’s friendliness, Jake was getting rather too friendly with Falconer’s crotch, sniffing deliriously and wagging his tail, while Falconer did a sort of rumba with his hips, trying to avoid the prods of the dog’s large nose. Jake’s owner, of course, noticed nothing.

  When they were finally outside, Carmichael grinned at the inspector’s discomfiture, and said innocently, ‘I didn’t know you could dance, sir!’

  ‘Carmichael.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Shut up!’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  Straight back to the business in hand, Falconer said, ‘I suppose we’d better pay a visit to Mrs Littlemore now, then. What do you think, Carmichael?’

  ‘I think her surname’s very apt,’ replied Carmichael in a gloomy voice at the prospect of more time spent in the company of an habitual drunk.

  ‘How’s that?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘Well, I bet every time someone asks her if she’d like anything more to drink, she always says, ‘Oh, just a little more,’ and that’s her, isn’t it, sir? – A Littlemore!’

  ‘How very perceptive and witty of you, Carmichael. I shall have to watch you, or you’ll be turning into Noel Coward.’ Falconer declined to mention his own similar observation of earlier.

  ‘I dunno who he is, sir, but I’m very happy being me at the moment, and I don’t want to change anything,’ replied Carmichael with great sincerity, if not complete understanding of what the inspector had said to him.

  There was no reply to their ringing and knocking at the door of the Littlemores’ residence, and it suddenly dawned on Falconer that they might actually be at work in their craft shop. He’d usually had contact with them outside business hours, and wasn’t sure how strictly they adhered to these. Today, though, they might just be at work, and in a fit state to answer questions. That would certainly make their job a good deal easier.

  The craft shop was, indeed, open, although it had no customers at the moment, and the two policemen had the place to themselves. Both Littlemores had mugs of something hot and steaming in front of them, and when offered similar refreshment, Falconer assented to their offer without a second thought.

  It was only when he took a hearty swill from the mug that Amy had handed to him, that he realised what they had been given, and nearly choked. ‘Goodness, that’s strong!’ he declared, and motioned to Carmichael not to drink his. ‘He’s driving!’ he explained, setting his mug down on the counter, determined not to have another mouthful. It may have once been hot chocolate, but it was now about forty per cent brandy if his taste buds were any judge. So much for finding the couple perfectly sober!

  ‘Business seems to be very quiet,’ Falconer commented, as a sort of polite introduction to their visit.

  ‘Always is, these days,’ replied Malcolm, taking a swig from his mug.

  ‘We was thinkin’ of retirin’ and, per’aps, openin’ a little country pub,’ Amy chimed in.

  Falconer nearly choked on his drink, and Carmichael had to pretend to be looking at the stock in the window display, while he blew his nose noisily into his handkerchief, to smother his laughter. A pub? These two? It didn’t bear thinking about. They’d have drunk the business dry in no time.

  Regrouping his thoughts, Falconer said, ‘I’d like to talk to you, Mrs Littlemore, about what you reported seeing last night in the area of Tuppenny Lane.’

  This was her moment to shine for the police. Puffing her chest out in pride, Amy launched herself on her dramatic story. ‘I dunno what time it was, but Malcolm and I had just had a little discussion,’ she began. Argument, more like, thought Falconer) ‘Anyway, I went outdoors for a breath of fresh air, and to clear me ’ead a bit, ’cos I’d ‘ad a few glasses of wine. Anyway, I was toddlin’’ (Staggering!) ‘round the garden, when I seen this shape – ’orrible it was – like somethin’ outta one o’ them ’Ammer ’Orror films. It was like old Rasputin ’isself ’ad come back to life, an’ was stalkin’ the village.

  ‘Then, when I took another look, there was a whole crowd of ’em, all in that there cemetery, millin’ around as if they was ’avin’ a party, like. Well, I’d seen enough, at that point, so I shot back indoors, and told Malcolm about it, but he didn’t believe me. By the time I’d convinced ’im to come out an’ ’ave a butcher’s, they’d all gone, and ’e said I must ’ave imagined it, but I didn’t, Inspector. They was real!’

  ‘I believe you, Mrs Littlemore,’ he informed her, causing her husband’s mouth to drop open in surprise. ‘You weren’t the only one to see something of the sort in the environs of the chapel last night, and I believe every word you’ve told me,’ he informed her, followed by the thought; except for the number of figures she had thought she’d seen. He’d probably have to halve that, to take into account the double vision with which she was probably suffering at the time.

  ‘And you really don’t know what time it was that you went outside?’ he asked, hopefully.

  ‘The ten o’clock news was over, when I wen’ out. I know that, ’cos we watched the weather forecast. It wasn’t too long after that, but, as I said, I’m not too sure of the actual time.’

  That would more or less confirm Mike Welland’s story that there had been something going on in the chapel grounds the night before, but Mrs Littlemore claimed to have seen several cowled figures, and Mike Welland only one. Had one stayed on for some other purpose, or was this figure just the last to leave whatever they were up to in the chapel grounds?

  ‘Perhaps we ought to go and look in the chapel, sir: see if there’s any new defacement of the walls,’ suggested Carmichael.

  ‘I think we’ll leave that to the good ladies and gentlemen who have been working so hard to get the chapel refurbished, to make that discovery. To tell you the truth, Carmichael, I’ve had enough of this village for today. I’d rather get back to Market Darley, and see how Roberts is doing, wouldn’t you?’ The inspector was still feeling twinges of guilt about Roberts’ condition.

  ‘Definitely, sir. He’s one of ours, after all, and what’s that compared to a bit of paint on an old chapel wall?’

  Halfway back to the market town, Falconer took a quick glance in Carmichael’s direction, and just murmured, ‘A pub!’, then had to pull off the road, because they were both laughing so much at the thought of the Littlemores running a licensed establishment. It would be like putting a fox in charge of the hen-house.

  Chapter Eleven

  Friday 5th November

  The next morning it was confirmed that the burnt-out car did, in fact, belong to Chris Roberts, and the hospital had confirmed that he was now fighting his way towards consciousness. The CAT scan had revealed nothing sinister with regard to inter-cranial bleeding, swelling of the brain, or possible permanent damage, and he had been taken off the ventilator first thing that morning and was now breathing for himself.

  Sightings of the ice-cream van now referred to as ‘Mr Spliffy’ had been reported by a number of patrol vehicles, and there was a pattern emerging on Falconer’s wall map now. Although the sightings, literally pin-pointed over a period of time during the day were wildly at random, there seemed to be a general area where they started in the morning and ended, sometimes very late in the evening.

  Falconer felt that he was moving in on whoever was peddling dope under the cover of selling ice-cream, and wondered if the vendor actually kept some real ice-cream and lollies on board, in case he got some kosher customers. He supposed that whoever it was would have to, otherwise someone would have been bound to complain, and it would have come to the ears of the local community police officers and passed on to the station.

  Given the date, Carmichael’s thoughts were on a totally different subject, and he was hardly able to conceal his excitement as he contemplated
the happy hours he would spend in his garden, lighting a bonfire and burning the guy he and the boys had made, then letting off the fireworks he had purchased specially for the occasion, and safely stored in the loft, away from prying eyes and hands. Kerry had promised that they could bake potatoes in the embers of the bonfire, and cook sausages held to the flames on long twigs, and he felt as if he were seven years old again.

  When Monica Raynor called to say that Quentin had disappeared again overnight, Falconer was not in the best of moods, and suggested that, as Quentin was an adult, it was not advisable to start a search for him until he had been gone for forty-eight hours, and asked if he had charged his phone, and made sure the car was in working order before he’d left.

  At that point, he had hung up on her, exasperated by Carmichael’s capers round the office, and his continued guilt at the beating Roberts had suffered. If he had let the call last a little longer, he would have discovered that Quentin had not taken his car. It was still outside the house, and his mobile phone was sitting on the kitchen table, not even switched on, but Monica made no second call, lulled into a false sense of security at the mention of waiting a little longer before doing anything official.

  In the end he sent Carmichael home early, asking him to pass a little time by visiting Roberts’ bedside again, and not to let him, Falconer, set eyes on him until the following morning, when his gunpowder plot would have been executed.

  He, as the only sane half of the partnership left today, would have to carry on the investigation on his own. Roberts would have kept notes, and they would probably be at his mother’s house. If he called there, he could take a look at what the detective constable had written up so far, and that might give him an idea of whom he should interview at the college.

  It would seem that Roberts’ cover had been blown somehow, and the only way to tackle things now was to get some names and start conducting interviews at the college himself. Much as he had no appetite for looking Mrs Roberts in the eye, he knew his duty, and set off for her home feeling like a heel. His discussion with her would not be a pleasant one, but he had to face up to it if he wanted to get his hands on her son’s notes.