‘There aren’t any that I don’t know about?’
‘No, that’s all of us. You’ll have no need to look any further. And I want the person who beat Chris caught and punished.’
‘So do we, Miss Martin, and, knowing some of your group’s views on punishment, I think it’s probably better if we find whoever it is first, don’t you?’
‘Definitely!’
‘You’re fond of Mr Roberts, aren’t you Elspeth?’
‘He’s a very kind man, and I liked him very much.’
He spoke to Antonia Knightly next, but learnt nothing new. If anything, Antonia was even more tight-lipped than Elspeth, and the interview was brief and unproductive. She was a little bit more hard-boiled than Elspeth, and it showed.
Jamie Huntley was next into the room and, apart from appearing rather like an archetypal a Roman Catholic theology student, he also had little to say, and denied all knowledge of the incident even going so far as to ask Falconer if he was sure that Chris had been beaten and not hit by a car and flung to the side of the road by the momentum of the impact.
‘Oh, I’m absolutely sure, Mr Huntley. I don’t know whether you’re aware of the fact, but Chris Roberts was actually DC Roberts, undercover here carrying out an investigation of his own.’ This may not have been the most truthful way to explain why Chris had been undercover, but at least it did not admit that he had been directly investigating this little group of Holy Joes.
‘I had heard,’ he replied, but when Falconer asked him from whom he had received this information, he clammed up and said he couldn’t remember, which was suspicious in itself. The revelation of a beating of this magnitude and the fact that Chris was a policeman, would have stuck in his mind like a burr in the fur of a cat’s bum.
‘Where were you late on Wednesday evening through to the early hours of Thursday morning?’ Falconer asked the question with no preamble, hoping to catch the young man off-guard, but it did him not a jot of good
‘I was in my room in the Halls, writing up my course notes,’ he replied, cool as a cucumber, and Falconer felt like throwing something at his smugly confident, pious face.
Amelia Harrison, the history student, was extremely garrulous, attempting to inform him of the entire history of the Strict and Particular movement, and he had to work hard to stem her flow of high-speed information, which threatened to drown him in facts that he had no interest in whatsoever, but he did manage, in the end, to discover that, quelle surprise, she had also been on her own at the time of the attack on Chris, and had no witnesses, as she didn’t like to study in company.
That left him with only the physical education and the philosophy students, to be followed by the tutor, and although he knew he wasn’t wasting his time in being here, he bethought himself that he would probably gain nothing by his questioning today. They were all shut up tight as clams, like their religious counterparts from the past. He knew that Chris had suffered a ‘punishment beating’, but he didn’t have the faintest idea how he was going to prove it.
Aaron Trussler, the physical education student, also admitted to attending a car maintenance course at the weekends, and claimed he should in fact be in the workshops at this precise moment, doing some catch-up work despite it being a Monday. He offered this information in a sullen voice, then just sat opposite Falconer, scowling at him in an intimidating way. He was a well-built young man, and Falconer was glad to have Carmichael taking notes in case Trussler should take exception to any of the questions he should be asked.
Trussler’s answers were monosyllabic whenever they could be, and he had no air of cooperation about him: he just wanted to go back to pulling engines apart and getting his hands dirty.
In stark contrast, Daniel Burrows was so laid-back he was almost comatose, waking up only to challenge Falconer about there being any meaning to life at all. ‘After all,’ explained the student, ‘the only consensus we can come to is that there is no absolute proof, and no way of obtaining any, that there is a supreme being; that God actually exists. The only reason the idea exists in any society is because man cannot believe in his own futility, and must believe in something greater than himself to carry on with his life without going mad. God is just a creation of hope and blind faith.’
‘And yet you are part of this revivalist religious group, which follows the practices and beliefs of the Strict and Particulars?’ asked Falconer, sure now that there would be no denial of the group’s existence, merely of its actual practices.
‘I don’t want to be one of the unfortunates who go mad,’ he replied, with infuriating logic.
Falconer glanced over at Carmichael, who gave the inspector what could only be described as an ‘ooh, get ’im!’ look, with which he totally concurred, and he speeded up his questioning to get the irritating young man through the process, and out of his sight.
Finally through with the students, he asked Jocasta Gray to join him in the tutor room. When she came in and sat down, unlike DC Roberts, he did not find her instantly fascinating, but rather repulsive, so slim was she that she was positively bony under her flowing gown. Once seated, she reached round to remove this garment, as the room was well-heated, and she was already warm.
Sitting in front of him, her thin, bare arms exposed to his gaze, he had to quell a shudder of revulsion at the whiteness of her skin, as well as the stick-like quality of her arms. It reminded him of veal, and his stomach lurched threateningly.
When he had been quite young, he had been given veal to eat by Nanny Vogel and had, at the time, enjoyed its tenderness. Later, however, Nanny Vogel had revealed her true purpose in giving him such a delicacy. It was so that she could tell him about the calves that gave their lives to produce such a treat, and how they were raised to keep their meat white and tender. Falconer had had nightmares, and had never tried veal again to this day; looking at the tutor’s arms now reminded him of the white flesh of which he had once, and only once, partaken.
Seeing his gaze, she put both of her bony elbows on the table, and began to explain. ‘I can see you admiring the milky whiteness of my skin, Inspector. It was seen as sinful, in the beliefs of the Strict and Particulars, for a woman to be coloured by the sun, like a man. They were expected to have enough to occupy them inside the home and with the children, and not go out to flaunt their skin in the heat of the summer unless it was covered.
‘I can also see a question in your eyes about my slightness of build. That is nothing to do with metabolism, and more to do with control. Greed was considered one of the greatest of casual, everyday sins that may not even be detected, until the evidence showed on the frame of the sinner. I control my intake of nourishment, not only with the recipes of the denomination, but also with the careful monitoring of calories.
‘Many of the Christians in this world are starving, and my carefully controlled, limited intake of nourishment is evidence of my one-ness with them. I empathise with them completely, and humble myself before them.’
What a load of old crap! thought Falconer, and tried not to let his emotion show in his face. Carmichael, he noticed, had ceased to take notes, and was standing, facing into the far corner of the room, away from the corridor. His head was bent, and his shoulders were very gently shaking. The man was laughing! How he would have like to join him, but he felt a very strange atmosphere around this woman, and he had to admit that he was unnerved by her.
Making the interview as short as possible, he finished by asking her where she had been at the time Roberts had been attacked. She had answered him simply and eerily. ‘I was at prayer, Inspector. I was at prayer,’ and he collected Carmichael and left the room with relief.
When they were back in the car, Carmichael had a question for Falconer. ‘Why did they all keep fiddling with something at the top of their legs? You probably couldn’t have seen it because it was under the table, but I could, and anytime you asked them something that unnerved them or was unexpected, they put a hand to their upper leg and made a sort of twisting m
otion.’
‘I’ll tell you when you’re a big boy, Carmichael. I don’t even want to go there, at the moment, but I think I know what they were doing, and it would explain why the women all wear long skirts, and the men, very baggy-cut jeans.’
‘Tell me now, sir,’ pleaded Carmichael.
‘Not just yet because I think I’d be sick. I’ll tell you, if it becomes relevant at any time, or at the end of the case, it if doesn’t, but please don’t mention it again, as I do actually feel rather nauseous.’ Falconer had been more affected by this discovery, on top of meeting Jocasta Gray, than he had expected. It all seemed very warped and twisted to him, and he realised he hadn’t quite understood the sort of people he was asking Roberts to go undercover to investigate.
Back in the office for a break from interviewing, he decided to give Philip Christmas a ring to see if there had been anything interesting discovered from the body of Monica’s husband. He was put through by one of the other staff, and, after greeting the doctor, said, ‘I was just calling to see if you had any news for me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ came the reply, ‘but I’m afraid I’m up to the elbows in Quentin Raynor.’
‘I know you have to write a report, but if you could just spare a minute away from your computer, I should be very grateful,’ Falconer replied, a trifle pompously.
‘I don’t think you quite understood what I meant, Harry. I’m literally up to the elbows in Quentin Raynor. One of my assistants is holding the phone for me while I’m rummaging around in his body cavity, with my hands round his spleen.’
‘Yuck!’ Silence. ‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea. When I asked to speak to you, no one told me that.’ Falconer was appalled at the grisly vision his mind conjured up.
‘Never mind! And while we’re speaking, and don’t worry, I can quite happily converse while I’m working, do you remember all those promises of a paperless office we were given, when the rise of the computer really got going? Now we’ve got the twin demons of having to record everything onto computer files, and still file paper printouts, with memos and e-mails, and all the other forms of modern communication to contend with. It takes three times as much time, and we still have the same volume of paper. And when you want something, can you find it? Can you heck as like! Three times as much work, for less than half the efficiency; that’s my opinion. What say you, Harry, boy?’
‘I think I’d like to end this conversation now, Philip. I’m actually feeling a bit nauseous just thinking about what you’re doing while we’re speaking. I’ll tell you what: raise the subject again when you haven’t got somebody else’s blood on your hands, not to mention half-way up your arms.’
‘I’ll get back to you as soon as I can, and I’ll give Forensics a nudge as well. That’s two murders and one attempted murder we’re dealing with, and I’m sure we both think alike, when I say I don’t want my workload increased in the near future.’
‘Agreed! Bye!’ Falconer hung up as soon as he had the opportunity. What a bloody job that man did, with both senses of the adjective. The very thought of what Christmas was doing as they had spoken had left him feeling rather unnerved, and he wanted no mental pictures at all of what was going on at the other end of that phone call.
No sooner had he hung up than the phone rang, and he had to pull himself together with a jerk. He found Mike Welland, the landlord of the Ox and Plough, on the line, sounding a bit excited, but at the same time, there was a tinge of embarrassment in his voice.
‘How can I be of assistance, Mr Welland?’ asked Falconer, surprised to receive a call from this particular individual so soon after his visit to the pub.
‘It’s about my nephew,’ Welland began. ‘He’s come to stay with me to get over a heavy bout of flu,’ he explained, ‘and arrived yesterday afternoon. I suppose he must have heard me talking to the wife, or someone in the bar with a bigger than normal gob, spouting off, but somehow he evidently overheard some stories that were not for his ears.
‘When he woke up this morning – late, I’d like to state, which is unusual for him – he was very quiet, and, at first, I put it down to his energy levels being depleted by his illness, but later, the wife found him crying in his room, and managed to get out of him what had upset him.’ Falconer held his peace, and let the man get on with his story. There was no point in rushing him. He must let him tell it in his own time.
‘It seems he’d got wind of something going on at the chapel – that it was haunted, or something. Anyway, the little terror – he’s nine, now – let himself out of the pub, just after I checked him, which must have been just a bit before midnight. We like our early nights, the wife and I. We’ve never been ones for staying up late, even though we run a pub.
‘Anyway, off he goes, all wrapped up against the cold, a torch and his mobile phone with him, in case he gets himself into bother. Apparently, he legged it down the Market Darley Road, keeping to the shadows, then crept into Tuppenny Lane, shaking with excitement at the adventure he was going to have, and the tales he’d have to tell the next day. Then, when he was approaching the chapel, he saw it – or rather, them.’
‘Go on, Mr Welland. I’m listening, and taking notes,’ Falconer couldn’t help interrupting him at this dramatic juncture. ‘What did he see?’
‘Two figures in dark, loose cloak-y things with hoods, one of them sort of supporting the other one, as if he were drunk or something, making their way through the gravestones. He thought at first that they were ghosts, but when the drunken one groaned, it frightened the shit out of the poor little lad; pardon my French, Inspector.’
‘What happened next?’ asked Falconer, thinking what luck it was that the boy had decided to go out at night exploring. This would narrow things down nicely, as far as timing went.
‘He took off like a bolt of lightning, back to the safety of the pub, in case they ‘got’ him, then he slunk off to bed without waking either of us, but my wife got it out of him this lunchtime. He was afraid that, as he’d seen them, they might come looking for him to drag him off to the graveyard or something daft like that. Great imagination, our Darren’s got.’
‘I’ll be over this afternoon to speak to him, if that’s all right with you, for I’ll need one of you to be present as an appropriate adult when I talk to him.’
‘No problem, Inspector Falconer. Thanks for your interest,’ and the man was gone, no doubt to help out at the bar, but he’d be closed when they went over to speak to his nephew so there shouldn’t be any clash of responsibilities by that time of day.
Immediately, his internal telephone rang, and he answered it to find Bob Bryant on the line. ‘There was a call for you just now, but you were engaged, so it got diverted to me. You’ve got a message from a Mrs Littlemore of Steynham St Michael.’
‘Oh, not again! And what exactly did she slur, this time?’ asked Falconer facetiously.
‘She sounded perfectly sober,’ answered Bob Bryant, knowing what had been said about the woman at the station.
‘Really?’ Falconer questioned this statement.
‘Well, almost. She said that there was one of them hooded buggers skulking around the chapel again, about two o’clock this morning, but that she’d heard chanting and stuff earlier than that. Those were her exact words, and when I asked her to expand a little bit, she said you’d know what she was talking about, and she’d wait for a visit from you.’
‘Thanks a bleedin’ bunch, Bob, but I’ve got to go out there anyway, a bit later. I’ll just know to wear a gas mask now, to stop myself getting drunk on the fumes coming off her.’
‘Way to go, Harry!’ commented Bob, cheekily, before ringing off.
‘What’s going down in Gumshoe City, USA?’ asked Carmichael, returning to the office after a short lunch break.
‘We’re off to Steynham St Michael again … and I assume you’re still watching those American cop shows on the television.’ Falconer answered.
‘Yes, sir. What are we going back for, this time?’
‘Well, you knew we’d have to go back, but I’ve just had a call from the landlord of the Ox and Plough. Apparently his nephew, who’s staying with him at the moment, took himself off on a little adventure late last night, and saw more than he bargained for, in the mysterious hooded figures department. And that Littlemore woman’s phoned in to say she’s had two more sightings, one about two this morning, and something about chanting earlier on.’
‘Oh, great! All we want to do is bring a murderer to justice, and we’ve got to spend the afternoon with kids and drunks!’ They must not have had enough chips in the canteen, for it was unusual for Carmichael to come back from a meal in a tetchy mood.
‘Only one kid and one drunk, Sergeant,’ Falconer clarified.
‘That doesn’t make it any better, does it?’ Carmichael replied, and actually frowned.
‘Whatever’s the matter with you today? We didn’t have much time for conversation this morning, but this afternoon you’re like a bear with a sore head,’ asked Falconer.
‘I was just thinking about last night. My ma came round, and that made three sets of haywire hormones in the house, including the dog’s. In the end I went for a walk, and let the two women discuss their aches and pains and past experiences in peace. I didn’t want to hear any of it, and frankly, I felt left out. None of us fell out, but I like Kerry to myself in the evenings, when the boys have gone to bed. I don’t want to sit around in my own home and hear about breech presentations, forceps, and episiotomies, thank you very much.’
‘Well, please don’t feel put out if I don’t join you in your little snit. I phoned Doc Christmas just now, and halfway through the conversation he informed me that someone was holding the phone for him while he scrabbled around inside Quentin Raynor to remove his spleen.’
‘Dear God!’ exclaimed Carmichael, and suddenly smiled, and commented, ‘It’s nice to be on your own, when you get a bit of a fit of the heebie-jeebies. Thanks for that, sir. I feel a lot better now. Let’s away!’
Strict and Peculiar (The Falconer Files Book 7) Page 14