Strict and Peculiar (The Falconer Files Book 7)

by Andrea Frazer

  The weather had turned slightly less bitter during the night, and there was a slight dusting of snow when Market Darley awoke the next morning, thus Falconer drove carefully to work, aware of how easily he could lose control of his beloved car in these conditions.

  His journey took him through a light fall of tiny flakes, but he had high hopes of this ceasing shortly, as the sky was not threatening, or, in fact, the right colour, for there to be any serious snowfall that morning, but it did bode badly for the winter that was on its way.

  Carmichael entered the office about five minutes after the inspector, and called out a cheery good morning, but the sound of his voice was swallowed by silence, like a tasty morsel in the maw of a gannet, and the smile of greeting slid from his face with the liquidity of shit down a cowshed wall.

  Falconer was staring over his desk at the sergeant in disbelief. ‘And who have you come as today, Sergeant? Nanook of the North? Quinn the Eskimo?’

  Carmichael, against the weather, was wearing an antique fur coat (the kind worn by men in the early years of the twentieth century on the other side of the Pond), a sheepskin hat with ear-flaps, and fur boots.

  Stopping halfway through removing his coat, he looked at Falconer and asked, ‘Who the heck are those guys? Look, sir, it reverses to ordinary coat material,’ and he demonstrated, by pulling one of the sleeves inside out.

  ‘Thank God for small mercies,’ answered Falconer, in response to this last. ‘Nanook of the North was the titular part in a silent film made in 1922, and was also the master of bears in Inuit mythology, who was responsible for the success or otherwise of the hunters, deciding who should find and hunt their quarry, and punishing violations of taboos.’

  Good grief! Here he was, back to infringement and punishment again. This case entered every corner of his life, and he would be glad to get it out of the way, so that he could get back to being a normal human being, and not one who analysed everything they did, to see if it was sinful or not. It was really getting to him, this cult.

  ‘Quinn the Eskimo is the titular character of an old song called ‘The Mighty Quinn’, recorded by, I think, Manfred Mann, a very long time ago, now. Ask your grandmother about it. I bet she’d remember.’

  Carmichael’s curt reply was, ‘What’s ‘titular’ mean?’

  ‘From the title,’ answered Falconer, just as curtly. ‘So, why are you dressed like that? Is it for a bet? Are you entering a fancy-dress competition? Or are you playing an extra in a film being made locally, that I simply don’t know about?’

  ‘I could smell snow when I put my head outside this morning,’ was Carmichael’s, again, short answer.

  ‘I can’t believe you actually managed to squeeze behind the wheel of your car dressed like that.’

  ‘I didn’t. I put the coat in the back, and took it out and put it on when I’d parked in the car park.’

  ‘Well, don’t go out with me looking like that. People will think there’s a grizzly escaped from somewhere and running loose in Market Darley. Where the hell did you get it?’

  ‘I found it in the attic in the house next door. It must have belonged to old Reg’s wife. Everyone said she was a big woman,’ Carmichael answered.

  ‘I don’t know about big: she must have been bleedin’ enormous if she wore that thing.’

  Falconer, not having been in the greatest of good moods that morning when he’d seen the weather conditions, decided he’d go for a stroll round the town to cheer himself up. It wasn’t bitter, as it had been in the previous days, he could do with the exercise, and he’d rather like to sulk in peace.

  ‘I’m off out,’ he declared. ‘I don’t know when I’ll be back. Take any messages while I’m gone, and I’ll look at them when I get back.’ And with that, he had grabbed his coat, and was out of the door without a backward glance at the rather bewildered sergeant.

  His wanderings finally took him to a maze of narrow streets that used to serve as workmen’s cottages. They fronted straight on to the narrow pavements that ran past them, and had only yards at the back. Some had been turned into workshops and the like and, as he walked along, thinking how different life used to be in the town, was suddenly startled out of his reverie by the appearance of an ice-cream van, which turned rather swiftly into one of these converted workshops, which now had wide wooden doors that opened inwards.

  Falconer stopped in the doorway of a corner house that had become a small newsagent’s, and watched for a while, but nothing else happened, so he went inside, bought himself a newspaper, and exited to lean against the wall, apparently absorbed in the news of the day.

  It was not long before a white van turned up, and also entered the workshop, and he remembered that one of the students had a white van. It would be almost too much of a coincidence if it turned out to be the same one, but he had managed to memorise the number plate, and, taking a pen from his jacket pocket, wrote the number down on the edge of the top page of the newspaper.

  A quick glance up and down the old street revealed that a couple of the houses had been knocked together on this side of the road, and a flat sign, not a hanging one, announced it as The Dew Drop Inn. He decided, immediately, that this may be the perfect place from which to conduct a covert surveillance – at least, as long as Carmichael didn’t dress the way he had arrived at the office this morning.

  After keeping covert observation for another fifteen minutes or so, the most he thought he could get away with before someone challenged his motives for hanging around there, he set off back to the station, determined that he and his sergeant would spend their evening in the Dew Drop tonight, watching out to see if the ice-cream van returned here after its dubious rounds.

  It had been spotted late at the college, and in fact, late in other locations, but none of the sightings had been after about half-past ten, so if they arrived about nine, then they could jolly well stay there till closing time, chancing their arm on discovering something. If that didn’t work, he’d get Chivers to see what he could do about getting a couple of new faces in there, on ‘obo’.

  He was, therefore, in a much better mood when he arrived back at his desk, much to Carmichael’s relief, and Falconer jumped straight into what he had seen, and his plan for their evening together. ‘It’s a bit rough down that way, sir,’ observed Carmichael, a lifelong habitué of the town who had only recently relocated to Castle Farthing.

  ‘I know; so no fancy clothes or coats. It’s jeans and a leather jacket, or something similar for you, and I shall wear my ‘old Harrys’, and my oldest coat, which I wear for any gardening work in the winter. We’re going temporarily undercover as a couple of layabouts with no interest in the area whatsoever, so we don’t want to get blown wide open like Roberts, and get out heads bashed in, do we?’

  ‘Not given the choice, sir, no.’

  ‘And no turning that coat inside out and wearing that, tonight. Even with the less opulent side showing, with your build, you’ll stick out like a sore thumb – a baddie from a Bond film in a backstreet pub.’

  ‘No, sir. You had a message while you were out. Do you want me to read it?’

  ‘Why didn’t you say something as soon as I got in?’ asked Falconer, crossly.

  ‘Because I couldn’t get a word in edgeways, with respect, sir.’

  ‘My apologies, Sergeant. I was a little excited by my discovery. Go on.’

  ‘It says simply, ‘Do you want to meet for coffee and discuss the case so far?’ and it’s from Dr Dubois. There’s a telephone number here, too, if you want it.

  Oh, he wanted it! The message was from Honey. Even thinking her name made his insides do a little flip, and he took the piece of paper very gingerly from Carmichael’s reaching hand, as if it would self-destruct, if he didn’t handle it carefully.

  Clearing his throat with both embarrassment and anticipation, he gave Carmichael his orders for the rest of the morning, before going somewhere more private to call the good doctor. ‘I want you to get over to Mrs Roberts’
house – phone first to let her know you’re on your way – and get DC Roberts’ rucksack.

  ‘I want that piece of work he said he’d had marked, and I want it fingerprinted and, just for good measure, I want all the prints we’ve got put through the system. I reckon that Jocasta Gray is in this up to her scrawny little neck, and I’m going to meet someone later who will be able to confirm my opinions. I’m not sure when I’ll be back.

  ‘Oh, and I’ve left the registration numbers of that white van and the ice-cream van to be run through as well. I’ve noted them down for you. I don’t think we’ll have any luck with Mr Spliffy’s vehicle, but I need to know who the registered owner of that van is. That should make very interesting reading. With any luck, it will turn out to be Aaron Trussler from the college.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  As it happened, Dr Honey Dubois was free on the instant, so Falconer was left no time to rush home and change and generally spruce himself up, or to get himself worked up into too much of a tizzy. When he called her, she suggested that they meet in a local coffee house – the same one in which Chris had met with Elspeth, although he didn’t know that – and said she’d be there in about half an hour.

  He, of course, was first to arrive, and was already sitting with a half-drunk latte on the table in front of him when he saw her come through the door. Rising to his feet to greet her, he asked her what she would drink, and went to the counter to order for them both, as his first drink had gone cold. Musing as he went, he thought that he had none of the symptoms he had shown, with the exception of a slightly raised heart-rate, when he had met his last love, and from whom he had inherited Ruby and Tar Baby. Maybe that was a good sign.

  He felt strangely comfortable and calm with Honey, as if he had known her a very long time. The raised heart-rate he identified correctly as lust. On his way back to the table, carrying a small round tray with their drinks and some individually-wrapped biscuits, he had time to take a serious look at her.

  She was very beautiful, her features reminding him of illustrations he had seen of Ancient Egyptian artwork, and he judged her to resemble the Nubians of ancient times. She held herself erect, her head up to look the world in the eye, and for this he fell for her even more. She was a tall woman, a member of an ethnic minority who neither felt out of place, nor inferior to any other person in any way. She looked proud to be who she was, and what she was.

  His reverie was broken as, on his approach to the table, she said, ‘I thought you’d gone to Costa Rica to pick the beans yourself.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, turning slightly pink. ‘The service is always rotten in here, but at least the coffee’s good.’

  ‘That’s why I suggested it as a meeting place. Good coffee and neutral territory. That’s the best way to meet for the first time, professionally, don’t you agree?’

  Nodding his head in concurrence, he thought, ‘And for the first time, personally.’

  ‘Have you been kept up to date with developments?’ he asked, fiddling with one of the wrapped biscuits to stop himself reaching across the table and taking her hand in his.

  ‘Yes, thank you, and I have got some idea of the sort of person we’re after. Look, shall I just tell you what my thoughts are, and we’ll see if that tallies with who you think you’re after?’

  ‘Good idea! Go ahead!’

  ‘Knowing what I do about what has happened, I’d say we’re looking for a man, or maybe a very strong woman. A baseball bat’s a hefty lump of wood and, given a sufficient swing, could do a great deal of harm in a determined enough woman’s hands.

  ‘I also think we’re looking for somebody who needs to be in control. That’s something that’s very important in his or her life – control. They live by a set of rules – maybe not conventional ones – and if they, or anyone else, cross the line, then that must be dealt with.’

  ‘That’s transgression and punishment again!’ Falconer exclaimed. ‘That seems to come up all through this case.’

  ‘Then maybe you’re looking for the person who’s meting out the punishment.’

  ‘That’s the conclusion I’ve come to, but what is the transgression, and who is the punisher? That’s the nub of the whole thing.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re looking for anyone in that village,’ she said. ‘I think you’ll find your murderer in that strange little group from the college.’

  ‘I know full well that the tutor’s involved in this business, somehow, because of the Greek that was painted on the chapel wall: I just don’t know how she’s involved. And that DC of mine, who was beaten to a pulp, has regained consciousness, and told me about two of the male students in that group: one who actually owns a van, although I don’t know the colour, and is on a car maintenance course, and another who said he’d hurt his hand changing a wheel on his car. Either of them would fit the bill very well.’

  ‘Don’t go jumping to any conclusions yet. It might seem that a lot has happened, but it’s early days yet. I think there’s a very tortured soul involved in this somehow. We just have to find out who it is, and I think everything else will just fall into place.’ Honey sounded very confident as she said this, and Falconer was impressed. Here he was, going off on surveillance tonight, and she was telling him not to rush off and do anything rash.

  He’d not change his mind on that one though, after the physical evidence he had witnessed himself that morning. You never knew what was going to come crawling out when you turned over a stone.

  They finished their coffee in companionable conversation, and when he looked at his watch, it was much later than he had thought. As they parted, Honey said, ‘We must do this again, sometime, and maybe not just because work dictates. What do you say?’

  ‘Yes!’ He managed to make this come out in a normal volume, and not as the shout that he had instinctively wanted to use. ‘That would be lovely, er, Honey.’

  ‘Goodbye then, for now, Harry,’ she called, as she walked away, and disappeared amongst the other shoppers out in the street.

  When Falconer got outside the coffee house he punched the air in celebration. She wanted to see him again! And for pleasure, not for work! This was, indeed, a red letter day for him.

  When he returned to the office, it was to find Carmichael in a positive tizzy of excitement. ‘Where’ve you been, sir? I’ve got the most unbelievable news for you!’

  ‘Tell me, Carmichael. My luck seems to be in, all round, today.’

  ‘I did what you told me, and got that essay – in fact, I took the whole rucksack – from Mrs Roberts, and I got the fingerprint boys to do a rush job for me. While they were doing that, I put through the vehicle registrations numbers you gave me. No luck with the ice-cream van, as per usual, but the computer came up with a name for the owner of the van.’

  ‘Well, don’t keep me in suspenders. Whose is it?’

  ‘It belongs to an Aaron Trussler, originally from Hampshire, but I checked, and he’s studying at the college. He’s one of those we interviewed.’

  ‘What about Jocasta Gray’s fingerprints?’ asked Falconer, hoping he was going for gold.

  ‘Jocasta Gray, my bum! That’s what she calls herself now. I don’t know how she got to be a tutor at that college – probably declaring qualifications she’s not entitled to – but she’s an ex-tom.’

  ‘A tart!’ exclaimed Falconer, completely floored.

  ‘That’s right, sir. She’s got a list of arrests as long as your arm, but they’re all up in London, and they stopped about five years ago. She was calling herself Tracey Smith back then, and there’s not been a peep out of her since under either name, and we’ve got no other aliases on record for her.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be blowed! Have we had anything back on those fibres from Steven Warwick’s clothes yet?’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir. They’ve identified some from the matting where he was killed, but there are still some still to be accounted for.’

  ‘Then I think I’ll just give them a little nudge
. Are you still up for tonight’s little adventure?’

  ‘As long as it doesn’t include being beaten up with a baseball bat, sir.’ replied Carmichael, with a completely straight face.

  ‘I don’t think it will, but I’ll get Bob Bryant to get some of the patrol cars to be on stand-by, in case we run into trouble and need to call for back-up.’

  ‘Good idea, sir.’

  ‘Dress inconspicuously, and I’ll meet you in The Dew Drop Inn at half-past nine, I think. We don’t want to be hanging around in there any longer than is necessary, and I don’t suppose there’ll be any action over at the workshop, until ten or half-past, or even later. I just hope the pub doesn’t close before we’ve seen anything. It’s not somewhere I’d like to be found loitering after dark.’

  ‘Me neither, sir. I said it was pretty rough round there, and it’s even worse after dark. You ask Merv Green about it. There’s many a time he’s been called out there to break up fights and rescue pub landlords from behind their bars when their pub’s been busted up in a mob rumble.’

  ‘I shall be sure to wear my tin hat,’ retorted Falconer, and then got one of Carmichael’s looks.

  ‘You’d better take it seriously, sir. People get badly injured, if not killed round there.’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant.’

  Falconer arrived at their rendezvous a little early. He sported a heavy five-o’clock shadow on his chin, being a man who has to shave twice a day if he’s going out in the evening, and this gave him a suitably seedy air when considered with the old clothes he was wearing.

  Carmichael arrived a minute or two before the half hour, unspotted by Falconer, so inconspicuously had he dressed, and so sinister and large were some of the other pub’s patrons. He greeted the sergeant informally, to tip him off about their mode of address this evening, calling, ‘Evening, Davey. Glad you could make it. Thought the old trouble and strife would lock you in the house.’

  Carmichael, recovering well after his initial startled expression, cottoned on, and replied, ‘Evening there, yourself, Harry. What can I get you, s …?’ He just managed to suppress the ‘sir’ on the end of that question.