‘I had nothing to do with those attacks,’ Burrows answered, ‘And you can’t prove any different.’ His smug self-assurance was already getting on Falconer’s nerves, and he’d like to have had just one minute alone with him, but that wasn’t going to happen, thank God, because it would be the end of his career.
‘I want to know where you were on the nights of Monday the first, Wednesday the third, and Friday the fifth of November,’ he almost shouted.
Burrows appeared to think for a long minute, then looked up with a cheerful smile, and informed him that he could account for the third, because he had been ‘all-cowled up’ as he put it, and smoking dope in the Strict and Particular Chapel in Steynham St Michael.
‘Apart from that, I simply can’t remember where I was on either the Monday or the Friday night. At a guess, the answer would be in my room studying, but whether that’s accurate or not, I can’t say. It would be of no use whatsoever, even if it were the truth, because there would have been no witnesses. I have the good fortune to have a single room, and the added benefit of privacy that that bestows on me.’
Falconer could feel his hands wanting to make throttling motions, and he ended the interview and dismissed Burrows back to the cells.
‘Supercilious little git!’ he spat at Carmichael, making the sergeant feel quite affronted.
‘Him, not you, you fool,’ the inspector said, in a somewhat strangled voice. ‘If you could have read my mind during that little interlude, you’d have found it dwelling on rather old-fashioned policing procedures that definitely aren’t in the handbook, and never really were.’
‘I wanted to give him a good thump, too, if that’s any consolation,’ confessed Carmichael. ‘He’s so cock-sure of himself, and he knows we can’t touch him without evidence.’
‘And what we don’t know,’ replied Falconer, slightly calmer now, ‘is whether there is any evidence. This case is driving me mad. There are too many suspects in it, and far too many weirdoes for my liking. I had to get rid of him before he started dipping into his philosophy course, to try to run rings round us and confound us with science, because I would have gone for him then, and I would also have kissed goodbye to my pension at the same time.’
By lunchtime they were no further forward with regard to the murders and the beating of DC Roberts, and Falconer’s frustration was beginning to show.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever been so confounded in my entire life! I know it’s one of that group: I just don’t know which one, but my money was on the men, and now Trussler’s come up with alibis for all the relevant times, and that Burrows is so relaxed I’m surprised he’s conscious at all. Somebody’s laughing up their sleeve at us, and I don’t like that at all.’
‘Isn’t there someone you could talk to about it?’ asked Carmichael, innocently.
‘Of course! I can give Hon … Dr Dubois a ring, and seek her opinion. We’re supposed to be consulting, after all. Thanks Carmichael! Brilliant man! I’ll telephone right away, and see if I can catch her.’
But his luck was out. Dr Dubois was not free until the next day, so he would just have to wait twenty-four hours, which situation, of course, dropped him right down into the pit of despair again. He spent the afternoon applying for search warrants, and mumping and moping about the station, thoroughly disheartened and demotivated. His mood wasn’t helped when forensics said they had done all they could with the photograph, but couldn’t bring out any facial features on the figure, because it was completely hidden by the hood of the garment it was wearing.
Falconer returned home that night in the dark of a November’s evening, thoroughly depressed. Just when he thought he’d wrapped the whole thing up, and done a ‘solve-one-get-one-free’, he had been turned out of his throne, and left with only half of his kingdom intact, and he wanted that other half so badly, in the shape of the person who had taken two lives, and nearly ended a third.
He flounced into the house, uncharacteristically sulkily, threw down his briefcase, hurled his coat at the rack on the wall, and went straight to the kitchen, without stopping to greet the four cats who had rushed to greet him. Having decided to have beans on toast with lashings of brown sauce for his evening meal, his guilty secret, he was determined not to delay his enjoyment of this treat, in the hope that it would cheer him up a little.
He had only just got the tin of baked beans out of his kitchen cupboard, when the phone rang, and he swore under his breath, as he rushed to answer it.
It was Monica Raynor on the other end of the line. ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling on this number,’ she opened the conversation from her end. ‘I got it from Dimity. It’s just that I haven’t been entirely honest with you about my whereabouts during these awful events in the village.’
‘What do you mean, you haven’t been entirely honest?’
‘That first body.’
‘What about it?’
‘Dimity wasn’t the first to find it. I was!’
‘You?’
‘Yes. I had an … an assignation, I suppose you’d call it, with Steve Warwick.’
‘Did you?’ Falconer was dumbfounded at this confession.
‘We were having a bit of a fling,’ she admitted. ‘I was supposed to pretend to go out on a call, then meet him at the chapel. We’d been using the little vestry, you see. He’d got the key because he was supposed to be finishing up there, on his own.’
‘Go on. I don’t believe I’m hearing this. Why didn’t you say something to me sooner?’ he asked.
‘Because of Quentin going missing. Then he came back. Then he went missing again. And then he was dead, and I was getting all the sympathy of a recently widowed woman. And by then, it seemed so tacky to admit to having an affair, when Quentin’s body was barely cold.’
‘I can understand that, but why didn’t you have a discreet word with me? I could have suppressed the information while we worked out whether it had anything to do with the case. So, go on, tell me what happened when you got there.’
‘The door was unlocked, as I expected it to be, so I went inside to see where he was, and I thought I saw him lying on the stone table they used for an altar, as a little ‘come on’. I even thought, ‘Yes, I wouldn’t mind sacrificing you, even if it is only your morals that are at risk.’ Then, when I got nearer, I could see there was something very wrong. He was lying sort of strangely. His position didn’t look natural.
‘Of course, when I got close up, I realised he was dead, then I heard someone outside, and belted up to the organ loft out of the way. I had no idea who it was, and I didn’t want to be caught there by the murderer, did I?’
‘And it was Dimity – Miss Pryor,’ Falconer continued for her.
‘No!’ she exclaimed. ‘No, it wasn’t her. It was some girl that I’d never seen before. She had a pot of paint with her, and she did that graffiti on the wall – vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord – then she just calmly put the lid on her paint pot, and went out again. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
‘I just stayed where I was, so shocked, I couldn’t move. There was Steve, on the altar, dead, and there had been that girl, just painting on the wall, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. I stayed there for quite some time, literally paralysed with fear, then I realised I had to pull myself together, because I had to go back to the office, and I didn’t want Quentin to see that there was anything wrong.
‘That was when Dimity came in, followed by all the others, and I curled myself up into a little ball to try to make myself as inconspicuous as possible, because there was no way I was going to take the blame for any of this, and I didn’t want Quentin to find out I’d been cheating on him. Again.’ Her voice stuttered to an embarrassed halt, as she came to the end of her confession.
‘Why on earth didn’t you tell me sooner? I’ve been running round in circles trying to identify the person responsible for these crimes. I’ve had to question your fancy man’s workmates, and his family and friends. I’ve been questioning people in the v
illage, and I’ve interviewed a lot of people at the college as well.’
‘I’m so sorry. I’ve been such a coward.’
‘Well, why don’t you make up for it now, and tell me what the girl looked like?’
‘I don’t know! I told you, I was so scared, I thought I was going to wet myself. I just screwed up my eyes tight shut until I heard her leave, once I’d seen her start her painting.’
‘But you’d seen the woman,’ Falconer countered. ‘Do you think you’d recognise her again, if you saw her?’
‘Oh, yes,’ confirmed Monica. ‘I could do that, all right, I just can’t describe her. If I see her face again, though, I’ll be sure.’
‘But you must know what she looks like. Was she tall or short?’
‘I don’t know. I was looking at her from above.’
‘Was she fat or thin?’ asked Falconer, desperately trying for some sort of description.’
‘Not thin. That I do know, though her figure was foreshortened by my view, and she wore baggy clothes.’
‘Was her hair short or long? Fair or dark? Straight or curly?’ he continued, desperate to nail her down on some details.
‘Don’t know. Let me think! Don’t rush me! It wasn’t dark, it was sort of fair. It wasn’t curly either. I think she must have had a ponytail or a plait, or something like that, because I know it wasn’t short, but it wasn’t flying around over her shoulders, or anything like that, but that’s all I can tell you. I simply don’t remember any more.’
‘Well, thank you for coming clean in the end, Mrs Raynor, and for scouring your memory about the girl’s description.’
‘I’m actually quite grateful to Quentin, for going this way,’ she added, somewhat cold-heartedly, in Falconer’s opinion. ‘Instead of being rivals for his, in my case, doubtful affections, Roma Kerr and I have become firm friends. I haven’t had a proper female friend since I was in my late teens, and it feels like I’ve got a lot of catching up to do. I mean, Tilly and I were always friendly – you remember Tilly Gifford – but she’s such an insatiable gossip that I could never confide in her, and know my secrets would be safe. It’s different with Roma.’
‘How very nice for you,’ said Falconer, muttering under his breath, ‘Bully for you!’ as he ended the call.
Apart from that rather bizarre verbal post script that was along the lines that he had been thinking along himself. It must be one of the girls from the inner circle, as Monica’s call had just drawn a line through Jamie Huntley, and he, Falconer, had been following a path to nowhere with Trussler and Burrows.
No wonder they’d been so confident he would find nothing incriminating. There was nothing to find. What a fool he’d been, being led from the straight-and-narrow like that, just because they’d been involved with Mr Spliffy, or Ms Spliffy, as they were obliged now to think of the character.
That left Elspeth Martin, Antonia Knightly, and Amelia Harrison. Maybe he’d give Carmichael a call when he’d had something to eat, and they could make a surprise call on all three, this evening: take them by surprise, before they have time to appreciate the seriousness of the arrests of Trussler, Burrows, and Jocasta Gray.
A quick call to the sergeant confirmed that he’d drive over to Falconer’s, and they’d set off at about eight o’clock.
Carmichael arrived dead on time, and they eventually set out in Falconer’s car, Carmichael’s parked a little further round the end of the cul-de-sac, after Falconer had asked him in, while he finished turning off lights, generally fussing around, and finally donning warm clothes, for the weather had turned bitter again. ‘So, where are we going first?’ asked Carmichael, having had the bones of Monica Raynor’s phone call explained to him over the telephone.
‘We’ll pick up that Elspeth Martin first, then go on for the other two. Martin will be easy, as she’s in the Halls. I’ve got home addresses for the other two,’ Falconer replied. ‘We’ll need to bring in all three of them for questioning then, if we get lucky, get search warrants. I want whoever did this put away, because they’re damned dangerous.’
‘I couldn’t agree more, sir, and I bet Chris Roberts does too. Any idea what’s happening with him?’
He’s going to be signed off sick for at least a couple of months, while his broken bones mend, then, I suppose it’ll depend on how his mother is. If she’s recovered sufficiently to cope after her stroke, then he’ll go back off to Manchester. After the time he’s had here, I bet he’ll be glad of the peace and quiet up there.’
‘He’s not had an easy time down here, has he, sir?’ asked Carmichael, reflecting on the many and various injuries that the DC had sustained during his short service in Market Darley.
A bit of luck meant that they actually found Amelia Harrison at Antonia Knightly’s house, as they were spending the evening together, discussing the arrest of their tutor and two of their group members, so it was a double arrest that took place at the Knightly household; something of a shock for Antonia’s parents, who agreed meekly to let the Harrisons know of their daughter’s arrest.
These two were driven to the station, where Carmichael duly booked them in, then joined the inspector, for their trip to the halls of residence.
By now it was nine-thirty, because of the paperwork involved in booking them in, but they were sure they would catch their third quarry unawares. Into the Halls they went, checked her room number, then started climbing the stairs to the second floor.
Her room was the third door down on the left but when they knocked there was no answer, and no light showed at the base of the door from inside. ‘Hell and damnation!’ swore Falconer. ‘She’s got wind that we were on the way!’ he exclaimed angrily.
‘Either that or she’s just gone out, sir. There could be a quite innocent explanation,’ Carmichael suggested.
‘I suppose you could be right,’ the inspector had to admit, and they trailed downstairs again, all adrenalin evaporated, all excitement gone. Falconer had hoped for a hat-trick of arrests tonight, and he had been cheated of his final quarry.
The drive home was almost in silence, except for a grumble from Carmichael, who began another complaint against the newest inhabitant of Castle Farthing. ‘That bloke has been getting on Kerry’s nerves, now, sir,’ he started, without preamble.
‘What bloke, Carmichael?’
‘That one I told you about, who thought he was a great wit, and was always shoving his nose into other people’s business. You remember? The one who made fun of me and the dogs.’
‘Right, so I do. What’s he been doing to upset Kerry, then?’
‘Well, now that’s she’s quite big, what with being pregnant, every time he sees her he calls out, ‘Have you seen my football, love? Oh, you’ve eaten it, have you?’ and it’s really getting on her nerves. She knows how big she’s getting, and doesn’t need a daft old beggar like him to keep drawing attention to it.’
‘You’ll just have to tell her to ignore him, and maybe he’ll get bored, and pick on someone else,’ Falconer advised him.
‘I’ve already done that, but this chap doesn’t ever seem to get bored by saying the same thing, over and over again.’
‘Give him time. I should think, remembering what he was like, that the Brigadier will be the first one to crack and give him a four-penny one.’
‘I hope so, sir, because I don’t want it to be me.’
‘You keep your hands to yourself, Sergeant. I can’t have my partner up on a charge of assault. I need you by my side, so be warned.’
‘Yes, sir.’
To try to lighten the mood, and to sweeten the bitterly disappointing end to the evening, Falconer asked if Carmichael would like to come in for a cup of tea.
‘I’d love to, sir, but there’s something I’ve got to do first,’ he replied.
‘What’s that?’
‘Kerry gave me a letter to post on my way out, and I’ve already forgotten to put it in the village post box. I noticed you had one at the end of the close, so I’ll ju
st take the car down there, pop it in the box, then I won’t have to think about it again,’ Carmichael explained. ‘I’ll never remember to do it if I leave it till I get back to Castle Farthing.’
‘Fair enough! I’ll get the kettle on, then, and leave the door on the latch for you.’
As Carmichael drove off, Falconer let himself into his house, and went straight through to the kitchen to do as he had promised, setting out cups and saucers on a tray, and putting the teapot, milk jug, and sugar basin (full) next to them. He filled the kettle, then bent to stroke the cats who were, all four of them, round his legs, meowing like mad.
‘Whatever’s up with you lot, then?’ he asked, bending down to stroke them, and his answer was just another chorus of urgent mewing. Noticing that the back door was unlocked, he put this down to his unexpected decision to go back out that night, and turned the key. He must have left it open when he took the rubbish out, before he ate.
His next goal was to get his work shoes off and his slippers on, so he headed straight for the sofa and bent down to unlace his footwear, when he was aware of several things happening simultaneously.
The chorus of cats had moved, with him, into the sitting room, and had grown louder. One of its singers had changed its call to an angry hiss; he noticed a shadow he had not been aware of before, from behind; and as his instincts thrust him forward, and out of his seat, a heavy object cracked him a hard knock on the arm.
There was a yell from the front of the house, a chorus of hissing and spitting from behind where he had been sitting, and a baseball bat crashed down where he had just sat, the second swing already in motion when he had barely escaped the first.
He grabbed his arm as pain flooded up it, there was a squealing noise from his attacker, who had been attacked at a low level by the defending cats, and then a figure flew through the air, and both it and his attacker disappeared down behind the sofa. But his pain was agonising, and he had thoughts only for that at the moment, tears pouring out of his eyes in reaction.
Strict and Peculiar (The Falconer Files Book 7) Page 18