Castle Farthing presented itself as the perfect English village, as they made their way to Jasmine Cottage, with ducks paddling round the pond on the green, and residents, in twos and threes, stopped to exchange news and catch up with local happenings. The door stood wide open when they approached Carmichael’s home, and the sound of children playing and a muffled ‘wuff wuff’ of dogs, issued forth from inside.
‘In you go, sir,’ said Carmichael in invitation, and Harry Falconer took his first steps into the living room, to be immediately set upon by two small figures in shorts and T-shirts, shouting, ‘Uncle Harry! Uncle Harry! Look, Mum! Uncle Harry’s come to see us.’ With a child wrapped fondly around each leg, the inspector waded his way towards Kerry Carmichael, who stood just in front of the closed kitchen door, waiting to greet him.
‘Come in, Inspector Falconer. We’re all very pleased to see you. Davey’s always telling us about you, and now we’ve got the opportunity to spend the evening with you in our own home.’
Falconer looked very bemused. He felt he had received the greeting normally reserved for a favourite uncle, yet he had barely spent more than a few minutes here in past visits.
‘Daddy Davey says you used to be a soldier,’ shouted one of the boys, scrambling on to his lap, as he gave up the unequal struggle, and collapsed on to a sofa.
‘A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a,’ yelled the other boy, imitating a machine gun. ‘Got you, Uncle Harry. Play dead!’
‘No you didn’t, you missed,’ yelled the other, then clutched at his stomach and tumbled slowly to the floor. ‘You got me instead, you dirty rat! Argh! You plugged me!’
‘Did not!’
‘Did! A thousand times did, and one more than you can ever say.’
‘That’s not fair!’
‘’Tis!’
‘’Tisn’t. Mum, tell him that’s not fair!’
‘Come on you two, and let the poor man catch his breath. He’s been at work all day. He wants to relax for a bit now, and not have you all over him like a load of ants.’
‘Do you want to play cowboys and Indians, Uncle Harry? Look at me, I’m on my horse,’ said the smaller of the two figures, raising his hands as if holding reins, and galloping round the room.
‘Bang! Bang! You’re shot now. You’ve got to fall off your horse, or it’s not fair. Mum, Mum, it’s not fair if he doesn’t fall of his horse when I shoot him, is it?’
Their mother finally gathered them up and shooed them out into the garden to run off some of their energy, but in doing so, she let the dogs into the room, and Fang the Chihuahua, and his companion, Mr Knuckles the miniature Yorkshire terrier, came tearing across the carpet, their one aim to reacquaint themselves with the bottoms of Falconer’s trouser legs. They had smelled enticingly of cat in the past, and did not disappoint on this occasion, and proving an open invitation to give them a good mauling. With little growling noises, they seized the material in their tiny jaws, and began to bite and chew with enthusiasm, dragging on the material for all they were worth.
‘Oh, look, sir. They want to play, too,’ offered Carmichael with a dopey smile on his face.
‘Come here, you two little horrors. Out you go, too. I doubt the inspector wants to go home with shredded trousers,’ admonished Kerry, grabbing each by the collar and depositing them on the other side of the back door to join her sons. ‘There!’ she commented with satisfaction, rubbing her hands together at her own efficiency. ‘Davey’s such a softie, he’d let them get away with murder – oh, I’m sorry. I forgot what you’ve been doing today. Now, what can I get you to drink?’
‘What about a nice cup of tea?’ suggested Falconer, half his mind on the fact that a Bombay Sapphire and tonic was out of the question, and when Carmichael had voiced his agreement, and she had gone into the kitchen to put on the kettle, the other half of his mind had a bone to pick with his sergeant.
‘What’s all this ‘Uncle Harry’ business? Since when have we been brothers? Did I go to sleep for a long time, and miss something important? Like being adopted by your mother, Carmichael?’
‘No offence meant, sir. It’s just that Kerry never had the boys baptised, and I’ve been thinking who I’d really like as their godfather. I mean, I know we only work together, but I wanted to choose someone absolutely straight and really good, who’d set them an example in life, and every time I asked myself who I wanted, I thought of you. I hope I haven’t offended you?’
Slightly bewildered at this turn of events, but willing to go alone with it in theory, Falconer answered, ‘Not at all. I’m really flattered. But what’s the whole thing with Uncle Harry?’
‘I’ve been telling them stories about you, so that they feel they know you better. You remember that visit to my uncle’s – the one with the dogs?’
‘Only too well,’ the inspector answered with a grimace [1].
‘And that time in Stoney Cross when you dressed up like a parrot?’ [2]
‘I was not dressed like a parrot. I just … developed a temporary blind spot in my sartorial selection,’
‘Whatever you say, sir. But that’s the sort of stuff that makes them laugh. And what your cats get up to, and how fussy you are about your appearance.’
‘So you’ve turned me into some sort of comic caperer in their eyes?’
‘No, sir. Nothing could be further from the truth. They think you’re great!’
‘Oh!’ Falconer was surprised to find himself very flattered. ‘That’s very nice, Carmichael. In that light, do you think you ought to call me Harry while I’m here?’
‘Absolutely not!’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’ve told them that your other name is ‘Sir’, and I’m very privileged to be allowed to address you as such.’
Falconer decided that he’d never fathom the workings of the younger man’s mind, and merely nodded in agreement.
‘Does this mean you’ll do it?’
‘Do what?’
‘Be their godfather?’
With no place to hide, Falconer gave in to the inevitable, and shook his partner’s hand.
‘I’d be honoured.’
II
Tea did, indeed, prove to be fish, but not in the form of fingers. Kerry had found some breaded fish-shapes that seemed to swim across the plate, with a waving sea of chips above them, and a seabed composed entirely of baked beans. What was even better was the presence on the table of both a bottle of tomato sauce, and a bottle of brown.
Beans and brown sauce! And with the added delight of breadcrumbed fish! Falconer tucked in with as much enthusiasm as the boys, and even had a second helping when Kerry offered to fry another batch of crispy, golden chips. The icing on the cake, as far as he was concerned, was his instruction in the making of a ‘chip butty’ with rubbery bought sliced bread, ably demonstrated by Carmichael, and he retired from the table a contented man.
As Kerry herded the boys upstairs for their bath, the two men were left alone to talk, and the conversation was opened by Carmichael. ‘I can’t quite put my finger on it, sir, but that message from PC Starr … Does she speak fluent French?’
‘Why’s that?’ Falconer was digesting, and not much in the mood for small talk.
‘Well, wouldn’t Chef be a bit difficult to understand if he were mumbling, and not fully conscious?’
‘He must’ve spoken in English. That seems blatantly obvious. Starr doesn’t strike me as a linguist.’
‘Me neither. I know she came up with that iffy question for Merv Green to ask that French barmaid, but it didn’t sound like she knew much more than that. I may be wrong, but I don’t think so. And so I got to thinking: why would a Frenchman speak English, if he wasn’t fully awake? Surely he’d have spoken in French. I mean, he didn’t even realise where he was, did he? He was just rambling. But you repeated what she said with a French accent. Does that mean anything?’
Carmichael did have a point, and Falconer put it down on his mental list, to check the next day. Maybe he had a point.
Starr had used no other accent than the one that she used every day. He, it was, who had given it the comedy French flavour. Did it mean anything if Chef had spoken in English, or did it just confirm that he was so used to speaking it that it had crept out of his subconscious?
‘Don’t know, Carmichael, but there’s no use in speculating until I’ve had the chance to speak to Starr. I suppose it could mean something in the great scheme of things, but what, I don’t know. What the hell’s happening?’
As he had spoken, he had become aware of a curious warmth on both of his ankles, and as he asked the question, Carmichael leapt up from his chair and grabbed two furry balls by the scruffs of their necks, and held them up until they were right in front of his face.
‘I know you love Uncle Harry,’ he informed them, ‘and I know you’re just marking him as yours, but that really is very naughty. You know you’re not allowed to mark anything in the house. Shame on you! You’re going outside again, until you can remember your manners, decide to behave. Don’t worry, sir, I’ll get you a pair of my old jogging bottoms to see you home.’
With a look of horror, Falconer gazed down at the bottoms of his trouser legs, which were now wet, but cooling fast. The mutts had peed on him, one on each leg, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust, as his host deposited the miscreants outside the back door, and thundered upstairs, to return with the promised item of clothing in his hand. ‘Here. Go into the kitchen and put these on, and I’ll get you a carrier bag for the wet ones.’
Falconer accepted the proffered garment and did as he was told, saying nothing until he had returned to the sitting room, the legs of the trousers gathered round his ankles in concertinas of surplus material. ‘I’ve only got one question, Sergeant.’
‘What’s that, sir?’
‘Why are these – trousers – red?’
‘Because it’s a happy colour, sir. I like red.’
His re-appearance in the living room, and visibility through the back window, caused a positive volley of yaps to sound from just outside, and through the window pane, there appeared, first one furry head, then another, both with their tongues hanging out, and both intent on another session with Uncle Trousers, but Falconer turned away, still brooding on the colour that now enclosed his lower half.
‘Because I like red! And orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet,’ was his unvoiced thought. He didn’t know if his partner could sing a rainbow, but he could certainly wear one when he put his mind to it. Carmichael’s outrageous sense of colour had been a constant thorn in his side when they had first worked together, but his marriage to Kerry had resulted in him only dressing in anything ‘unusual’ on Fridays now, God be praised.
‘Why don’t you keep a pair of jeans in the car, then you can wear them when you come round here again. That should save your good trousers, and I do know how you like to look spiffy,’ suggested Carmichael.
‘Spiffy? What the hell does that mean?’
‘Well, sort of freshly vacuumed and polished. You know; always perfectly turned out, with never a hair out of place.’
‘You make me sound like some sort of waxwork.’
‘Nothing like. You just seem to stay so clean and tidy. I don’t know how you do it.’
‘I patently fail to do it when I’m involved with your family. It doesn’t seem to matter what I do, I always end up with egg on my face; or in this case, pee on my trousers, or, in the case of that visit to your uncle’s, with my clothes covered in a variety of excreta.’
‘Sorry about that too, sir. You’ll just have to bring some old jeans, like I said,’ reiterated his partner, not a whit embarrassed.
‘Carmichael, I don’t have any old jeans. In fact I don’t even have any new, or even middle-aged, jeans. I’ve never worn them, because I’ve never owned a pair.’
‘What, never, sir?’ asked the younger man, scandalised that anyone could reach Falconer’s age without benefit of denim.
‘I tried on a pair when I was a teenager, but one look in the mirror, and I decided I looked like I was on my way to a barn dance, or a line-dancing class. Plus, I suspected that I must have a rather high waist, because they were uncomfortable in the, er, under-carriage region, if you get my drift.’
‘Oo-er, very nasty, sir. Perhaps you’d better get some joggy bottoms.’
‘I think I had a touch of that after I tried on those jeans, years ago. Anyway, thanks for a lovely meal, and I’ll see you in the morning.’
As the two men moved towards the front door, Kerry could be heard clattering down the stairs to say goodbye. There was a slight squeal, as of unoiled hinges, as she grabbed at the back door, and then she joined them, explaining, ‘I opened the door to let the poor things in. Why did you put them out?’
That was when she noticed that their guest had a furry attachment to each knee, both attachments busily growling away, as the twin bodies struggled to mate with Falconer’s trousers, and adding a further embarrassing incident to the inspector’s private collection of Carmichael-alia .
‘That’s why,’ explained her husband, but Falconer was beyond caring, and waded the few more steps necessary to reach the exit from this madhouse, a dog on each leg, confident that Carmichael wouldn’t allow them actually to leave with him. If not, he’d have to pull the little buggers off himself so that he could drive home.
‘You’re going to have to get these little chaps ‘seen to’ by a vet, in the very near future, he advised. ‘They’re a bit over-enthusiastic for my liking.’ That was as controlled and polite as he could manage, given the circumstances.
‘I agree completely, sir. They’ve never done that before, have they Kerry?’
‘Never, Inspector Falconer.’
With a smile, Carmichael offered his opinion as solace to his superior. ‘I guess it just shows how much they love you, sir.’
‘Well, just see if you can persuade the vet to do something that convinces them that I’m not their type, will you?’
‘I’ll get on to it first thing in the morning, sir.’
But that was not to be his last humiliation. As Kerry gave him a little peck on the cheek, she stared at his face and said, ‘Hold on! Sauce on your chin!’ and proceeded to take a tissue from her pocket, spit on it, and rub vigorously at a spot just to the left of his bottom lip.
Driving off, all he could think of was the chaos that always seemed to ensue when he had anything to do with Carmichael that didn’t directly involve work. He always felt afterwards that he had battled a whirlwind, and come off the worse for it. Take today, for example; he’d been wrestled on to the sofa, and had all the breath knocked out of him by two rumbustious boys, he’d had his trousers thoroughly chewed, as the puncture marks in the material testified to, he’d had his ankles peed on, and he’d been called, of all things, Uncle Harry. And then she gave me a spit wash. She actually gave me a spit wash, and I’m an inspector, he thought, grimacing in disgust.
It was the shower for him as soon as he got in, and although he had intended to put his trousers straight in the bin, he thought he might just have a look, to see if they had a ‘machine-washable’ label inside the waistband. He might not have any old jeans, but he did now have a pair of old ‘Harry’s’ he could take with him, for the bizarre encounters he would have with his sergeant’s family in the future.
‘And what the hell did a godfather do these days?’ he wondered. He knew it meant Christmas and birthday presents, but he fervently hoped it didn’t mean taking the kids out to the cinema, or, heaven help him, the zoo. Or having them visit him unsupervised! Maybe for a whole day! He may have served abroad with the army, but he didn’t feel up to the stress of having two boys running wild amongst his treasured porcelain and crystal. This whole thing could lead to many sessions of hiding under the piano, or even in the wardrobe, should it prove necessary. What had he got himself into?
[1] See Pascal Passion
[2] See Choked Off
Chapter Fourteen
Monday 21st June �
�� the early hours and morning
I
It was half-past midnight when the telephone broke his slumbers, and Falconer awoke, bleary-eyed and numbed by tiredness. He had only been in bed half an hour, and he had been drowned in a deep sleep.
There was to be no more rest for him, though, as the telephone squawked in his ear the details of yet another ‘happening’ at The Manse. Struggling out of his bed, trying to shake off the feeling that he wanted to go back to bed and sleep for a month, he crawled into the clothes he had so recently discarded, wincing at the thought of wearing something that had already seen a day’s work, then called Carmichael to be ready to be picked up in about twenty minutes.
He didn’t see why his sergeant should sleep when he was prevented from doing so, and he needed another body with him. The call had not been specific, but had merely stated that there had been an accident of some sort, and that medics were in attendance. That could mean anything – even something quite trivial – and he sincerely hoped that it did, remembering the three bodies he had detained to help the police with their enquiries.
As he drove he began to feel the first twinges of guilt. He really should have gone back to the station after he left Carmichael’s: but, what with one thing and another, he’d had enough for one day, and decided that questioning them in the morning, when he was rested and fresh, would bring forth better results. Bum! He hadn’t even phoned Bob Bryant to let him know of his intentions.
If he had it all wrapped up with those three, then who was there left to cause mischief? It didn’t bear thinking about, so he took the most sensible action he could and dismissed it from his mind until he had got there and saw for himself what exactly had occurred.
Murder at the Manse (The Falconer Files Book 5) Page 18