Death of an Old Git (The Falconer Files - File 1)

by Frazer, Andrea

  ‘But what about that slangin’ match wiv the Brigadier?’ his wife interrupted, a slight tartness in her tone indicating that she was feeling a little left out of the limelight. ‘I thought the two old boys were goin’ to come to blows, fists up, circlin’ round they were, blowin’ off enough ’ot air to fill a balloon.’

  ‘When was this?’ Falconer’s interest had been diverted and he nodded to Carmichael to make sure that he was taking note of this.

  ‘Friday night last,’ George took over the narrative. ‘Ol’ Reg, ’e was sittin’ beside the ’arth as usual, it bein’ a breezy day, suppin’ ’is ’alf, little Buster asleep under ’is chair, when in comes the Brigadier an’ ’is wife for a pink gin or three. Reg’lar as clockwork, those two are, on a Friday, seven-thirty on the dot. Well, we was fair busy with some summer folk who’d been up at the ruins and the trout farm – been ’avin’ a look at the church, that kind of thing. Then about nine, it all thins out.’

  ‘The Brigadier’d ’ad a few by then,’ Paula interjected, eager to cut to the chase. ‘’E was soundin’ off to the vicar and ’is wife about someone thievin’. Louder and louder ’e got, about someone raidin’ ’is fruit an’ veg patch, someone who’d ’ad ’is eggs and, maybe, even made off with a hen or two. Right purple in the face ’e was, an’ then ’e spotted the old man over by the fireside, an’ I thought ’is ’ead was goin’ to explode, ’is face got so black.’

  ‘I don’t think it was quite that dramatic, Paula love.’

  ‘It was indeed, George Covington,’ she countered. ‘Surely you recall ’ow ’e marched over an’ ’auled ’im to ’is feet and barked into the old man’s face that ’e deserved ’orse-whippin’?’

  ‘Is that correct, Mr Covington?’ Falconer cut in. There was a brief nod from the publican before his wife, the bit between her teeth now, galloped on with her narrative.

  ‘And the old boy asked ’im what ’e was bellowin’ about, and then ’e gave a sly sort of grin an’ said that some folks ’ad so much it was amazin’ as ’ow they ’ad the memory to miss a tiny morsel. Well, that was it, wasn’t it? The Brigadier rolled up ’is sleeves, the two o’ them raised their fists and began to circle. Pathetic, it was really, two men o’ their age tryin’ to act like they was twenty again.’

  ‘That’s when I went over and intervened, Inspector.’ George took over the tale again. ‘It wasn’t as if I was worried about any damage. It was more the injured dignity I could see a-comin’ that worried me. They’d made fools enough of themselves, and it was well-nigh time someone stopped them goin’ any further.’ This simple statement of fact showed the sturdy logic of George Covington’s mind, an admirable character trait in a publican.

  ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘Nothin’. That were it.’

  ‘Not quite, George, an’ you know it. It was the language, Inspector. You should’ve ’eard it. Like when I was a nipper in the East End.’ Paula Covington’s eyes grew misty as she remembered more exciting times in her youth. She was grateful to have met George, and happy that he had asked her to be his wife. He was no oil-painting, but she had been well past her sell-by date when they had met, having had more than her fair share of fast-living when she was young, and, if her life was more sedate now, at least it was secure. George had taken her at face value and loved her for what she was. He thought himself a very lucky man to have her as his wife, and she, in her turn, was treated like a rare jewel.

  Returning to the present, she continued, ‘Fair effin’ an’ blindin’ they were, old Reg callin’ the Brigadier every name under the sun, the Brigadier threatenin’ to set the dogs on ’im if ever ’e caught ’im on ’is property. Said ’e’d whip ’im to within an inch of ’is miserable, thievin’ life if he tried anything like that again. ‘Aven’t ’eard language like that since those sheep got loose and got into the caravan park,’ she concluded with a sigh of nostalgia.

  ‘It were all ’ot air, though,’ George was quick to add. Eighty-three bells I counted this mornin’ for old Reg, and the Brigadier’s seventy-five if ’e’s a day. Neither of ‘em ’d’ve ’ad the strength to knock the skin off of a rice puddin’ if you ask me.’

  There being nothing of interest from that previous evening that either of them had heard or observed on the other side of the green, Falconer thanked them for their time and made preparations to leave.

  IV

  Outside it was the hottest part of the day, and the village shimmered in the unrelenting heat. Fewer newshounds dotted the green, and the ducks remained amongst the reeds or clustered under the shade of the trees, ready to take cover, should there be another barrage of stale bread and cake. Falconer decided to shelve the matter of the missing dog for the present. They would tackle the finder of the body first and, as they headed towards the post office, a lone wolf-whistle reminded him that Acting DS Jean-Paul Gaultier was as conspicuous as ever.

  The post office was still closed for business, although whether for the lunch break or for the whole day was not indicated, so Falconer rang the bell for the private accommodation. Although his summons was answered in less than a minute, he could feel the perspiration begin to trickle down his back, and smell the dusty scent of the parched pavement as the door opened.

  They were summoned inside by a whey-faced man, only a few years short of retirement, who looked like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. After introductions were effected he said, ‘Do come in. We’ll go upstairs to the sitting room, but would you mind being quiet. My wife’s in bed with a migraine – she’s a martyr to them – and I’d like her to sleep as long as she can.’ This request over, he walked slowly and quietly before them and showed them into a cool, shady room at the rear of the property that overlooked a pretty walled garden that must adjoin Crabapple Cottage.

  The room was papered in a pale apricot sprigged with tiny daisies, the furniture was of oak, and chintz-upholstered. On the mantelpiece were several silver-framed photographs of a pretty girl, from baby to young woman, a wedding photograph, and one of the woman with two very young children, obviously the most recent.

  ‘Our goddaughter and her family,’ explained Alan Warren-Browne, seeing the direction of the inspector’s glance. ‘Do take a seat. I’m sure you’d like me to tell you what happened this morning.’ And this he did, starting with the dog’s barking, his wife’s headache, and the unpleasant surprise awaiting him outside the post office door.

  ‘I was pretty furious, I can tell you, and I banged like fury on his front door.’ A little of the pallor left the postmaster’s face as he remembered the intensity of his emotion. ‘I felt like throttling the old devil. Oh, not literally,’ he back-pedalled, recalling the circumstances, ‘but I was so steamed up. I marched round to the back door, certain that he was hiding from me and laughing up his sleeve. I knew he was in there because of the dog, you see. He never went anywhere without Buster. I thought he wasn’t answering the door on purpose.

  ‘Anyway, I hammered on the back door a couple of times and shouted, then I tried the door handle and it wasn’t locked. I fairly fell through it, the dog yelped and shot out, nearly having me over, then I saw him in the chair.’

  ‘Did you touch anything, Mr Warren-Browne?’ Might as well see if he would admit to any fingerprints that might be found, thought Falconer.

  ‘Apart from the door, I think I put my hand on the wooden chair arm when I was checking that he wasn’t unconscious or asleep, although only the dead could have slept through the racket that Buster had been making. But then, of course, he was dead.’ The narrative dwindled to a halt. Acting DS Carmichael was sitting slightly out of the elderly man’s eye-line, notebook open, tongue protruding from the side of his mouth in concentration, grateful for the momentary silence as he struggled to keep up with the narrative.

  ‘And what did you do next?’

  ‘Oh, I bolted. Couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I was so panicked that I didn’t even go back out the kitchen door. I blundered through the
hall, had a beastly wrestle with the front door …’

  ‘It was locked?’ Falconer liked his detail as fresh as possible.

  ‘It was, but the door had also dropped on its hinges, and when I unlocked it I had to give it a good heave to get out. There’s probably a knack to it, but I didn’t have time to think about that. Then I caught sight of Mrs Rollason from the teashop. I didn’t want to disturb Marian any more, as she already had one of her beastly heads,’ (here Falconer had to repress a smile at the mental image that this last phrase conjured up), ‘so I called to Mrs Rollason to dial 999, then I’m afraid I closed up shop and went to bed. Felt absolutely washed out. Wife had taken a sleeping tablet and was already out of it. Felt I could do worse than join her.’

  ‘And did you hear or see anything of Mr Morley yesterday, particularly during the evening? Anything, no matter how trivial it might seem to you, might put us on to someone who might have vital evidence.’ Falconer’s hunch muscle was telling him to become persuasive. After all, these people had been right next door when the deed had been done.

  Much to his surprise (and annoyance) a voice from the door interrupted the flow. ‘What’s going on, Alan? Who are these gentlemen?’

  In the doorway stood the slight, frail figure of Marian Warren-Browne, wrapped in a floral robe of some light material, a puzzled frown on her face.

  ‘They’re policemen, my dear.’

  ‘Why, what’s happened? It’s not something to do with Kerry and the kiddies, is it?’

  ‘No, nothing to do with them at all.’

  ‘That beastly old man hasn’t been making trouble again, has he?’

  ‘Who’s Kerry?’ Falconer fired off simultaneously.

  ‘Our goddaughter, Kerry Long. And no, only in so much as he’s gone and got himself murdered,’ replied Alan Warren-Browne, trying to answer both queries at the same time.

  ‘What’s your goddaughter got to do with the deceased?’

  ‘What are you talking about, murdered?’

  Falconer held up a hand and rose, calling for order and, when Marian had been apprised of the morning’s events missed in her drug-induced sleep, returned to his own unanswered question. ‘What has your goddaughter got to do with the deceased?’ As he asked it, he could not prevent his eyes from straying to the photographs on the mantelpiece.

  Marian Warren-Browne had slumped into one of the chintz-covered armchairs, and made no effort to speak. Her husband, ever protective, moved to fill the silence. ‘Kerry lives in Jasmine Cottage, next door to Crabapple Cottage, and has been there since just after her marriage broke up. In fact, we secured the cottage for her so that we could help out with babysitting and suchlike.’

  ‘More’s the pity, the trouble it’s caused the poor dear, living next to that monster.’ Marian Warren-Browne lapsed back into silence again after this brief rally, laid her head back against the embroidered antimacassar and closed her eyes. Her skin looked grey in the north light from the sash window.

  ‘That wicked old man has had it in for her since the day she moved in.’ Alan Warren-Browne continued the explanation. ‘The fact is, he just doesn’t – sorry, didn’t – like children. Made her life a misery over them playing and laughing, and then let that dog of his bark when he knew they were asleep, and let him get through the hedge and do his business in their garden. That’s downright dangerous – a positive health hazard – with young children around.’ He ground to a halt and looked across at his wife as if seeking guidance, but she was still sunk in post-migraine misery and did not notice his look.

  With an expression of resolution on his face he continued, ‘Anyway, there was something yesterday evening that I suppose you ought to hear about from us.’ Marian’s head began to rise. ‘We’d been outside all afternoon, and it was getting on.’

  ‘What time yesterday evening?’ Falconer interrupted him as he sensed a change in the atmosphere.

  Marian was now fully alert and cut in urgently, ‘No, no, you mean yesterday afternoon, darling. Really, you’re getting so muddled of late, I despair of you.’

  Alan Warren-Browne’s forehead creased, then relaxed slightly as he agreed. ‘Silly of me, of course. What time was it, sweetheart?’ For some reason Marian Warren-Browne was definitely in the driving seat now.

  ‘When that dreadful noise was coming from the garage, you remember? So we couldn’t really hear very clearly.’

  ‘Of course. My wife’s spot on. Heard Kerry having a good old harangue, but no idea what it was all about. Might just have been her shouting at the kiddies, I suppose.’

  This was an abrupt volte-face, from ‘something they ought to know’, to ‘just shouting at the kiddies’, and Alan Warren-Browne looked as if he had had only a brief and very recent glance at the script. Something was being concealed, and Falconer would find out what it was, either from them or from someone else, and he did not care which.

  Chapter Four

  Monday 13th July – early afternoon

  I

  Back out in the early afternoon sunshine, Falconer and Carmichael walked the few short yards from the post office to Crabapple Cottage, where they found Constable Proudfoot still on guard at the front door, his face crimson in the heat, perspiration dripping from his nose and chin.

  ‘Scene-of-Crime people been?’ enquired Falconer.

  ‘Yes, sir. And the police surgeon. Search just completed. Just need your authority to seal it off now.’

  ‘By the way. Was there a little dog here this morning when you arrived?’

  ‘Indeed there was, sir. Yappy little thing it was too, but seemed friendly enough.’

  ‘And where is that friendly little dog now, Constable Proudfoot. You seem to have omitted to inform me of its whereabouts.’

  ‘Miss Cadogan took it, sir. Old schoolmistress from Sheepwash Lane. She were here first thing, harassing me to let her take it and collect its things. I didn’t know what else to do with it, so I let it go with her,’ he blustered.

  ‘Put it in your report, Proudfoot,’ sighed the inspector, scandalised at this lax attitude. ‘By the way, you’ve had a quick scout around. Anything worthy of mention?’

  ‘No signs of forced entry. No signs of any search being made by person or persons unknown. Key still on the inside of the back door. Oh, and about nine thousand pounds in a box under the bed, mostly in old fivers.’

  ‘What?’

  Proudfoot gave him a ‘not my fault this time’ look, and turned his gaze skywards to follow the lazy course of a pigeon towards the oak trees on the green.

  II

  Carmichael had the good sense to keep quiet, as they walked next door to Jasmine Cottage. As they approached it, a figure hurried up to it, handbag slung casually over one shoulder. Although recognisable as the subject of the photographs on her godparents’ mantelpiece, there had obviously not been a recent addition to their collection. The bloom had gone from Kerry Long’s skin, she was a little too thin, and her features had become sharp, her expression harder. Maybe this was a result of the harsh realities of the breakdown of her marriage and single-parenthood, or maybe it was from the strain of a protracted battle with her unpleasant elderly neighbour. Falconer did not know the answer to this, but he meant to find out.

  ‘Mrs Long?’ he enquired.

  ‘Ms Long,’ she corrected him. ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘Inspector Falconer – and this is Acting DS Carmichael. It’s about Mr Morley next door.’

  ‘If you find out who did it, let me know so I can buy them a drink.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Sorry. That wasn’t a very nice thing to say, was it?’

  ‘Can we have a word?’ he asked.

  ‘I was just on my way back for a few minutes’ break: I work over in Allsorts. Left the kiddies over there for a few minutes, so I can catch my breath. The rush has calmed down a bit now, as you lot haven’t carted anyone off in handcuffs. The Punch and Judy show loses its shine when the puppets don’t perform,’ and with t
his somewhat enigmatic turn of phrase she held the door open for them to enter.

  Although the cottage was the same age, size and design as its counterpart next door, it could not have been more dissimilar in its interior. Crabapple Cottage had been dark, grimy, uncared for and neglected. The tiny front room in Jasmine Cottage, into which the young woman now conducted them, was bright and cheery with white walls and woodwork. Sensible washable covers in a royal blue and jade zigzagged pattern on the two-seater settee and single armchair, and a vase of scarlet roses on the polished mantelshelf lifted the spirits; there were cream curtains at the tiny windows, and pale washable rugs on the uneven floor completed the picture of a well-cared for home.

  Falconer nodded approvingly and Carmichael positively beamed. He could do with just such a little gem as this place when he was ready to spread his wings. Seeing their expressions of approval, their hostess asked, rather shyly as if expecting a rebuttal, if they would like to see the rest of the downstairs, and Carmichael’s enthusiastic, ‘Please,’ brought a smile to her face that dispelled the hardness that had sat there at their arrival.

  A second door off the hall led to a tiny dining room which overlooked the back garden. Here, a cheap, white plastic patio set had been transformed with a tablecloth tie-dyed in yellow, orange and red, the chairs draped with crimson cotton. The same colour hung at the windows, and the old floorboards were (with young children in the house) sensibly bare and well-polished. So bright were the colours that Carmichael blended in splendidly, and Falconer looked as if he had suddenly faded to monochrome in comparison.

  Kerry Long nodded towards the dining set next to which Carmichael was standing and murmured, ‘It’s amazing what you can do with some jumble sale sheets and a bit of imagination,’ leaving the policemen in some doubt as to whether it was her own homemaking, or the younger man’s peacock appearance, to which she was referring. And with that ambiguous remark, she led them out to the tiny kitchen at the back of the cottage.