It, too, was immaculate, the cupboards home-made many years ago, but freshly painted in a vivid lime green. Falconer’s eyes darted back and forth in search of something he could not find, but had expected to be there. At last he gave in and asked, ‘Where’s your washing machine?’
With a rueful smile the young woman replied, ‘Haven’t got one. Can’t afford it.’
‘But you’ve got kiddies.’ Carmichael was full of concern. His mum could not manage without hers. It was in use every day, sometimes two or three times. ‘And them covers on the suite, and the rugs and stuff. How do you manage?’
‘I manage all right, thank you, DS …’
‘Carmichael. Acting.’
‘DS Carmichael Acting it is, then. Most stuff I can manage myself. I’m used to hard work. Really heavy stuff my auntie takes into the launderette in Carsfold for me. That helps a lot.’
Although Falconer was aware that he had veered the conversation in this direction, it was becoming a little too cosily domestic for his liking, and he cleared his throat in an effort to get everyone’s attention back to the matter in hand. ‘About Mr Morley?’ he prompted.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Inspector. Go back through to the front room and take a seat, and I’ll see if I can be of any help.’
Back in the front room, and back to the more serious business on which they had called, Falconer asked the inevitable question. ‘How well did you get on with Mr Morley, Ms Long?’ although the answer was fairly obvious from what they had already gleaned at the Post Office, and the young woman’s reaction when they had arrived.
A cloud crossed her face, and the former hardness returned as she answered, ‘Not at all. We didn’t get on at all. Anyone’ll tell you, so I better had. We were at loggerheads, and have been since we moved in here.’
‘Can you tell me why?’
‘I wish I knew.’ Carmichael discreetly opened his notebook and began to scribble. ‘He’s had it in for me and the kids from the day we got here. He just doesn’t like kids. If they lark around and play indoors, he bangs – oh, that should be banged – the wall at them. If they played in the garden, he yelled for them to shut up. If I went out and left washing on the line, nine times out of ten, he’d have a bonfire. And if me and the kids were trying to get a bit of peace and quiet, or they were asleep, he’d let that blasted dog of his out and set it off yapping. He’d shut it out in the garden for hours in all weathers, even though the stupid thing adored him and that’s more than any other living creature did.
‘And he’d encourage it into our garden for a ‘dump’ when I was out. He was really foul to us, and we’d done nothing to him except exist and move in here.’
‘Your godparents mentioned an incident yesterday afternoon,’ he offered, deciding to hold fire on his hunch and gain her confidence, rather than alienate her. Relaxed, she was more likely to let something slip.
‘Oh, that. Yes. That filthy old man had been throwing dog shit at my clean sheets. It takes ages to wash them in the bath, and he’d scored a direct hit right in the middle of a white double. I could’ve killed him,’ she stated baldly, apparently unaware of the significance of what she had said. ‘I shouted like hell over the fence, but the old sod wouldn’t come out, so I had another shout out of the window when he took that shite-hound of his out for a walk. I mean, that stuff can blind kids, and I hate having to keep them out of the garden till I’ve been over it with a fine tooth comb. I got him later on, though, out the back, and really laid into him.’ She sighed deeply. ‘On the whole I’m rather glad he’s dead.’
Falconer put a mental tick beside the Warren-Brownes’ pathetic attempt to deceive him, and was rather surprised that this young woman should be so open in her hostility to one so recently murdered. She was either very naïve or very cunning.
The inspector felt he now had a fair idea of the state of open warfare that had existed between these neighbours and, if he only felt a fleeting and guarded sympathy for this outwardly hard young woman, Carmichael had obviously seen a rather different side to her, if the expression on his face were a reflection of his feelings. He had sided totally with the hard-working underdog, and he surveyed her and her immaculate home with open admiration. (So much for impartiality, thought Falconer.) This admiration did not seem to be reciprocated however, as, whenever she felt herself unobserved, Kerry darted incredulous glances at Carmichael’s polychromatic length, as if she had never seen such a vision. Falconer smiled, as he imagined her to be sizing him up mentally to use as raw material for re-upholstery.
Dragging his thoughts back to the here and now, he asked, ‘Did you notice or hear if anyone called next door yesterday evening? This could be very important.’
‘I did hear a banging on his door and some shouting a bit after nine, maybe later, but I was in the bath.’ The tiniest of the three bedrooms upstairs had been converted to house more modern washing facilities than those provided by a tin bath hanging on a nail on the back wall. ‘But by the time I got out the noise had stopped.’
‘So you’ve no idea who it was? Man or woman?’
‘Oh, I’m fairly sure it was Nick Rollason – his wife runs the teashop. At least, when I looked out of the upstairs window, it was him I saw crossing the green from this direction, and I hardly think he’d’ve been to the post office at that time of night.’
‘Any impressions from what you saw?’ Falconer probed with little hope.
‘Only that he might have been in the pub beforehand. He wasn’t walking terribly well. Looked like he’d had a few. But he’d certainly come from over this way, and there was nowhere else that he could have been coming from.’
Thanking her for her frankness and co-operation, the two men took their leave of her and went back outside, momentarily blinded by the contrast from the shady interior to dazzling sunshine.
‘Brave girl, that,’ commented Carmichael. ‘Two kids to bring up on her own, neighbour from hell to contend with, got a job to hold down, no washing machine, and the house is immaculate. Wonder what fool let that gem get away.’
Wondering what fool had let Carmichael loose in the casual wear section of Marks & Blunders, Falconer said, ‘Come on Acting DS Smitten. Stop mooning over it and let’s see what the spider at the hub of the web has to say.’
‘Beg pardon, sir?’
‘The village shop, Carmichael, where else? The centre of all gossip, the fount and repository of all wisdom and knowledge, the reference library of life.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Carmichael knew when he was out of his depth, but who the hell was this Smitten bloke when he was at home?
III
The village shop lived up to its name of ‘Allsorts’. Dim and cool inside, it was like an Aladdin’s cave of anything a rural dweller could want, without the inconvenience of a trip to town (with the exception of combine harvesters and livestock). A multiplicity of goods filled shelves, hung from the walls, and crouched on the floor, so many obstacles for the unwary or unobservant. Galvanised and plastic buckets jostled for place with mop-heads, old-fashioned Sunlight soap (do they still make that? wondered Falconer, disbelieving the evidence of his own eyes), clothes pegs and kindling. Bottles and jars, packets and boxes filled the central counter, alongside an array of cleaning materials, dishcloths and dusters. The far wall housed a refrigeration unit and a freezer: the main counter and till were surrounded by newspapers, magazines, greeting cards, sweets and tobacco products.
Behind this counter was a round, rubber ball of a woman, overweight in a not-unattractive way. Probably in her mid-fifties, her grey hair was permed and immaculate, her overall clean and fresh, her smile genuine. ‘How can I help you gentlemen?’ she enquired, her voice belying her northern roots.
Falconer held out his warrant card and made the necessary introductions.
‘It’s about old Morley you’ll be wanting to know,’ she surmised, holding out her hand. I’m Rosemary Wilson – Mrs. I’m the owner.’
‘That’s right, Mrs Wilson. We’re just t
rying to get a general picture of what the unfortunate gentleman was like, see if we can’t clear up this sorry business as quickly as possible. We thought that, as the shop was probably the central meeting point for the village, you might be in a position to give us a few pointers.’ Falconer was not above flattery in his quest for information.
‘I don’t like to gossip.’ Fifteen-love to Mrs Wilson. He had made an error of judgement.
‘I’m sure you don’t, Mrs Wilson. I just thought that you might be able to give us a character sketch of him as a customer.’ The inspector was back-pedalling now, but it seemed to have worked.
‘I do know he was a fair old nuisance to many. Never a pleasant word to say about anyone, and many an unpleasant one to folk’s faces, as well as behind their backs, in the hope they’d get to hear about it.’
‘Is there anyone in particular you feel you can tell us about,’ he probed, aware that this was just the start of the investigation and, should it prove to be a non-straightforward one, he would need the trust of as many of the villagers as he could get.
‘I really don’t want to speak out of turn, Inspector.’
‘Anything at all would be helpful, Mrs Wilson.’ Really, thought Falconer, this was not at all how he had envisaged this conversation. He should now be overwhelmed with a torrent of local rumour, malice and spite. This was more like pulling teeth.
‘Well,’ she capitulated slightly, ‘he didn’t like the Warren-Brownes at the post office. He had them down as stuck-up because of their double-barrelled name, and them liking to keep themselves to themselves. He had it in for them.’
‘In what way did he have it in for them? Can you be a bit more specific?’ Falconer knew he was covering old ground here, but encouraged the woman, to check the accuracy of what he had already been told. If her account tallied with the one the Warren-Brownes had offered, it meant that any further information from this source could probably be relied upon.
‘Well, Mrs Warren-Browne – Marian – is an absolute martyr to them migraine headaches – these painkillers here,’ she pointed to her right on the display behind her, ‘I started stocking just for her. Now, not even they are strong enough, and the doctor’s trying to find something as’ll work for her. And Mr Warren-Browne – Alan – he’s that protective of her, her being so frail.’
‘And Mr Morley?’ prompted the inspector, aware of time passing. Carmichael, sensing repetition, had lost all interest in the proceedings and was gawping round the wares displayed with keen interest.
‘He goaded that dog of his,’ she continued. ‘Goaded it, every opportunity he got, to make it bark. Knew it would set her off with one of her heads.’ Once more Falconer could not afford the luxury of time to enjoy this vision. He would have to save that for later. ‘And the old man seemed to time his dog’s walks so that it would quite often do its business outside the post office. Can’t blame the animal, of course, and Reg Morley wouldn’t know a poop scoop if one hit him in the eye.’ (Another surreal vision for later.) Mrs Wilson’s questing finger to the wall on her left, indicated a multi-coloured array of what were described on the backing cardboard as ‘Doggy-Do-Aways’.
‘Anything else you feel able to help us with?’ the inspector interjected at this natural break.
‘Bit of a dirty old man, as well,’ she offered.
‘How did that manifest itself?’ he prompted her, elbowing Carmichael in the ribs, to rouse him to take note of this new information.
‘Why do you think he walked that dog of his in the woods? Young courting couples, of course! Dirty old man! Better than the telly, he thought, if he could have a good peek at young folks’ goings-on.’ The shopkeeper finished with a snort of disgust and a moue of distaste.
‘What about relations with his other neighbours?’
This seemingly innocent question must have touched a nerve, for she coloured momentarily and said, ‘If you really want to know about him why don’t you speak to his nephew – or rather, great-nephew, I should say. He’ll give you chapter and verse, I don’t doubt. His name’s Mike Lowry and he runs the garage – out of the shop and it’s opposite on your right.’ And more than this she refused to say.
As they exited, Carmichael summed up his impressions of the shop. ‘Funny smell in there, and it seemed so old-fashioned, it ought to have been in black and white.’
Unlike you, my lad. Unlike you! Falconer could not suppress the thought.
IV
Castle Farthing Garage was just in Drovers Lane, which ran west from the village green. It had a small forecourt with three petrol pumps, a small pre-fabricated shop that sold only car-related products, and a workshop at the rear where repairs and MOTs were carried out. The pumps were not self-service, and an oil-smeared notice on the shop door directed any callers to the workshop.
It was here that Falconer and Carmichael found the proprietor, his oil-stained overall legs protruding from under an elderly Mini. By the side of the car a transistor radio blared, and it was only by directing Carmichael to switch this off (Falconer did not want to get oil on his hands) that the inspector gained the mechanic’s attention.
As he rose from his prone position, the begrimed young man caught sight of Carmichael and let out a hoot of amusement. ‘I hope you won first prize.’ He grinned. ‘You certainly worked hard on your costume.’ This comment drew a blush from the young policeman and a frown of disapproval in his direction from his superior. He really would have to speak to Carmichael about his plain clothes being a little more, well, plain , in the future.
Lowry did not deny his blood-tie with the old man, but said there had been a family rift, years before he was born, between his great-uncle Reg and the rest of the family, and he had hardly ever spoken to the old man, as he did not seem of a mind to let bygones be bygones. ‘I never did have any idea what the original tiff was about – blew up over something and nothing, I seem to recollect, the way a lot of these things do. He were a right hard old sinner, though, and visited his contempt down the generations,’ he explained, wiping his hands on a rag so oily it was probably achieving the opposite of his intentions.
‘So you had little to do with him?’
‘Best part of nothing. He wouldn’t acknowledge my existence: I didn’t want to know him.’
‘Were you working here yesterday evening, Mr Lowry? Did you happen to notice anyone cross that way towards Mr Morley’s cottage?’
Lowry shook his head. ‘I was closed up out front and working out here under this little wreck. Not sure what time I finished. I was that beat, I washed up and went straight to bed.’
‘And you live where?’
‘Here. Back of the shop. Sort of bed-sit, but it does me.’
Mike Lowry was a slimly built man, tall and rangy, with fair hair and grey eyes that never wavered from the face of the person to whom he was speaking. He had a certain charisma that even Falconer, as a male, could recognise (and resent), and he put the question that this, together with the last bit of information, left uppermost in his mind. ‘Not married then, Mr Lowry?’
‘Was.’ The muscles in Lowry’s face tautened, and Falconer found himself probing deeper – but, hell, he wasn’t being nosy, it was his job to ask questions.
‘Anyone local?’
‘Yes.’
‘Name?’
‘Any of your business?’
‘Might be. Now, what’s the missus’s name. I’m sure there are plenty who would be willing to tell me.’
‘Kerry.’
‘Not Kerry Long?’
‘Went back to her maiden name.’
Falconer suddenly felt a penny drop. ‘So those children next door were actually Reg Morley’s own flesh and blood. Well, I’ll be damned. And you say you had no occasion to speak to him, not even about how he was treating her and the children?’
‘She had no need of me to defend her.’ Lowry was beginning to look aggressive. ‘Not with that Auntie Rosemary of hers, riding into battle for her.’
A further
penny began to roll towards the edge. ‘That wouldn’t be Auntie Rosemary Wilson, by any chance?’
‘Got it in one, Sherlock! She’s like Boadicea when she’s roused, believe you me. I’ve had the rough side of her tongue on more than one occasion, and it’s left me reeling.’
Falconer was still puzzled. Village ways were a closed book to him and he sought enlightenment. ‘Ms Long said nothing about having been married to you, or your relationship to Mr Morley, and neither she nor Mrs Wilson said anything about being related to each other. How do you explain that, man?’ he asked in exasperation.
Lowry stared at him as if he was stupid. ‘You probably didn’t ask them.’
Chapter Five
Monday 13th July – afternoon
I
At the vicarage in Church Lane, Bertie Swainton-Smythe was in his study, working on his sermon for the following Sunday, but apart from a facetious phrase in Hebrew and the words ‘Pentecost 6’ at the top of the sheet, the paper remained stubbornly blank. His wife Lillian was vigorously dusting the numerous bookshelves that lined the walls. What light managed to penetrate this gloomy sanctuary merely highlighted its shabbiness. The carpet was worn through to its backing in places, the curtains frayed, the furnishings not so much antique as ‘early jumble sale’. Chipped and battered ornaments spoke of a boisterous brood of children, but no such brood had ever blessed their union.
‘I don’t know why you’re letting the death of that old goat get to you, Bertie. He was hardly a Christian soul, rarely in church. Not what you’d call a regular worshipper, and when he was there you know he helped himself from the collection, rather than part with a penny to add to it. In fact you said yourself that he only came to services when he was short of a bob or two.’
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