‘Thank you, Mrs Romaine,’ Falconer cut her off once more. Really, the woman was a seething mass of hormones. If her husband suspected what she was up to, he probably kept quiet through sheer relief. ‘Can you think of anyone who might have borne Mr Morley a grudge?’
‘Just about everyone, at some time or another.’ She looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Do you know about Mike Lowry?’
‘Being related to him?’
‘No, about when he wanted to buy the garage.’
This was news. ‘Go on.’
‘He’d already split with Kerry by then. Her loss, I thought at the time. Good-looking man is Mike – eyes you could drown in. I would, given half a chance.’ (I bet you would, thought Falconer. Carmichael almost whimpered.) ‘We nearly had a thing going, you know, round about that time. He was really sweet on me, and I reckon I should have taken him up on the offer. I bet he’s dynamite. I definitely missed an opportunity there.’
‘Mrs Romaine.’ Falconer’s voice had an edge to it that could not be ignored.
‘Sorry. Well, Mike wanted to buy the garage when the lease came up and he needed a loan. He knew he wouldn’t make much while he built the business up, and probably wouldn’t be able to afford bank rates. Anyway, even with the family rift, he thought that blood might be thicker than water, and he was pretty desperate to get his hands on the garage. So, off he went to see Great-uncle Reg, cap in hand. Got turned down flat, and had to go to the bank in the end. And what with interest payments, that’s when he started to get grief from Kerry over him not paying the maintenance and, I must admit, that’s when I started to lose interest. It was all beginning to look too complicated and messy, and I can do without that. I lose my inspiration if I’m distracted by trivia.’
Chapter Seven
Tuesday 14th July – morning
I
As Falconer and Carmichael headed up the drive of Pilgrims’ Rest, the sound of raised voices reached them through an open window, the main protagonist being female.
‘… and you did it again. You’re always doing it, telling everyone what a wonderful time we have working on the house together. I heard you on the phone to that ghastly man. ‘Oh, real team work, pulling together, building the dream,’ she mimicked. “With Dorrie’s designer’s eye and yours truly’s manpower’ – hah – ‘we’re unbeatable, old son”. What planet do you live on, Piers? Indoors or outdoors, whenever the slightest thing needs doing, let alone the renovation, what do you do? You whinge, you whine, you moan and complain like a … like a petulant child. If you lift a finger it’s grudgingly, and the first chance you get, you make some pathetic excuse and flounce off.’
‘Dorothy, that’s hardly fair …’
‘Hardly fair? Do you think it’s fair when I’m left on my own to work like a navvy to try to make this old wreck sound, and then to have to listen to you going on to your boring mates about how much fun it all is? Well, it’s not fun, and I’m sick to death of your pathetic charade about what a good team we are. We’re not. You’re just a millstone round my neck most of the f …’
Falconer rang the bell. That sounded like the end of a round to him. If he was going to be a referee he might as well find out which colour corners they were fighting from.
The door was opened by a hard-faced woman in her late forties, her colour high, her expression creased into angry lines and furrows.
‘Yes?’
About as welcoming as a spitting cobra, thought Falconer as they offered their warrant cards. Before they could speak, she spat again.
‘If it’s about that horrible old man getting his just desserts on Sunday, I know nothing about it. I was here. Working. If you want to know anything, ask that lazy bastard of a husband of mine. He sloped off somewhere – God knows where. I was just glad to get a bit of peace and quiet to work in.’ And with that she reached behind the door, grabbed a shoulder bag, and elbowed her way past them.
The losing half of the bout emerged through a doorway to the left of the entrance. Piers Manningford was a tall man, some years younger than his wife, dark-haired and pale-skinned, with a blue shadow already showing on the lower half of his face.
‘Sorry about that,’ he offered, bidding them enter and conducting them through to what was obviously his study. ‘Wife’s a bit temperamental. Doesn’t really mean it. All blow over in no time.’
Really , thought Falconer. Mrs Manningford had sounded deadly serious to him.
The preliminaries over, Manningford admitted that he had gone out on Sunday afternoon. ‘Went for a stroll. Dorothy had a rush job on – she’s an interior designer, you know. Thought I’d go off and see if the hang gliders were up, as it was such a lovely day. They fly off that hill down the Carsfold Road. Quite a sight. Wouldn’t mind having a go myself, someday.’
Falconer let a full minute of silence drag by, watching the pleasant, social smile on Manningford’s face congeal. ‘Where did you go, Mr Manningford?’
‘I’ve just told you. I went down the Carsfold Road to watch the hang gliders.’
The inspector left a shorter silence this time, but enough for a fine dew of perspiration to appear on Manningford’s upper lip and forehead.
‘I’m going to ask you one more time, sir.’ Falconer knew he had him on the ropes. ‘And I’ll give you the additional information that I already know the answer. Now, where did you go on Sunday afternoon?’
‘I went for a walk.’ This was going to be a slow and painful business.
‘Where?’ The inspector’s expression strongly advised against lies or misdirection.
‘In the woods.’
‘Alone?’
(Silence.)
‘Were you alone, Mr Manningford?’
‘No.’ Manningford’s already pale skin now looked like dough.
‘Who were you with?’
‘A friend.’
‘Mr Manningford, stop wasting my time. I’m investigating a murder here, not cross-examining for the ‘moral police’. Who were you with?’
‘Mrs Romaine from next door.’
‘Rather a formal way to refer to your lover, isn’t it?’ Falconer’s voice was becoming raised with exasperation and Piers Manningford’s expression changed to one of absolute panic.
‘For God’s sake, keep your voice down, man. Someone might hear.’
‘But someone did hear on Sunday, didn’t they, sir?’ Falconer was always slightly dangerous when he addressed someone thus.
‘Good grief. Do you know what would happen to me if Dorothy found out? This is her house. It’d be the end of me.’
‘Then you’d better tell us about it, sir, and trust to our discretion.’
‘What do you mean, discretion?’
‘If it has no connection with the current investigation then the information will be kept confidential.’
Manningford’s relief was almost palpable and Falconer continued while he had the advantage. ‘Mrs Romaine said that your assignation was overheard, possibly even witnessed, by the deceased. Do you confirm this?’
‘There was someone.’
‘Just someone?’
‘It could have been anyone. It could even have been our imagination – the work of guilty consciences.’ Falconer seriously doubted that Cassandra Romaine would recognise a pang of conscience if it jumped up and bit her.
‘But you couldn’t positively identify that someone as Mr Morley?’
‘No.’
‘And where were you on Sunday evening?’
‘I was here.’
‘All evening?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can anyone confirm that?’
‘Yes. My wife was here working in her study. She uses one of the spare bedrooms.’
As they headed back to the car Carmichael commented, ‘I thought he was going to shit a brick when he realised he’d been rumbled.’
‘He’ll shit more than that,’ retorted Falconer, ‘when he realises that he’s just given himself a first-class motive for murder. No,
I can’t see our Mr Manningford getting out of this one unscathed, whatever the truth of the matter.’
II
The clock on the church tower was tolling one when Falconer manoeuvred his ego-mobile into a minute parking space in the main village.
‘Shall we take a break for a bite, sir? Me stomach thinks me throat’s cut.’
The inspector stared balefully at his dark-clad companion and, while agreeing with the suggestion, thought that Carmichael’s garb made him appear more suited to supping a litre or two of blood than to any more solid fare.
‘Good thinking. You nip into the teashop and see what they’ve got. I’ll go to the general store for some chilled cans and we’ll sit on the Green, where we can talk with a modicum of privacy.’
‘Bacon roll or three for me, then. What about you, sir?’
‘Heaven forbid. A salad bap, I think. Dry – no butter. Got to look after the arteries.’
Why? thought Carmichael, unfurling himself like a giant bat from the confines of the car seat. What harm could a little crispy bacon do?
Falconer sauntered off to Allsorts thinking nostalgically of the ginger beer of his youth and, literally, ran into Martha Cadogan at the counter. The collision caused the old lady’s bag to fall, spilling tins and packets on to the floor.
‘Miss Cadogan, please accept my apologies,’ he said hurriedly, bending to retrieve items rolling in opposite directions. ‘I was miles away – I say, what have we here? Kittichunks? Either this is a new flavour of dog food or you’ve got a cat I don’t know about. What’s this one? “Spike’s Dinner.” Is this for Buster? And wild bird food? Are you thinking of opening a pet shop?’
Her white curls tilted to one side, Miss Cadogan’s face creased in a delighted smile as she hastened to educate him. ‘The cat food is for the feral cats. You always get those in agricultural areas. Sometimes – especially if the mum’s just had kits – they have a hard time of it. I always put out a bowl for them night and morning to do what I can to help out. And Spike’s Dinner is hedgehog food. You shouldn’t give them bread and milk, it’s not good for them, although a lot of folk do. And I like to watch the birds, so I keep their table well stocked. Buster’s food is already safely at home in the cupboard.’
Picking up the last can, Falconer found himself posing a question. ‘Don’t the cats eat the hedgehog food and vice-versa?’
‘Does it matter, young man, so long as the hungry ones are fed?’
‘No, I suppose not. But this must cost you a fortune.’ This was an observation he would have been better keeping to himself, for she bridled and her cheeks flushed.
‘Inspector Falconer, not only do I have my state pension, for which I paid all my working life, I also have my teaching pension. There are precious few pleasures left in life when one gets to be my age – which you’ll discover in time to come – and what I choose to spend my money on is between me and my conscience, and no business whatsoever of anyone else.’
‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to cause offence.’ It was Falconer’s turn to be embarrassed. ‘You’re country born and bred, and I’m a townie. I’m just not used to such generosity of spirit to wildlife in general. Please forgive me, Miss Cadogan. I had no right to say what I did.’
His blustering softened the old lady and she smiled again. ‘No harm done, I’m sure. Animals are so uncomplicated, and so often get a raw deal from life – rather like young children – maybe that’s why I like to feel that I do my bit to help them on their way.’
‘If we were all like you, Miss Cadogan,’ (Falconer recognised a truce when he was offered one) ‘the world would be a better place.’
‘Bless you, young man.’ He held the door open for her, before returning to the counter to see about something with which to quench his embarrassment as well as his thirst.
III
He found Carmichael sitting on a bench next to the war memorial on the Green, a greasy napkin encasing a half-eaten bacon roll in his hands, and ketchup round his mouth. On the seat next to him sat a pristine napkin holding what was presumably Falconer’s dry salad bap.
‘You should’ve ʼad the bacon, sir,’ his sergeant opined. ‘It’s that crispy it fair explodes on your taste buds.’ He continued to chew noisily as the inspector gave a slight shudder, and handed him a cold draught with which to wash it down.
So much for privacy for discussion. When they rose to dispose of their litter some ten minutes later, hardly a word had been spoken. ‘Mouth, Carmichael.’
‘Mouth, sir?’
‘Wipe it.’
‘Sir?’
‘Ketchup, sergeant. Wipe your mouth before you get rid of the napkin. You look like a blasted vampire.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘So am I, Carmichael. So am I.’
IV
Falconer directed that the afternoon be spent visiting Mrs Rollason at the teashop (probably a good time as lunchtime was nearly over and trade should be slackening), and then strolling up to The Old Manor House for a word with Brigadier Malpas-Graves about his near-fisticuffs in The Fisherman’s Flies, and his visit to Crabapple Cottage on Sunday evening. That should give them an interesting time. Then, perhaps, they could head back to the office, pick over the bones of all they’d learnt, and plan out how they were going to play ‘round two’.
Once inside the cool interior of the teashop, Falconer introduced himself, adding, ‘And you must be Mrs Rollason, the 999 caller.’
From behind the counter Rebecca beamed a smile at Carmichael, greeting him like an old friend. ‘Back again so soon, Davey? My rolls must be better than I thought.’ Turning to Falconer she continued, ‘And you must be the dry salad bap.’
Such directness caught the inspector offside. He murmured, ‘I suppose I must be,’ and tried to put the interview on a more formal footing, missing the twinkle in the young woman’s eyes at his discomfiture. His manner, therefore, was very formal as he ran through the events of the previous morning that had culminated in her 999 call. Nothing new, however, was added to what was already known, and her narrative merely confirmed Alan Warren-Browne’s angry assault on the old man’s door, followed by a short absence, then his return to the front of the property to blurt out his grisly discovery.
‘What about the previous day? Did you hear or see anything of Mr Morley? Did he have any callers that you noticed?’ Maybe there would be something new here.
‘I saw him go out in the afternoon, and there were words then.’
‘Go on.’ Carmichael flipped open his notebook. Encased in black plastic, it matched the rest of his expanse and went unnoticed. Even his pen was black.
‘We’d had a lovely, lazy few hours in the garden – we live next door at The Rookery. We don’t stay open for Sunday lunches – we leave that to the pub to cater for – and Nick, that’s my husband, got on with mowing the lawns while Tristram and I came in here to open up.’
‘Tristram?’ queried Falconer, simultaneously looking down in reaction to a light pressure on his right lower leg. His gaze met that of a very small person, a very small, sticky person, using his trouser leg as a ladder to achieve an upright stance. The very small, sticky person flashed a dazzling smile upwards, before being swept off his feet and into his mother’s arms.
‘Oh, you little beast! Have you got yourself covered in jam again? You’re a little tinker, so you are,’ cooed Rebecca, who held her son aloft and explained to his erstwhile ladder, ‘This is Tristram. Isn’t he a darling?’
Falconer gave an insincere smile of agreement as he surveyed the ruin of his lower trouser leg, and urged her to continue.
‘We’d just opened up and I’d waved to Martha – that’s Miss Cadogan – who was having a sit in the sun on the Green, and I was laying the tables in the front window. I heard Buster yapping, and then Kerry from next door to Mr Morley opened a window and shouted something at him as he was going out.’ This was confirmation of what Kerry Long had told him herself, the previous day.
‘Did yo
u catch what was said?’
‘Not word for word, like, but it was something to do with Buster and his toilet habits. Not the first time his habits have caused trouble, but probably the last, as I understand that Buster’s now up at The Old School House. Martha’ll keep him on the straight and narrow. He’ll be well looked after there.’
‘That’s all?’
‘I think Buster must have got into Kerry’s garden again and left a little present. She reckoned that old Morley put him in there when she was at work just to rile her, but we’ll never know now. That was it, just a warning shot across his bows, from what I can remember. I was more concerned with keeping this busy little bee out of my honeypots, wasn’t I, pudding?’ With this, she poked her son in the ribs and he responded with a cascade of delighted laughter at this unexpected attention.
‘What about later in the day?’
‘No.’ The young woman looked thoughtful, and then her eyes widened. ‘Yes, he did have a visitor.’ Her memory jolted, she continued. ‘Nick had gone to the pub for a couple of pints to end the weekend, and I was in the kitchen getting a bottle for this little tinker who’d just woken up.’
‘What time was this?’
Again, a pause. ‘It was nine o’clock. I remember because the church clock had just struck the hour when I went into the kitchen. I happened to glance out of the window – it wasn’t fully dark – and I saw someone outside his front door.’
‘Have you any idea who it might have been?’
‘Let me look at it again,’ and she closed her eyes, then said, ‘Yes. It was the Brigadier. It must have been him because of the stick.’
‘The stick?’
‘Yes. The Brigadier always carries a walking stick – silver-topped one it is, used to belong to his father. He had a stick, so it must’ve been him.’
Marvelling at what he perceived to be female logic, Falconer nevertheless added this little snippet to his ‘to do’ list and pressed on. ‘We have been told that Mr Morley was a bit of a voyeur. Do you know anything in this regard?’
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