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

by Frazer, Andrea

  ‘And?’

  ‘That’s the answer to your question, gentlemen. This practice does not prescribe diazepam, nor has it for some years now. That’s why I am able to answer your question without fear of breach of patient confidentiality. We simply don’t have any patients being prescribed that particular drug.’

  And that was the end of that line of enquiry. What had seemed so promising a shortcut had turned into a cul-de-sac, leaving them with nowhere else to go with the stomach contents.

  Or was there? Didn’t Falconer remember seeing a milk pan in the sink? The cocoa mug had disappeared to forensics, and he would soon know if the drug had been in the mug. Had it also been in the saucepan too? And did it really matter? He did not know at this stage, but resolved to collect the pan and send it off to see what, if anything apart from a little mould by now, it had to offer.

  And what about the wire? Who was likely to be able to lay their hands on that? Who was likely to have a ready supply? Maybe someone who worked in a garage? (He was rather vague in his thoughts on this.) Someone who hung pictures (or was there a special wire for that?) Someone who arranged flowers (florists’ wire?) Someone who kept chickens, or anyone, in fact, who had a garden, or indulged in DIY? No, that was another blind alley, unless they were lucky enough to find the actual roll from which this piece was cut, and managed to match the cut ends. He would leave the wire as a last resort, as the search of a large number of houses, sheds, garages, outbuildings and gardens would require an amount of manpower likely to induce a coronary in his immediate superior, and earn him a dressing down over his own investigational incompetence.

  IV

  As they left the surgery, Falconer was roused from his negative musings by the sound of raised voices coming from the garage forecourt next door. Once more, he grabbed Carmichael, and guided him to a hidden position behind the dividing wall. One of those voices had to be Mike Lowry’s, and anything they could get on him might prove useful, if only as a lever.

  ‘What do you mean by calling me an over-priced cheat? You booked the service and I told you how much it would cost. Any work needed is extra, and you understood that.’

  ‘Oh, I understood, all right. And look at the length of this worksheet.’

  ‘It needed doing.’

  ‘Most of it damned well didn’t.’

  ‘Are you a mechanic?’

  ‘Are you, more to the point? All that I was aware needed doing was an oil change and the handbrake tightening. I see that’s on here, so let’s just have a little check.’ Here there was a short break in hostilities followed by a triumphant ‘Aha!’

  ‘There you go. One little shove on this slope and it

  moved. You can’t tell me you adjusted that, and if you did, you’re damned incompetent.’

  ‘I may have been mistaken on that little detail.’

  ‘That little detail?’ The other voice, now recognisable as Piers Manningford’s, rose to a shriek.

  Here, a third voice broke in, accompanied by the yapping of a dog. ‘Michael Lowry, Piers Manningford, whatever are you thinking of, making a show of yourselves like this in public?’

  ‘You keep out of it, Miss Cadogan. This is no business of yours.’ Lowry sounded no less angry, even with the arrival of the old lady.

  ‘My business it may not be, but surely you can’t be surprised that I’d rather you fell out rather more privately than next to the public highway.’

  ‘Oh, bugger off, you interfering old biddy.’

  ‘Michael!’ This last followed a sharp yelp from the dog.

  ‘And take that flea-ridden mutt with you or you might find he’s been unlucky enough to pick up some poisoned rat bait.’

  ‘Miss Cadogan, has he hurt Buster? Lowry, you’re scum.’ Piers had intervened.

  ‘Come along, Buster, let’s get you home where you’ll be safe from brutes like him. You’ve bad blood in you, Michael Lowry. Think on, or you’ll turn out just like your great-uncle.’

  ‘How could you treat her like that, Lowry? She was only trying to make peace.’

  ‘Now look, Manningford, why don’t you visit www-dot-shut-the-fuck-up-dot-com and then just pay this bill. Apart from the handbrake, the rest is fair and square.’

  Distracted by the bare-faced lie and stung into fresh indignation, Manningford railed, ‘Fair and square my arse. This car is a classic of its time, and I thought that’s the sort of thing you were supposed to be specialising in. I’ve looked after this car. Most of what you’ve got on this invoice is work I had done in Market Darley not six weeks past.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  ‘What plugs do you stock in this pokey, tuppenny-ha’penny shack, eh? Show me. Go on, show me. Because six weeks ago I ordered the special diamond ones for this, and if they’re not still under the bonnet at this very minute I’ll eat my hat.’

  ‘I may have overlooked that as well.’ Lowry was in retreat.

  ‘Overlooked it? You’re a crook, man, and you can overlook just about everything else on this invoice. I’ll pay for the oil and not a penny more. You did change the oil, I suppose?’

  ‘Oh, fuck off and take your motor with you. You’re all the same, you people with money – long pockets and short arms.’

  ‘And you’re all the same, those who can’t be bothered to work for it like the rest of us – you think you’re entitled to take it from those who have got it. Miss Cadogan was right. You’re just like that miserable old git of an uncle of yours.’

  ‘Ah, sod off.’

  ‘And a good morning to you, gentlemen,’ Falconer greeted them, strolling on to the forecourt followed by Carmichael (or should that be Cowmichael today?) ‘Not so fast, Mr Manningford.’ Piers was insinuating himself into the driving seat of an immaculate, old T-registration Renault 18 Turbo. ‘I shall need to speak to you again. Will you be in if I call in – say, about half an hour?’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘Good-oh! Now, Lowry, shall we go into the shop where there’s a modicum of privacy? We wouldn’t want to cause a public disturbance now, would we?’

  V

  Lowry, of course, denied any knowledge of a will made by his great-uncle. He also displayed a similar ignorance of any bank account or insurance policy the old man may have had, but he looked happier and happier as the interview continued. So what if he had no alibi for Sunday evening? Having one would have been, in itself, suspicious. They would have to prove he had been in the cottage.

  As they left, Carmichael furnished the inspector with his opinion.

  ‘He seemed pretty confident to me, sir. And he genuinely didn’t seem to know about the account and the policy.’

  ‘Be that as it may, Carmichael, he’d have known the old man owned the property, and knew or suspected he had a cache of money tucked away somewhere in there. How much do you reckon a place like that would fetch on the open market, even in that state, in a village setting like this? Those two nest eggs together were enough for him to commit murder for. The other two golden eggs are just the icing on the cake. Somehow we’ve got to place him in that cottage.’

  ‘If it was him.’

  ‘Yes. Now, let’s get off and see what Mr Manningford’s opinion of blackmail is. Then, when we’ve shaken his tree a little, we’ll go and see what Nicholas Rollason has to say for himself about that missing hour or so of his on Sunday night.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Wednesday 15th July – morning

  I

  Falconer decided to leave the car where it was. It was a nice day and he had at least found a parking space. As they passed the teashop, Cassandra Romaine hailed them from the green. She was sitting on the bench by the war memorial, a full wicker shopping basket beside her.

  ‘It’s my husband’s birthday today,’ she trilled, ‘and we’re having drinkies and nibbles in the pub tonight. Do you fancy joining us?’

  ‘No thank you, Mrs Romaine. I hope you have a good time,’ called Falconer loudly, then, dropping his voice, he muttered, ‘After
all, you are that good time that’s been had by just about all. You didn’t want to go, did you, Carmichael?’

  ‘No way, sir.’

  ‘Too right. The drinkies may be OK, but as for the nibbles – I’d rather be nibbled by a piranha fish.’

  ‘I don’t think I’d fancy either, but it takes all sorts.’

  Was that Carmichael making a joke?

  II

  Piers Manningford was in, and waiting for them. Dorothy was working away for a few days, and he was very glad indeed of her absence. Whatever was to be discussed this morning would include part of his life that he would rather his wife was kept in the dark about. So, although it was with a certain amount of trepidation that he opened the door to the summoning knock, he felt fairly sure that his secret was safe, at least for now.

  ‘Come in, Inspector, come in, Sergeant. Go through and sit down. I’ve just made a pot of coffee.’

  ‘Nasty business at the garage this morning, sir.’ Falconer fired his opening shot.

  ‘It was, it was. But I’m not ashamed at losing my temper. The man was blatantly trying to rip me off.’

  ‘Perfectly within your rights, sir,’ the inspector agreed. ‘Rather, I was referring to Lowry’s roughshod manner with Miss Cadogan.’

  ‘He’s a guttersnipe. I called round after I got home and the little dog’s fine, just a bit sore, but she was really upset. Said Buster had had a bad enough time with his old master, and it wasn’t fair, him being kicked like that when he’d done nothing wrong.’

  ‘Maybe she’ll have the common sense to steer clear of that young man in the future.’

  ‘Let’s hope so. Now, how do you take your coffee?’

  ‘Black, no sugar,’ instructed Falconer.

  ‘White, five sugars,’ requested Carmichael.

  Five sugars! That explained a lot, thought Falconer. He took a sip from his cup, placed it on the occasional table beside his chair, and went straight for the jugular. ‘Was Reg Morley trying to blackmail you, Mr Manningford?’

  An arc of coffee flew from Piers’ lips and into his lap as he choked in surprise. Mopping furiously at his groin area, he vigorously denied the allegation.

  ‘What would happen if your wife found out about your little romps with Mrs Romaine?

  Manningford stopped mopping. ‘She’d rip me to ribbons verbally, throw everything not nailed down at my head, pack my bags, throw me out, contact her solicitor and launch extremely acrimonious divorce proceedings. That’s what would happen. There, does that satisfy you?’

  ‘What would you be willing to pay to keep it quiet?’

  ‘I have very little money of my own.’

  ‘Then what would you be prepared to do to guarantee silence?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Of course you do, Mr Manningford. Would you be prepared to commit murder?’

  ‘Don’t be absurd.’

  ‘Did Mr Morley try to blackmail you, Mr Manningford?’

  ‘Stop it, stop it! I didn’t touch him. He never said anything. I’m not even sure it was him in the woods. Why don’t you leave me in peace and try to find out who really did it. You’ll destroy me if you carry on like this.’ Sweat poured down his face, and his eyes were red and brimming with tears.

  ‘Thank you for the coffee, Mr Manningford. We’ll be in touch. Shall we see ourselves out?’

  III

  The walk to The Rookery to see Nick Rollason would normally have been a waste of time as, on a Wednesday, that gentleman was usually to be found in his office in Carsfold. Today, however, he had found it necessary to return home for some clients’ files he had inadvertently left on his desk, and was just collecting these together when the two policemen arrived.

  ‘Come on in, you’re lucky to catch me. I’m normally in the office at this time. My wife said you had a chat with her yesterday. How can I help you?’

  ‘Let’s start with Sunday afternoon.’ Falconer had been directed to an armchair, Carmichael, notebook at the ready, was perched incongruously on a green pouffe, giving the uncanny impression of a mountain placed on a pea. ‘Your wife says she heard Ms Long shouting after Mr Morley as he left to walk his dog. Did you hear her too?’

  ‘No. That was when Becky was opening up, and I was out in the back garden mowing the lawn. Daren’t leave it at this time of the year, especially after such a wet spring, or the grass is up to your armpits before you know it.’

  ‘Did you see Mr Morley at all on Sunday?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  ‘Had you been bothered by Mr Morley spying on your wife?’

  ‘Becky and I decided to ignore it. She didn’t want any bad feeling between neighbours.’

  ‘So why did you go over to see him on Sunday evening?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘You were seen.’

  Nick Rollason sighed. ‘OK, pax. I went out to the pub for a couple of pints and had rather more than I intended. I got all worked up about that dirty old man ogling my wife and decided to have a quiet word with him.’

  ‘And did you?’ questioned Falconer, expecting a denial.

  ‘Yes, I did. I told him quietly and precisely that if he didn’t stop his peeping-tommery immediately, I’d wring his scrawny little neck for him.’ Rollason looked very unhappy at this admission and hung his head. ‘When I heard what had happened I felt dreadful, as if I’d somehow wished it on him. God knows, I only meant to frighten him, and the next morning he was dead.’

  ‘What time did this take place, sir?’

  ‘I left the pub a few minutes after nine. That’s as close as I can get. And the whole thing can’t have lasted more than a minute or two.’

  Thank you God, thought Falconer, before going for the throat. ‘So why did it take you over an hour to get home? It’s a distance of only a few yards.’

  ‘I went for a walk to clear my head.’

  ‘You were seen heading towards your own home. Are you sure that wasn’t to get a bit of wire from the shed, so that you could return and solve your peeping tom problem once and for all?’ This didn’t account for the sleeping tablets, but Falconer had to try for whatever he could get.

  ‘Don’t be absurd. I’d had too much to drink and I was all steamed up. Yes, I did head towards home, but I decided to keep on going up the High Street and have a tramp around the ruins until I felt calmer and more sober. Then I went home.’

  ‘Do you realise that you might have been the last person to see Mr Morley alive?’

  ‘Very unlikely – in fact it’s impossible, Inspector.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Because that would make me a murderer, wouldn’t it, and I’m afraid you’re going to have to look elsewhere for someone to fill that role.’

  ‘Bugger!’ said Falconer as they took their leave. ‘Either he’s an exceptional actor, or I’ve just made a bit of a tit of myself.’

  ‘Do you like bird-watching, sir?’

  ‘No, Carmichael.’

  After a minute or so, during which both men remained silent, Falconer resumed. ‘Let’s call at The Old Manor House while we’re up this end. I’ve a feeling I know what that old boy’s hiding and I want to put my theory to the test, see if I can’t bluff him out into the open.’

  ‘Can I help?’ asked Carmichael, eager as a big brown puppy.

  ‘Just go along with anything I say, even if you know I’m lying. And try not to look surprised, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  IV

  The Brigadier and his lady wife were taking elevenses in the garden, and the policemen were invited to sit and partake of a cup of Darjeeling and some excellent home-made flapjacks. A plate of scones, a pat of butter and a glass bowl of jam also sat on the table.

  ‘Tell me again,’ said Falconer with a light spray of oatmeal, ‘when did you go down to Crabapple Cottage on Sunday?’

  ‘Went down about nine. Knocked on the door, called out. Nothing. Heard shouting round the back and decided to call i
t a day.’

  ‘You didn’t speak to Mr Morley at all?’

  ‘No. Told you, couldn’t get an answer.’

  ‘But did you speak to him when you went back later?’

  ‘Young man, are you all right?’ cut in Joyce Malpas-Graves as Carmichael began to cough convulsively.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he managed between splutters. ‘Crumb went down the wrong way.’

  The Brigadier banged him on the back while his wife passed his cup to him. Falconer merely glared in fury. So much for Carmichael keeping a cool head as he, Falconer, tried to flush out the truth. At the first sign of a bluff, Carmichael nearly chokes to death in surprise. If I were ten years younger, thought the inspector, and two feet taller, I’d give him a proper slap. And not on the back either.

  ‘Brigadier, if I can get back to what we were saying.’ Carmichael was silent now, but red in the face from his recent paroxysm. ‘You returned to Crabapple Cottage on Sunday evening. You couldn't make yourself heard when you called earlier, so you returned.’

  ‘Who says I went back.’

  ‘You were seen.’ (Carmichael was staring innocently into his cup, fully aware of the rules now, and playing the game.)

  ‘Oh.’ The Brigadier (trusting soul) deflated a little. ‘Fair play, old chap. Yes, I did go back.’ (Yippee!)

  ‘What time?’

  ‘About half past nine.’

  ‘And did you speak to Mr Morley?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I’d better tell you why I went back, first, so it makes more sense. When I got home the first time Joyce was all in a tizzy. This is jam-making season, and while I was out she’d gone to fetch in some gooseberries as she knew we had enough to make a few pounds – so much better than that shop-bought muck. But when she got to the bushes there wasn’t a single fruit to be found. Morley had already been at our soft fruits – raspberries, strawberries – and when I realised he’d been at it again I really saw red. Had a quick gin-and-it for Dutch courage and marched back down there. Pushed my way past him and went straight to the kitchen. And there they were – the best part of three and a half pounds of gooseberries in an old carrier bag.’