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

by Frazer, Andrea

  Chapter Fifteen

  Wednesday 15th July – evening

  I

  All of those asked had taken up the invitation to attend Clive Romaine’s birthday celebrations and by eight o’clock, to use the vernacular, the joint was heaving. Trade at the bar was brisk, the food was receiving an enthusiastic reception, and muzak from a number of unobtrusive speakers added to the volume of conversation broken, now and then, with a guffaw of good-natured laughter. As the evening wore on and drink flowed more freely, however, there were to be a number of unpleasant exchanges, some jarring notes amidst the jars of ale.

  The first of these occurred shortly after nine o’clock when Nick Rollason, already proved to be an individual more likely to air a grievance after a bevy or two, buttonholed Mike Lowry about the amount of noise that had come from his workshop over the past few evenings.

  ‘I can understand you have a job to do, and I don’t begrudge you that, but do you have to carry on till all hours? Some of us have got young children trying to get some sleep, and if you don’t do something about it, I shall have to get in touch with the noise abatement people, see what they have to say about it.’

  ‘We can’t all work in a poncy office, Rollason. Some of us have to get our hands dirty. Not all of us have nice, clean, quiet jobs shuffling a few bits of paper around.’

  ‘That doesn’t answer my question, Lowry. When are you going to let us have a bit of peace and quiet in the evenings?’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ cut in Alan Warren-Browne. ‘I thought my wife was going to get a respite from her crippling migraines when your uncle’s dog went – no offence meant, Miss Cadogan.’

  ‘None taken, Alan.’

  ‘But, oh no. Like a family trait it is, you, him and noise.’

  ‘I can’t help it if your old lady’s a hypochondriac.’

  ‘She is not.’

  ‘Nor if your kid doesn’t want to be poked off to its cot at every opportunity.’

  ‘How dare you!’ This last from Rebecca Rollason, crimson with rage.

  At this point George Covington lumbered over and steered Mike Lowry towards a darts match in noisy progress at the other end of the bar, his wife in his wake carrying plates of food to offer to those left standing on the still-smouldering battlefield.

  Things settled down for a while then, the mechanic tossing arrows towards their circular target, and beer down his throat. The Reverend Bertie Swainton-Smythe, seeing the glasses of his wife and her aunt empty and taking advantage of a lull in activity at the bar, moved to replenish their drinks, almost stumbling to his knees as he attempted to ease himself round the table.

  ‘Watch out, Bertie,’ called Lillian, as he grabbed at the bench for balance.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry, Aunt Martha. I seem to have trodden on your handbag.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s no harm done. Here, let me put it up on this chair, out of the way.’

  ‘Oh, Auntie! Why didn’t you bring something a little more appropriate for the evening?’ Lillian was aghast at her aunt’s shopping-sized bag.

  ‘Because I stopped having pretty little bags for evenings forty years ago, Lillian. This is my all-occasion, never-have-to-repack-it, never-go-out-without-something bag. Like it or lump it.’

  ‘Aunt Martha, don’t tease so. I can see the twinkle in your eye.’

  ‘There’s room for that in my bag, too, should I choose to keep it there. There you are, Bertie! Thank you very much. You must let me get the next one. Here’s mud in your eye.’

  The good-natured atmosphere in the bar prevailed for another three-quarters of an hour, during which time heavy rain began to fall from the cloud cover that had stealthily thickened as daylight had faded. Martha Cadogan, true to her word, had taken her humongous handbag to the bar to order a round of drinks, and was a reluctant close witness to what happened next.

  Mike Lowry had continued to drink steadily and to walk a little less so. On one of his not infrequent trips from the bar he cannoned into Brigadier Malpas-Graves, as the older man collected two pink gins for himself and his wife. ‘Steady on, old man. Plenty of time till closing,’ he warned.

  ‘Ah, if it isn’t the Brigadier. Sir,’ he said, putting his pint down on a table. A dangerous glint had appeared in the mechanic’s eye and he seemed bent on making mischief, ‘I believe I owe you a great big thank you.’

  ‘What for, my boy?’

  ‘From what I’ve gathered, it was you that did away with my tight-fisted old Great-uncle Reg. What a favour that was. Perhaps I ought to buy you a drink, in gratitude, shall we say.’

  ‘Whatever are you talking about, man? Explain yourself.’

  ‘You went down to his place Sunday night, didn’t you?’

  ‘I think you’d better keep your accusations to yourself, young man, or you’ll be hearing from my solicitor.’

  ‘But I’m only trying to say thank you, aren’t I? For finding me a fortune, although anyone less like Chris Tarrant I’d be hard pressed to find,’ this reference to Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? being a complete mystery to the Brigadier.

  ‘You leave him alone, Mike, and stop shooting your mouth off. You’ll get into all sorts of trouble if you’re not careful.’ Mike turned to the source of these words: his erstwhile partner, Kerry Long.

  ‘Oh, if it isn’t the money-grubbing bitch who makes my life a misery with her whining. Frightened he’ll take me to court and you’ll lose your precious maintenance, are you?’

  ‘Calm down. Let’s all calm down. This is supposed to be a birthday party.’ Clive Romaine stepped in to try his hand at peace-making, but to no avail.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t the husband of the local bicycle. What’s it like not knowing who’s been in your wife’s knickers from day to day?’

  ‘What the hell are you implying?’

  ‘Leave it, Clive.’ Cassandra tried to pull her husband away.

  Lowry, at that moment, caught sight of Piers Manningford’s face, thought he saw the way the wind was blowing, and decided to get his own back for his earlier humiliation on his own forecourt. Maybe it was his turn to get caught with his trousers down. ‘Oh, I thought better of it. Didn’t know where it had been. But ask that next-door neighbour of yours. He’ll give you chapter and verse on her cheap favours, if I’m not very much mistaken.’

  ‘What’s he talking about, Cassie?’

  ‘Nothing. Leave it. He’s drunk, that’s all.’

  The Reverend Bertie hove into view from one direction at that juncture, while George Covington appeared from the other. ‘Come along, Michael. Let’s get you home,’ said the vicar, brooking no argument. ‘You restore order with the others, George. Leave this one to me. Now, where’s your glass?’ Bertie handed him his glass. ‘Now, get that down you and I’ll see you home.’

  The application of a little more ale seemed to have a pacifying effect on Lowry, for he became almost meek, allowing himself to be seen safely back to his bed-sit, from where he could do no further mischief that evening, and the vicar left him, in an armchair, eyes already closing in sleep.

  As he stepped back over to the pub he noticed that there had been a temporary respite from the rain, but thunder now rumbled ominously in the distance, promising more to come, and lightning flickered intermittently in the west.

  The party was breaking up on his return, there being too many ruffled feathers to maintain even the illusion of a congenial social gathering, and each went their separate ways to evaluate and think on what the evening’s events meant to them.

  At eleven-forty-five the thunder and lightning were directly over the village of Castle Farthing and a deluge of rain began to fall.

  All but one of its residents listened in awe as the summer storm raged.

  II

  Castle Farthing was not, however, abed for the night, as could be seen in the bright lightning flashes that intermittently bathed it in an eerie blue light. During this time, in one of Mother Nature’s flickering slide shows, an observer would have noticed a
dark figure flitting along the Carsfold Road. A few minutes earlier, the first figure to venture out had left a property on the High Street and disappeared into the storm. Over a period of a few minutes two more figures braved the elements. After about five minutes a final figure left the comforts of hearth and home and disappeared into the dark, rain-lashed night.

  None was abroad for pleasure

  Chapter Sixteen

  Thursday 16th July – morning

  I

  Harry Falconer had, unusually and infuriatingly, slept through the summons of his alarm clock and emerged dripping and late from his shower to discover that he had a dozen clean shirts, but not one had been ironed. It was, therefore, with a hiss of exasperation that he dug out the ironing board, made hasty work of a cream linen number, and threw on his clothes.

  Mycroft had the unexpectedly dull breakfast of tinned cat food shoved unceremoniously under his nose, and was deciding to turn said nose up in disdain when his master fled through the front door muttering curses under his breath. The cat, defeated, gave the feline equivalent of a sigh and moodily tucked in. Without an audience, no display of petulance would change the menu, and food, after all, was food – in fact, not bad at all for tinned, but he would not be letting on about that, just in case.

  His master’s day did not improve when, on arriving at his desk, he shed his jacket to make an awful discovery. In his haste earlier, he must have been so distracted as to have ironed one of his shirt sleeves twice, the other, not at all. His left arm was draped from shoulder to cuff in wrinkled cream linen. That was just grand! He would have to spend the whole of today with his jacket on. But at least the previous night’s storm had cleared the air a little and it was somewhat cooler today.

  As he sneeringly contemplated the scar on his normal sartorial perfection, the internal telephone trilled for attention and he reached to answer it, still glaring in disbelief at his left arm.

  ‘Great. Super. Oh, marvellous. Straight away?’ There went the last vestige of the idea that he might be able to slip home and press the offending sleeve. ‘Carmichael’s waiting to be picked up. Oh, goody. I’m on my way.’

  Another body had been discovered in Castle Farthing and their urgent presence was requested. There had been no other details except the fact that one Constable Proudfoot would be found on duty, guarding the remains and whatever evidence there may be.

  II

  Carmichael had indeed bowed to the dictates of a lower temperature and had, in part at least, fulfilled the unspoken wishes of his superior. He was wearing long trousers, a tie, and a shirt, and the shirt was even long-sleeved and white. Unfortunately the trousers were of a bright crimson material and made his gangling legs look as if he had severed both femoral arteries simultaneously. His tie, Falconer noticed with dismay, carried a likeness of the cartoon character Taz the Tasmanian Devil attempting to devour a cartoon rabbit which was parachuting slowly (he guessed) towards the waiting, gaping mouth. Falconer sighed a weary sigh. Why didn’t the man just hire a Batman costume and have done with it? At least that would be recognisable as fancy dress.

  From over his shoulder Carmichael pulled a vivid green jacket, and folded it into his lap as he shimmied into the passenger seat. Red and green! Make that Robin, thought Falconer, but then, perhaps not: that would make him Batman. He then remembered the state of his own shirt, blushed very slightly and drove off, trying to focus his attention on the case thus far.

  III

  They found Constable Proudfoot on the forecourt of the Castle Farthing Garage in Drovers Lane, the area to the rear of the pumps already taped off and out of bounds to any other than the official players in this drama.

  ‘Is it Lowry?’ Falconer asked without salutation or preamble.

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s young Lowry.’

  ‘Murder?’

  ‘Definitely. Looks the same as the last one to me.’

  ‘Thank you, Proudfoot. I didn’t ask for your opinion. I’ll make my own mind up, if I may. Who found him?’

  ‘Mr Warren-Browne from the post office.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘Again. Bit unlucky that, really, finding two dead bodies in less than a week.’

  ‘Unlucky is one word for it. Let’s hope he doesn’t make a habit of it. Anyone in there at the moment – police surgeon, scenes-of-crime?’

  ‘Just the vicar.’

  ‘Dear God and all the saints, don’t tell me you’ve let the vicar in again? What kind of a moron are you, Proudfoot? You’ll be selling tickets next and letting in parties of pensioners, half price, to have a little dust round and a tidy-up. Get out of my way, man, before I do something really unprofessional.’

  The inspector pushed his way under the tape and marched towards the rear of the garage. Carmichael, mightily amused, winked at the blushing constable and resisted the urge to limbo under the tape in pursuit of his superior.

  As the acting sergeant reached the door of the bed-sit, a familiar tableau greeted his eyes. An obviously dead body lay slumped in an armchair, Rev. Bertie Swainton-Smythe was just scrambling from his knees before it, and Falconer was in full flow. ‘This is déjà-bloody-vu isn’t it, vicar. Tell me, if there’s ever a third body, will I be treated to the unusual experience of déjà-bloody-vu all over again?’

  ‘I’m, sorry, Inspector. Marian Warren-Browne phoned me as soon as Alan got back to the post office and phoned 999. I know you’ve got a job to do, but so have I, and this is it. Shall I turn out my pockets now?’

  ‘Please.’

  He produced a bunch of keys, a crumpled handkerchief and an assortment of small change.

  ‘Thank you. Now go. Carry on praying if you must, but do it somewhere else and stop muddying the forensic evidence. Get out. I’ll be along to see you later.’

  Left to themselves Falconer and Carmichael surveyed the living accommodation of the recently deceased. It did not amount to much. A sofa bed at the far side of the room had not been folded away since its last use, and the sheets and quilt lay crumpled across it. A cumbersome old television set rested on a low, dark wood table, a small bookcase held car maintenance manuals and a few ‘top shelf’ magazines. There were no pictures on the walls save for a calendar for a bygone year showing scantily clad females, a good-will offering from a well-known tyre company. One corner housed a sink and portable gas ring, an alcove next to this, a none-too-clean lavatory and minute shower with a mould-encrusted curtain.

  The only armchair housed the mortal remains of Michael Lowry, great-nephew and only living adult relative of the late and unlamented Reginald Morley. Much good his inheritance had done him!

  His fate appeared to have been much the same as old Great-uncle Reg’s, too. His face was a swollen gargoyle, and there were signs of a ligature buried in the skin of his neck. No signs of any cocoa, but Falconer would put his shirt (he winced) on there being diazepam in the young man’s stomach.

  Turning to his sergeant, he found him lost in a brown study. ‘What’s on your mind, Carmichael?’

  ‘I was just thinking what a pity it all was, for him to end up like this. He had it all going for him really – good-looking chap like that and now with money coming his way. Still, he was a shit to his wife and kids – excuse the language, sir. I dunno, seems a waste though.’

  Falconer turned on his heel and left the bed-sit. Carmichael in thoughtful mood was more than he felt up to coping with just at the moment.

  IV

  The post office was the obvious starting point for them. They would glean what information they could on the discovery of the body, then try to work their way backwards in time. Had there not been some sort of a ‘do’ at the local pub the night before? Maybe Lowry had gone to that. After the post office they would make a quick trip there to see what the landlord and his good lady had to offer.

  Once more Alan Warren-Browne looked grey about the gills when he bade them enter and follow him, for the second time in three days, upstairs to the chintzy sitting room above his work premis
es. This time, however, Marian Warren-Browne was present and sitting in an armchair drinking a cup of tea (coffee aggravated her migraine) and reading a magazine.

  Seeing them enter, she disappeared into the kitchen. Returning with two cups and saucers, she poured for them and watched the contents of the sugar bowl decrease alarmingly as Carmichael adjusted the brew to his particular taste.

  ‘I seem to be making a habit of this, don’t I, Inspector?’

  ‘You do indeed, Mr Warren-Browne. Would you care to tell me exactly how you discovered this body?’ (You’re not collecting them for some sort of badge, are you? thought Falconer silently.)

  ‘I’d promised Marian I’d pop into the supermarket in Carsfold for some bulk stuff for the freezer. Thought I’d go in early so I could be back in time to open up. The supermarket opens at eight, so I left about twenty to, only to find that I was virtually out of petrol. But that wasn’t a problem, because Lowry was normally up and about by seven-thirty, and perfectly happy to take money off any early customers who stopped by on the off chance.

  ‘So I drove on to the forecourt, but couldn’t see him. I waited a minute, then got out of the car to see if he was around. The shop had no light on and was showing a closed sign, so I thought I’d try round the back. Couldn’t find him out there either, then I remembered how drunk he’d been the night before and wondered if he was suffering from a bit of a hangover. Hoped he was, actually.’

  ‘How did you know he was drunk the previous night?’

  ‘Everyone was over at the pub for Clive Romaine’s birthday. And Mike certainly made sure that everyone knew he was there. Had words with just about everyone, he did.