Grave Stones (The Falconer Files Book 9)

by Andrea Frazer

  As she got closer, she was able to make out the humped shape of a body, and another step identified that body as Lettice Keighley-Armstrong, lying in the mud, drowned and motionless. She looked pathetically abandoned, her clothes a sodden mass, her hair running with rain, her face splashed with the mud that had been disturbed, as the ferocity of the falling water had rebounded and bounced upwards to besmear her features.

  Moaning, ‘Oh, no! Lettice!’ Rev. Florrie knelt in the sodden ground, heedless of the mess it was making of her cassock, and leaned closer to the old woman, hoping vainly that she had just fallen and was merely unconscious. One look at her face annihilated this faint hope, for the wound at her temple may have been washed by the cleansing rain, but the blue-black depression at this spot told the true story. Lettice was stone dead.

  Her immediate reaction was to give her a blessing to speed her soul on its way, but she realised that time was of the essence. She had to get in touch with the police as soon as possible, and, as she had not taken her mobile phone to church with her, that would mean getting back to The Rectory as soon as possible, and leaving Lettice’s body out here in the open for the crows to peck at.

  With a shudder of disgust, she retrieved an old raincoat she kept on the back seat of the car, and placed it over the lifeless form’s head and shoulders. That should keep the disgusting creatures away until she returned. She didn’t think she had the stomach to face an eye-less corpse.

  She had covered the body tenderly, as if covering a sick parishioner on one of her visits for, although she knew, intellectually, that Lettice was gone, her heart wouldn’t accept it, seeing her lying there so peacefully. Checking that she had closed the front door firmly, the key in the pocket of her cassock, she got back into her car and drove the short distance to The Rectory to dial 999.

  At Market Darley police station, Bob Bryant took the call, impressed with the conciseness of the information and the calm voice in which the details were imparted, although he would never know how much courage it had taken the caller to sound so. Rev. Florrie was inured to, if still not entirely comfortable with the dead, and this was someone whom she had considered she knew quite well. Still steeling herself to sound perfectly in control, she informed Sergeant Bryant that she would return to the scene and wait there for assistance.

  Now, who was out on patrol today? he thought, ending the call. A quick check of the staff rota revealed that PC Merv Green and PC Starr were out in one of the cars, doing the rounds of the villages, rather than keeping an eye out for trouble in the town, and he radioed a message straight to them to attend the scene and let him know what the situation was so that he could alert a team if it turned out not to be a natural death but a suspicious one.

  Twenty minutes later, he received a reply stating that it looked like ‘a rum ’un’, in Merv’s own words, and that they would be needing the necessary personnel in attendance. Promising to erect crime tape, Merv signed off, leaving Bob Bryant to sort out who should be disturbed on a Sunday morning. He’d have to get a SOCO team mustered, get in touch with Doc Christmas, and give Harry Falconer a ring, as he would be the senior investigating officer.

  Let him choose whom he wanted to rouse from weekend late slumbers. Bob had enough on his plate, with the thought that he had a responsibility to let Superintendent ‘Jelly’ Chivers know what was going on. That was not a task he had the appetite for carrying out immediately, and decided to shelve this final call until the man would be decently awake and, hopefully, not behaving like a bear with a sore head, after a night out at the golf club the evening before.

  It was still only nine o’clock when the telephone in Falconer’s house shrilled, but he answered its summons immediately. ‘Hello, Bob. What’s brewing?’ he asked with a wry smile. He’d bet himself a bottle of Chablis that he wouldn’t get an undisturbed day off, especially at the weekend, and it looked like he’d won the wine.

  ‘You’re up, then,’ he greeted the inspector. ‘I thought you might be catching a lie-in at this time of a Sunday morning.’

  ‘No chance. That’s something I forgot how to do in the army. I’m up the same time every morning. The only exception I can think of was the day after Carmichael’s wedding, when I didn’t even know if I was alive or dead when I woke up the morning after. What have you got for me, then, that’s so urgent?’

  ‘Dead body found out at Shepford St Bernard,’ Bob informed him. ‘Old lady. It sounds like she’s lain outside all night in the rain. Vicar found her – a Rev. Feldman. Victim’s name is Miss Lettice Keighley-Armstrong. Eighty-five years old. Not known to be in ill health, apart from the usual stuff at that age. The vicar will meet you at the scene.’

  ‘Which is?’ enquired Falconer with a sigh.

  ‘Into the village, crossing the Downsway Road, all the way past the green, then there’s a sign opposite the shop on the right that points to the church …’

  ‘Surely not in the church, Bob; not on a Sunday?’

  ‘No. When you get to the church, the road carries on for a bit, unmade-up, and you’ll come to the house, which is called Manor Gate. The body’s outside, just within the boundaries of the graveyard. The vicar will be waiting outside the house.’

  ‘What about the rest of the cavalry?’ asked the inspector, hoping that he was not expected to rally his own troops.

  ‘I’m just about to get the SOCO team alerted, I’ve already spoken to Doc Christmas, and I’ll leave you to choose your own company. I know how Roberts gets up your nose, cheeky young devil, but I also know that Carmichael was having some sort of ‘do’ last night with his family. It’s up to you. Just spare a thought for me, having to tell Chivers, when I know he will probably not have got in until the early hours as they had something on at the golf club.’

  ‘Oh, God! I’ll take a stiff any day over Chivers with a hangover. Good luck. And, just for your information, in case the old dragon asks, I’m going to plump for Carmichael. He’s not known for his alcohol consumption, and I don’t think I could stand Roberts wittering on all the time while I’m trying to think.’

  ‘Pragmatic choice, Harry. Let me know as soon as you know anything, so that I can keep the Jelly up to date.’

  ‘Rather you, than me,’ replied Falconer, shuddering at the mere thought.

  It was Kerry, Carmichael’s wife, who answered the phone, sounding a little sheepish when Falconer asked to speak to her husband. ‘I’m awfully sorry, but he’s not awake yet. I think he rather pushed the boat out last night, but I’m sure I can return him to the land of the living if you need him. I don’t think he’ll be fit to drive, though. I’d bet anything that he’s still a bit over the limit.’

  ‘I’ll pick him up, then. No problem,’ offered Falconer rashly, not really thinking it through.

  ‘How long have I got?’

  ‘Make it half an hour, and make sure you get him into the shower and set it on cool. I shall need him awake and functioning, not dozing off all the time, which I know for a fact he can do standing up.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise a miracle.’

  ‘Good girl. I’m grateful to you. Right, see you in about thirty minutes,’ he finished and hung up.

  That was odd. It wasn’t like Carmichael to have more than a couple of halves at the most. It must’ve been his family’s bad influence over him, if he’d had one over the eight. Still, a cool shower and the thought of a new case should brighten him up no end,’ thought the inspector, without a trace of comprehension at how naïve he was being.

  Sunday morning – Castle Farthing

  Harriet hadn’t woken for a feed yet, so Kerry left the boys in the living room playing quietly while she mounted the stairs with trepidation. He had managed to crawl up the stairs in the early hours, like a desperate homing pigeon seeking its roost, then had collapsed into bed and the sleep of the magnificently intoxicated.

  She had no idea how she was going to rouse her comatose husband, get him through a shower, and dressed and ready for work w
ithin the confines of only thirty short minutes, and estimated that it would take her that long just to get him to his feet, let alone all the rest of getting him ready. He’d had a real skinful the night before, and she’d never seen him like that before, in all the time she’d known him.

  When she entered the bedroom she could just see a huge lump, the duvet wrapped round it like a cocoon, and from which monumental snores rent the air. ‘Come on, my love. Get yourself awake. You’ve got to go to work.’ She shook his body violently as she spoke, and part of a face emerged from beneath the duvet, and one bloodshot eye half-opened and squinted at her, suffering from the intrusion of daylight upon its dark and peaceful world.

  ‘Whaaa …?’ came floating out to her, as the rest of the head appeared.

  ‘Come on, Davey. The inspector’s just been on the phone. Something’s come up, and he’s going to be picking you up in … oh, probably only about twenty-five minutes, now. You’ve got to get out of bed and get ready.’

  ‘Go ’way,’ muttered the head, diving under the duvet once more, hands pulling it more closely around its face.

  ‘I’m not joking, Davey. You’ve got to get up. Inspector Falconer’s on his way here this very minute.’

  The lump on the bed wriggled itself more comfortably under its covering and Kerry knew it was time to get tough. Going into the bathroom, she soaked a face cloth in cold water, then returned to the bedroom, pulled the duvet away from her husband’s head, and pushed the icy flannel at him, covering as much of his face as she could get at. That had a more positive effect.

  ‘What’re you doing? Leave me alone? I feel like death!’

  ‘You’ve got to go to work. Didn’t you hear me before? Falconer’s on his way over to pick you up. I told him you weren’t fit to drive, so he’s coming here, and he expects you to be ready to go when he arrives.’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding me!’ Carmichael was now sitting bolt upright in the bed, his red-rimmed and bloodshot eyes wide open in disbelief. ‘Tell me this is just a joke. Tell me it’s a dream. Just don’t tell me that this is real,’ he pleaded.

  ‘Oh, it’s for real all right,’ replied Kerry, tugging at the duvet, to encourage him to get out of the bed. ‘Come on, DS Carmichael. Time for your walk. See if you can get as far as the bathroom, and I’ll put the shower on for you.’

  ‘Couldn’t you just tell him that I’d died in the night?’

  ‘I could, but it wouldn’t be true, would it?’

  ‘Almost.’

  ‘Get out of that bed this minute, and try to get a grip, before I lose my temper. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry. I go all green and turn into a monster.’

  ‘Hard to tell the difference, then,’ Carmichael replied, recovering just a little, and ducking with just sufficient speed to avoid the slap she had aimed at his head.

  When Falconer pulled up in front of Jasmine Cottage, he gave a double beep on the horn, surprised that his sergeant wasn’t already waiting outside the door, and hoped that his hangover wasn’t bad enough to keep him from his work.

  As he considered this unedifying prospect, and the alternative of working with Roberts, the door of the cottage opened and a sorry pair exited, Kerry first, leading what looked to be a punch-drunk and pathetic figure. Once outside, the formidable figure of Carmichael put an arm around the smaller figure, and this unmatched combination began to stagger slowly towards the Boxster, looking like David and Goliath going off to A&E after the contest.

  Leaning over and opening the passenger door, the inspector took a quick look in the glove compartment, seemed to be satisfied with what he saw, and closed it again firmly. Like a boy scout, he was always prepared.

  Carmichael, with the complexion of a pistachio nut, folded himself into the passenger seat with infinite slowness, then groaned as he reached for the seat belt. ‘Sometimes I wish I didn’t have family,’ he croaked, his mouth and throat still suffering from dehydration.

  ‘You managed to wet the babies’ heads, then?’ Falconer asked rhetorically. ‘I’m just glad I wasn’t there as chief midwife.’

  ‘I did mean to invite you, sir.’

  ‘Then thank heaven for forgetfulness. I do know how you feel, though. You look exactly how I felt after your wedding reception, and I decided there and then that I never wanted to feel like that again.’

  ‘It was all Merc’s fault! I said I didn’t want any more to drink, but he just kept them coming.’

  ‘Then, I suppose, you got to the state where another bucket-load wouldn’t matter.’

  ‘Exactly, sir. I felt like a murder victim when I woke up this morning.’

  ‘How lucky, as that’s probably exactly what’s waiting for you in Shepford St Bernard. You’re right, though. You do look like a corpse. The only thing out of kilter is that you’re still walking and talking. Did you manage any breakfast?’

  ‘!’ Carmichael gave him a look of mute appeal, and began breathing shallow breaths of desperation.

  Without a word, Falconer pressed the button to open the passenger window and pushed Carmichael’s head outside, from whence came the stomach-churning noises of someone blowing their chunks.

  When the sound ceased and Carmichael began to withdraw his head, Falconer leaned over again, popped the catch on the glove compartment, removed a sick bag he had pilfered from the last time he had flown, and a packet of tissues.

  ‘Well done, Sergeant!’ he congratulated his passenger, while passing over his finds. ‘You managed to miss the cyclist, but only just and, if what I believe to be true is accurate, the side of my car probably looks like it’s trying to grow a pizza. You can wash that when we get back to your place, later. You’ll find mints in the door pocket if you want to freshen your mouth.’

  ‘Mmmf!’ replied Carmichael, who was cleaning himself up as best as he could. He did look a little less grass-tinged now, and the addition of a Polo mint should help with his breath while they were incarcerated together in the same tin can. Even Porsches didn’t come with instant passenger fresheners.

  ‘Thanks, sir,’ said the sergeant, his voice a little closer to its normal bass boom. ‘That was very efficient of you.’

  ‘Be prepared!’ Falconer replied, with no mention of boy scouts, and leaving Carmichael a bit puzzled, but too weak to ask for an explanation.

  With both windows half-open, a clean, clear breeze blowing past both of them, Carmichael was feeling rather better when they arrived at Shepford St Bernard, and he attempted to exit the car, but with more than his usual difficulty of being so big and broad. Today, with the added handicap of suffering from a severe hangover, he lacked sufficient coordination to complete the complicated manoeuvre, and he fought weakly to reach the outside world. He now had, however, a fresher complexion, the green tinge having disappeared, and his cheeks were rosy with the blast of air they had received on the journey over.

  The rain had ceased just before Falconer reached Castle Farthing, but it was still drizzly here, just a few miles away. Following instructions, Falconer took the un-adopted and rough road just to the south of the church, and pulled up outside Manor Gate to see one other solitary car, parked just outside the front porch.

  There was no sign of a waiting vicar, so Falconer got out of his car, surveying with distaste the un-commissioned decoration down the passenger side of his pride and joy, and approached the other solitary vehicle, knocking discretely on the driver’s window. When the window was wound down he caught sight of the occupant, a pleasant-looking woman in her late thirties, and spoke.

  ‘I wonder if you could help me,’ he asked, surmising that this was probably the vicar’s wife. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Falconer of the Market Darley CID, and I’m looking for the Rev. Feldman. Do you, perhaps, know his present whereabouts?’

  To his furious embarrassment, she replied, ‘You’ve found her, Inspector. Did the duty officer not tell you I was female?’

  ‘No, he didn’t,’ said Falconer, through clenched teeth. ‘I do apologise, and I
shall have that officer’s guts for garters when I get back to the station. Probably his idea of setting me up. I hope I didn’t upset you.’

  ‘Happens all the time,’ replied Rev. Florrie with a rueful smile. ‘Sometimes I even find myself apologising for not being male. Not to worry, though. No harm done.’

  Turning towards the car and back to the woman again, he said, ‘I’d like to introduce you to Detective Sergeant Carmichael, but he seems to be having some difficulty getting out of the car. Would you excuse me for a moment? He’s not feeling in top form today.’ And, so saying, he went to the passenger door of the Boxster, grabbed one of Carmichael’s enormous paws, noticing that he’d only managed to get one leg out so far, and pulled for all he was worth.

  Slowly the Kraken emerged, a dishevelled heap of suffering, and shambled over to introduce himself to the woman, who had exited her own car, and was seen to be wearing a cassock. She was in clerical uniform because this was Sunday, assumed by the less well-informed, to be the busiest day of the week for the clergy.

  He extended a slightly tremulous hand and bade her good morning, while Falconer waited impatiently to be apprised of the exact location of the body. Finally, ‘Miss Keighley-Armstrong’s body is over by that nearest gravestone. It almost looks as if she were reaching out to grab it, doesn’t it?’

  Falconer squelched across the unmade-up roadway and espied the body in that exact position, there being no fence, wall, or other barrier between the boundary of the road and the graveyard. He was turning, rather unwarily, given the conditions underfoot, to summon his sergeant, when he slipped and did a very good Riverdance impression before regaining his balance, if not his dignity. ‘Come along Carmichael,’ he said, rather sharply, ‘We’ve got work to do,’ ignoring the sergeant’s snicker, as he rallied a little, and his sotto voce comment of,

  ‘Didn’t know you knew any Irish dancing, sir,’ as inappropriate in the given circumstances.