Brief Cases Box Set
Love Me To Death #1
A Sidecar Named Expire #2
Battered to Death #3
Toxic Gossip #4
Driven to It #5
Author’s note
This story is mine own humble homage, to the greatest Christmas story ever told, after the original, that was the founder of the celebrations. I refer, of course, to ‘A Christmas Carol’, by Charles Dickens, probably my favourite book of all time, and I hope my offering is acceptable to his honoured shade.
Brief Cases is an occasional series of short stories, used as a device to record the times between the full-length works of The Falconer Files. They confirm that life does go on in the meantime, between big cases, and that not everything they work on together is of the highest priority. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I have enjoyed writing them.
This story is set between Choked Off and Inkier than the Sword.
Love Me To Death #1
A Christmas short story.
The first of an occasional series of short stories (covering the elapsed time between the books in The Falconer Files series.)
On Christmas Day the two detectives are summoned to a block of apartments in Market Darley, to investigate the unexplained death of a young woman whose fiance was due to move in with her on New Year's Day.
At first, her death seems a complete mystery, then, something that Dr Christmas discovers on the internet indicates that her death could just have been a tragic accident, or was it?
CHRISTMAS 2009
STAVE ONE
Death’s Shade
25th December, 2009
Harry Falconer spread garlic and tarragon butter evenly over the skin of the guinea fowl, wrapped it with fragrant whispers of Parma ham, and placed it lovingly in his cast-iron casserole dish, over a bed of sliced potatoes, julienne carrots, celery sticks, bay leaves and thinly sliced onion. This he placed in a wall cupboard, to keep it at room temperature and away from his Siamese’s alter-ego, Mycroft, and his two more recently acquired cats, Tar Baby and Ruby, until it was time to pop it into the oven.
Returning to his sitting room, he surveyed with satisfaction the perfectly trimmed tree in the window, its fibre optics twinkling and reflecting in the copper and gold-coloured glass baubles that had complied with this year’s colour co-ordinated design. Only gold lametta hung from its branches and, at its apex, he could almost hear the singing of the pure white plaster bird with its delicate touches of gold leaf, its tail and wings like gatherings of delicate glass threads; a bird of peace and glad tidings, rather like an avian angel.
No cards crowded his mantel; rather did they hang suspended on golden ribbons from the picture rail, even spaced around the room. The mantelpiece did, however, contain some gesture to the traditions of the season, in that it was draped in ivy, freshly bought the day before, and holly and mistletoe sat atop this where it topped the fireplace.
The radio was tuned to a Christmas morning Eucharist broadcast, and the blood-stirring harmonies of Tavener’s ‘The Lamb’ floated through the air, dramatic, simple, yet complex at the same time, and inviting nostalgia and wonder anew at the Christmas story and its implications for mankind, but this latter meant little to Falconer. He was listening to this, as he had the Carols from King’s, broadcast the day before.
His parents had never bothered about the religious aspects of Christmas, being too busy swilling champagne and cocktails, and entertaining, to let that sort of thing bother them. The real reason he turned on such broadcasts was because the army padre always insisted that, at Christmas, if at no other time in the church calendar, his ‘lads’ would get a bit of BBC church, whether they liked it or not (even if the men did sing alternative words to the carols, to bait their spiritual adviser, and draw his ire). Listening to these broadcasts, now that he had left the army, flooded Falconer with a warm glow of nostalgia.
Falconer’s eyes swept over to the area below the tree, where a pile of small wrapped offerings had been meticulously arranged, and he smiled as he remembered what he had chosen for Mycroft, and the other two cats, and would present them with, after they had partaken of their meal. Then, of course, there would be the Queen’s speech to attend to, something that had been part of his Christmas Day since as long as he could remember, and which he had never missed, no matter where in the world he had been.
He smiled contentedly, as he realised how right he had been to decline (impeccably politely) his family’s invitations – exhortations, even – to spend Christmas with them, their gaudy decorations, cocktail parties and false gaiety. For he had not grown to their pattern – he was not the social animal manqué; did not share their vast spider’s web of friends, associates and acquaintances. Of course, their joint profession had fashioned their form, but he was different: he had not carried on the family tradition of the call of the Bar and had, as a result, become a more introspective person, who was happy both in his own skin, and company. He was self-sufficient, and at Christmas, as a rule, he was not a social animal.
As The Lamb gave way to a reading – And there were shepherds in the fields abiding – his contented reverie was shattered by the brash ringing of the telephone. He rolled his eyes, knowing it wasn’t Aunt Ursula to wish him the compliments of the season, nor his mother Hermione with a last minute plea for him to join them and ‘have some fun’ for once in his life.
No, it would be work that was causing this untimely intrusion into the privacy of his celebrations, as it so often had in the past. Christmas was not a time of peace and goodwill, and of quiet contemplation, when you were a policeman. Picking up the telephone, he turned his steps back to the kitchen, to place his delectable but still raw game bird in the refrigerator.
It had been Superintendent ‘Jelly’ Chivers himself, who had summoned him, in tones both abrupt and imperious. Chivers never minced his words and, given the chance, called a spade a bloody shovel. He had risen to his present position through the ranks, with no buffer of a degree to set him on the road for fast-track promotion. It was said of him that, beneath his carapace of steel, lay a heart of pure flint. His diplomatic skills could be scored with a minus number, and it was rumoured in the staff canteen that he was an alien, originating from the planet ‘Bastard’.
On the phone, Falconer was being told, and told good and proper. Chivers expected this whole mess to be cleared up today, and would accept no excuses for failure; failure, for him, being a dereliction of duty. As Falconer hung up, he thought, with a rueful smile, that old ‘Jelly’ would no doubt have a luxurious and happy day, celebrating in his own inimitable way, with his friends and family. What a pity the superintendent could not have left him alone, to celebrate Christmas in his own fashion.
Outside, the air was as sharp and biting as ice, a frost still underfoot. Overhead, thick banks of clouds were rolling in, to encase the day, as if under a Victorian glass dome – a December tableau to be picked up and shaken, to let loose the snowflakes for some giant child’s amusement.
Pulling his cashmere scarf a little more securely over the shocked skin of his lower face, he headed towards his car, and the inevitability of what lay ahead of him. For one person at least, there was to be no Merry Christmas, no Happy New Year: just a pit of despair, loneliness, grief, and ‘what ifs.’ Life would go on, but not for one soul in the vicinity today, and for another it will be perceived as time standing still, as death mocks from the side-lines.
Shaking such sombre wraiths of thought from his mind, he started the engine of his car, and pondered on what he had learned from the telephone call. There had been a death in a block of apartments near the town centre. Not unusual at this time of year, for someone to depart this life, if only to avoid yet another M
erry Christmas of jolly family arguments and seasonal acrimony, but it was usually an elderly or very sick person that chose this season of the year to shake off his or her mortal coil.
But this had been the death of a healthy young woman; in her prime, not at death’s door. According to her fiancé, he had left her safe and well the previous evening, had let himself in with his own key this morning, for they had planned for him to move in with her on New Year’s Day, only to find her dead, in the bed that was to have been theirs, in just a week’s time.
There were no signs of a break-in, nothing was apparently missing, and there were no signs of violence on her body. It was her enjoyed youth and health that had flagged this as an unexplained death that would bear just the ghost of an investigation. A post mortem would probably provide a perfectly reasonable but unexpected cause but, for now, all avenues had to be explored, and this must be treated as it was being treated, as an unexplained death, with the police in attendance, in case there arose any hint of suspicion that this was an intended death, at the hands of another.
Superintendent Chivers had been more than forceful in his opinion of the rightness of their course of action, on today of all days. He had been insistent. He had a horror of unpleasantness in the press, and anti-police opinion, and was even prepared to interrupt the celebrations of the newly-appointed police surgeon to investigate the possibilities of a physical cause for her demise.
Acting DS ‘Davey’ Carmichael met him just outside the entrance lobby to the block of apartments, as unmoved by the slicing inclemency of the temperature as a giant would be by the passage of an ant. “Merry Christmas, sir,” he boomed into the frozen void, his breath the phantom of a past bonfire, issuing from his lips in smoky clouds.
“Merry Christmas to you and yours, Carmichael,” the inspector replied, and added, “and now we’d better get on with whatever awaits us here, for that’ll be no merry Christmas. Why are such things sent at this time of year? Why does fate play games with the date for misfortune, ensuring there will be no other memories than this, on this day, every year, for the rest of people’s lives?”
“Dunno, sir,” mumbled Carmichael, almost looking upwards, as his superior’s words shot over his head, to see if he could detect their flight-path. “Boyfriend’s still up there, but the SOCO team’s done its work, and they’re just about to move the body. Better get up there, I suppose.”
“You suppose right. It’s really a public relations exercise for the old man, and his obsession with our relationship with the media, so the sooner we put our noses in, and declare everything clean and above board, the sooner we can get back to our respective households and recommence Christmas.”
“Yes please, sir.” Really, Carmichael was like a child – an exceedingly large child, notwithstanding – in his enthusiasm for this season of the year, and had been straining at the leash (more like a huge puppy now) since the first of December, eager for all the joys of Christmas shopping, Advent calendars, pine trees, paper streamers, cards, wrapping paper and carols. So intoxicated had the acting sergeant been by his seasonal love affair, that he had made Falconer seem like a re-incarnation of Ebenezer Scrooge himself.
Their office was hung with an abundance of paper chains and tinsel, a bunch of plastic mistletoe hung in the doorway, and a small silver tree stood on Carmichael’s desk, hung with bright-coloured baubles, its lights winking on and off in an irritating way that drove Falconer nearly to distraction, and he couldn’t wait for the New Year, so that his workspace could be returned to its normal, stark self.
This implied comparison to Scrooge, thought Falconer, wasn’t really fair, as he had sent at least a dozen cards, bought gifts for the favoured few, decorated his home (according to his own lights – fibre-optic ones), and attended Midnight Mass the evening before. So he had no guests joining him today? So he was not spending the day with relatives or friends? Let Carmichael keep Christmas in his own way, and let him leave him alone, to celebrate it in his.
In the lobby of the building, they stopped to share what information they had gathered, from the phone calls that had separately summoned them to this address. Carmichael’s call – lucky lad! – had originated from Bob Bryant, who was duty desk sergeant today. “Surely he’s not on duty on Christmas Day? Does the man actually have no home to go to?” Falconer queried. The man was never off duty!
“He said the 999 call came through on the boyfriend’s mobile. Apparently he just kept saying, “She’s dead! She’s dead! She’s dead!” When Sergeant Bryant had managed to interrupt this three word obligato, he had been informed that the boyfriend and Miss Cater had spent the previous evening together, but he had returned to his own flat, so that he could wrap a very special present, which he planned to bring round this morning. He had already brought her other presents round to her apartment, but this had been something out of the ordinary, which she was not expecting.”
“Lot of detail!” Falconer had commented.
“Seems that once Bob had got him going, he couldn’t shut him up. ʼSpose it must have been the shock. It gets some of them like that, doesn’t it, sir? Anyway, he came round here, yesterday, late afternoon, they put up the tree – very last minute, because both of them had been so busy at work – then they had a meal and a quiet evening in. He left about midnight, he thinks, to go and wrap up this secret present, and not be too late to bed so that he could be round here first thing.”
“Surely he could have wrapped her present at the office?”
Falconer’s gaze moved slowly round the lobby in which they stood. The mansion block had been built in the thirties; outside, a tall, decorated pine tree stood to attention on each side of the double doors, each a fairy-land of white lights and silver stars. In here the lobby had been restored to its original character, obviously at some expense to the residents, and another large tree adorned this space: conveniently placed in a corner, beside the elevator doors. Its decorations were either original period pieces, or carefully copied reproductions.
The inspector’s gaze, initially approving, shifted minimally to allow a shadow of uncertainty to enter his expression. One whole wall was taken up with burr walnut glass-fronted display cabinets, gleaming with the regular loving attention of beeswax. There were three of these, perfectly abutted, and all internally illuminated. The one on the left displayed a fine collection of Art Deco figurines in bronze, the one on the right, a similarly fine collection of elegant ladies, this time in impeccably painted porcelain.
It was the display cabinet in the middle that had given Falconer pause for thought. It boasted a proliferation of Clarice Cliff pieces, brazen in their gaudy rainbow hues and, although they were period-perfect to be included in this fine horde of objets d’art, he found their inclusion puzzling. The figurines, he could accept, but Clarice Cliff had originally been offered for sale in, of all places, Woolworth’s.
In his opinion, the interior designer responsible for this ostentatious display of thirties finery, should have played the snob – so unacceptable in the twenty-first century – and realised, that, though the period was correct, the class was just so wrong. Becoming aware of Carmichael’s voice, he shook his head to free his mind from such unworthy thoughts, and returned, reluctantly, to the here and now.
“What do we know about the deceased, Carmichael?”
“Twenty-three years old. Single. Angela Cater. Clerical officer for the local authority. No brothers or sisters, no pets, no children. Doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink, doesn’t take drugs.”
“Golly, Bob must’ve got a right earful! Do we know if she rents, or owns the property?”
“Not yet, sir, but the bereaved gentleman will, no doubt, provide you with the information, if he’s in the same loquacious state he was in when he phoned Bob.”
“No doubt. Press the button for the lift. I’m beginning to suffer from era confusion, standing here.”
STAVE TWO
The First Spirit – The Ghost of Christmas Ruined
25th
December, 2009 – a little later
The flat, when they entered it, was immaculately tidy, decorated, and dressed in the manner of its era. There was a proliferation of art deco furniture and knick-knacks, and the wallpaper and flooring were also in sympathy with this shift in time. Appropriate paper chains hung from the ceiling of the living room, which also housed a magnificent decorated fir tree, its presence made possible by the elegant proportions of the rooms of the apartment. At its foot were several brightly wrapped parcels, their wrapping paper blowing a raspberry to the art deco period and gaudily boasting their twenty-first century origins.
“Where was she found? In the bedroom? Which door do we need?” From their position just inside the front door they could see into the sitting room, but from the grand hall there were six other doors, all firmly closed to them.
At the sound of Falconer’s voice, a door opened on the left-hand side of the hall, to reveal PC Green, Dr Christmas, and a white-faced young man, his head in his hands, seated at the stool in front of the dressing table. His position hid any view of the all too overwhelming presence of his girlfriend’s body on the bed, eiderdown and bedclothes now flung aside, her nakedness barely concealed by a skimpy nightgown, incongruous in such dignified and respectable surroundings.
Seeing them at the door, Dr Christmas made to leave the room, leaving PC Green to guard the couple who had planned to spend the rest of their lives together, now irrevocably separated by the great black void of death.
“It’s a bit of a stumper,” commented Doc Christmas, scratching his head. “She was in perfect health before, but there are signs that she might have had some sort of severe allergic shock. Either that, or she’s been poisoned. I won’t have any firm idea, until I’ve sliced her open and done the business.”
Brief Cases Box Set Page 1