The woman was in her late sixties, and had a motherly look about her. A comfortably round figure with an apron tied over the front of it was presented between sensible carpet slippers and wrinkled stockings at the bottom, and a mop of greying curls and a sympathetic face at the top. She looked kind; just the sort of neighbour one would want to have in an emergency.
‘You come on in,’ she exhorted them, stepping back over the wall on to her own path. ‘She’s inside, with a small glass of brandy to perk ’er up. You go in an’ see ’er, and I’ll make us all a nice cup of tea. I reckon I’ve got an unopened packet of chocolate digestives in my kitchen cupboard as well. Nothin’ like tea to raise the spirits, my old ma used to say, and she was right, too.’
She led them into her living room, which had not been knocked through in the way that many of the houses had, and they found a young woman sitting on the only sofa, quietly crying into a handful of tissues. ‘Chelsea Fairfield?’ enquired Falconer.
At the sound of his voice she looked up, displaying red eyes and a face made puffy by weeping. Unable to manage a spoken answer, she just nodded her head in acknowledgement of her identity.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Falconer from Market Darley CID, and this is my partner, Detective Sergeant Carmichael,’ the inspector said by way of introduction. ‘We’ve come in response to your 999 call.’
Miss Fairfield began to cry again, her body wracked by great hiccoughing sobs, as she remembered afresh what had happened. ‘I-I’m s-so s-sorry. I just d-don’t seem t-to be able t-to t-take it in,’ she stuttered, between waves of tears. ‘It all s-seems s-so unreal – like a d-dream – a n-nightmare.’
Carmichael immediately sat down beside her on the sofa, his giant frame dwarfing hers, and put a hand round her shoulders. ‘Just let it all out,’ he advised her, ‘and then you’ll feel a little better, and we can talk to you, and start to investigate what took place.’
At that juncture, Mrs Jenkins re-entered the room carrying a large, old-fashioned tray, and set it down on a low table that sat so conveniently for the sofa, and the two armchairs that comprised Mrs Jenkins’ three-piece-suite, a dazzling affair in red, orange, and yellow velour.
As Mrs Jenkins poured tea for everyone, solicitously asking whether they took milk and sugar, Falconer gazed around him at the room in which they sat. Mrs Jenkins was evidently fond of bright colours, her three-piece-suite being a sufficient example of this to confirm such a belief. Just to add even more evidence to his surmise, the walls were hung with bright prints, and the two rugs on the floor also glowed with jewel-bright colours.
‘Very nice, bright room,’ he complimented her. Although he preferred more muted shades himself, he needed her on his side if he were to question Miss Fairfield without undue interruption and opposition. She must become an ally, not an enemy.
With the chocolate biscuits being handed round on a pretty porcelain plate, Carmichael removed himself from the sofa, Mrs Jenkins sat down comfortably beside Chelsea Fairfield, and Falconer took the spare armchair. There! That was them all settled now. He’d give it a couple more minutes for the tea and biscuits to do their job of soothing, then the questioning could begin.
Miss Fairfield was calmer now, and had accepted a cup of tea and a couple of biscuits with admirable dignity. Carmichael, without a shred of dignity at all, shoved a chocolate biscuit, whole, into his mouth, to free his hands to extract his notebook from his jacket pocket. To see his sergeant’s mouth dealing with such a large offering was an experience Falconer rather wished he had not been witness to. The faces he was making made him look totally alien, and not a little half-witted.
Fortunately, neither of the women noticed, and Falconer only stared because he could not avert his fascinated eyes. They were glued to the spectacle, and there was not a thing he could do about it. Swallowing mightily, Carmichael smiled across at the inspector, and helped himself to another biscuit.
As the whole of it disappeared into his mouth again, Falconer pretended to be interested in the knick-knacks on the mantelpiece, to save himself a repeat of what he had witnessed before.
Chelsea Fairfield finally put down her cup and saucer, blew her nose quietly into the bundle of tissues she still had in her hand, and pulled herself into a bolt-upright sitting position, thus indicating that she was composed now and ready to talk.
Carmichael jammed a final biscuit into his gaping maw and sat with notepad and pen at the ready, but turned slightly away from the group, so that his activity would not be too intrusive and interrupt the natural flow of questioning.
Falconer opened the proceedings. ‘Mr Standing – I believe that’s the name you gave the desk sergeant? – Mr Malcolm Standing was your boyfriend?’ he asked gently, starting with the easier-to-ask questions so as not to upset her too early in the process.
‘Yes,’ she whispered.
‘And you had been going out with him for how long?’
‘About three weeks.’
‘And what were your plans for last night?’ Falconer was gently approaching the nub of the matter.
‘It was our first Valentine’s Day together, and I wanted to make it really special.’
‘In what way?’ he probed, but he had obviously touched a sensitive spot, because her face crumpled into a grimace of misery.
‘I was going to let him spend the night with me.’ She spoke so quietly that he could hardly discern the words.
‘And that would have been the first time that he had been invited to do so?’ Falconer felt like a rat, poking and prying into this very private part of her life, but it was part of the job and had to be carried out and accepted for what it was.
‘That’s right,’ Chelsea confirmed with a small nod of her head.
‘So, what had you planned for the evening?’
‘We were going to have some cocktails. They’re not something I’ve ever really drunk before, but a couple of weeks ago I went out with a bunch of girls and we went to a club that specialised in them, and I thought it would be really romantic if we had some, to celebrate being together.’
‘You’re doing very well, Miss Fairfield,’ Falconer praised her, then had his attention distracted by Carmichael, who was doubled over in his chair, coughing, biscuit crumbs flying everywhere.
‘Sorry, guv,’ he said, between coughs. ‘Crumbs went down the wrong way.’ Honestly, you could only ever take Carmichael anywhere twice; the second time to apologise.
Trying to recreate the intimate atmosphere that Carmichael had so thoroughly shattered, Falconer continued, ‘And what cocktails did you drink?’ This might have seemed a pointless question to some, but it could produce the key to the young man’s death in that he may prove to have had a severe allergy to one of the ingredients.
‘I had a White Lady, and he had a Sidecar.’
‘And was it just the one drink?’
‘Oh, no. We had more than one. It was such a special night, you see,’ she explained. ‘And we smoked Russian cigarettes. I wanted it to be so exotic and romantic, and as far away as it was possible to get from a night down at the pub.’
‘I understand,’ Falconer assured her. ‘And who mixed the cocktails?’
‘I did. I bought a book, so that I could get the recipes right. I even bought a cocktail shaker. No one in my family’s ever had one of those before.’ So, she was breaking new ground, socially.
‘What happened, when you’d had your cocktails?’ This was the difficult bit – finding out about how the young man had become ill, deteriorated, and finally lost his life.
‘He said he felt funny, but I just thought it was the exotic drinks that he wasn’t used to. Then he got sort of dizzy and unwell; said he felt awful, so I thought the best thing to do would be to settle him down on my sofa for the night, and see how he was in the morning. Of course, it ruined our romantic Valentine’s night in, but that didn’t matter.
‘I got a blanket, and made him as comfortable as I could, then I – I went to bed. That sounds terribly cal
lous, but I didn’t think there was that much wrong with him. I thought it was just the strength of the cocktails. If I’d have known how serious it was, I’d have called a doctor. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault!’
‘Of course it’s not, Miss Fairfield. You’re not medically trained. How on earth could you have known what the consequences would be?’
‘I should have played safe and called for help,’ she stated, tears now coursing down her cheeks. ‘But I was woozy too. Cocktails seem to be much stronger than you think they’re going to be. I just thought he was a bit more of a lightweight than me where alcohol was concerned, and staggered up to bed because my own head was spinning so much. So much for a romantic evening in! ‘Oh, why didn’t I call a bloody doctor’?’ she wailed in despair, and Mrs Jenkins took her in her arms and rocked her like a baby.
‘There, there, lovey. Don’t take on so. There’s no way anyone can turn back the clock, now is there? We just has to put up with what life dishes out to us, and make the best of it, don’t we? Come on, lovey, pull yourself together. You were doin’ marvellous there, givin’ all that information to the nice inspector.
‘Get a hold of yourself, now, and just answer the rest of his questions, then I’ll put you upstairs in my own spare room, what used to be my Sharon’s, and you can have a nice nap while everyone else gets on with finding out what happened to your poor old boyfriend.’ Mrs Jenkins patted Chelsea on the back in a maternal fashion, and gently returned her to her upright position. ‘There you are, my duck. Won’t be long now, and I’ll make you a nice cup of cocoa afore you goes up.’
Falconer had judged this neighbour well, for she was proving a tower of strength now, dealing with Chelsea Fairfield’s explosions of emotion, and he was grateful to have been spared the job of doing it himself. Of course, Carmichael would have been better at it than he, he acknowledged, and, in reality, he would probably have left it to his sergeant to restore a calm atmosphere.
Chapter Three
15th February, – –later
The two detectives left Chelsea Fairfield in Mrs Jenkins’ tender care and went round to take a look inside number twelve. Red and white crime tape sealed off the house at the path, and they ducked under it to approach the policeman on duty at the door, who had stood stoically silent as Mrs Jenkins had hopped, slightly arthritically, back and forth across the adjoining wall when they arrived.
‘Good day to you, PC Proudfoot,’ Falconer greeted him. ‘Dr Christmas showed up yet?’
‘Arrived just after you went in next door, sir,’ answered PC John Proudfoot, drawing up his somewhat portly body into the best imitation of ‘attention’ he could manage. ‘Photographer’s been, and so has the fingerprint jonnie, sir. There’re a couple of SOCOs waiting to see what you’d like them to do with regards to searching.’
Duty done, the constable lost his grip on his strenuously maintained upright position and slumped into a version of ‘at ease’. His protruding belly just could not cope with being held in restraint for longer than a couple of minutes, and he thought he’d really have to cut down on the pork pies and Mars bars that he usually had about his person for emergency snacks.
Falconer and Carmichael entered the house, and Falconer couldn’t help but notice the complete contrast in decor between this house and the neighbouring property. Where Mrs Jenkins filled her house with chaotic and eye-catching colour, this house was presented in muted shades, highlighted here and there with the addition of a couple of bright cushions or a single picture on a wall.
No bric-a-brac crowded shelves or mantelpiece, and the whole place, knocked through as it was into one large living, dining, and cooking space, was airy, light, and contemporary.
Mrs Jenkins’ house looked like it had been furnished by someone who habituated market stalls and went on holiday to the more English resorts in Spain every year. Chelsea Fairfield’s home, in contrast, looked as if its interior design had been culled from up-market magazines and such like. Falconer favoured neither look, but was nonetheless impressed with how very different two neighbouring homes with identical floor plans could look.
Fingerprints having been taken, they found Dr Christmas round the other side of the ‘L’ shape, washing his hands at the kitchen sink. ‘Sorry about this,’ he apologised, apropos of nothing. ‘It’s those damned gloves I have to wear. They leave an awful smell on my hands, and I can’t wait to wash them as soon as I’ve taken the damned things off.’
‘Hi there, Philip,’ Falconer greeted him, having worked with the doctor a few times now, and managed to establish a congenial working relationship with him. ‘Anything to tell us?’
‘Apart from the fact that you’ve got a dead ’un, not really. To all intents and purposes, it would appear that he ingested something that disagreed with him, to the point of fatality. What that substance was I can’t tell you at the moment.’
‘Stomach contents?’ queried the inspector.
‘You’ve got it in one. Also, the fingerprints guy waltzed off with a couple of cocktail glasses and a cocktail shaker. I’ve rung for the meat wagon, to take the body to the mortuary, and I’ll get him opened up as soon as I can. Do you want to sit in on this one?’ he asked.
‘Why not?’ Falconer replied. ‘We’ll both keep you company,’ he volunteered, pretending not to notice the greenish tinge that was colouring Carmichael’s face at the very thought of attending a post mortem. ‘I haven’t attended one for ages – must be getting squeamish in my old age. What about you, Carmichael? When did you last attend an autopsy?’
Carmichael had to suppress the impulse to gag, before he managed to squeak, ‘Just the once.’
‘Well, it’s time you widened your experience, my lad,’ Dr Christmas commented hard-heartedly, totally unaware that Carmichael had a weak stomach and was liable to lose the contents of his own insides with remarkably little provocation. ‘I’ll get on with it first thing tomorrow morning, Harry. See you both at the mortuary at nine o’clock, sharp!’
As the doctor made his exit, the two remaining police personnel approached Falconer to receive instructions as to what they should be looking for. One of them took it upon himself, to be the first to speak. ‘By the way, sir,’ he began, addressing Falconer, ‘we found the back door unlocked this morning. Maybe the young lady forgot to lock it, given the circumstances of her boyfriend being unwell, and feeling a little drunk herself.’
‘Gadzooks!’ Falconer exclaimed. ‘The jungle drums round here are damned efficient. I’ve only just learnt all that myself, but thanks for the information. If it was unlocked all evening, it might not preclude the possibility that someone entered that way and put something in the cocktail shaker, or one of the bottles, because if Miss Fairfield and Mr Standing were round here, drinking, they wouldn’t have been able to see the back door. The bottles will all have to go away for testing as well.’
‘You don’t think this could have been the work of the young lady then, sir?’ asked the other officer.
‘From what I’ve seen of her, I don’t think so, but we must investigate all possibilities. When we’ve finished here and got everything nicely recorded at the station, Carmichael and I will go back next door and dig a little deeper into her background, and that of her boyfriend.
‘I shall need a fingertip search done of the garden and any pathways. If anything was introduced into something that young man drank, then it had to be contained in something, so you’ll be looking for a small discarded container of some kind. If it was glass, then maybe it was even ground underfoot. Pull out all the stops on this one, and don’t forget the wheelie-bin’s contents. Many a vital clue has been lost because no one fancied scrabbling through the contents of a refuse container. As it is, the local paper will probably lead tomorrow with the story, with a ghastly headline like “St Valentine’s Day Massacre”.’
With a duet of ‘yes, sirs’, the two SOCOs went about their business, and the two detectives headed back to the police station to consolidate what they had learn
t so far.
Having stopped for a drink, with a cup of coffee for Falconer and a huge mug of tea (with six sugars) for Carmichael, they chatted about matters unrelated to crime to give themselves a proper break.
‘How are you finding married life, then, Carmichael?’ Falconer asked, for Carmichael had married his sweetheart at New Year. ‘I believe I’ve actually recovered from the wedding hangover now, but it’s taken a long while.’
‘You’re pulling my leg, sir,’ retorted Carmichael, more at ease with the inspector now than he had been when they had first been partnered together. ‘And it’s grand. I felt like I’d won the jackpot before when we were engaged, and I went over to spend the evenings with Kerry and the boys. Sometimes the Warren-Brownes would babysit, and we’d go out on a proper date. But being married? It’s absolutely fantastic, sir. I’d recommend it to anyone.’
‘So you quite like it, then?’
‘Ha ha, sir. Very funny!’
‘Any plans to add to the family?’
‘!’ Carmichael gave the inspector a very old-fashioned look, which was immediately understood.
‘Of course, it’s none of my business. I apologise for prying, Carmichael.’
‘That’s all right, sir, but you know how I feel about discussing anything … like that.’
‘I should have remembered.’
‘How are your three cats getting on, sir? All well?’
‘Very well, thank you. And all eating me out of house and home. Their latest little stunt must have been a joint effort, considering the strength needed to accomplish it. I got home one night a couple of weeks ago, and they’d managed to deposit the back half of a dead rabbit in the middle of the kitchen floor.’
‘Half a rabbit?’ Carmichael was dumbfounded.
Brief Cases Box Set Page 5