‘I’m calling about your neighbour, Mrs Sylvia Beeton. I don’t know whether it’s been on local radio yet …?’ Falconer began his questioning, after introductions had been carried out.
‘It has, but I really have no opinion on the matter,’ replied Mortimer, his eyes cold and disinterested.
‘We just wanted to get an idea of what she was like as a neighbour – you know the sort of thing. Had she fallen out with anybody, to your knowledge? Had there been any trouble at the house, recently?’
‘I keep myself to myself, Inspector. I do not waste time gossiping with the neighbours, and have no interest whatsoever in the ins and outs of their private lives. I’m afraid I can’t help you at all,’ he announced, and swiftly closed the door in their faces.
‘What a miserable old sod,’ said Falconer. ‘People aren’t usually that unhelpful.’
At the house to the left of Sylvia’s, the occupant introduced herself as Mrs Hare (but call me Maude, everybody else does), who patted at her hair in a coquettish way as she spoke to them, even though she proved to be a widow, and was in her early eighties.
‘And what can I do for you two young gentlemen?’ she asked them, smoothing down the wrinkles in her skirt.
‘We’re here about your neighbour, Sylvia Beeton,’ Falconer informed her.
‘What? You’ll have to speak up, young man. I don’t hear as well as I used to.’
‘SYLVIA BEETON,’ Falconer repeated.
‘Oh, you’ll be asking about that hedge at her property,’ said Mrs Hare, with a knowing nod of her head. ‘Well, I don’t get involved with anything of that sort.’
‘NO!’ roared Falconer, SHE’S DEAD!’
‘She’s done what, dearie?’ asked the elderly woman, cupping a hand to an ear and leaning forward.
‘SHE’S BEEN MURDERED!’ shouted Falconer.
‘Oh, that’s nice for her. I hope she enjoys herself. Well, I mustn’t stand here on the doorstep gossiping and letting the heat out. Thank you for telling me, young man,’ and with that, Mrs Hare closed the door with a smile, and just the hint of a twinkle in her faded old eyes.
‘Bloody marvellous!’ exclaimed Falconer. ‘We come out here to find out about the woman’s character, and one neighbour lives like a recluse, and the other’s as deaf as a post. Let’s get off to those other two addresses, and call it a day for today.’
Chapter Five
Saturday 17th April – even later
Darkie Collins lived in Jubilee Terrace, a string of houses dating from the turn of the twentieth century, and obviously built to celebrate Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee. Forming the other side of the street was Victoria Terrace, dating from the same era. The front gardens were minimal, consisting of only a few feet of land between the boundary and the house, but this area of number thirteen was full of spring flowers in pots and tubs.
The woman who opened the door was very dark skinned, and had one of the widest smiles Falconer had ever seen. How could anyone get so many teeth into one mouth? he thought, as she beamed a welcome at them. ‘Mrs Collins?’ he enquired, hopefully, and she immediately corrected him,
‘Miss Collins. I haven’t yet persuaded a good man to put a ring on my finger,’ she informed him, and smiled again, as if this was one of the most amusing things she had ever said.
‘Miss Collins. I’m here to speak to your son, if he’s at home. Is that possible?’
‘Winston? What’s he done?’ she asked, and turned her head back inside the narrow hall and yelled, ‘Winston, you get yo’ ass down here. Now!’ then turned her hundred watt smile back round to the two detectives and said, as sweetly as they could have wished, ‘Would you like to come inside for a cup of tea?’
She showed them into a tiny sitting room, where the chairs and sofa were covered with bright throws, and vividly-coloured abstract paintings hung from the walls. As she disappeared off to the kitchen, a clattering down the stairs announced the arrival of Winston, and he came straight in to see what was happening.
Winston proved to be much lighter-skinned than his mother, but his complexion confirmed why his friends called him Darkie. When asked why he tolerated this, his reply was pragmatic. ‘Well, it’s better than “nigger”, which was what they called me before they got to know me. And you’ve got to be part of the hard crew, or you get beaten up. It’s self-protection, innit, mate?’
His mother reappeared carrying a tin tray with four mugs on it. ‘I made one for you, too, Winston,’ she informed her son, then continued, ‘What you been up to, boy? You in trouble?’
‘I just want to know where your son was this morning, Miss Collins,’ Falconer informed her.
‘He’s old enough to speak for himself now,’ she said, looking at her son as he lounged in a chair. ‘And sit up straight when we’ve got visitors.’
Winston hauled himself into a vaguely upright position, and replied to Falconer’s query. ‘I’ve been upstairs all morning doing my homework.’ His accent had definitely lost that twang of Jamaican that it had had when he had first spoken.
‘Did you know Mrs Beeton, who served in the chip shop, on the parade?’
‘Sure I know her. I’ve known her since I was a little tiny kid. She shouts loud, but she don’t mean nothin’ by it.’
‘Did you see her last night?’ Falconer was approaching the nub of the matter.
‘Sure I saw her last night. Me and my mates went there for some chips, and to hang out and chill,’ he replied, without any hint that he knew what had happened.
‘Did you and your mates fall out with her?’
‘Sure, we had words, but dat’s de game, innit? It don’t mean a ting, man. Jost de banter and stoff.’
‘Winston, don’t you use that silly accent under my roof. I’ve told you before, you’ve been brought up properly, so you speak properly too.’
‘Sorry, Ma,’ he apologised, then disarmed his mother with a huge grin. ‘Gotcha!’
Interrupting this tender parent/child moment, Falconer asked, ‘Did you know she was dead, Winston?’
‘No way!’ he shouted.
‘She can’t be,’ exclaimed his mother. ‘Was it an accident, or a heart attack, or something like that. She was one big woman.’
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that she was murdered, late this morning.’
There was a silence that threatened to cause a real hiatus in the interview, until Falconer gave it a little nudge by asking, ‘Did you, by any chance, slip down to the parade this morning, Winston?’
Two voices angrily assured both policemen that the boy hadn’t left his room, except for two cups of coffee and a bathroom break.
‘Did any of your friends have a particular grudge against her, for something she’d said or done?’ he continued.
‘Nuh! But Dogger Ferguson did say more than once that she needed a good slap, like all women.’
‘Winston!’
‘Well, he did! He’s an animal, and always saying things like that, but he doesn’t mean anything by it.’
Three heavy sighs followed this casual reference to violence and women, and this time it was Miss Collins who broke it. ‘It’s that estate!’ she said, obviously referring to the Wild Birds. ‘We used to live there too, when I was left on my own with Winston, but I scrimped and saved to do an Open University degree, and then trained as a social worker so that we could have a better life.
‘I bought this house for a song, seeing as it was number thirteen, and so many people have silly superstitious natures. We moved here three years ago, but Winston still hangs around with the old crowd from the blocks.
‘I can’t believe old Sylvie’s dead, though. She’s been serving me since Winston was in his pushchair.’
‘Mum!’
‘And you’re absolutely certain that Winston never set foot outside this house this morning, Mrs Collins?’
‘I would swear it on the Bible, Inspector.’
‘And you can’t think of anything that happened, that might have trig
gered off a fit of rage in one of your friends, Winston?’
‘No, man! Not even Dogger would waste anyone!’
Curry Khan lived in a large modern detached house in the fairly new development: King’s Acre. There was a Mercedes parked on one side of the double drive, a BMW on the other, and an elderly man working away in the garden, clearing away dead growth so that the spring flowers could grow uninhibited.
‘Very nice,’ was Falconer’s comment, as they parked.
‘Too flash!’ was Carmichael’s simultaneous opinion.
The door was opened by a tiny woman in a sari, who immediately went to fetch a man they presumed was their husband. ‘Mr Khan?’ enquired Falconer, holding out his hand in greeting.
His assumption was correct, and soon they were all four seated in the large sitting room at the back of the house, from which a fair-sized conservatory opened out.
‘I wonder if I could speak to your son, Mr Khan. I’m afraid I don’t know his real Chr … hrmph! His forename, as we’ve only ever heard him referred to by his, um, nickname.’ Falconer had nearly put his foot right in it, by referring to the man’s son’s Christian name. Life was so much more complicated these days!
‘What? Curry?’ asked Mr Khan, his face beaming at them, as he said this. ‘They might call him that because of his ethnic origins, but if they knew how much I make from my Indian restaurants – I’ve got three, you know – they might use it as a term of respect, for he will have a very good inheritance.’
‘How lovely!’ Falconer congratulated him, not quite knowing how to respond to a reference to circumstances under which his current host would be dead. ‘Is it possible for us to have a word with him?’
‘Of course, Inspector. He is in his study, doing his schoolwork. Indira will fetch him for you.’ The tiny woman left the room on this errand, returning shortly with a slim and elegant young man who introduced himself as Sanjeev, and took a seat looking expectantly at the two visitors.
‘Good afternoon,’ Falconer greeted him formally. It seemed like that sort of household, to him. ‘I wonder if you could tell me where you have been this morning – all of it,’ he added, in case the lad had slipped out before attending to his homework.
‘I had a shower and ate my breakfast,’ Sanjeev began, talking the question literally, ‘Then, I went to my study to attend to my homework. When I had finished that, my mother brought me a cup of tea, and I did some research on the internet. I was still engaged in that activity when you rang the doorbell,’ he explained, precisely and succinctly.
‘You didn’t leave the house at all?’
‘Not even for one minute, I assure you.’
‘What does this questioning concern, Inspector? I would like to know why you are visiting my house today,’ asked Sanjeev’s father.
‘A woman who worked at the chip shop on the parade has, most unfortunately, been found dead this morning, and we are of the opinion that she was murdered, and that your son was in the chip shop last night.’
‘No! Sanjeev?’ shouted Mr Khan, rising from his seat.
‘I’m so sorry, Papa! I’m so sorry!’
The boy’s face was crumpled in anguish, and anger suffused his father’s expression, his face red and his fists clenched.
Falconer’s eyes widened at what was unfolding in front of him, and Carmichael was so startled in the change of atmosphere that he dropped his pencil, and had to grovel around under the wooden dining chair on which he was sitting to find it again.
The inspector began to rise from his seat, steeling himself to administer a caution before arrest, when Mr Khan spoke again. ‘So, you have been buying chips again; when I have three restaurants from which you could get free food whenever you wanted it. My son! My son, buying chips! Oh, the shame of it!’
‘I am so sorry, Papa. It was only because I was with my friends. I won’t go in there again. I promise. I promise you, on my word of honour, Papa!’
Falconer sank back into his chair again, and gave a small cough of embarrassment. ‘I think I have all the information I need from your son, and we’ll take our leave of you now. Don’t worry: we can see ourselves out,’ he squeaked, and he and Carmichael fairly scarpered back to the car.
Once back behind the wheel, Carmichael gave Falconer a long stare of bewilderment, and the inspector turned to him and said, ‘There are some cultural gaps too wide to cross, Carmichael.’
Back at the station, Falconer asked his sergeant to go through his notes to see if there was anything in there to give them a pointer. The four interviews he had conducted on the Wild Birds Estate had left his head in a whirl, with all the shouting, the bad language, and the squalor and he could remember little of what was actually said.
‘Well, nobody actually owned up to anything, and I don’t have a lot of notes, because I left out all the swear words.’
‘There are decent people living in those blocks, Carmichael. It just happens that the ones we spoke to today are particularly, um, deprived,’ Falconer stated, being absolutely fair. This morning visits only represented a minority of the flats’ tenants.
‘None of them liked her that much. They all thought she was loud and mouthy. And bossy, too. And that couple who lived over the shop weren’t too keen, either.’
‘She had to be, working in a place like that. I expect that was why Mr Carrington has kept her on for so long. He needs, or needed, someone who could not only serve and give change, but could act as a bouncer as well. It would seem that Sylvia Beeton fulfilled all these criteria.’
At that moment, the telephone rang, and Falconer grabbed at the receiver. ‘Inspector Falconer: Market Darley CID. How may I help you? Oh, Philip it’s you. If I’d known it was you, I’d have blown my whistle down the phone and hung up.’
‘Ha ha! Very funny! You’re only sulking because of what happened to your shoes at the locus. You can’t fool me, Harry, old boy,’ replied the doctor.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘I just felt I had to phone you, to say that I’ve never had a body before that I didn’t know whether to douse in salt and vinegar or examine. I shall dine out on this story for months, thanks to you.’
‘Philip?’
‘Yes, Harry?’
‘Go away, before I commit another murder in the area; one that you won’t be able to be around to deal with,’ he threatened, and hung up.
‘What did the doc want?’ asked Carmichael.
‘Nothing. It wasn’t important.’ If he’d told Carmichael what Philip Christmas had just said, there was no telling how the sergeant would react, and he’d only just got his shoes clean again. ‘Have we got anything at all?’
I don’t think so, sir. It must have been some passing nutter, I suppose.’
‘I don’t buy that, Carmichael. There’s more to this than meets the eye, and I’m going to get to the bottom of it, if it’s the last thing I do.’
Chapter Six
Monday 18th April
Over the weekend, Falconer had had a recurring dream: one that forced him to revisit Sylvia Beeton’s house and stare at it long and hard. There was something tickling at the back of his mind, and he needed it to jump forward and declare itself. The answer was within his grasp: he just hadn’t recognised it yet.
Monday morning found him in the office very early, making a list of telephone numbers, which he worked his way through shortly after arriving at the station, hoping to catch people before they left for work.
He hit pay dirt on his fourth call, then made another call, to round off his activities for the morning, being passed from department to department until he found what he was after. After a few minutes’ reflection, he dialled again, to ascertain that he would be able to carry out what he wanted to do, then sat twiddling his thumbs until Carmichael arrived, too excited to settle to do anything, yet exasperated at how slowly time was crawling by. The sergeant wasn’t due on duty until nine thirty this morning, and Falconer snorted his disgust and chagrin that the man had not been ros
tered for an earlier shift.
The hands of the clock slowly ground their way round to five, four, three, two minutes to the half hour, then the door of the office burst open, and a bright and sunny figure lolloped into the room, shedding its jacket as it went. ‘Morning, sir. Anything happening?’ it asked.
The tension suddenly left Falconer’s body now that his partner was there, and he slumped in his chair. ‘Yes, Carmichael. I’ve solved the case!’
You’ve done what?’
‘I know who killed Mrs Beeton from the chip shop!’
‘You what?’
‘I know who did it, Carmichael. Am I speaking Swahili or something today, or are you just incapable of understanding me anymore?’
‘Sorry, sir,’ said Carmichael, sitting down.
‘Now, you listen up, my lad, and listen good. I’m going to tell you a little story – but not all of it, yet – then we’re going out to make an arrest,’ Falconer declared, and proceeded so to do.
David Mortimer submitted, without fuss, to being arrested, merely taking one more look at his immaculate garden as he was led away, and pausing to spit over the garden gate at his next door neighbour Sylvia Beeton’s house. There had been no resistance at all, and he had readily admitted what he had done in a fit of rage and depression.
‘So it was as simple as that, was it?’ asked Carmichael, after Mortimer had been taken away in a squad car, and they were driving back to the station.
‘We got nothing from those boys, no matter how intimidating their behaviour might have been, when they’re out in public, and I couldn’t see any signs of guilt from any one of them. The only thing that stuck in my mind was what that deaf old lady – what was her name? Maude Hare, I think – said when we arrived.
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