Brief Cases Box Set

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘Whatever are people going to think of me? I’ve always had a spotless reputation, and now they’re going to think that I’m a cold-blooded killer,’ she moaned. ‘I promise you that I can’t remember a thing from when I left the hotel, to the moment that my car drew to a halt after … what happened.

  ‘It’s all just a blank, and as for the man, I’ve never set eyes on him in my life before,’ she stated, her voice a little firmer.

  ‘How do you know, if you don’t remember anything?’ asked Green, logically.

  ‘I must have glimpsed his face, and it was only that that lodged itself in my memory,’ she retorted, a little acidity leaking into her voice as she made this statement. ‘Who knows the mystery of how the brain works?’ she asked, a challenging expression on her face.

  Green took down her statement as best he could, considering the number of times she fled off on a tangent about what this would do to her social standing, took the name and address and contact numbers of the friend with whom she’d eaten lunch – ‘Just so that I can confirm your mood in the hotel restaurant,’ he reassured her – then got a patrol car to take her home. He had something on his mind, and he wouldn’t feel at peace until he’d unburdened himself. He just needed a few other bits and pieces of information before he could do so.

  Falconer and Carmichael, having not long finished a rather tricky case, were in an unusually informal mood, and Green found them throwing paper balls at each other, both convulsed with laughter. Carmichael had done wonders in relaxing Falconer’s previously stern manner in the time they’d spent as partners.

  After peeking round the door, Green cautiously closed it again, then knocked and waited to be invited to enter. By the time this happened, all was sober and industrious in the office, and he was glad he’d withdrawn his head before either of them had seen him. It had obviously been a private moment of celebration and triumph that he had almost walked in on a few seconds before.

  It had, in fact, been nothing of the sort; merely a silly piece of horseplay when Falconer had thrown a paper ball at Carmichael, who had said something unusually crass, even for him, and Carmichael had responded with a volley of hastily rolled balls of his own making. The sergeant had, for over a year now, been trying to release the inner child in the inspector, whereas Falconer had decided that he didn’t have one. In fact, as a child, he was convinced that he had an inner adult, but Carmichael had just proved him wrong.

  The only sign of their recent childish behaviour was a slight grin that still hovered around both their mouths, as Falconer asked Green what he could do for him.

  ‘RTA. It’s a case of a woman running down a pedestrian earlier today, sir,’ he began, not sure exactly how he could express his misgivings.

  ‘Dead?’ asked Falconer.

  ‘As a doornail, sir.’

  ‘And have you got the driver?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And she admits guilt?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So what is it that’s bugging you?’ asked the inspector, in the dark for the moment.

  ‘One of the witnesses – we’ve got three – says she definitely accelerated just before she hit him, another thinks she might have heard it. The driver not only hit the victim once, but the car carried on down the road and ran both sets of wheels over him before it came to a halt.

  ‘Nasty! Do you have confirmation from either of the other two witnesses?’

  ‘From all three of them, sir.’

  ‘There must be something else, Green: something you haven’t told me yet.’

  ‘There is, sir. The driver denied point-blank that she had ever set eyes on the victim before, but I’m pretty sure she’d never taken a proper look at him. She claims not to remember the accident itself, and she didn’t come back down the road to see him lying in the road, but stayed leaning against her car until our patrol car arrived, so how on earth did she know she’d never seen him before?’

  ‘Come on, man. Spit it out. There’s more, isn’t there?’

  ‘Yes. I stayed with her while the paramedics examined the body, and I could see her face reflected in one of the windows of her car. When one of the ambulance men said, ‘He’s a goner,’ she smiled, sir. She looked as pleased as the cat that’s got the cream, and I think we ought to know why that was, if he was a complete stranger.’

  ‘Well spotted, Green. I think we’d better take a look into this one, Carmichael. There’s obviously more to it than meets the eye. Have you got all the relevant information – victim’s details, witnesses’ contact numbers and anything else we might need to know?’

  ‘Right here, sir. I typed up a report before I came to see you, so that there wouldn’t be any delay.’

  ‘Come on, Sergeant. We’re on!’ called the inspector, grabbing the printed sheet from Green’s hand, and heading out of the office. ‘You can read that to me en route.’

  Chapter Three

  Friday 26th November – late afternoon to early evening

  Green’s report identified the victim as a Mr James Carling, and a wage slip had been found in one of his pockets indicating that he worked at the Swan Hotel and Restaurant. That was to become Falconer and Carmichael’s first port of call, to see what sort of man James Carling had been, and whether Mrs Wentworth ate there frequently.

  The receptionist, a Miss Susan Chester, had worked at the hotel for five years, and knew Abigail by sight, explaining that she ate there quite often with her various groups of women friends, but also had this one particular meal, once a year, that she ate with an old friend from her schooldays, and that she looked forward to this meal avidly.

  She also told them that James Carling had only worked there for a matter of weeks, and that she knew little about him, except that he was a harmless old thing who never put a foot wrong, and went out of his way to be polite and helpful. He had seemed to settle in well, and was on good terms with the other members of staff with whom he came into contact, and there had definitely been no complaints about his service.

  The manager, Ronald Wild, could not really give them any further information, except for the fact that James Carling, known by everyone as ‘Jimmy’, had moved up from Brighton about three months ago and had secured his position at the hotel a few weeks after that. Mr Wild knew none of the details of Jimmy’s private life, and he didn’t think any of the other staff would be able to help with that either.

  Jimmy Carling, although always cheerful and happy, had played his cards rather close to his chest regarding his personal life, both current and before he had moved to Market Darley. Wild surmised that there might be an ex-wife or two in the past, as the man was obviously gregarious, despite his age, which was near that of retirement.

  After checking the victim’s address, Falconer decided that they should go and pay Mrs Abigail Wentworth a call, just to confirm what Green had written in his report, and to, sort of, scout her out on her home turf.

  The house they pulled up in front of was large and detached, the garden meticulously cared for, the paintwork in pristine condition. It was an expensive property, and its owner was probably justly proud of it. The garden path too, although created from crazy-paving, sprouted no weeds between its pieces of varied-colour slabs, and the brass door furniture which greeted them in the porch shone like gold.

  Abigail answered the door to them wearing a frilly, but suitably modest, housecoat, and apologised about her apparel. She had had a long hot bath when she got back from the police station, to try to soak her tensions and shock away, and had then consumed a large gin and tonic, deciding that she wouldn’t be getting dressed again until the next day. She could stay as she was for the rest of today, as she wasn’t expecting any visitors.

  Falconer apologised, in his turn, for appearing on her doorstep on such a distressing day, but explained to her that the sooner the whole matter was sorted out, the sooner she would be able to put it all behind her and get on with her life.

  She accepted this as a perfectly reasonable
explanation for their presence, and ushered them into an expensively furnished, but nevertheless welcoming, sitting room, which Falconer was convinced she always referred to as her ‘drawing room’. As soon as they were seated, she offered them coffee, and disappeared off to the kitchen to make it, while they sat looking around to see if the room might give them any clues to the lady’s personality.

  There were silver-framed photographs everywhere. Some must have been of her children and, as she had explained to Green, her late husband, as she was a widow of twenty years’ standing. The loss of her husband must have caused her a great jolt, but she must have had great fortitude and courage to have survived this, and carried on to build a busy life of her own.

  In solitary state, on a side-table, stood a wedding photograph, in black and white, of the couple on their wedding day, both smiling happily into the camera lens. Falconer always found such photographs sad, when encountered during the course of his investigations. His presence alone indicated that something cataclysmic had happened, either to one of the couple, or someone close to them, and he wondered at the effortless optimism on their faces, when life had as much tragedy to offer as it had joy. There was no sign that one of them would eventually be left to cope on their own, only the ecstasy that they were at last married, and their lives could now be lived together as one.

  There were as many photographs of her late husband as there were of her children, and she must have worked hard to keep his memory fresh, as if he were only somewhere else in the house, perhaps in another room. Some people removed all photographs after losing a partner, as they found it too upsetting to be reminded of what had been expunged from their life for ever, but not so Mrs Wentworth.

  Carmichael had settled himself down on a chair just out of view of anyone sitting on the sofa, where he had assumed that Mrs Wentworth would sit to hand out the coffee, and just awaited her return, his notebook out and open on one knee.

  She re-entered the room just as Falconer had finished his consideration of her family pictures. She put a tray down on the coffee table and poured a stream of steaming liquid into three tiny porcelain coffee cups. ‘Milk and sugar?’ she asked, looking directly at Falconer.

  ‘Just as it comes, please,’ he replied, taking the tiny saucer from her hand, which betrayed only the tiniest indication of a tremble as she handed it to him.

  ‘Milk and sugar?’ she enquired again, this time spearing Carmichael with her eye.

  ‘Yes, please,’ he replied. ‘And, oh, it’s quite a small cup, so about four sugars should do it.’

  ‘And how many do you normally take?’ she asked, genuinely interested.

  ‘Six,’ he informed her, and waited for his thimbleful of coffee to be handed over.

  Niceties over with, Falconer began his questioning, but could not shake her from anything she had said to Green when she had made her statement earlier. ‘And you’re absolutely certain that you didn’t know this man before the accident?’ he asked, finally.

  ‘I have never laid eyes on that man in my life, before today,’ she stated categorically.

  They thanked her for the coffee, and allowed her to show them out. They might not have learned anything new from her, but Falconer felt he had her measure. She was a strong, controlled woman who wouldn’t let anything slip, unless she wanted you to know it.

  Back at the office, Falconer consulted Green’s notes again, and dialled the number of the friend with whom Abigail Wentworth had eaten lunch earlier that day. She should have had enough time to get home by now, and, if not, he had her mobile number too. No doubt Mrs Wentworth had already been on the phone, telling her the tragic events that had occurred in the aftermath of their meal together.

  He finally got her on her mobile, as she had gone on from Market Darley to visit one of her children, where she planned to stay overnight. When pressed, she admitted that she hadn’t heard from Abigail, as she had only just turned on her phone, but had noticed that there were six messages which had come in during the afternoon. Falconer thanked God that his timing had been so lucky. If this woman did have anything to tell, it might have been suppressed if Abigail could have got to her first.

  ‘I feel I need to ask you if Mrs Wentworth had a happy marriage,’ he said, having had a brainwave just before he made the call. What if Jimmy Carling had been an old flame of Abigail’s – or, even more damning, an old lover. Maybe all those photographs had just been a smokescreen. The fact that he had turned up in Market Darley would have given her a hell of a jolt, considering how she valued the way her peers perceived her.

  ‘I need you to tell me if there were any affairs, or any point in the marriage where it seemed they might break up,’ he said, keeping his fingers crossed under the desk.

  ‘Not that I really know of,’ replied Alison Fairweather, then added, ‘There was a bit of a kerfuffle round about the same time that they found out Robert – that was her husband’s name – had cancer, but I never did get to the bottom of it.

  ‘You have to understand that Abigail and I only met twice a year – our school reunion lunches, we dubbed them – and that a lot went on in her life that I never got to hear about.’

  ‘Was there anything during lunch today that was different about her? Anything she did, anything she said?’ he tried, once more crossing his fingers.

  ‘She seemed just as usual. We talked about our old school chums – well, I did. She just listened and passed judgement on them all, which was the way it always is when we get together. I’m a bit like ‘The Old School Times’, for her, as I keep in much closer touch with old friends. I’m the one with the ‘gen’; she’s the one with the black cap, to condemn the guilty.’

  ‘Are you sure there was absolutely nothing. Not even a word, a phrase, or a glance?’ he continued, not wanting to give up on this thread of his investigation.

  ‘Well, there was one thing, but I don’t see how it can have anything to do with anything.’

  ‘What?’ Falconer almost spat into the phone in his eagerness to be in possession of whatever information she was about to give him.

  ‘We were just about to start dessert, when she suddenly looked up, stared across the restaurant and said, ‘I’m sure I know that face,’ but she never followed it up, and I had no idea who she was looking at, so I didn’t pursue it. If I had, she could have had me skewered there for hours, telling me some story in which I had no interest whatsoever.’

  ‘You don’t really like Mrs Wentworth, do you?’ asked Falconer, chancing his arm just a bit, but he’d got the feeling that there was a certain amount of suppressed impatience in the woman on the other end of the phone, as she talked about someone she had known for most of her life.

  ‘Not really,’ admitted Alison Fairweather. ‘She does so love to hear the negative things about people, or what she considers to be negative. It makes her feel superior, and I’m afraid she’s been like that ever since we were at school. If any of our crowd decided to live a life different from the pattern that Abigail had chosen for hers, she thought it was disgraceful behaviour, and pitied them.

  ‘The people I tell her about are all very happy with the way their lives have turned out, but Abigail can’t see that, so she hugs information to herself, and feels sorry for the others. I only keep up the luncheons because I actually feel sorry for her.’

  ‘Thank you very much for your time, Mrs Fairweather. You’ve been very helpful,’ he concluded, and ended the call.

  ‘Come on, Carmichael,’ he said, ‘Time we went home. We’ve stayed late enough for one day. I want us to set out bright and early tomorrow, though. I’ve got the keys to Jimmy Carling’s flat, and I want to take a little look round there. I’ve a feeling that our Mrs Wentworth had a bit of a fling with that particular gentleman.

  ‘It would have been just about the time her husband was diagnosed with cancer, and I think, instead of leaving him, she stayed to nurse him through his last illness. I just have a bit of a hunch that our Mr Carling may have been her secret lover
about twenty years ago, and she recognised him today, and thought that if he saw her he might tarnish the bright and shiny reputation of which she is so proud.’

  ‘I’m still going to have a look to see if they do one in extra-extra-extra large,’ mumbled Carmichael, still continuing a discussion they had had that morning, worrying at it, like a terrier with a bone.

  After Carmichael had left, Falconer picked up all the paper balls they left scattered across the office floor after their horse-play earlier, and put them in his briefcase for the amusement of his cats when he got home. They loved nothing better than a plethora of paper balls to stalk and catch and throw in the air, and it did save him having to clear up blood from the carpet in the morning, if he wore them out thusly, and discouraged them from massacring the local wildlife.

  Chapter Four

  Saturday 27th November – morning

  It was only a few minutes past eight-thirty when Falconer turned the key and they entered Jimmy Carling’s flat, which was in one of the old houses that had been split into two separate dwellings in Abattoir Road.

  ‘Cor! He’d have been a real bit of rough for Mrs Wentworth, wouldn’t he, sir?’ exclaimed Carmichael as he looked around the sad little flat. The furniture was a mixture of old and battered, and newer and tawdry. The bed in the bedroom was unmade, and was badly in need of its sheets changing. In the kitchenette area, the sink was stacked with unwashed pots, and the breakfast dishes from the previous day were still on the tiny breakfast bar.

  ‘Not exactly up to Lady Muck’s standards, is it, Sergeant?’ Falconer replied, swivelling his eyes round to see where they might search for evidence of an old, but not forgotten, relationship. ‘I’ll go through the bedside cabinet, and you have a look through that old sideboard over there, and we’ll see if we strike it lucky.’