Christmas Mourning (The Falconer Files Book 8)

by Andrea Frazer

  Falconer was more interested in what the light from his torch was revealing and, as an experiment, he took off his hat. ‘I do believe that the wind’s turned, and we’re getting the beginnings of a thaw,’ he said optimistically.

  ‘Wossat?’ asked Carmichael, sunk in misery as he imagined what lay ahead of him.

  ‘Don’t dwell on it, Carmichael,’ advised the inspector. ‘We’ll be back there soon enough, and I’m sure one of them would have said something to you if he’s been trying to feel them up.’

  ‘People like that always have a very imaginative threat as to why they mustn’t say anything to a grown-up about what’s happened. You know that, as well as I do, sir.’

  ‘I do, but I’ve got a feeling he hadn’t got round to actual sexual assault yet, otherwise I’m sure someone would have let the cat out of the bag. There’s no way it could all have been suppressed if he’d gone that far. I think he was feeling his way – if you’ll pardon the atrocious pun – to taking it a bit further, but hadn’t got to that yet.

  ‘The only way we’ll find out, apart from questioning all the local children, is to go through his past with a fine-toothed comb and see if there’s anything murky lurking in there. He’s not lived here very long, and he might not have plucked up the courage to go any further until he had the children’s trust.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t have trusted him as far as I could throw a tractor,’ growled Carmichael, his face a mask of tragedy.

  ‘Come on, Sergeant. Cheer up! I’ll bet there’s absolutely nothing in your suspicions and, remember, in a couple of weeks you’ll be a real father with a child of your own. I know you love the boys to bits, but this one will be the one that unites you and Kerry in flesh and blood.’ Lord, he was getting poetic, thought Falconer, but he couldn’t stand to see his sergeant so down-hearted and worried.

  Kerry was delighted to see them back, but Carmichael waylaid her and took her into the kitchen, closing the door behind them, and Falconer sat down by the fireside, being joined instantly by Mulligan, who saw it as his duty to keep as close to this nice man as possible, so that he shouldn’t come to any harm.

  Mr Knuckles sat at his feet, having exhausted the opportunity of finding anything interesting to do with the new arrivals, and chewed meditatively on a trouser leg. Uncle Tasty-Trousers could be a great comfort in confusing times, and Knuckles was sore-pressed to work out where the three tiny dogs now in the basket had come from, and why his playmate Mistress Fang seemed so inordinately fond of them.

  After a few minutes where the buzz of urgent conversation had been just discernible through the door, Carmichael and Kerry came back into the room and called the boys to come downstairs for a few minutes.

  Falconer, feeling unbelievably embarrassed, decided to take this opportunity of having a shower. He had no wish to listen into what had or hadn’t happened to Dean and Kyle. These people were his friends, and he’d been asked to act as godfather for the two lads once Carmichael got round to organising the christening.

  He didn’t come back downstairs again until he heard the clatter of four young feet scrambling up the stairs, and when he got back to the living room Carmichael had a broad grin splashed across his face.

  ‘Everything OK, then?’ he asked, noticing how happy his sergeant looked.

  ‘You’ll never believe this, sir, but when I asked them about it Kyle said that when he saw Father Christmas – and he actually winked at me as he said the name – putting his hand on Dean’s face, he stamped hard on his foot, and the old sod soon took his hand away. They’re not the little boys I think they are. They’re growing up, and I think they’re just about finished with the Father Christmas thing.

  ‘Still, we’ll be able to keep the dream alive when the little one arrives. I’m sure they’ll go along with it for his or her sake,’ then he added, ‘I’ve been worried sick, and they’d sorted things out in their own way. God! It’s hard trying to be a good parent!’

  ‘And you’re doing a fantastic job of it. Well done!’ Falconer complimented him sincerely. He’d have loved a father like his sergeant. He would be a totally different man, had his father been like Carmichael.

  Chapter Twelve

  Boxing Day – evening

  Although no one noticed it, the weather vane on the top of St Cuthbert’s had swung round from the north-east to the south-west, heralding in a band of slightly warmer weather and winds, and the white blanket that had covered the little world of Castle Farthing would soon melt away into nothingness, with only a bit of extra muddiness to mark that it had ever been there in the first place.

  Kerry took herself off to bed as soon as the boys had gone up. She cited exhaustion as her reason, but also complained that her back had been aching all afternoon. This she put down to hauling enormous lumps of meat around over the last couple of days, as well as her grossly swollen body, and said she’d leave them to it to talk over the case so far to their hearts’ content.

  Falconer said nothing of his encounter with Marian Warren-Browne on her landing, hoping that medical help could be got to her as soon as possible, to relieve her husband of the appalling stress he must be suffering.

  Carmichael went round to the area on the other side of the double-sided fireplace and began to type up the day’s notes on an old manual typewriter he had rescued from the shed. He had been doing this before the boys went to bed, while they were having their bath, but all three members of his family had gone up early tonight, and Falconer sat just the other side of the fire, listening to him clack away on the ancient machine which fortunately still had a ribbon that worked.

  Clack clack clack clack, ting, whizz. Clack clack clack.

  ‘Damn!’

  Clack clack clack clack.

  ‘Bum!’

  Clack clack clack clack clack.

  ‘Arse! Bugger! Poo! Sorry, sir!’

  Clack clack clack clack clack clack clack, ting, whizz. Clack clack clack.

  ‘Oh God!’

  Clack clack clack clack clack clack clack.

  ‘Shite!’ (Sound of pen being thrown against wall.)

  Clack clack clack clack.

  ‘You sodding machine!’

  Clack clack clack clack, ting, whizz, clack clack clack.

  ‘Bugger it!’ Thump! ‘Stuff it!’ (Sound of paper being ripped from behind the platen in a rage, screwed into a ball, then a quiet ‘pock’ as it, too, hit the wall.)

  The last sound, a metallic thump, indicated that the user had had enough of his machine, and had resorted to punching it in fury. For Carmichael, who never used bad language if it could be avoided, this had been an absolute cuss-fest.

  He reappeared looking both frustrated and embarrassed. ‘Not going very well tonight?’ asked Falconer, with a perfectly straight face, although it cost him a great deal of effort to retain his serious expression.

  ‘I just can’t concentrate,’ Carmichael explained, ‘what with all this stuff about interfering with kids and Auntie Marian seeming to have bats in the belfry. And this weather’s not helping. No power, no phones, no computer. How are we supposed to work with none of the stuff we’re used to?’

  ‘You don’t remember the days when typists had to type with nothing other than a typewriter rubber to help them, with two carbons to cope with as well: all that masking to do if you had to rub something out. They also had to type waxed stencils, which had to be thrown away if even one mistake was made. We’ve got photocopiers these days, but back then, they had to type on these waxed sheets, then they were put on to something called a Roneo machine which inked the stencil, and produced copies when a handle was turned.

  ‘And I hope you understand that this was long before my time, too. I sometimes had to spend time in my parents’ offices, and I used to pass the time … OK, flirt with their secretaries, who would respond by showing me everything they had to do. I suppose it kept me out of their hair, and let them get on with their job with the least possible disruption.’

  ‘Good grief! That s
ounds like the Dark Ages. I don’t think I could have coped with that,’ exclaimed Carmichael, not understanding all the technicalities. ‘Didn’t they even have Tippex?’

  ‘Absolutely not! It had barely been invented back then. You don’t know you’re born now. Actually, neither do I. As I said, this was all well before my time too, but we do take technology for granted, and sometimes it’s good for us to do without. Shows we’ve still got resourceful brains and can improvise.’

  ‘But we’ve got no fingerprints, no forensics, no nothing’ countered Carmichael.

  ‘We just have to do it like they did when none of those things existed. Sit down and calm down, Carmichael, and we’ll throw around what we’ve got from your notes, and chew it over together. Maybe the power will come back later, but for now we’ve just got to manage completely on our own. Now, what have we got in your notes? Let’s look at everyone, one at a time, and see what sort of case we can make against them. You never know, we might both come out with a favourite.’

  ‘But, where shall we start, sir? We just seem to keep going round in circles, saying the same old things – the same old information from the same old people. It’s hopeless, trying to do this by ourselves. We haven’t even got access to CRO to see if anyone’s got previous. Just like last year, but even worse.’

  ‘At least last year we didn’t have to dig our way to the crime scene,’ commented Falconer sourly.

  ‘And now, it’s like we’re prisoners.’

  ‘It’s just claustrophobia, Carmichael. Just rest easy that we’re not the only rural officers trying to do an almost impossible job in the areas affected by this atrocious weather.’

  ‘If you say so, sir. And was that really true, what you told me about those stencil thingies?’

  ‘Sure was. Now, I suggest we start with our first interviewee and work our way through from there,’ said Falconer, pleased that he had dispelled Carmichael’s mood with his little tangent into office practice history. ‘I propose right at the beginning that we discount Blue Sky. There doesn’t seem to be anything there, and I doubt its residents knew anyone in the village well enough to hate them. They might have popped into the shop to get something, but they were banned from the pub because of the reason they were staying there in the first place.’

  ‘I agree, sir. So, we start with those three from the new houses, then?’

  ‘That’s right. What are your thoughts there? There was obviously a lot of animosity.’

  ‘I agree, sir,’ said Carmichael, nodding his head sagely. ‘I’d say they were all pretty insecure. That De’ath character was acting very arrogantly, but underneath I don’t think he had a lot of self-confidence. The arrogant manner was just a front to make people think that he had a good self-image.’

  ‘Well analysed, Sergeant. I totally agree with you. But, do you think there could have been a case there of ‘the straw that broke the camel’s back’?’

  ‘It’s a possibility. The worm might finally have turned. There’s definitely motive there, though. Here they are, in search of a happy and peaceful retirement, then along comes Mr Mighty Mouth, braying about how second-rate they are compared to him.’

  ‘They could all be in it together, Carmichael. A sort of pensioners’ outing, to get rid of the greatest fly in all their ointments,’ suggested Falconer with a grin. ‘We said earlier that we’d consider the idea, so I don’t see why we should abandon it as ridiculous just because they’re all old.’

  ‘Stranger things have happened, sir,’ replied Carmichael, and wiped the smile right off his face. ‘Between the three of them, they could have managed it easier, and who’s going to suspect a bunch of pensioners of doing something like that? Except, perhaps, for us two.’

  ‘I see what you mean, but that doesn’t get us any further with why the old vicar was killed. We don’t seem to have got any leads on that one. Who on earth could have had it in for him here? Now, what about George at the pub? We know Jeffries had been telling people that he watered down his drinks. A rumour like that could’ve put them out of business.’

  ‘It’s more likely that George would have settled Jeffries’ hash with his fists if he was really worried. I don’t think he’d go so far as to murder him: just rough him up a bit as a warning.’

  ‘True, true,’ said Falconer, as both of them gazed at the fire, and silence fell, except for the hiss of the flaming logs and the drip, drip from the guttering.

  ‘What do you think of the old fellow and his great-nephew?’ asked Falconer, finally breaking the hush that had settled on the room.

  ‘Don’t know, sir. I suppose the younger one could’ve done it, but I don’t see the old man having anything to do with it. He’s much too frail,’ said Carmichael, rising to fetch them a can of shandy each.

  ‘He could have egged his great-nephew on. Used emotional blackmail to get him to do his bidding,’ Falconer suggested, unwilling to give up the bizarre idea of Father Christmas crucifying Father Christmas.

  ‘And the vicar? Because he let Jeffries play the part?’ said Carmichael, handing a chilled can to the inspector.

  ‘At last! A hint of a motive for killing the vicar. Well done, Carmichael! That’ll give us something to work on, although I’d like to carry on going through the suspects. Let’s look at Rosemary Wilson. I know she’s Kerry aunt, but we can’t just ignore her because of that. Come to think of it, if everything were up and running, you’d be taken off the case because of personal involvement. After all, Jeffries did put the wind up Kerry and upset her at every opportunity he got, didn’t he?

  ‘Maybe you slipped out when everyone was asleep and did the dirty deed, and had slipped the parcel for the vicar in the church at Midnight Mass, so that he’d die as well and muddy the waters.’

  Carmichael had never been so insulted in his life, and had a little rant just to prove it.

  It took some time to cool down the sergeant, and Falconer diplomatically didn’t mention anything about Carmichael or Rosemary Wilson being suspects again. The latter was unlikely. The former was impossible, but it seemed that his sergeant didn’t have a sense of humour about the suggestion that he might have done away with the two victims. It hadn’t really been very funny, and Falconer could see this now. Hindsight is all-seeing: if only we could enjoy its benefits before the event!

  ‘Let’s move on to the Stupples,’ he suggested, when Carmichael was once more in his seat and sucking consolingly at his tin of fizzy drink. ‘Those two have quite a gang of children of their own, and their activities allow them to mix with a lot more. Could one of them have got so incensed that he or she couldn’t bear to see any more children upset, and just lost their rag?’

  ‘Where’s the motive for the vicar, then?’ Carmichael was still not in the best of moods.

  ‘For giving Jeffries the opportunity for such close contact with so many of them at the crib service,’ replied Falconer, grabbing at the only reason he could think of on the spur of the moment.

  ‘I’d like to take a look at Henry Pistorius. He was rather a superior old smoothie, wasn’t he? But I suppose he lives so far away from the church … and he said he came straight home.’

  ‘Yes, Carmichael, but he didn’t produce any witnesses, did he? He could have lurked around somewhere, waiting for Jeffries to leave the pub, and got him then,’ Falconer suggested.

  ‘And where precisely would he lurk in these sub-zero temperatures, sir?’ asked Carmichael, sounding huffy still, and rather rebellious.

  ‘Why, in the church, of course. Everyone knew it was going to be left open all night. It would be the perfect place to take shelter if he knew Jeffries was going to go back looking for his glasses. I think you’re onto something here, Carmichael. He could easily have gone back there and waited in ambush for him.’

  ‘And the vicar?’

  ‘Oh, who knows? That could just have been a blind, or he could have known the vicar before, and Rev. Searle knew something to his detriment. It could’ve been anything. We can research
stuff like that when we get all our resources back. I’m definitely putting my money on Henry. He lived further away than the others, so therefore nobody walked all the way home with him.

  ‘What if he started going off in the right direction, then doubled back round the other side of the village green? That would take him right up to the church. Nothing easier for him than to slip inside, unnoticed, then wait for his victim to come to him. I know he said he let all Jeffries’ cutting little remarks wash over him, but that could just have been bluff on his part.’

  ‘I think you’re onto something there, sir. I’d never have thought of him, really. I only suggested him because you seemed to like him and his olde-worlde house.’

  ‘Well, in that case, you’re a genius, Carmichael. We’ll get up there again first thing tomorrow morning, and have it out with him.’

  ‘Time we were getting off to bed, sir. You go on up and I’ll stoke up the fire, put the guards up, and extinguish all the lamps. Got your chamber stick?’

  ‘Got it,’ confirmed Falconer, picking it up from the mantelpiece. At this movement, Mulligan, who had been happily asleep at his feet, raised his head, then got to his feet, ready to accompany this kind man back to their ‘basket’ for the third night in a row.

  Outside, the thaw continued to gather pace, and away from Castle Farthing telephone and electricity maintenance workers continued to try to reconnect the villages who had been out of contact for so long. The internet server was soon to be restored, and the problem with the mobile phone mast was nearly solved. Falconer and Carmichael were about to be catapulted back into the twenty-first century, and all the facilities and resources it could offer them.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Monday 27th December (Bank Holiday)

  It was the sound of the telephone that woke Falconer the next morning, although his brain didn’t immediately compute that this was anything unusual. It just informed him that he wasn’t at home and, therefore, didn’t have to rush to answer it.