Death of an Old Git (The Falconer Files - File 1) (4 page)

‘It were all ’ot air, though,’ George was quick to add. Eighty-three bells I counted this mornin’ for old Reg, and the Brigadier’s seventy-five if ’e’s a day. Neither of ‘em ’d’ve ’ad the strength to knock the skin off of a rice puddin’ if you ask me.’

There being nothing of interest from that previous evening that either of them had heard or observed on the other side of the green, Falconer thanked them for their time and made preparations to leave.

IV

Outside it was the hottest part of the day, and the village shimmered in the unrelenting heat. Fewer newshounds dotted the green, and the ducks remained amongst the reeds or clustered under the shade of the trees, ready to take cover, should there be another barrage of stale bread and cake. Falconer decided to shelve the matter of the missing dog for the present. They would tackle the finder of the body first and, as they headed towards the post office, a lone wolf-whistle reminded him that Acting DS Jean-Paul Gaultier was as conspicuous as ever.

The post office was still closed for business, although whether for the lunch break or for the whole day was not indicated, so Falconer rang the bell for the private accommodation. Although his summons was answered in less than a minute, he could feel the perspiration begin to trickle down his back, and smell the dusty scent of the parched pavement as the door opened.

They were summoned inside by a whey-faced man, only a few years short of retirement, who looked like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. After introductions were effected he said, ‘Do come in. We’ll go upstairs to the sitting room, but would you mind being quiet. My wife’s in bed with a migraine – she’s a martyr to them – and I’d like her to sleep as long as she can.’ This request over, he walked slowly and quietly before them and showed them into a cool, shady room at the rear of the property that overlooked a pretty walled garden that must adjoin Crabapple Cottage.

The room was papered in a pale apricot sprigged with tiny daisies, the furniture was of oak, and chintz-upholstered. On the mantelpiece were several silver-framed photographs of a pretty girl, from baby to young woman, a wedding photograph, and one of the woman with two very young children, obviously the most recent.

‘Our goddaughter and her family,’ explained Alan Warren-Browne, seeing the direction of the inspector’s glance. ‘Do take a seat. I’m sure you’d like me to tell you what happened this morning.’ And this he did, starting with the dog’s barking, his wife’s headache, and the unpleasant surprise awaiting him outside the post office door.

‘I was pretty furious, I can tell you, and I banged like fury on his front door.’ A little of the pallor left the postmaster’s face as he remembered the intensity of his emotion. ‘I felt like throttling the old devil. Oh, not literally,’ he back-pedalled, recalling the circumstances, ‘but I was so steamed up. I marched round to the back door, certain that he was hiding from me and laughing up his sleeve. I knew he was in there because of the dog, you see. He never went anywhere without Buster. I thought he wasn’t answering the door on purpose.

‘Anyway, I hammered on the back door a couple of times and shouted, then I tried the door handle and it wasn’t locked. I fairly fell through it, the dog yelped and shot out, nearly having me over, then I saw him in the chair.’

‘Did you touch anything, Mr Warren-Browne?’ Might as well see if he would admit to any fingerprints that might be found, thought Falconer.

‘Apart from the door, I think I put my hand on the wooden chair arm when I was checking that he wasn’t unconscious or asleep, although only the dead could have slept through the racket that Buster had been making. But then, of course, he
was
dead.’ The narrative dwindled to a halt. Acting DS Carmichael was sitting slightly out of the elderly man’s eye-line, notebook open, tongue protruding from the side of his mouth in concentration, grateful for the momentary silence as he struggled to keep up with the narrative.

‘And what did you do next?’

‘Oh, I bolted. Couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I was so panicked that I didn’t even go back out the kitchen door. I blundered through the hall, had a beastly wrestle with the front door …’

‘It was locked?’ Falconer liked his detail as fresh as possible.

‘It was, but the door had also dropped on its hinges, and when I unlocked it I had to give it a good heave to get out. There’s probably a knack to it, but I didn’t have time to think about that. Then I caught sight of Mrs Rollason from the teashop. I didn’t want to disturb Marian any more, as she already had one of her beastly heads,’ (here Falconer had to repress a smile at the mental image that this last phrase conjured up), ‘so I called to Mrs Rollason to dial 999, then I’m afraid I closed up shop and went to bed. Felt absolutely washed out. Wife had taken a sleeping tablet and was already out of it. Felt I could do worse than join her.’

‘And did you hear or see anything of Mr Morley yesterday, particularly during the evening? Anything, no matter how trivial it might seem to you, might put us on to someone who might have vital evidence.’ Falconer’s hunch muscle was telling him to become persuasive. After all, these people had been right next door when the deed had been done.

Much to his surprise (and annoyance) a voice from the door interrupted the flow. ‘What’s going on, Alan? Who are these gentlemen?’

In the doorway stood the slight, frail figure of Marian Warren-Browne, wrapped in a floral robe of some light material, a puzzled frown on her face.

‘They’re policemen, my dear.’

‘Why, what’s happened? It’s not something to do with Kerry and the kiddies, is it?’

‘No, nothing to do with them at all.’

‘That beastly old man hasn’t been making trouble again, has he?’

‘Who’s Kerry?’ Falconer fired off simultaneously.

‘Our goddaughter, Kerry Long. And no, only in so much as he’s gone and got himself murdered,’ replied Alan Warren-Browne, trying to answer both queries at the same time.

‘What’s your goddaughter got to do with the deceased?’

‘What are you talking about, murdered?’

Falconer held up a hand and rose, calling for order and, when Marian had been apprised of the morning’s events missed in her drug-induced sleep, returned to his own unanswered question. ‘What has your goddaughter got to do with the deceased?’ As he asked it, he could not prevent his eyes from straying to the photographs on the mantelpiece.

Marian Warren-Browne had slumped into one of the chintz-covered armchairs, and made no effort to speak. Her husband, ever protective, moved to fill the silence. ‘Kerry lives in Jasmine Cottage, next door to Crabapple Cottage, and has been there since just after her marriage broke up. In fact, we secured the cottage for her so that we could help out with babysitting and suchlike.’

‘More’s the pity, the trouble it’s caused the poor dear, living next to that monster.’ Marian Warren-Browne lapsed back into silence again after this brief rally, laid her head back against the embroidered antimacassar and closed her eyes. Her skin looked grey in the north light from the sash window.

‘That wicked old man has had it in for her since the day she moved in.’ Alan Warren-Browne continued the explanation. ‘The fact is, he just doesn’t – sorry, didn’t – like children. Made her life a misery over them playing and laughing, and then let that dog of his bark when he knew they were asleep, and let him get through the hedge and do his business in their garden. That’s downright dangerous – a positive health hazard – with young children around.’ He ground to a halt and looked across at his wife as if seeking guidance, but she was still sunk in post-migraine misery and did not notice his look.

With an expression of resolution on his face he continued, ‘Anyway, there was something yesterday evening that I suppose you ought to hear about from us.’ Marian’s head began to rise. ‘We’d been outside all afternoon, and it was getting on.’

‘What time yesterday evening?’ Falconer interrupted him as he sensed a change in the atmosphere.

Marian was now fully alert and cut in urgently, ‘No, no, you mean yesterday afternoon, darling. Really, you’re getting so muddled of late, I despair of you.’

Alan Warren-Browne’s forehead creased, then relaxed slightly as he agreed. ‘Silly of me, of course. What time was it, sweetheart?’ For some reason Marian Warren-Browne was definitely in the driving seat now.

‘When that dreadful noise was coming from the garage, you remember? So we couldn’t really hear very clearly.’

‘Of course. My wife’s spot on. Heard Kerry having a good old harangue, but no idea what it was all about. Might just have been her shouting at the kiddies, I suppose.’

This was an abrupt volte-face, from ‘something they ought to know’, to ‘just shouting at the kiddies’, and Alan Warren-Browne looked as if he had had only a brief and very recent glance at the script. Something was being concealed, and Falconer would find out what it was, either from them or from someone else, and he did not care which. 

Chapter Four

Monday 13th July – early afternoon

I

Back out in the early afternoon sunshine, Falconer and Carmichael walked the few short yards from the post office to Crabapple Cottage, where they found Constable Proudfoot still on guard at the front door, his face crimson in the heat, perspiration dripping from his nose and chin.

‘Scene-of-Crime people been?’ enquired Falconer.

‘Yes, sir. And the police surgeon. Search just completed. Just need your authority to seal it off now.’

‘By the way. Was there a little dog here this morning when you arrived?’

‘Indeed there was, sir. Yappy little thing it was too, but seemed friendly enough.’

‘And where is that friendly little dog now, Constable Proudfoot. You seem to have omitted to inform me of its whereabouts.’

‘Miss Cadogan took it, sir. Old schoolmistress from Sheepwash Lane. She were here first thing, harassing me to let her take it and collect its things. I didn’t know what else to do with it, so I let it go with her,’ he blustered.

‘Put it in your report, Proudfoot,’ sighed the inspector, scandalised at this lax attitude. ‘By the way, you’ve had a quick scout around. Anything worthy of mention?’

‘No signs of forced entry. No signs of any search being made by person or persons unknown. Key still on the inside of the back door. Oh, and about nine thousand pounds in a box under the bed, mostly in old fivers.’

‘What?’

Proudfoot gave him a ‘not my fault this time’ look, and turned his gaze skywards to follow the lazy course of a pigeon towards the oak trees on the green.

II

Carmichael had the good sense to keep quiet, as they walked next door to Jasmine Cottage. As they approached it, a figure hurried up to it, handbag slung casually over one shoulder. Although recognisable as the subject of the photographs on her godparents’ mantelpiece, there had obviously not been a recent addition to their collection. The bloom had gone from Kerry Long’s skin, she was a little too thin, and her features had become sharp, her expression harder. Maybe this was a result of the harsh realities of the breakdown of her marriage and single-parenthood, or maybe it was from the strain of a protracted battle with her unpleasant elderly neighbour. Falconer did not know the answer to this, but he meant to find out.

‘Mrs Long?’ he enquired.

‘Ms Long,’ she corrected him. ‘Who wants to know?’

‘Inspector Falconer – and this is Acting DS Carmichael. It’s about Mr Morley next door.’

‘If you find out who did it, let me know so I can buy them a drink.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Sorry. That wasn’t a very nice thing to say, was it?’

‘Can we have a word?’ he asked.

‘I was just on my way back for a few minutes’ break: I work over in Allsorts. Left the kiddies over there for a few minutes, so I can catch my breath. The rush has calmed down a bit now, as you lot haven’t carted anyone off in handcuffs. The Punch and Judy show loses its shine when the puppets don’t perform,’ and with this somewhat enigmatic turn of phrase she held the door open for them to enter.

Although the cottage was the same age, size and design as its counterpart next door, it could not have been more dissimilar in its interior. Crabapple Cottage had been dark, grimy, uncared for and neglected. The tiny front room in Jasmine Cottage, into which the young woman now conducted them, was bright and cheery with white walls and woodwork. Sensible washable covers in a royal blue and jade zigzagged pattern on the two-seater settee and single armchair, and a vase of scarlet roses on the polished mantelshelf lifted the spirits; there were cream curtains at the tiny windows, and pale washable rugs on the uneven floor completed the picture of a well-cared for home.

Falconer nodded approvingly and Carmichael positively beamed. He could do with just such a little gem as this place when he was ready to spread his wings. Seeing their expressions of approval, their hostess asked, rather shyly as if expecting a rebuttal, if they would like to see the rest of the downstairs, and Carmichael’s enthusiastic, ‘Please,’ brought a smile to her face that dispelled the hardness that had sat there at their arrival.

A second door off the hall led to a tiny dining room which overlooked the back garden. Here, a cheap, white plastic patio set had been transformed with a tablecloth tie-dyed in yellow, orange and red, the chairs draped with crimson cotton. The same colour hung at the windows, and the old floorboards were (with young children in the house) sensibly bare and well-polished. So bright were the colours that Carmichael blended in splendidly, and Falconer looked as if he had suddenly faded to monochrome in comparison.

Kerry Long nodded towards the dining set next to which Carmichael was standing and murmured, ‘It’s amazing what you can do with some jumble sale sheets and a bit of imagination,’ leaving the policemen in some doubt as to whether it was her own homemaking, or the younger man’s peacock appearance, to which she was referring. And with that ambiguous remark, she led them out to the tiny kitchen at the back of the cottage.

It, too, was immaculate, the cupboards home-made many years ago, but freshly painted in a vivid lime green. Falconer’s eyes darted back and forth in search of something he could not find, but had expected to be there. At last he gave in and asked, ‘Where’s your washing machine?’

With a rueful smile the young woman replied, ‘Haven’t got one. Can’t afford it.’

‘But you’ve got kiddies.’ Carmichael was full of concern. His mum could not manage without hers. It was in use every day, sometimes two or three times. ‘And them covers on the suite, and the rugs and stuff. How do you manage?’

‘I manage all right, thank you, DS …’

‘Carmichael. Acting.’

‘DS Carmichael Acting it is, then. Most stuff I can manage myself. I’m used to hard work. Really heavy stuff my auntie takes into the launderette in Carsfold for me. That helps a lot.’

Although Falconer was aware that he had veered the conversation in this direction, it was becoming a little too cosily domestic for his liking, and he cleared his throat in an effort to get everyone’s attention back to the matter in hand. ‘About Mr Morley?’ he prompted.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Inspector. Go back through to the front room and take a seat, and I’ll see if I can be of any help.’

Back in the front room, and back to the more serious business on which they had called, Falconer asked the inevitable question. ‘How well did you get on with Mr Morley, Ms Long?’ although the answer was fairly obvious from what they had already gleaned at the Post Office, and the young woman’s reaction when they had arrived.

A cloud crossed her face, and the former hardness returned as she answered, ‘Not at all. We didn’t get on at all. Anyone’ll tell you, so I better had. We were at loggerheads, and have been since we moved in here.’

‘Can you tell me why?’

‘I wish I knew.’ Carmichael discreetly opened his notebook and began to scribble. ‘He’s had it in for me and the kids from the day we got here. He just doesn’t like kids. If they lark around and play indoors, he bangs – oh, that should be banged – the wall at them. If they played in the garden, he yelled for them to shut up. If I went out and left washing on the line, nine times out of ten, he’d have a bonfire. And if me and the kids were trying to get a bit of peace and quiet, or they were asleep, he’d let that blasted dog of his out and set it off yapping. He’d shut it out in the garden for hours in all weathers, even though the stupid thing adored him and that’s more than any other living creature did.

‘And he’d encourage it into our garden for a ‘dump’ when I was out. He was really foul to us, and we’d done nothing to him except exist and move in here.’

‘Your godparents mentioned an incident yesterday afternoon,’ he offered, deciding to hold fire on his hunch and gain her confidence, rather than alienate her. Relaxed, she was more likely to let something slip.

‘Oh, that. Yes. That filthy old man had been throwing dog shit at my clean sheets. It takes ages to wash them in the bath, and he’d scored a direct hit right in the middle of a white double. I could’ve killed him,’ she stated baldly, apparently unaware of the significance of what she had said. ‘I shouted like hell over the fence, but the old sod wouldn’t come out, so I had another shout out of the window when he took that shite-hound of his out for a walk. I mean, that stuff can blind kids, and I hate having to keep them out of the garden till I’ve been over it with a fine tooth comb. I got him later on, though, out the back, and really laid into him.’ She sighed deeply. ‘On the whole I’m rather glad he’s dead.’

Falconer put a mental tick beside the Warren-Brownes’ pathetic attempt to deceive him, and was rather surprised that this young woman should be so open in her hostility to one so recently murdered. She was either very naïve or very cunning.

The inspector felt he now had a fair idea of the state of open warfare that had existed between these neighbours and, if he only felt a fleeting and guarded sympathy for this outwardly hard young woman, Carmichael had obviously seen a rather different side to her, if the expression on his face were a reflection of his feelings. He had sided totally with the hard-working underdog, and he surveyed her and her immaculate home with open admiration. (So much for impartiality, thought Falconer.) This admiration did not seem to be reciprocated however, as, whenever she felt herself unobserved, Kerry darted incredulous glances at Carmichael’s polychromatic length, as if she had never seen such a vision. Falconer smiled, as he imagined her to be sizing him up mentally to use as raw material for re-upholstery.

Dragging his thoughts back to the here and now, he asked, ‘Did you notice or hear if anyone called next door yesterday evening? This could be very important.’

‘I did hear a banging on his door and some shouting a bit after nine, maybe later, but I was in the bath.’ The tiniest of the three bedrooms upstairs had been converted to house more modern washing facilities than those provided by a tin bath hanging on a nail on the back wall. ‘But by the time I got out the noise had stopped.’

‘So you’ve no idea who it was? Man or woman?’

‘Oh, I’m fairly sure it was Nick Rollason – his wife runs the teashop. At least, when I looked out of the upstairs window, it was him I saw crossing the green from this direction, and I hardly think he’d’ve been to the post office at that time of night.’

‘Any impressions from what you saw?’ Falconer probed with little hope.

‘Only that he might have been in the pub beforehand. He wasn’t walking terribly well. Looked like he’d had a few. But he’d certainly come from over this way, and there was nowhere else that he could have been coming from.’

Thanking her for her frankness and co-operation, the two men took their leave of her and went back outside, momentarily blinded by the contrast from the shady interior to dazzling sunshine.

‘Brave girl, that,’ commented Carmichael. ‘Two kids to bring up on her own, neighbour from hell to contend with, got a job to hold down, no washing machine, and the house is immaculate. Wonder what fool let that gem get away.’

Wondering what fool had let Carmichael loose in the casual wear section of Marks & Blunders, Falconer said, ‘Come on Acting DS Smitten. Stop mooning over it and let’s see what the spider at the hub of the web has to say.’

‘Beg pardon, sir?’

‘The village shop, Carmichael, where else? The centre of all gossip, the fount and repository of all wisdom and knowledge, the reference library of life.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Carmichael knew when he was out of his depth, but who the hell was this Smitten bloke when he was at home?

III

The village shop lived up to its name of ‘Allsorts’. Dim and cool inside, it was like an Aladdin’s cave of anything a rural dweller could want, without the inconvenience of a trip to town (with the exception of combine harvesters and livestock). A multiplicity of goods filled shelves, hung from the walls, and crouched on the floor, so many obstacles for the unwary or unobservant. Galvanised and plastic buckets jostled for place with mop-heads, old-fashioned Sunlight soap (do they still make that? wondered Falconer, disbelieving the evidence of his own eyes), clothes pegs and kindling. Bottles and jars, packets and boxes filled the central counter, alongside an array of cleaning materials, dishcloths and dusters. The far wall housed a refrigeration unit and a freezer: the main counter and till were surrounded by newspapers, magazines, greeting cards, sweets and tobacco products.

Behind this counter was a round, rubber ball of a woman, overweight in a not-unattractive way. Probably in her mid-fifties, her grey hair was permed and immaculate, her overall clean and fresh, her smile genuine. ‘How can I help you gentlemen?’ she enquired, her voice belying her northern roots.

Falconer held out his warrant card and made the necessary introductions.

‘It’s about old Morley you’ll be wanting to know,’ she surmised, holding out her hand. I’m Rosemary Wilson – Mrs. I’m the owner.’

‘That’s right, Mrs Wilson. We’re just trying to get a general picture of what the unfortunate gentleman was like, see if we can’t clear up this sorry business as quickly as possible. We thought that, as the shop was probably the central meeting point for the village, you might be in a position to give us a few pointers.’ Falconer was not above flattery in his quest for information.

‘I don’t like to gossip.’ Fifteen-love to Mrs Wilson. He had made an error of judgement.

‘I’m sure you don’t, Mrs Wilson. I just thought that you might be able to give us a character sketch of him as a customer.’ The inspector was back-pedalling now, but it seemed to have worked.

‘I do know he was a fair old nuisance to many. Never a pleasant word to say about anyone, and many an unpleasant one to folk’s faces, as well as behind their backs, in the hope they’d get to hear about it.’

‘Is there anyone in particular you feel you can tell us about,’ he probed, aware that this was just the start of the investigation and, should it prove to be a non-straightforward one, he would need the trust of as many of the villagers as he could get.

‘I really don’t want to speak out of turn, Inspector.’