Death of an Old Git (The Falconer Files - File 1) (12 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Thursday 16th July – morning

I

Harry Falconer had, unusually and infuriatingly, slept through the summons of his alarm clock and emerged dripping and late from his shower to discover that he had a dozen clean shirts, but not one had been ironed. It was, therefore, with a hiss of exasperation that he dug out the ironing board, made hasty work of a cream linen number, and threw on his clothes.

Mycroft had the unexpectedly dull breakfast of tinned cat food shoved unceremoniously under his nose, and was deciding to turn said nose up in disdain when his master fled through the front door muttering curses under his breath. The cat, defeated, gave the feline equivalent of a sigh and moodily tucked in. Without an audience, no display of petulance would change the menu, and food, after all, was food – in fact, not bad at all for tinned, but he would not be letting on about that, just in case.

His master’s day did not improve when, on arriving at his desk, he shed his jacket to make an awful discovery. In his haste earlier, he must have been so distracted as to have ironed one of his shirt sleeves twice, the other, not at all. His left arm was draped from shoulder to cuff in wrinkled cream linen. That was just grand! He would have to spend the whole of today with his jacket on. But at least the previous night’s storm had cleared the air a little and it was somewhat cooler today.

As he sneeringly contemplated the scar on his normal sartorial perfection, the internal telephone trilled for attention and he reached to answer it, still glaring in disbelief at his left arm.

‘Great. Super. Oh, marvellous. Straight away?’ There went the last vestige of the idea that he might be able to slip home and press the offending sleeve. ‘Carmichael’s waiting to be picked up. Oh, goody. I’m on my way.’

Another body had been discovered in Castle Farthing and their urgent presence was requested. There had been no other details except the fact that one Constable Proudfoot would be found on duty, guarding the remains and whatever evidence there may be.

II

Carmichael had indeed bowed to the dictates of a lower temperature and had, in part at least, fulfilled the unspoken wishes of his superior. He was wearing long trousers, a tie, and a shirt, and the shirt was even long-sleeved and white. Unfortunately the trousers were of a bright crimson material and made his gangling legs look as if he had severed both femoral arteries simultaneously. His tie, Falconer noticed with dismay, carried a likeness of the cartoon character Taz the Tasmanian Devil attempting to devour a cartoon rabbit which was parachuting slowly (he guessed) towards the waiting, gaping mouth. Falconer sighed a weary sigh. Why didn’t the man just hire a Batman costume and have done with it? At least that would be recognisable as fancy dress.

From over his shoulder Carmichael pulled a vivid green jacket, and folded it into his lap as he shimmied into the passenger seat. Red and green! Make that Robin, thought Falconer, but then, perhaps not: that would make
him
Batman. He then remembered the state of his own shirt, blushed very slightly and drove off, trying to focus his attention on the case thus far.

III

They found Constable Proudfoot on the forecourt of the Castle Farthing Garage in Drovers Lane, the area to the rear of the pumps already taped off and out of bounds to any other than the official players in this drama.

‘Is it Lowry?’ Falconer asked without salutation or preamble.

‘Yes, sir. It’s young Lowry.’

‘Murder?’

‘Definitely. Looks the same as the last one to me.’

‘Thank you, Proudfoot. I didn’t ask for your opinion. I’ll make my own mind up, if I may. Who found him?’

‘Mr Warren-Browne from the post office.’

‘Again?’

‘Again. Bit unlucky that, really, finding two dead bodies in less than a week.’

‘Unlucky is one word for it. Let’s hope he doesn’t make a habit of it. Anyone in there at the moment – police surgeon, scenes-of-crime?’

‘Just the vicar.’

‘Dear God and all the saints, don’t tell me you’ve let the vicar in again? What kind of a moron are you, Proudfoot? You’ll be selling tickets next and letting in parties of pensioners, half price, to have a little dust round and a tidy-up. Get out of my way, man, before I do something really unprofessional.’

The inspector pushed his way under the tape and marched towards the rear of the garage. Carmichael, mightily amused, winked at the blushing constable and resisted the urge to limbo under the tape in pursuit of his superior.

As the acting sergeant reached the door of the bed-sit, a familiar tableau greeted his eyes. An obviously dead body lay slumped in an armchair, Rev. Bertie Swainton-Smythe was just scrambling from his knees before it, and Falconer was in full flow. ‘This is déjà-bloody-vu isn’t it, vicar. Tell me, if there’s ever a third body, will I be treated to the unusual experience of déjà-bloody-vu all over again?’

‘I’m, sorry, Inspector. Marian Warren-Browne phoned me as soon as Alan got back to the post office and phoned 999. I know you’ve got a job to do, but so have I, and this is it. Shall I turn out my pockets now?’

‘Please.’

He produced a bunch of keys, a crumpled handkerchief and an assortment of small change.

‘Thank you. Now go. Carry on praying if you must, but do it somewhere else and stop muddying the forensic evidence. Get out. I’ll be along to see you later.’

Left to themselves Falconer and Carmichael surveyed the living accommodation of the recently deceased. It did not amount to much. A sofa bed at the far side of the room had not been folded away since its last use, and the sheets and quilt lay crumpled across it. A cumbersome old television set rested on a low, dark wood table, a small bookcase held car maintenance manuals and a few ‘top shelf’ magazines. There were no pictures on the walls save for a calendar for a bygone year showing scantily clad females, a good-will offering from a well-known tyre company. One corner housed a sink and portable gas ring, an alcove next to this, a none-too-clean lavatory and minute shower with a mould-encrusted curtain.

The only armchair housed the mortal remains of Michael Lowry, great-nephew and only living adult relative of the late and unlamented Reginald Morley. Much good his inheritance had done him!

His fate appeared to have been much the same as old Great-uncle Reg’s, too. His face was a swollen gargoyle, and there were signs of a ligature buried in the skin of his neck. No signs of any cocoa, but Falconer would put his shirt (he winced) on there being diazepam in the young man’s stomach.

Turning to his sergeant, he found him lost in a brown study. ‘What’s on your mind, Carmichael?’

‘I was just thinking what a pity it all was, for him to end up like this. He had it all going for him really – good-looking chap like that and now with money coming his way. Still, he was a shit to his wife and kids – excuse the language, sir. I dunno, seems a waste though.’

Falconer turned on his heel and left the bed-sit. Carmichael in thoughtful mood was more than he felt up to coping with just at the moment.

IV

The post office was the obvious starting point for them. They would glean what information they could on the discovery of the body, then try to work their way backwards in time. Had there not been some sort of a ‘do’ at the local pub the night before? Maybe Lowry had gone to that. After the post office they would make a quick trip there to see what the landlord and his good lady had to offer.

Once more Alan Warren-Browne looked grey about the gills when he bade them enter and follow him, for the second time in three days, upstairs to the chintzy sitting room above his work premises. This time, however, Marian Warren-Browne was present and sitting in an armchair drinking a cup of tea (coffee aggravated her migraine) and reading a magazine.

Seeing them enter, she disappeared into the kitchen. Returning with two cups and saucers, she poured for them and watched the contents of the sugar bowl decrease alarmingly as Carmichael adjusted the brew to his particular taste.

‘I seem to be making a habit of this, don’t I, Inspector?’

‘You do indeed, Mr Warren-Browne. Would you care to tell me exactly how you discovered this body?’ (You’re not collecting them for some sort of badge, are you? thought Falconer silently.)

‘I’d promised Marian I’d pop into the supermarket in Carsfold for some bulk stuff for the freezer. Thought I’d go in early so I could be back in time to open up. The supermarket opens at eight, so I left about twenty to, only to find that I was virtually out of petrol. But that wasn’t a problem, because Lowry was normally up and about by seven-thirty, and perfectly happy to take money off any early customers who stopped by on the off chance.

‘So I drove on to the forecourt, but couldn’t see him. I waited a minute, then got out of the car to see if he was around. The shop had no light on and was showing a closed sign, so I thought I’d try round the back. Couldn’t find him out there either, then I remembered how drunk he’d been the night before and wondered if he was suffering from a bit of a hangover. Hoped he was, actually.’

‘How did you know he was drunk the previous night?’

‘Everyone was over at the pub for Clive Romaine’s birthday. And Mike certainly made sure that everyone knew he was there. Had words with just about everyone, he did.

‘But back to this morning. I looked through the window – he doesn’t bother with curtains, the glass is dirty enough to give some privacy – and I could see him in that armchair, spark out, as I thought then. I tapped on the window – no response, so I rapped on the door. By then I was impatient to be on my way, so that I could be back in time to open up, so I tried the door and it wasn’t locked. And there he was, and now I shall have to go shopping this evening instead.’

Callous bastard
, thought Falconer, then returned to an earlier point in the post-master’s monologue. ‘Did he have words with you?’

‘What?’

‘Mike Lowry. Were you one of the people he had words with in the pub yesterday evening?’

‘We had a slight falling out over the amount of noise that had been coming from his workshop, but it was mostly bluster and the drink talking, I realised. He probably wouldn’t even have remembered it, the way he was stumbling around when the vicar took him home.’

‘The vicar took him home?’

‘That’s right. Seemed the best thing to do, and the party broke up shortly after that.’

The vicar again, thought Falconer, but would not let himself be side-tracked. ‘What time did you retire last night?’

Marian answered. ‘I went to bed about eleven and took a sleeping tablet.’

‘And you, sir?’

‘Stopped up to watch a film. Didn’t notice the time when I finally turned in.’

‘Did you notice it, Mrs Warren-Browne?’

‘I told you, I’d taken a sleeping tablet.’ And with this evasive answer they had to be content for the time being.

As they left by the side door, Falconer said just three words. ‘Vicarage, Carmichael. Now.’

V

Lillian Swainton-Smythe admitted them. ‘Good morning, Inspector. Ah, I see you still have Ronald MacDonald with you. Do come through, we’re in the sun lounge,’ this last proving to be a rickety lean-to affair attached precariously to the south-facing wall of the vicarage. ‘Bertie, the police to see you. Again.’ Surely she could not have been drinking at this early hour? ‘Can I take your jacket, Inspector? It’s rather warm out there.’

‘No thank you,’ Falconer replied, once more conscious of the disgraceful condition of his left shirt sleeve. He’d just have to sweat it out.

‘Good morning again, Inspector, Sergeant,’ the vicar greeted them.

‘Why didn’t you tell us you’d taken Lowry home from the pub last night?’ Falconer was prickly with more than just heat.

‘You didn’t give me much of a chance to tell you anything, as I remember,’ replied the vicar, still smarting from their peremptory treatment of him earlier.

‘Shall I turn out my pockets for you, Inspector, or would you like to conduct a body search?’ Lillian leered, leaning close to him, the unmistakable smell of gin on her breath.

‘Go and lie down, Lillian. You’re upset.’

Unexpectedly, she complied, and wandered from their company and into the main body of the vicarage.

‘Sorry about that. She’s highly strung,’ explained Bertie. It seemed a little more tactful than describing her as ‘tight’, and he was, overall, a tactful man who tolerated and overlooked his wife’s occasional little lapses.

‘Perhaps you’d tell us about last night, sir? Why did you need to escort Mr Lowry home?’

‘There’d been words. He’d upset a few people. I wasn’t really listening, then things got rather louder and I felt it my Christian duty to try to pour oil on troubled waters.’

‘And what happened?’

‘Not a lot. I just stepped in to distract him while George Covington, the landlord, drew attention back to the party. I told him he’d had enough, passed him his pint then, when he’d drunk it, I took him over to his bed-sit.’

‘What condition did you consider him to be in?’

‘Pretty far gone. He was stumbling all over the place when we got to his door. I had to prop him up against the wall and get his key out of his pocket myself before I could get him inside. By the time I’d manhandled him into the chair he was just about incoherent, and started to snore almost immediately. I had no chance of moving him on my own if he was out cold – he was a dead weight. Oh, my dear Lord, what an unfortunate choice of phrase. I do apologise. Anyway, I thought it was best just to leave him where he was until he came round in his own good time – except that he didn’t, did he?’

‘Sadly, no. Now, did you lock the door before you left?’

‘I couldn’t. You may not have noticed, but there’s no Yale lock on that door, only a mortise, and it doesn’t have a letterbox. All his post goes – sorry,
went
 – to the shop. I could hardly lock him in and put the key through the shop door. There isn’t an interconnecting door between the two, as that bed-sit’s really just a part of the workshop roughly converted. I just slipped the key back in his pocket and closed the door behind me. May God forgive me!’ he expostulated. ‘If I could have locked that door he might still be alive. I left that door unlocked for a murderer.’ The vicar’s face was stricken and drained of all colour.