Christmas Mourning

Book 8: The Falconer Files

by Andrea Frazer

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Police Procedurals; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

Christmas Mourning is the eighth instalment of Andrea Frazer?s Falconer Files, a detective series chock-full of picture-postcard villages, dastardly deeds, and a delightful slice of humour. The UK is experiencing its worst winter for years. Catastrophic news for DI Harry Falconer, as he has rashly promised to spend Christmas with his sergeant, Carmichael, and Carmichael?s rambunctious family, in Castle Farthing ? only to find himself snowed in and in and spending a lot longer at chez Carmichael than is desirable ? Without power or telephones, and Castle Farthing cut off from the outside world until further notice, Christmas Day greets them ? with a murder in St Cuthbert?s Church, where the locum vicar has discovered, to his horror, one of Castle Farthing's residents nailed to a gigantic cross. Falconer and Carmichael are left to dig their way out of Carmichael's cottage to investigate the terrible crime, with none of the technology and support normally available to them. As if this is not enough to cope with, Carmichael has agreed to look after a huge Great Dane over the festivities, Kerry Carmichael is just about to give birth ? and death is still stalking the snowed-in community, intent on claiming at least one more victim ?

Release date: December 19, 2013

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 176

Sample

Chapter One

Friday 24th December – Christmas Eve, 5pm

In Castle Farthing on this Christmas Eve, all was aglow with myriad lights, all twinkling in the cold air and filling it with a rainbow. George and Paula Covington had outdone themselves with their decorations this year and, apart from the many varied strands of lights attached to the outside, they had added an enormous inflatable Father Christmas and an equally huge inflatable snowman, both of which were lit up from within.

From the Christmas trees outside the pub doors, every colour imaginable sparkled from the fibre-optic trees (with added strings of light and decorations) that they had placed outside the doors of the public house, and an equally large Christmas tree did the same job inside, the roaring log fire providing an extra welcome to customers in this bitter weather.

Even the castle ruins from which the village had originally been given its name (the ‘farthing’ thought to be the toll charged to pass down the road through the old castle grounds) had been seasonally tarted-up, and, for the first time, were strung with sturdy outdoor lights in an assortment of colours.

The lights strung round the village green also did their bit to add to the seasonal atmosphere, and every cottage sported a brightly lit and decorated tree in its front window. Castle Farthing looked like a Christmas card, the impression heightened by the snow that had threatened earlier in the day and had eventually begun to fall at about two-thirty, delighting those on their way to the church for the crib service, for St Cuthbert’s had a locum this Christmas, and services would be heard in its ancient walls at this time of the year for the first time in two years.

In the next few hours, however, everyone back in their houses hiding from the cold and the rising wind, the snow had begun to fall in earnest, the flakes large and soft as duck down, falling faster and faster in ever increasing volume, and Castle Farthing, unbeknownst to most, now had six inches of blanketing white decorating it, too, and the sky was heavy with more to come.

Wednesday 1st December – morning

Detective Inspector Harry Falconer was sitting at his desk finishing off a provisional report on the crime figures for November, when a whirlwind entered the room; the door flying back on its hinges to bang and rebound from the metal filing cabinet behind it, and then slammed with a shudder that ran through the whole room and a giant of a figure crossed over to the desk and flung itself into the chair on the other side of it, exclaiming, ‘That bloody man!’

‘Carmichael!’ retorted Falconer, in horror, for he rarely heard Carmichael swear. ‘Whatever’s got into you? What man? Calm down and tell me all about it, and we’ll see if we can’t get it into some sort of perspective for you.’ And damn you for interrupting when I thought I’d just got a handle on these figures; I’ll have to start all over again now when you’ve got it out of your system, thought Falconer with a mental sigh.

‘That one I’ve mentioned a few times to you: the one that’s moved into the village: the one that’s trying to get his finger into every pie, and who’s been upsetting Kerry. You remember, sir?’

‘I certainly do. What’s he done now?’ The inspector hoped it wasn’t anything too heinous, but Carmichael didn’t usually get all het up about nothing.

With a renewal of the anger he had demonstrated on entering the office, Carmichael’s face grew red, and he made strangling motions with his huge hands, declaring, ‘I could kill the man myself, saying such things to a pregnant woman.’

At the rise in the volume of his voice, a uniformed officer poked his head round the door to see that everything was all right, and withdrew when he realised that it was only the DI and the DS in there.

‘Come on, you! Let’s get ourselves off to the canteen, get some hot tea into you, and talk about this calmly. Just simmer down, and you can tell me all about it, but without the murderous gestures, if you don’t mind,’ Falconer suggested. Then, perhaps he could get back to what he had been doing, in peace. Let the younger man get it out of his system .

‘Sorry, sir, but he just makes me so mad!’ replied Carmichael, blowing on his hands now, which were blue with cold as he wore no gloves.

‘And get your hands by that radiator for a couple of minutes before we go. I don’t want you throwing scalding tea everywhere, especially over me, just because you’ve got no feeling in your fingers. My arm’s only just recovered from that knock with the baseball bat I got, and I don’t want to follow it up with a nasty case of Advent burns.’ [1]

Falconer had received a nasty blow to his arm during an attack from a suspect in their previous case, and was still taking painkillers and painstakingly following the exercises the physiotherapist had shown him after that injury.

A few minutes later in the canteen, his enormous hands wrapped round the special pint mug that Maggie behind the counter kept for him ( she was soft-hearted, and proud of it!), Carmichael took a noisy slurp of the almost-boiling liquid, squinted his eyes in pain and appreciation, and began his tale of woe.

‘That chap I told you about over the last few weeks: he’s getting worse, and it’s really upsetting Kerry,’ began Carmichael.

‘What’s he said this time?’ Falconer asked him, taking a tentative sip of his coffee and finding it to his liking.

‘Yesterday he cornered her in Allsorts and told her some horror stories about pets lying on newborn babies’ faces, and smothering them, backing it up by saying that he worked for the BBC and had heard all about such events. He only shut up when the owner, Rosemary Wilson – you remember Kerry’s aunt, don’t you? – came over and heard what he was saying. She had him out of that shop so quick his feet didn’t touch the ground.’

‘Is that all?’ asked Falconer in all innocence, finding the story quite mild, and not realising what a hornets’ nest he was stirring up.

‘All?’ shouted Carmichael, drawing eyes from all over the canteen.

‘Shhhhh! Calm down, Carmichael, otherwise I’ll be able to sell tickets to this conversation.’

‘Well, when was the last time you spent a lot of quality time with a pregnant woman?’

‘OK, you’ve got me there.’ The answer was never, so perhaps he’d better find out just why his sergeant was in such a rage about it. Capitulating, he continued, ‘You win; but what about it?’

‘Their hormones are all over the place. The littlest thing upsets them out of all proportion, and they’re convinced that everything’s going to go wrong with the pregnancy, the birth, and for months after that.

‘The closer to the birth they get, the more ridiculous and outrageous the fears, but there’s no rationalising with them. Kerry’s getting herself into a right tizzy now there’s only just over a month to go, and this idiot just feeds her fears and creates new ones she hadn’t even thought of.’

‘Is it really that bad?’ asked Falconer. He’d always considered Kerry Carmichael a very grounded person, not easily upset or knocked off balance.

‘You should see her, sir. Sometimes she just cries, and there’s nothing I can do or say to help her, and quite often it’s because she’s bumped into him, and he’s set her off again.’

‘And what is his name?’

‘Digby Jeffries. He lives in one of those four new houses just to the south of the village green. He’s an old codger, or I’d have asked him to step outside to settle the matter long before now.’

‘Come on, Carmichael. We can’t have you assaulting old-age pensioners. That wouldn’t do the reputation of the police a jot of good. Have you tried to have a word with him and told him what effect he’s having on Kerry?’ Wise words, Falconer thought, but was then disabused.

‘Yes! He actually gave this horrible little giggle, then said he was just passing the time of day, and was I sure it wasn’t me being over-sensitive?’

‘Sounds a right arse. Is there anything I can do?’

‘I don’t think so, sir. At least, not yet. I’ll try talking to him again, and see how far I get,’ Carmichael finished, and heaved a huge sigh. He really didn’t need this hassle. And, in fact, neither did Falconer. Not only did he have his monthly report to finish, but there had been a spate of burglaries of garden furniture and statuary that was trying him to the limit, and no one yet had reported a sighting of the van that might be transporting these heavy items from gardens to God knows where.

Monday 6th December – afternoon

Even though the weather was bitingly cold and the roads slippery, Carmichael had stated that he was going home for lunch, giving no reason other than he thought it might be a good idea. He’d been in a subdued mood for the final half-hour of the morning, but would offer no reason for it. After his departure, Falconer had sent out for sandwiches, not wishing to brave the severity of the temperature if he could avoid it, and spent a quiet hour with his current reading matter – statements about the stolen garden accoutrements.

The hands of the old-fashioned wall clock had no sooner reached two o’clock when it seemed that time was repeating itself, and Carmichael stormed into the office again like an avenging angel, his face purple and twisted with fury. This time, without waiting to be asked, he burst into speech in a sort of strangled scream.

‘He’s done it again! She rang me just before lunch, but by the time I got there, she was in a right old state. Something’s got to be done about him!’

‘I presume you’re referring to Mr Jeffries again?’ asked Falconer in a quiet, calm voice. There were so many suspect vans registered locally that it had been like looking for a needle in a haystack, and he was quite glad of the interruption.

‘Yes I bloody well am! Mr bloody Jeffries had better watch out, or I’ll strangle the bloody life out of the old villain!’ This time, Carmichael’s voice was a low and dangerous growl.

‘Calm down, Sergeant. Just take a deep breath or two, sit down, and count to a hundred, or a thousand, if it helps, then see how you feel. Would you like me to have a word with this trouble-making old codger?’ asked Falconer, as Carmichael sank reluctantly into his chair. ‘Nothing official, you understand, but maybe I could drop into The Fisherman’s Flies with you for a half sometime, and you could point him out to me. I presume he uses the pub. Gossipy old-woman types like him usually do, to spread their poison and pick up new ammunition.’

‘Please, sir,’ agreed the sergeant, tears forming in his eyes, now that his fury had abated, and with real anguish on his face, ‘but not just yet. Let’s leave it a couple of days, and see if he gets bored with taunting her.’ His soft heart was breaking for Kerry, who usually coped with everything that life could throw at her without turning a hair. It could only be the effects of the pregnancy, but that didn’t make the situation any easier.

‘OK, so what horror story did he have for her this time?’ asked Falconer, dreading to hear what this interfering old ferret had come up with this time to frighten a woman within a few weeks of giving birth.

‘It was all about the number of newborn babies who are mutilated or killed by jealous pets who were in the household before they were born.’

‘Monstrous! Silly old sod obviously needs to take up a hobby, or maybe start writing horror stories to stop him getting under the skin of other people.’ This chap really knew how to stir up the emotions, choosing just the right material and delivering it at just the right time. He must be well-practised. Maybe a word from someone a little higher up the food chain would sort him out.

Friday 10th December

The raging roar started this time, presumably in the foyer of the station, and Falconer could hear it getting louder and louder as it approached his office. The office door nearly came off its hinges this time as it was flung open. Carmichael rushed through and headed straight for the nearest wall, beginning to bang his fists on it while uttering obscenities and threats.

Deciding that distance was the better part of valour in this case – Carmichael was in one hell of a temper, and had very big fists and lightning reflexes besides – he spoke slowly and calmly, hoping to distract his sergeant from his assault on Market Darley Police property. ‘I presume Digby the Mouth has had another little dig. What did he say this time?’ he asked, laying aside the paperwork he had been trying to clear from his desk.

It took a few minutes for Carmichael to stop thumping at the plaster, gather himself together, and sit down in the closest to a civilised manner as he could manage, given his current emotional state.

‘I was in the shower this morning, and Kerry only opened the door to collect the milk, and there he was; just happened to be walking past – my big, fat, hairy arse, he was. This time he’d dug up even more horror stories, and told her a tale of big babies – referring to my size, obviously – being the cause of a lot of internal damage to the mothers, sometimes even maternal death.

‘I had to go over to the shop to get some more milk. Kerry dropped ours, still in its bottle holder, with horror at what he was telling her. I took her over to her godparents at The Beehive, to spend the day there – though Marian seemed in rather a weird mood, and not really pleased to see us – then dropped the boys off at school. But, on the drive here, when I’d had time to take in what had actually happened, I felt my temper start to rise, and as I approached the station, I knew I’d have to get inside, or risk behaving the way I just did outside and have to be restrained.’

‘Thank God! I thought it might have been something I’d done,’ said Falconer, more to make the younger man smile than because it was true. This sort of occurrence was becoming tediously repetitive. ‘We’re going to have to do something about this. We don’t want Kerry to go into premature labour just because this joker gets his kicks from making other people feel uncomfortable or scared. And you say he’s like this with everyone?’

‘Yes. ‘Can you make it tonight, and come to the pub with me? If he’s there, maybe you could say something to him to make him stop.’

‘No worries. I’ll follow you home later, and we’ll just drop in and see if he’s in there. All I can do is my best, but I’ll try to put the frighteners on him if I can.’

‘Thank you, sir. Honestly, I don’t know how I keep my hands off him.’

At Falconer’s request, Carmichael telephoned Kerry at her godparents’ home that afternoon and told her that he would be bringing a visitor home that evening, but not to worry about food, as Inspector Falconer was going to pick up fish and chips for them all on the way. It would save his wife cooking, and she was so very tired now at this advanced stage of pregnancy.

When they had done what they could for the day, Falconer followed Carmichael’s battered old Skoda, both cars stopping once so that Falconer could be given instructions for what the other members of the family would like, then they headed straight for Castle Farthing. They had gone slightly out of their way to the chip shop on the Upper Darley parade for although there had been a tragic occurrence there just after Easter, [2] it still produced the best fried food in the area.

Kerry was back in her own home and greeted them with the table already laid for five, a pot of tea brewing in the centre, two plates of bread and butter, and all the condiments needed for a meal of this sort, but her face was puffy and her eyes swollen and red with weeping.

It simply wasn’t fair, thought Falconer, that such a previously happy couple should have their simple existence blighted by the spite of a silly old man, whose obvious delight it was  to tease and frighten the weaker and more vulnerable members of the community, and he felt his ire rising just at the thought of setting eyes on him.

Carmichael had immediately taken his rotund wife in his arms and begun kissing her hair and murmuring words of comfort to her, while she told him that she thought there was something seriously wrong with Auntie Marian. She’d been strange all day – sort of distracted and forgetful, and now she was really worried about her.

Carmichael did his best to explain that it was probably because Kerry was so sensitive and had been upset, that she was seeing something that simply wasn’t there in her godmother, and that they should just concentrate on their own worries before taking on those of other people. She’d feel a lot better when both Christmas and the birth were over, and she must just try to keep calm for the remaining weeks so that her blood pressure didn’t go too high.

For want of anything better to do, Falconer looked round their developing home and realised what a good job they were doing, turning two cottages into one. Where walls had once been, separating the space into tiny boxes, now there were sturdy RSJs holding up the structure, and making large open spaces that were much more conducive to life in the twenty-first century rather than the nineteenth.

The chimney that had been shared by both prop. . .