Death in High Circles

Book 10: The Falconer Files

by Andrea Frazer

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Police Procedurals; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

There is mischief afoot in the village of Fallow Fold. Persons unknown have been on a spree of vandalism, scratching cars, smashing colourful pots of flowers in full bloom, breaking greenhouse windows???and defiling a front door with a racist word, written in spray paint. The police are called, and given the unavailability of more junior personnel DI Harry Falconer and DS ?Davey? Carmichael arrive to investigate, but there are no obvious suspects. ? Then a resident is attacked as he keeps a nocturnal vigil, hoping to catch whoever is responsible for the vandalism. Soon, there is a surfeit of uncharacteristic behaviour from those who live there, and Falconer begins to suspect that there is more to come. ? When?the man who runs the local bridge circle disappears, there is a palpable whiff of evil in the air???which leads to a murderous attack on one of the police officers. This is a time when DI Falconer is forced to search his soul to discover what, and who, is really important in his life, and what really matters in it. Death in High Circles is the tenth full-length instalment in the Falconer Files, detective novels featuring dastardly deeds done in picture-postcard villages???and a delightful slice of humour.

Release date: January 23, 2014

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 204

Sample

Chapter One

Saturday



The two men stood helplessly in A&E, disbelievingly watching the hospital trolley that was being rushed into the emergency admissions bay of Market Darley Hospital.

The shorter man, with mid-brown hair, bowed his head in despair, thinking how easily this dreadful thing could have happened to any of the team, and feeling guilty that he hadn’t been able to do more at the scene.

The slightly taller man with the olive complexion was feeling as if he had been hit over the head with an iron bar. He was completely stunned, and simply couldn’t believe what had happened, and with such swift, unstoppable inevitability. The man on the trolley was in a bad way, and the faces of those admitting him and in the ambulance had tried to reassure them, but their eyes were grave behind their professionally optimistic expressions.

He stood straight as a ramrod, as if standing to attention, wondering whatever he would do if the man didn’t make it. What would happen to his family? Who would replace him in his job? But even more importantly to him, who would replace him not just as a colleague, but as the reliable partner he had become? In his own way, his partner was irreplaceable, and had carved a special place in his heart for the way he conducted both his personal and professional life. Sometimes he had driven him almost to distraction with some of his eccentricities, but he’d never worked with anyone better.

The shorter man grabbed the arm of a doctor who was rushing towards the room into which the trolley had disappeared, and asked if the patient was going to be all right.

‘It’s not a clear picture yet, but we do need to get him to the operating theatre to stop the internal bleeding. After that, it’s all down to how strong his constitution is, and whether there are any complications that we don’t know about yet.’

The taller man stood, still staring at the closed doors of the emergency admissions room, tears pouring, unchecked and unnoticed, down his cheeks, his heart breaking for what might have been prevented if either he or his partner had been just that little bit quicker thinking, or had made a move a fraction of a second before that terrible, deadly strike.

For the first time since he had been a child, he prayed silently, not even having indulged sincerely in this occupation during his years in the army. This was one compatriot that he couldn’t bear to lose: his life would be so much the poorer for him to continue in any useful pattern, and it was something he knew he would never get over.

Although they rarely showed their respect and affection for each other, it was tacit in their good working relationship, and he couldn’t believe that such a pointless attack might deprive him of this unique personality forever.

Chapter Two

Friday – Eight Days Previously



Spring had long since arrived, and was wending its lazy way towards summer. The treetops were a lush palette of mixed green salad, and the normally well-trimmed shrubs in gardens were bustling to throw out errant shoots, eager to destroy their manmade symmetry.

The weather was kindly in a way that is never taken for granted in this country; warm days, blue skies with candyfloss clouds and warm gentle zephyrs of breeze followed mild nights, and the countryside, thus cossetted, put on its Sunday best, and dazzled the eyes with its displays of wild flowers and lush verdant pastures, the call of the wood pigeons adding a soporific air to the next best thing to paradise.

It was during the early evening of his day off on such a day as this, that Detective Inspector Harry Falconer was just considering what to prepare for his evening meal, when there was an unexpected ring on the doorbell, followed by a rather urgent knocking on the door itself.

Wondering who on earth this unexpected visitor could be, he went to open it, and answered his own question when he saw a shape through the opaque glass that was as tall as the doorframe. ‘Good evening, Carmichael. What can I do for you on this beautiful late spring evening? And why have you got a cat on your shoulder?’

He’d only just noticed this last interesting phenomenon, as he had been contemplating the dread possibility that Carmichael might have all his brood out in his car, just waiting to pay a visit, and thus turn his domestic harmony and tidiness on its head.

‘Davey’ Carmichael was his DS in the Market Darley CID and, during their first case together he had met a young woman with two children in the village of Castle Farthing, where he now lived. He had courted her, married her, adopted her two sons (as their father was no longer living), and they had since produced a baby daughter who was immediately named Harriet for the inspector – who had, much to his horror, had to deliver the baby.

The Carmichael household also included a pack of tiny dogs and it would appear, at first glance, that this lithe little cat’s arrival in their crowded household might have proved the last straw. Falconer set his face in a determined expression and waited for his answer.

‘It’s Monkey, sir,’ Carmichael said, baldly.

‘I know which one it is. How could anyone mistake an Abyssinian for any other breed? But what’s she doing here with you?’ Falconer could not conceive of a situation that would induce Carmichael to take his cat visiting.

‘We can’t keep her, sir, and I just wondered if …’

‘What’s she been up to? I don’t want any feline delinquents in my home.’

‘Kerry can’t cope. She’s trying to wean Harriet, but if she leaves the bowl of baby rice for a moment, Monkey’s in there like Flynn, and it’s all gone by the time Kerry gets back to it. But the main problem is the dogs.’

‘The dogs? How can there be a problem with the dogs? She’s only a small cat. You coped very well with me there, and that great lump of a dog called Mulligan, all the time we were snowed in at Christmas. What’s the problem with such a tiny feline?’

Carmichael had several dogs, all of them in miniature, and at complete odds with the enormous height and build of their owner. His current count was a Chihuahua, a miniature Yorkshire terrier, and their three unexpected offspring, as Carmichael had been too naïve and dilatory to get the original two neutered in good time. There were now three ‘Chihua-shire’ terriers to add to his menagerie of minute canines, the pups romantically but impractically named by his wife as Little Dream, Fantasy, and Cloud.

‘She might be small, but she keeps herding all the dogs, like they were a flock of sheep, and she chases them endlessly. She thinks it’s a grand game, but the poor little dogs are terrified – even Mistress Fang and Mr Knuckles.’ These were the parent dogs, but still extremely small. ‘And I just wondered if you could find it in your heart to give her a home. I don’t want to hand her into some anonymous charity organisation, for she’s a beautiful cat, and I wouldn’t like to lose touch with her completely.’

‘Have you had her checked by the vet to see if she’s got a chip?’

‘Yes, and she hasn’t, for some reason, so we’ve no way of knowing where she ran away from – and returning her to her original owners – which I’d do gladly if only I knew who they were – seems to be impossible. I even put adverts in the local rags, but no one got in touch.’

This was quite a heart-felt plea from Carmichael, who never asked for help unless it was the last resort, and Falconer took pity on the poor young man, replying, ‘I’ll give her a week’s trial, but if it doesn’t work out, you’ll have to find another solution. That’s the best I can offer.’

‘Oh, God, thank you so much, sir. I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t been a cat lover. Kerry will be thrilled that she’ll still get news of the little tinker, but Monkey’s  just too difficult to manage, what with the dogs, the boys, and the new baby. Here she is,’ he said, handing her over to his boss, where the cat immediately climbed on to his shoulder and purred loudly in his ear, a strange double purr that he’d never heard before from his other cats, of which he had already accumulated three to add to his original one.

Falconer’s current register of feline house-mates was: Mycroft, who had been an only cat for a long time, and was a seal-point Siamese; Tar Baby, who was a huge black ball of fluff; Ruby, a red-point Siamese, the latter both inherited from an escaped murderer on whom Falconer had developed a tremendous crush, and Meep (pedigree name ‘Perfect Cadence’), a silver-spot Bengal he was caring for while its owner, another murderer, was in prison.

‘Well, you’ve got five dogs, two stepsons, although they’re adopted now, aren’t they, and a new baby to care for. This will leave me with only five cats, so it’s got to be easier for me to give her a trial than for you to send her away and never know how she’s getting on. Come on, you little tinker, and we’ll see what the rest of the gang think of you.’

‘Thank you again, sir. I’ll be getting back, and tell Kerry and the boys that everything’s all right, now that she’s living here with Uncle Harry.’

Falconer winced at this mode of address with which the boys had tagged him, ‘I did say it was only temporary, Carmichael; remember that.’

‘Oh, I know you, sir. You’re so soft-hearted, you’d never give her up, once you get used to her winning little ways.’

‘You mean like herding other animals, and stealing food?’

‘Things aren’t the same in your house, sir. In ours, they’re much more chaotic. I know you’ll manage beautifully and, before you know it, she’ll just be part of the family.’

As Falconer turned to close the door, very aware of the furry little bundle now nestling on his shoulder, he left Carmichael tripping down the path, mission accomplished, and whistling for sheer joy at this unexpected success.

Entering his living room, one shoulder, of necessity, lower than the other, four furry lumps roused themselves from sleep, their nostrils informing them that there was an interloper in their midst, and they immediately informed their keeper that there was dissent in the ranks.

‘Meep, meep-meep-meep!’ piped Perfect Cadence.

‘Meow-eow!’ mewed Tar Baby, in protest.

Both Ruby and Mycroft joined their Siamese voices in their particular and unmistakeable call of, ‘Neow-ow-ow! In reply, Monkey gave a little chirrup, and dropped gracefully to the ground, immediately identifying Mycroft as their leader.

She approached him, her belly slung low – what there was of it, for she was a very sleek brown brindled animal. She stopped a little distance from him and chirruped again, then lifted her head and gave a delicate sniff. The other three sat like statues, awaiting developments, Meep making a low growling noise in her throat.

Mycroft sniffed back and tossed his head as he smelt the superficial and unmistakeable fragrance of d-o-g-s, in the plural, then took one long, deep sniff, to investigate further. Then he sat for a moment, as if lost in considering thought, and gave a small yip of acknowledgement, that encouraged the new resident to approach.

Falconer sighed with relief. This was the moment he had been dreading. What if it had turned into a huge cat rumble, with them skidding and thundering all around the house in disapproval at the proposed change in the status quo?

But they hadn’t, and if Mycroft gave the paws up to this little feline scrap, then the others would bow to his judgement as head cat.

In Fallow Fold, it being the time of year for planning the activities for the new season, timed to coincide with the academic year, the nominal heads of all the activity circles had their heads bent over calendars, and referred to letters containing dates that certain members couldn’t attend. They also had replies to letters requesting that various local or nationally-acknowledged experts in their chosen field come to speak at one of their forthcoming meetings, and all these had to be co-ordinated to produce the schedule for the coming season.

There was, of course, much swearing and cursing, as all the information was collated, and certain unpleasant circumstances raised their ugly heads.

Mabel Wickers of Sideways in Ploughman’s Lays sighed theatrically in disgust. She could cope with letters of intention to miss certain meetings; what she was finding most frustrating was the in-fighting amongst the readers of the Book Circle about what books should be chosen to read over the next few months.

And, for that matter, who would do readings for those they had already read together, for their day to shine in the village hall, when it was taken over for the best part of two weeks for each circle to publicly demonstrate what they had achieved during the past twelve months. That was a good way ahead, though, and does not come into this story.

Mabel was a short and portly elderly woman with a wicked, dry sense of humour, but this particular problem was an area from which she could derive no fun at all, nor see any bright side. On one side she had a group of readers who insisted that they should all read prize-winning novels, as they obviously had more merit than anything else.

From the complete other end of the spectrum, she had a few members who were vociferous about the sheer joy of ‘Aga sagas’, and pushed their case in a most unpleasantly pushy manner. Sometimes she felt like giving the whole thing up and just reading what she wanted to, with no interference in her choice, or opinions, of what she had read, from a crowd of silly women who were just squabbling to see who could get the upper hand.

In the end, she simply scribbled down on a piece of paper, 1066 and All That, Five Run Away Together, and Babar the Elephant. Let them see how they like them potatoes! She’d had enough for one day. She could send along the dates of meetings to their collator, Melvyn Maitland, who lived just down the road in a house called Black Beams, and let him do the final timetable.

In fact, she decided to walk down there. At least they offered a good-quality cup of tea in that establishment, which was more than could be said for some other houses she visited on a regular basis, and if there were a biscuit or a slice of cake offered, she could always justify its consumption later by having decided to walk there and back.

At Black Beams, both Melvyn and Marilyn Maitland were at home, and it was Marilyn who opened the door to her, invited her inside and offered coffee and biscuits. Coffee? It wasn’t quite what Mabel had expected but, no doubt, the coffee here was as good as the tea, and she accepted gratefully.

‘Melvyn’s in the study’ Marilyn informed her guest.

‘He’s got a lot of the stuff through for what we call “optional term four”. That runs over the summer and is usually badly attended, but it doesn’t mean he can skimp on it. So many people want to change times, days, and venues that I reckon he’ll end up not only pulling out his hair but chewing off his own beard as well; positively using it like an oral set of worry beads. I’m sure, now that you’ve arrived, he’ll be relieved to take a break and forget all about the whole beastly muddle for half an hour.’

When called for his coffee break, Melvyn appeared out of his study door cursing and swearing in a most venomous way. ‘Those bloody Americans!’ he yelled, not bothering to moderate his volume because they had a guest: it was only Mabel.

‘What about them?’ Mabel asked, intrigued to know what they had done to infuriate him so.

‘They just don’t honour their responsibilities in this village. I mean, Madison runs the Knitting and Needlecraft Circle, and a very good job she usually makes of it, even if her only interest in that whole craft area is quilting. We all know we have a lot of decisions to be made about exhibiting, and the dates for the optional summer term are always difficult, but she’s jus. . .