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
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
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