Death of an Old Git (The Falconer Files - File 1) by Andrea Frazer Page A

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.’
    ‘Anything at all would be helpful, Mrs Wilson.’ Really, thought Falconer, this was not at all how he had envisaged this conversation. He should now be overwhelmed with a torrent of local rumour, malice and spite. This was more like pulling teeth.
    ‘Well,’ she capitulated slightly, ‘he didn’t like the Warren-Brownes at the post office. He had them down as stuck-up because of their double-barrelled name, and them liking to keep themselves to themselves. He had it in for them.’
    ‘In what way did he have it in for them? Can you be a bit more specific?’ Falconer knew he was covering old ground here, but encouraged the woman, to check the accuracy of what he had already been told. If her account tallied with the one the Warren-Brownes had offered, it meant that any further information from this source could probably be relied upon.
    ‘Well, Mrs Warren-Browne – Marian – is an absolute martyr to them migraine headaches – these painkillers here,’ she pointed to her right on the display behind her, ‘I started stocking just for her. Now, not even they are strong enough, and the doctor’s trying to find something as’ll work for her. And Mr Warren-Browne – Alan – he’s that protective of her, her being so frail.’
    ‘And Mr Morley?’ prompted the inspector, aware of time passing. Carmichael, sensing repetition, had lost all interest in the proceedings and was gawping round the wares displayed with keen interest.
    ‘He goaded that dog of his,’ she continued. ‘Goaded it, every opportunity he got, to make it bark. Knew it would set her off with one of her heads.’ Once more Falconer could not afford the luxury of time to enjoy this vision. He would have to save that for later. ‘And the old man seemed to time his dog’s walks so that it would quite often do its business outside the post office. Can’t blame the animal, of course, and Reg Morley wouldn’t know a poop scoop if one hit him in the eye.’ (Another surreal vision for later.) Mrs Wilson’s questing finger to the wall on her left, indicated a multi-coloured array of what were described on the backing cardboard as ‘Doggy-Do-Aways’.
    ‘Anything else you feel able to help us with?’ the inspector interjected at this natural break.
    ‘Bit of a dirty old man, as well,’ she offered.
    ‘How did that manifest itself?’ he prompted her, elbowing Carmichael in the ribs, to rouse him to take note of this new information.
    ‘Why do you think he