Death of an Old Git (The Falconer Files - File 1) by Andrea Frazer Page B
Authors: Andrea Frazer
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walked that dog of his in the woods? Young courting couples, of course! Dirty old man! Better than the telly, he thought, if he could have a good peek at young folks’ goings-on.’ The shopkeeper finished with a snort of disgust and a moue of distaste.
‘What about relations with his other neighbours?’
This seemingly innocent question must have touched a nerve, for she coloured momentarily and said, ‘If you really want to know about him why don’t you speak to his nephew – or rather, great-nephew, I should say. He’ll give you chapter and verse, I don’t doubt. His name’s Mike Lowry and he runs the garage – out of the shop and it’s opposite on your right.’ And more than this she refused to say.
As they exited, Carmichael summed up his impressions of the shop. ‘Funny smell in there, and it seemed so old-fashioned, it ought to have been in black and white.’
Unlike you, my lad. Unlike you! Falconer could not suppress the thought.
IV
Castle Farthing Garage was just in Drovers Lane, which ran west from the village green. It had a small forecourt with three petrol pumps, a small pre-fabricated shop that sold only car-related products, and a workshop at the rear where repairs and MOTs were carried out. The pumps were not self-service, and an oil-smeared notice on the shop door directed any callers to the workshop.
It was here that Falconer and Carmichael found the proprietor, his oil-stained overall legs protruding from under an elderly Mini. By the side of the car a transistor radio blared, and it was only by directing Carmichael to switch this off (Falconer did not want to get oil on his hands) that the inspector gained the mechanic’s attention.
As he rose from his prone position, the begrimed young man caught sight of Carmichael and let out a hoot of amusement. ‘I hope you won first prize.’ He grinned. ‘You certainly worked hard on your costume.’ This comment drew a blush from the young policeman and a frown of disapproval in his direction from his superior. He really would have to speak to Carmichael about his plain clothes being a little more, well, plain , in the future.
Lowry did not deny his blood-tie with the old man, but said there had been a family rift, years before he was born, between his great-uncle Reg and the rest of the family, and he had hardly ever spoken to the old man, as he did not seem of a mind to let bygones be bygones. ‘I never did have any idea what the original tiff was about – blew up over something and nothing, I seem to recollect, the way a lot of these things do. He were a right hard old sinner, though, and visited his contempt down the generations,’ he explained, wiping his hands on a rag so oily it was probably achieving the opposite of his intentions.
‘So you had little to do with him?’
‘Best part of nothing. He wouldn’t acknowledge my existence: I didn’t want to know him.’
‘Were you working here yesterday evening, Mr Lowry? Did you happen to notice anyone cross that way towards Mr Morley’s cottage?’
Lowry shook his head. ‘I was closed up out front and working out here under this little wreck. Not sure what time I finished. I was that beat, I washed up and went straight to bed.’
‘And you live where?’
‘Here. Back of the shop. Sort of bed-sit, but it does me.’
Mike Lowry was a slimly built man, tall and rangy, with fair hair and grey eyes that never wavered from the face of the person to whom he was speaking. He had a certain charisma that even Falconer, as a male, could recognise (and resent), and he put the question that this, together with the last bit of information, left uppermost in his mind. ‘Not married then, Mr Lowry?’
‘Was.’ The muscles in Lowry’s face tautened, and Falconer found himself probing deeper – but, hell, he wasn’t being nosy, it was his job to ask questions.
‘Anyone local?’
‘Yes.’
‘Name?’
‘Any of your business?’
‘Might be. Now, what’s the
‘What about relations with his other neighbours?’
This seemingly innocent question must have touched a nerve, for she coloured momentarily and said, ‘If you really want to know about him why don’t you speak to his nephew – or rather, great-nephew, I should say. He’ll give you chapter and verse, I don’t doubt. His name’s Mike Lowry and he runs the garage – out of the shop and it’s opposite on your right.’ And more than this she refused to say.
As they exited, Carmichael summed up his impressions of the shop. ‘Funny smell in there, and it seemed so old-fashioned, it ought to have been in black and white.’
Unlike you, my lad. Unlike you! Falconer could not suppress the thought.
IV
Castle Farthing Garage was just in Drovers Lane, which ran west from the village green. It had a small forecourt with three petrol pumps, a small pre-fabricated shop that sold only car-related products, and a workshop at the rear where repairs and MOTs were carried out. The pumps were not self-service, and an oil-smeared notice on the shop door directed any callers to the workshop.
It was here that Falconer and Carmichael found the proprietor, his oil-stained overall legs protruding from under an elderly Mini. By the side of the car a transistor radio blared, and it was only by directing Carmichael to switch this off (Falconer did not want to get oil on his hands) that the inspector gained the mechanic’s attention.
As he rose from his prone position, the begrimed young man caught sight of Carmichael and let out a hoot of amusement. ‘I hope you won first prize.’ He grinned. ‘You certainly worked hard on your costume.’ This comment drew a blush from the young policeman and a frown of disapproval in his direction from his superior. He really would have to speak to Carmichael about his plain clothes being a little more, well, plain , in the future.
Lowry did not deny his blood-tie with the old man, but said there had been a family rift, years before he was born, between his great-uncle Reg and the rest of the family, and he had hardly ever spoken to the old man, as he did not seem of a mind to let bygones be bygones. ‘I never did have any idea what the original tiff was about – blew up over something and nothing, I seem to recollect, the way a lot of these things do. He were a right hard old sinner, though, and visited his contempt down the generations,’ he explained, wiping his hands on a rag so oily it was probably achieving the opposite of his intentions.
‘So you had little to do with him?’
‘Best part of nothing. He wouldn’t acknowledge my existence: I didn’t want to know him.’
‘Were you working here yesterday evening, Mr Lowry? Did you happen to notice anyone cross that way towards Mr Morley’s cottage?’
Lowry shook his head. ‘I was closed up out front and working out here under this little wreck. Not sure what time I finished. I was that beat, I washed up and went straight to bed.’
‘And you live where?’
‘Here. Back of the shop. Sort of bed-sit, but it does me.’
Mike Lowry was a slimly built man, tall and rangy, with fair hair and grey eyes that never wavered from the face of the person to whom he was speaking. He had a certain charisma that even Falconer, as a male, could recognise (and resent), and he put the question that this, together with the last bit of information, left uppermost in his mind. ‘Not married then, Mr Lowry?’
‘Was.’ The muscles in Lowry’s face tautened, and Falconer found himself probing deeper – but, hell, he wasn’t being nosy, it was his job to ask questions.
‘Anyone local?’
‘Yes.’
‘Name?’
‘Any of your business?’
‘Might be. Now, what’s the
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