Death of an Old Git (The Falconer Files - File 1) Read Free Page B

into prominence to gild the rooftops of this typical, peaceful English village.

Chapter Two
    Monday 13th July – morning
    I
    The mist heralding a fine Monday had already dispersed in wraiths and ribbons, and the sun sparked diamond fire from pond and stream. Even at this early hour, when Castle Farthing was just beginning to stir and shrug off the sluggishness of sleep, a haze shimmered from the roads, and the village cats, ever vigilant in the pursuit of their own comfort, sought shade where they could.
    Commuters and agricultural workers had long left for their labours as the local children congregated at the war memorial to await the arrival of the school bus, and the commercial section of the High Street drew its bolts and opened its doors for another day’s trade. No chimney smoked to cloy the sweet summer air, most houses had their windows flung wide, and doors were propped wide open with an ingenious range of improvised doorstops: here a hefty flint, there an inverted floor mop.
    In the small sorting office at the rear of the post office, Alan and Marian Warren-Browne were putting in order the letters and packets for the first delivery of the day. Alan’s short frame was hunched over the table, his small hands furiously rifling through and extracting those items for outlying properties that would need delivery by van. His lips moved in a silent litany of addresses and, occasionally, he winced and rubbed at his back when he had bent uncomfortably far to reach an envelope.
    Opposite him, his wife’s waif-like figure worked more slowly, almost ponderously, as she assembled the on-foot deliveries for the main village. Every couple of minutes she would slow to a halt, raise a birdlike hand to brush her mousy fringe from her eyes, and wipe away the thin film of perspiration that had formed on her forehead.
    In the background, constantly, came the yapping that could only be Buster. On and on it went, although slightly muffled, which must mean that Reg could not be bothered to let him out into the garden to be about his morning ‘business’. That was a mixed blessing, for the barrier of the back door muted the sound a little and, if let out, the volume of the staccato yelps would increase. Then again, they might just stop completely given the little dog’s joy at being abroad in the fresh air.
    With a quick glance at the wall clock, Alan snapped an elastic band round the last of his letters, and rose to open the front door to any early customers. As he ducked through the low doorway, Marian ceased her sorting altogether and raised both hands to cradle her head. The dog’s frantic entreaties bit into her brain like needles: she could feel the fire in her head about to ignite. A silent tear rolled down her cheek, and she was too sunk in her own misery to hear her husband’s sharp cry of disgust and his bustling return, his right shoe in his hand, held at arm’s length.
    ‘Just one step outside,’ he explained, heading for the minute kitchen area where they made their tea and coffee when on duty. ‘Just one step and I was in it. He takes that damned dog through the woods every day and he’s got a perfectly good garden of his own, so why does that yappy little tripe-hound of his always do its business by our front door? One of those two is evil, and I doubt it’s the dog,’ he continued, mopping with kitchen roll and sprinkling disinfectant. ‘I wouldn’t put it past that old codger to have trained the dog somehow, got it to poo to order, just where he wants it to. He’s upset just about everyone in this village and I, for one, have …’
    He trailed to a halt as he returned to the sorting area and saw his wife’s waxen face beaded with sweat and streaked with tears. ‘Have you got another migraine?’ Marian nodded carefully and winced. ‘Is it that damned dog again?’ (Another careful nod.) ‘Well, that’s the last straw. I’m going round now to give him a piece of my mind, and if he doesn’t do