Andrea Frazer - Nuptial Sacrifice

NUPTIAL SACRAFICE

ANDREA FRAZER

After many trials and tribulations, eternal bachelor Detective Inspector Harry Falconer has finally decided to get hitched. His bride - the delectable Dr Honey Dubois!

With his trusty sergeant Carmichael as best man, Falconer is in remarkably good spirits as the big day closes in. OK, so the normally lugubrious Carmichael is having trouble getting his words out, and theres the unenlightened Mrs Falconer senior to deal with. But surely nothing serious can go wrong?

With impeccable timing, it does - will bride and groom last long enough to cut the cake, or will it all be over before it even begins?

The final instalment in the much-loved Falconer Files series by acclaimed author Andrea Frazer.

He was standing in the church, aware of his best mans presence beside him. He stood silently, his eyes gazing unwaveringly forward towards the altar, slowly becoming conscious of the realisation that something was wrong; something didnt feel right.

In slow motion, he swivelled his head towards his best man, Carmichael, only to have his breath taken away on realising that the best man was in full clowns regalia: huge misshapen shoes, baggy striped costume, green curly wig, white make-up and a big round red nose.

The clown smiled, and the groom suddenly looked down at his own body to discover that, instead of being attired in full morning suit, he was stark naked. His hands immediately moved into position as substitute fig leaves as, instead of the wedding march being played by the church organ, a big band struck up with In the Mood.

Whipping his head round to see if he could catch a glimpse of Honey as he attempted to hide his embarrassment, he saw her in a Mardi Gras outfit, a very revealing melange of feathers and sequins, beginning to samba down the aisle towards him. His mouth opened to scream. This was not how it was supposed to be!

Detective Inspector Harry Falconer woke from his tormented sleep, the scream frozen in his throat, and allowed his eyes to roam round his bedroom - his own bedroom in his own house, exactly where he should be - and a smile spread across his face as consciousness returned, and he realised that it had only been a nightmare. Today was the day of his wedding rehearsal. He was finally marrying Dr Honey Dubois, she of the light brown skin, the braided hair, the long graceful neck, and the divine figure, rounded where it should be yet deliciously delicate. The ceremony was on Saturday.

OK, the rehearsal wasnt until five thirty, but this was his last day at work before the commencement of ceremonies and, by this evening, he would have become inextricably entwined with the process of becoming a married man, and excitement made his stomach churn and shortened his breath. He was going to marry Honey at last: not that it had been a long engagement and, he being a naturally shy man socially, it was really fortuitous that she had proposed to him. Left to his own devices, this would probably not even have been broached for the next year or two. How he did admire this forward woman and love her.

She had asked him to marry her one day in the police station car park, after one of his shifts, and they had sorted out a ring as soon as possible, his jaw dropping open at the price of such tiny trinkets. Theirs had been a slightly bumpy courtship, a bit on-and-off, with a few surprises along the way, but they had been engaged for three months now, a time deemed long enough by both of them to arrange and execute a wedding.

It was now June, and the day was approaching fast, with the weather glorious and his mood to match. He had never felt so sunny as he swanned into the CID office with a broad, beaming smile that took the other occupants quite by surprise. His usual expression was one of glowering intensity, and DS Carmichael was alarmed. DC Tomlinson was also taken off guard and squeaked out, Is there anything wrong, guv?

He wasnt surprised that his good mood had taken them by surprise. Hed even found himself singing in the car on the way in one of the tenor arias from Tosca of which he was very fond. And the car had changed too. Gone was the Boxster, replaced by a slightly older but beautiful TVR Tuscan. In its automotive way, it was as sleek and lovely as Honey, with its long lines, its delicate curves and its magical paintwork that changed colour as you walked round it. He was, indeed, a very happy man on this gorgeous morning.

Absolutely nothing wrong in the world, he replied to Tomlinsons rather nervous query. I hope you havent forgotten which day it is, Carmichael, he said, given that Carmichael was about to be his best man and was essential to tonights rehearsal.

Of course not, sir. Ive got this afternoon off for a medical check-up, but Ill be at the church on time, which immediately started him whistling the relevant song. Whistling was one of his more recent and very irritating habits.

Stop whistling, Carmichael. This was an order he had found it necessary to issue about twenty times a day recently. Nothing wrong, I hope, he ventured.

Just a routine health check, sir.

How are the twins?

Sleeping almost right through now, sir, every night.

And how is the lovely Imogen, Tomlinson?

This was a real surprise to Tomlinson. Never before had the boss asked about his fiance. Just as lovely as ever, sir, he replied somewhat hesitantly.

Good, good; now what have we got for today?

Carmichael left at lunchtime, assuring the inspector that he wouldnt be late for the rehearsal, and DI Falconer left at five oclock, to leave him enough time to get to St Judes on the other side of Market Darley and get parked before entering the church. It would probably take all of the available half an hour as it was rush hour, a fact he had not considered when theyd booked the slot.

The traffic was, indeed, heavy, and he arrived with only five minutes to spare, when he saw a ghastly apparition cycling towards him. This vision in unloveliness stopped suddenly just a few inches away from him, with a screech of front brakes and a sudden buck forward before settling back down on the saddle again.

It was a ladys bicycle, its rider dressed in lime-green and black Lycra, with fluorescent yellow trainers and a hot pink helmet. Falconer sighed deeply. Hello, Carmichael. And what are we dressed as today?

Carmichael ignored the question and informed his superior officer that the Tour de France was coming up, and that, in honour of that, hed agreed to go on a charity cycle ride for a charity that helped couples with premature twins. Some of them are born really early and weighing only about a pound each, and they have trouble with under-developed lungs and stuff. Yup! Definitely Carmichael below that horrendous outfit. No one else would have said that and stuff with such a dearth of knowledge and such a depth of feeling.

Whose bike is that, Carmichael? And why is it light purple? You surely havent stolen it?

Its Kerrys, but she hasnt used it since she got so big with the twins. Seemed a pity to let it go to waste as I havent got one.

Quite! And you think youre suitably dressed for a wedding rehearsal, do you?

Ive ridden all the way from Castle Farthing, sir.

And that makes it alright, does it?

It makes it necessary. Ive got to get used to the kit before the race day.

So, that was the reason for the medical checkup, was it?

Spot on, sir.

It made a Carmichael kind of sense, but Falconer was scandalised when he dismounted and the inspector saw his shorts in all their glory.

You look obscene, Carmichael.

What do you mean, sir?

What the hell is wrong with those shorts? Theres an absolutely unsightly bulge at the front of them, just where your legs fork.

Oh, thats padding, sir, to protect me crown jewels from chafing on the saddle.