Bad Blood (6 page)

Rafferty struggled out of the grip of the sofa, curious to see how Miss Frobisher handled the humiliating revelation of her rebuff at Clara Mortimer's hands.

Amelia Frobisher, given Rita Atkins's previous failures at discretion and 'family' solidarity in the face of hostile, questioning outsiders, had apparently decided she had no choice but to admit that she had been rebuffed. But it was clear from the strained laugh and narrowed, unforgiving gaze, that Rita's little rebellion that necessitated such an admission, would not be lightly forgotten.

‘No. Regretfully, Clara was inclined to be a little anti-social. It was such a shame, I thought, that she seemed to want to hide herself away in her apartment rather than make friends with her fellow residents, that I – perhaps foolishly in hindsight - persisted with my invitations. I don't like to speak ill of the dead, but really, her manner was quite ungracious. Not the way I was taught was the polite way to turn down invitations.'

With her faintly regretful air, Amelia Frobisher seemed to be trying to make light of the matter. But Rafferty had no difficulty catching the underlying implication that Clara Mortimer, with her ungracious manners, her slovenly daughter and the daughter's strutting toy boy wasn't quite the lady she had put herself forward as being.

Rafferty preferred to give the late Mrs Mortimer the benefit of any lingering doubt. He could believe that politeness would prove but a frail defence against the assault of an Amelia Frobisher determined to fill the seats of the hired charabanc to capacity.

'As the resident with the longest tenure, I feel it's my duty to welcome newcomers, especially those, like Clara Mortimer, who lived alone, even when, like Clara Mortimer, they rebuffed my overtures.'

Obviously keen that they should share her mystified dismay at Clara Mortimer's discourteous rebuff to her friendly overtures, she proceeded to give the other, apparently more biddable residents, a metaphorical pat on the head as though to display how very unreasonable the late Mrs Mortimer had been.

'All of the other residents appreciate and value my friendship and that I spend my limited free time in arranging theatre trips and so on for them. They're grateful to have a willing listening ear when they want to talk about their children and grandchildren. Really, I think that without my adoption of them, most would be as isolated and alone as Clara Mortimer. Although I share Clara's more cultured tastes for the opera and the ballet, I defer to the majority preference, so we mostly go to popular shows and musicals. I suppose, like myself, Clara developed a taste for high art in her youth. I understand hers was quite a privileged one.’

Another reason for Amelia Frobisher to resent her, Rafferty guessed. It was clear that Amelia considered herself the ‘Queen Bee’ of Parkview Apartments. She wouldn't have relished the rebuff from a woman of equal or maybe even higher social and family status.

Perhaps the galling pity bestowed on her by her fellow residents was another reason for Clara Mortimer's reserve, Rafferty reasoned, before Amelia Frobisher spoke again.

With an air of reluctance, she told them, ‘Though, having said that we all look out for one another, I have to add that, as warden, Mrs Atkins isn't always as careful as she might be.’

Here we go again, Rafferty thought as he waited to learn what other piece of ‘family’ tittle-tattle he was about to hear, though in a murder inquiry, he was more than happy to listen as the combatants poured out their grievances. In spite of the grievances, he thought it likely they did look out for one another as she claimed. Though if the ‘Mat Wars’ and the ‘Freddy Talbot Spat' were indicative, they also appeared to share a real family's inclinations towards bickering, spite and grudge holding.

He guessed from her expression, that Amelia Frobisher was about to indulge in the second of these woeful family tendencies and claim payback – from Rita Atkins at least.

‘Of course, you know, Inspector, poor Mrs Atkins has a little problem.' As though she suspected eavesdroppers concealed behind her flounced arras, Miss Frobisher confided in a conspiratorial stage whisper, 'She drinks. It's what makes her turn from quiet and meek into loud and vulgar. I understand she feels offended that I have never included her in our little theatrical soirées with the rest of the residents of the block. But I mean – how could one? Since you chose to speak to her first, before coming to see me’ – another grievance? Rafferty wondered – ‘you must have noticed the smell of whisky on her breath, even this early in the day. Who is to know what kind of an exhibition she would make of herself – and us – if she decided to make free of the bar during one of our theatre trips?’

Amelia Frobisher shook her head as though to indicate she spoke more in sorrow than condemnation, though whether this was a true reflection of her feelings Rafferty was inclined to doubt. Like Rita Atkins, Miss Frobisher was another who chose indiscretion.

A degree of sensitivity might have reflected better on both of them, Rafferty thought. Though as a policeman with a murder to solve, he was just grateful that, thus far, the residents he had interviewed had seemed to feel his ears suitable receptacles for their outpourings.

And this latest outpouring provided one possible solution as to how the intruder had gained admission. If Rita Atkins was as careless as Miss Frobisher had implied, she might have left the front door unsecured. Though that still didn't explain how the murderer had gained access to Clara Mortimer‘s apartment.

Amelia Frobisher's next words went some way to explaining what might have happened.

‘Of course, as warden, Mrs Atkins keeps skeleton keys to each of the apartments as a security measure in case any resident living alone should press the panic button and she needed to let the emergency services in.’

Rita Atkins had not only failed to mention if any of the sets of skeleton keys had gone missing – she hadn't mentioned them at all.

At a nod from Rafferty, Llewellyn slipped from the room to obtain an answer to this question. He was back in less than five minutes. His shake of the head to Rafferty indicated all the skeleton keys were present and correct.

‘I presume the panic bell sounded in the warden's apartment?’ Rafferty now asked.

Miss Frobisher nodded. ‘I have to say, that in spite of the drinking, Mrs Atkins always answered the bell. I can't fault her on that.’

From the wistful note in her voice, Rafferty guessed she would have liked to. He wondered how the other residents felt about her 'adoption' of them. From what she had said about Clara Mortimer‘s refusal to join them on their excursions, it sounded as if Mrs Mortimer, at least, hadn't much relished being gathered to Amelia Frobisher‘s flat bosom.

‘I know Mrs Atkins claimed that Clara didn't press the panic button,’ Miss Frobisher mused aloud. ‘There are several in each room. You're always within a few paces of one or the other.’ She eyed them speculatively before she suggested, ‘But there's a first time for everything, and I did rather wonder, if on this occasion, and given our warden's unfortunate and increasing habit, whether she simply didn't hear the bell and slept through it…’

Amelia Frobisher didn't pursue the subject further. She had planted the seed. Now she could wait to let the idea take root that it was owing to Rita's drunken stupor that Clara Mortimer had died and died all alone.

In fact, Clara Mortimer's body had been right beside one of these panic buttons. Had she frozen in fright, as he had earlier thought likely? Or had her attacker knocked her unconscious before she had had time to react?

As they took their leave of Amelia Frobisher and returned to Clara Mortimer‘s apartment, he put the question to Llewellyn.

As usual, his sergeant had a logical explanation.

‘Perhaps Mrs Mortimer was unwilling to risk Rita Atkins being attacked when she came to check on her? Given her small stature, it's not as if Mrs Atkins would be much assistance against a determined assailant.’

‘Maybe so. But a stranger couldn't know for sure who would respond to the panic alarm,’ Rafferty pointed out. ’If she had pressed it, he would have been more likely to flee to stop himself being apprehended than to wait and see if a Mr Burly turned up. Nobody's suggested Clara Mortimer was stupid, so she must have realised that pressing the alarm was her best chance to save herself.’

Llewellyn shrugged and repeated Rafferty's earlier thought. ‘She probably just froze. People do.’

Rafferty said no more. But the picture of Clara Mortimer that was already building in his mind didn't suggest she had been the type of woman to freeze in fright. On the contrary, she hadn't been scared to tackle her daughter's boyfriend and accuse him of stealing from her or to tell the importunate Freddie Talbot to take a hike.

The determinedly solitary Clara Mortimer, with her estrangement from her real family and her rejection of the one that had attempted to adopt her, was beginning to intrigue him.

Rafferty set Llewellyn
the task of organising a house-to-house of the neighbouring streets as well as making a start on the preliminary interviews of the other residents. In the hope that at least one possible suspect would be eliminated early in the proceedings, he sent DC Hanks off to speak to Freddie Talbot and get his statement as to his whereabouts this morning

While Llewellyn got on with the routine tasks, Rafferty used his mobile to contact the station and arrange for DS Mary Carmody to meet him in Mercer's Lane to break the news of Clara Mortimer's murder to her daughter, Jane Ogilvie.

Mary Carmody, although only in her thirties, had a comforting, motherly air about her. She would, Rafferty knew, as he left the scene and turned right into the High Street to walk the two hundred yards to Mercer's Lane, be a staunch support in the hours that followed.

DS
Mary Carmody was waiting in her car a few houses up from No 12 when Rafferty arrived. Carmody got out of her car and approached him.

‘I checked the daughter's name and street number,’ she told him. ‘According to the neighbours, she's still calling herself Mrs Ogilvie. The current live-in boyfriend's called Darryl Jesmond. They're squatting at No 12, I gather.’ She nodded at a rusty blue Rover that was parked haphazardly about eighteen inches from the kerb. ‘The neighbour told me that vehicle belongs to Jane Ogilvie, so it's likely she's at home.’

Rafferty nodded. The careless parking in the narrow street of mean Victorian terraces added to the sum total he had gathered of Jane Ogilvie's character. So far all of it was negative. But as he wouldn't like his own character to be assassinated by the likes of Rita Atkins and Amelia Frobisher without benefit of self defence, he put aside their sweeping judgements and prepared to keep an open mind and listen to what Jane Ogilvie had to say.

Together he and Mary Carmody approached the house. Like Jane Ogilvie‘s car, the house had seen better days. No wonder she and her boyfriend had tried currying favour with Mrs Mortimer. Plumb in the middle of the terraced row, their squat looked originally to have been a family house, but the two floors had been broken up into flats. Although No 12A’s front door had received a recent coat of paint, that of No 12 looked as if, snakelike, it was in the process of shedding a skin, as, in parts, a thin coating of orange paint still adhered, whereas in others, the bare wood was clearly visible. Unlike its neighbour, the door had neither knocker nor letterbox, just a gaping hole where someone had roughly wrenched them off, splintering the wood in the process.

Rafferty was beginning to wonder if Jane Ogilvie had been an adopted daughter. It was possible. Certainly none of the late Clara Mortimer‘s fellow residents had been able to give them any more than the most cursory information about her; a fact that had clearly rankled with one or two of them.

He knocked on the door and waited, curious to see the elegant, late Clara Mortimer‘s slovenly daughter in the flesh.

But it seemed the scratching of that particular itch would have to wait because the door was opened by a youngish man whom Rafferty presumed must be the toy boy boyfriend, Darryl Jesmond.

Jesmond looked around twenty-eight. Unless Clara Mortimer had given birth to her daughter very late, Jesmond, as Rita Atkins and Amelia Frobisher had said, must surely be some years Jane Ogilvie's junior. A good-looking young man, who appeared aware of it, Jesmond carried himself with a cocky, challenging air, his arms carried flexed and away from his body.

Although the June day was chilly, Jesmond wore a white, sleeveless T-shirt with a pair of the tight blue jeans that had made Amelia Frobisher's eyes pop. The T-shirt showed off the muscular torso as no doubt was intended. And although the state of the outside of the flat indicated a paucity of ready cash, Jesmond's skin glowed from a recent bask under a southern sun - unless the tan came from a bottle? He certainly appeared vain enough to use fake tan.

Jesmnd looked Rafferty and Mary Carmody up and down. Then, having taken in the suits, he made a wrong assumption and immediately told them, ‘The instalment for the fine's in the post. I posted it myself, so if you– ‘

‘We're not here about a fine, Mr Jesmond,’ Rafferty told him. Intrigued, he made a mental note to check what the fine had been for.

Some play of shadow across Jesmond's features made Rafferty feel he was well aware of who they were. Perhaps he had good reason to recognise police officers when he saw them. Rafferty wondered if Jesmond had a criminal record of the more serious kind. It was something else to get checked out at the earliest opportunity.