Blood on the Bones (22 page)

Before the nun could respond, Mother Catherine broke in. ‘I'm sure Sister Rita didn't intend to mislead you, inspector, any more than did Father Kelly. It is some time ago, as Father Kelly said. Such a small matter could become confused in anyone's mind.’

Never mind those of an aging nun and an even more aging toper? He wasn't sure whether it had been Mother Catherine's intention to plant such an inference in his mind. But whether intentionally or no, she had succeeded and Rafferty inclined his head in acknowledgement.

Still, he reflected, as he and Llewellyn bid them all good day, it was curious that both the holy Father and the holy sister had had the same memory failure.

In spite of the contradictory information he had received from the nuns and Father Kelly whose acquaintance with the August visitor was now revealed to have been even briefer than he had been led to believe, Rafferty was hopeful that someone who knew the dead man rather better than any of the religious parties concerned would see the reconstruction, recognise the dead man's face and his watch, and come forward.

In this he wasn't disappointed. In fact, when it came to responses, he soon had an embarrassment of riches. Because after the pictures of the facial reconstruction had been issued to the media, many members of the public rung in to say they recognised the dead man.

Each of these claims had to be checked. That would take a few days. In the meantime, Rafferty decided he would direct a little more effort into finding Ray Payne, Sister Teresa's drug-dealing ex-boyfriend who had got her hooked so he could pimp her body. So far, they had had no luck in finding him. In fact, information from assorted snouts soon made it clear that he hadn't been seen for some weeks.

After a long discussion amongst the team in the Incident Room, it was concluded that he had last been seen within the time frame that their cadaver had been killed.

Rafferty thought for a few moments, then he said, ‘OK, We'd better try a bit harder to see if we can find out what's happened to him. It could be he's decided to keep a low profile for a while. Maybe a more subtle approach will wrinkle him out.’

To this end, Rafferty asked for the temporary secondment to CID of PC Allen. He set her the task of finding Sister Teresa's drug-dealing ex-boyfriend. He had chosen her for the job because she was young and hadn't been on the strength for long, so there was less chance that any of Ray Payne's law-breaking druggie friends would be familiar with her face – a possibility made even less likely when several hours later, after she had been sent home to change her clothes, Rafferty saw the transformation to PC Allen's appearance made by her thigh-high jean skirt, the long and flowing natural blonde hair freed from its top-knot and an application of cosmetics that was so subtle it made her look about sixteen. An innocent sixteen with a hint of promise. Just the sort of fodder that any self-respecting drug dealer and pimp would be glad to hook into for future earnings.

Predictably, Llewellyn had protested about his plans.

‘You can't send this young woman out to lure a violent drug dealer from his lair. She's too naïve, too inexperienced.’

‘That's the whole point, Dafyd,’ Rafferty told him, unsurprised at the discovery that the shy with women Llewellyn should have hidden depths of gallantry.

‘You should at least arrange some back up.’

Rafferty took the wind out of the Welshman's sails. ‘I have,’ he told him.

Llewellyn's dark eyes regarded him suspiciously. ‘Who?’

‘Timothy Smales.’

‘Smales?’

Rafferty nodded. ‘He's not as dozy as he looks. Trust me.’

‘You realise you're sending out two innocents?’

Rafferty nodded. ‘That's what will keep them safe.’ One of the things, anyway. But as one of the other safeguards was unofficial, Rafferty thought it best to keep this information to himself.

Llewellyn didn't look convinced, but given Superintendent Bradley's complaint that he'd already gone over his overtime budget for the month, Rafferty didn't relish giving the Super yet another reason to carp. Which was why he had taken the option of co-opting one of his cousins, just in case.

And this cousin was a rough and ready builder who wouldn't look out of place in the scruffy pub which was Ray Payne's usual hangout. His cousin had a mobile. All he would have to do was ring them if things looked like turning ugly. He and Llewellyn could be there in a jiffy. Not that he thought they'd be needed.

Rafferty's cousin was a big bloke, six foot six. And he loathed drugs. And dealers. No harm would come to the two innocents.

Rafferty turned away from Llewellyn to give some final instructions to Claire Allen.

‘Be casual. Just ask if chummy's around and hint you're looking to score. Act as if you know him and are a regular customer.’ Rafferty paused and looked at the bright-eyed, healthily glowing young woman standing eagerly in front of him and frowned.

‘Can you fake some pallor? And make your eyes a bit less bright and shiny. You're meant to be a druggie. No one will believe that if you look like a Pollyanna.’

The young PC Allen looked puzzled at the reference, but she was quick to reassure. ‘Don't worry, sir,’ she told him. ‘I've got some pale foundation at home. I used to wear it when I was younger and wanted to make my mum think I was too sick to go to school.’

‘Did it work?’

She grinned. ‘Every time.’

‘Yes, well. Just remember these boys aren't likely to be as gullible as your mum. All I want is for you to find out where this Ray Payne is to be found. Stay away from dark alleys and crack dens, OK?’

As
it turned out, neither Rafferty nor Llewellyn had any cause for concern. PC Claire Allen sailed back into the station two hours later looking like death warmed up and as desperate a druggie as any Colombian drug baron with future profits to think of could wish for. To no avail, unfortunately.

‘The rumours are right,’ PC Allen reported as she stood in Rafferty's office. ‘Ray Payne's gone to ground. The word is he's been treading on some heavy rival's toes, not to mention his patch and the rival put the word out that he's dead meat.’

‘Dead Meat.’ 'Gone to ground.’ In the circumstances, the phrases were unfortunate. And after he had dismissed Claire Allen, Rafferty couldn't help but wonder if the heavy rival to Teresa Tattersall's ex had succeeded in his threat and had thought it amusing to plant the dead meat of the unwanted competition in the grounds of the convent of his one-time girlfriend.

And although it seemed probable that Cecile's ex at least, was now out of the running as their victim, it was unfortunate that the ex-boyfriends of both Cecile and Teresa lived such unsettled and unpredictable lives Checking them out had taken much valuable time.

You'd think you could rely on would-be nuns to have dated nice, settled, mummy's boys, Rafferty thought crossly. What was the world coming to?

Hearing the returned Smales' youthful footsteps passing outside his office, Rafferty shouted his name and when the young PC stuck his head round the door, ordered him to the canteen for tea, hot, strong, and, for him at least, well-sugared.

Once the tea was delivered, Rafferty sat back and gazed at Llewellyn. ‘OK,’ he said. 'Let do a bit of wheat and chaff sorting. So far, apart from old Sister Ursula and the baby she bore courtesy of her American GI during the war, the only detrimental discoveries we've made concern the two young ones, Cecile and Teresa, with the former, at least, apparently now out of the running.

‘And as far as the two male suspects in the case are concerned, all we have that is recent is the fact that they both had the opportunity to help themselves to the convent's spare key.’

‘Don't forget that Dr Peterson has shown himself not only capable of lying, but also of taking the law into his own hands if he felt it warranted.’

‘Mm.’ Father Kelly, too, wasn't above breaking a few laws, though in his case they were the laws of God rather than man. This was information that so far Rafferty had managed to keep close to his chest. He had allocated no one but himself to checking the priest out, thinking it likely that if Father Kelly suspected his doings were about to become common gossip around the station, he might just return the favour and encourage the gossip to switch to Rafferty's recent doings. Though if the priest was prepared to break what he surely considered higher laws, breaking those of man would presumably be unlikely to trouble the priest over much.

‘Anyway, lies or not. Dr Peterson seems to be out of it. Unless he made a habit of attracting threatening men in their middle years to his door.’

Half an hour later, their wheat and chaff sorting hadn't noticeably advanced the investigation and Rafferty brought the discussion to a close.

‘Looks like we'll have to wait for the prof's recon to bear some riper fruit than it's so far managed,’ Rafferty commented after he had drained the cold dregs of his tea. ‘Pray that it does. Because if not, I don't know where else we can turn to get a lead on this case.’

The
team allocated to checking the responses to the calls that had come in from the public after the release of Professor Amos's facial reconstruction finally got round to a Mr Mike Mitchelson. Mr Mitchelson had been insistent that the body in question was that of one of his tenants, a Mr Peter Bodham. He even claimed to recognise the dead man's watch.

Initial questioning of Mitchelson, revealed that Peter Bodham was, if nothing else, certainly the right age and height to be their cadaver.

But it was only after Mr Mitchelson had used his key to let the officers doing the initial checking into his tenant's flat and they had taken surface fingerprints and hair from the brush in the bathroom for DNA checks and the fingerprint results had come back positive, that Rafferty knew he was finally moving forward.

They at last had a confirmed identity for their cadaver.

Rafferty and Llewellyn
drove to London to speak to Mr Mitchelson, the dead man's landlord. He lived in the same small, private block of flats as his tenant, Peter Bodham, south of the river at Wandsworth.

Now they had a confirmed identity for the dead man, Rafferty was anxious to search Bodham's flat. He was hopeful they might turn up some clues as to what had been going on in his life that might have caused him to wind up dead and buried in Elmhurst's RC convent.

After first paying a courtesy call to the local police station, they drove to the flats and found a visibly upset Mr Mitchelson waiting on his late tenant's doorstep. The landlord, tall, wiry and inclined to pugnacity, launched into a verbal attack the moment he saw them.

‘Maybe if you people had listened to me and done something when I reported Peter missing, he might still be alive.’

Rafferty, although he thought it unusual that the dead man's landlord, of all people, should become so upset at the violent death of a tenant, did his best to calm the man.

‘I'm sorry, sir. But adults go missing all the time. And if there are no grounds to suspect foul play, there's unlikely to be an investigation. There's no law to prevent a grown man or woman going walkabout if they choose.’

Privately, Rafferty admitted it had been carelessness that had allowed Peter Bodham to be missed on their trawl of missing persons. Particularly as, physically, he was a match for the dead man. The latter was unsurprising. Because the checks on his fingerprints and DNA proved conclusively that Bodham was their previously unidentified cadaver.

Fortunately, Mr Mitchelson seemed unaware that nowadays missing persons was computerised, so supposedly easily matched to bodies. At any rate, to Rafferty's relief, he did no more than mutter fretfully: ‘Yes, well. Maybe there ought to be such a law.’

Although Mr Mitchelson's belligerence appeared to fade, a raw anger could still be detected just below the surface. Rafferty could feel it in the tension emanating from the man, he could see it in the thinning of the lips as they struggled to keep back any further outbursts. Again he wondered why the landlord should be so upset about the death of Peter Bodham. He asked if Bodham had been a relative. And when Mr Mitchelson shook his head, Rafferty wondered whether the landlord's emotional outburst was derived less from personal grief and more from mercenary concerns. Maybe his late tenant owed him rent?

Rafferty, concerned to ward off anther outburst, concentrated some more on calming Mitchelson. 'You told my colleagues who contacted you after your response to our call for information that your tenant had said he might be going away,' he reminded the man.' He paused, then, in the hope that any further information Mr Mitchelson was able to tell them would help in their understanding, he asked: ‘You said that you last saw Peter Bodham at the beginning of September.’

At least Mr Mitchelson's nod of agreement to this confirmed that Bodham had left the convent after his August visit. And given that his visit had provided closure on the fact of Sister Clare's thirty-year- old death, it seemed unlikely that Peter Bodham would feel a follow-up visit necessary. Though, of course, that conclusion didn't explain how he'd wound up buried in the convent's grounds, a burial that made clear there had been a second visit to the convent. The question was whether that visit had been voluntary or involuntary…

‘Did Mr Bodham mention where he might have been planning to go on his travels?’

Mike Mitchelson nodded. ‘He seemed upset. Peter wasn't the hysterical sort, but he'd seemed depressed for several days, and though he refused to tell me why, he did talk about going abroad. He seemed set on going to Africa, of all places.’

‘What part of Africa?’ Rafferty asked. ‘Did he say?’

‘Well, yes he did. It was one of those places that's changed its name. Someplace that now begins with a ‘Z'. I don't rightly remember. It might have been Zaire. Or maybe Zimbabwe. Unless there's another country on the continent beginning with a Z.’

Rafferty glanced at Llewellyn. Father Kelly had mentioned that it had been Zaire where Sister Clare had been murdered all those years ago. He could only suppose that Peter Bodham had wanted to travel there to learn the facts at first hand from some villager of the time. If that was still possible given the lapse of years and the usual African death rate.