Dying For You (19 page)

Rafferty headed for the stairs. He'd always understood that independent TV producers led a hand-to-mouth existence. Seemed Gifford was the exception. Still, Llewellyn's research had revealed that the TV Doctor programme which featured Gifford's friend Lance Bliss was very successful. According to the rather smug statement Gifford had made which confirmed Llewellyn's research, it had sold to a number of foreign countries, including the States.

Gifford's apartment was on the second floor, not penthouse-class, but as Gifford let them in and Rafferty glanced around, he concluded that it was still seriously pricey. Seriously stylish, too, in the minimalist way that Llewellyn admired, though to Rafferty, envious though he was about the large balcony, the enormous living room looked practically bare. A vast almost cinema-size screen filled most of one wall; beneath it were assorted DVDs and video recorders. A long, black leather sofa faced the screen and in front of it was a sleek metal and glass coffee table with an assortment of zappers. Apart from a dining table large enough to seat a dozen, a couple of enormous black armchairs and ceiling-high racks holding books and yet more videos and DVDs, that was it.

As they sat on the sofa, Lancelot Bliss appeared clutching a mug of coffee. He greeted them in his TV doctor voice as if they were nervous guests on his programme who had to be put at their ease.

‘Come in, come in,’ he said, as if he owned the place. ‘Make yourselves at home. I always do.’ He sat down in one of the easy chairs and sprawled back as if determined to show how much at ease he was even when, as now, he was a suspect in a murder enquiry.

Lancelot Bliss was undoubtedly an actor manqué. The female members of the dating agency, so Rafferty had learned after suggesting Llewellyn ask around, tended to like him and forgave him his vanity. The men, particularly the older ones, generally considered him something of a popinjay, though an amusing one. Perhaps surprisingly, he was considered a first rate doctor, though that might simply be the result of expensive PR.

Bliss again wore the exquisite fob watch that Rafferty had noticed at the first party. He guessed it was a favourite piece and showy enough to satisfy the doctor for he drew it out and consulted it at regular intervals, either to show it off or to make clear how valuable was his time.

Rory Gifford, in contrast to the peacock Bliss, had the slightly dishevelled air of having just climbed from his bed and flung on whatever was nearest to hand. But the careless bohemian look suited him. It went well with his gypsy-dark good looks and curly hair. It gave him a devil-may-care appearance that was surely as contrived as Bliss's. They both worked in TV where image was all. It seemed probable that both men had thought long and hard about which image would best suit their purposes: the well-groomed, but friendly and chatty doctor to whom one could tell anything and the rakish, but intense and driven producer whose generally tense posture was meant to be indicative of the creative forces within. Or so Rafferty supposed. Such deliberate image-manipulation always inclined him to wonder what might lie concealed beneath.

As instructed, Llewellyn opened the interviews. Nothing new was revealed till Llewellyn asked if they now recalled seeing Jenny leave the first party.

‘Surely, we don't have to go over all that again?’ Gifford complained. ‘You've already asked me this once and–’

Lancelot Bliss broke in. ‘You shouldn't complain about the police repeating questions, Rory. It makes you look as if you've got something to hide.’ This brought a scowl from Gifford. ‘Besides, I've been thinking and now I do remember. Strange I didn't recall before really, because we were talking about that estate agent fellow at the time – what was his name?’

‘Nigel,’ Rory Gifford supplied. So far, he had contributed little to the conversation. But he didn't get a chance to say anything further as Lancelot Bliss again broke in and took over.

‘Nigel. That's right. I remember now. Though a less likely Nigel I've never before met. And that accent.’ Lancelot sniggered.

Rafferty asked tersely, ‘What was wrong with his accent?’

‘Poor chap was trying to do posh,’ Lancelot told him. ‘Made a hopeless fist of it. I thought he'd choke himself trying to elevate his normal voice to something approaching the Queen's when she was a young woman. Remember how unnaturally high-pitched her voice was then?’

Tight-lipped, Rafferty nodded.

‘Way too ambitious of him, of course. Ironic really, because all the real movers and shakers do estuary-speak now in an attempt to mimic the common herd. If he'd stuck with his normal voice we might have believed he was one of us doing estuary-speak for all he was worth. As it was...’

Suddenly more talkative, Rory Gifford put in, ‘What can you expect? Chap's an estate agent. All sharp suit and sharp practice presumably. I'm surprised Caroline allowed him to sign up with the agency. I mean, I thought it was supposed to cater for the professional classes.’

Rafferty thought they were being a bit harsh on the accent. He felt he'd done pretty well considering how nervous he'd been. ‘Anyway, you were saying why you noticed when Jenny left the party,’ he prompted Bliss.

‘Sorry. Yes. I rather fancied poor Jenny, which is why I was put out when I saw this Nigel, all borrowed suit and plebeian sweat, follow her out. That would have been around 10.00 p m.’ He looked shrewdly at Rafferty before he asked with a casual air, ‘I suppose he's top of your suspect list?’

‘Mr Blythe has been questioned, like everyone else at the party,’ Rafferty agreed blandly, determined not to reveal that – as far as the official investigation was concerned, anyway – Nigel Blythe was no longer a suspect. If he did, it might take the doctor's sharp eyes and mind no more than a hop, skip and a jump to realize how closely ‘Nigel's’ features resembled Rafferty's.

‘Can't say I'm surprised the man's in the frame for murder. Though I thought, by now, his name and picture would have been made public.’

‘We have our routines to go through, sir,’ Rafferty replied woodenly.

Bliss nodded, but his mind had already moved on. ‘To think I troubled to make conversation with him when all the time he must have been selecting his victim. Doubt you'll need to look any further for your murderer, Inspector. Ralph Dryden was right. This Nigel had a very furtive air, didn't he, Roar?’

Rory Gifford nodded.

It sounded as if the three men had been comparing notes. Not that Rafferty could blame them. As he knew to his cost, even the innocent found involvement in a murder inquiry an unpleasant experience.

‘What about the night of the second party, sir?’ Llewellyn broke in. ‘Have you had any further thoughts on that which were not in your original statement?’

‘Yes.’ Bliss finished his coffee and dumped the mug on the table. ‘I didn't mention that this Nigel chap turned up in the same suit. Same shirt, too, would you believe? Probably couldn't get his better-off friend to lend him another after he'd sweated so heavily into it the previous night. No wonder he was perspiring so freely when you think what he was planning to do. It's clear now I've had time to think about it that he picked out his second victim early on. Not only did he monopolise Estelle Meredith all evening, he went off into the night with her the same as he did with Jenny Warburton.’ He gave Rafferty another shrewd look and added, ‘Yet you haven't arrested him. I can't help but wonder why?’

Rafferty let him wonder. He breathed a sigh of relief a few minutes later when they left Bliss and Gifford to indulge their speculations. They seemed eager to thrust any guilt onto ‘Nigel's’ hapless shoulders. No doubt it would suit both men nicely. Just as well he had managed to suppress the fact that Nigel no longer had alibis for either night, though it worried him that Bliss, for one, had clearly been surprised that Nigel was still free. He could only hope the doctor's curiosity didn't prompt him to go to the Super. Bradley tended to be a bit starry-eyed about media types and would be likely to trip over in his rush to check and reassure them that Nigel's alibis were kosher.

‘I'm beginning to feel rather sorry for Nigel Blythe's impostor,’ Llewellyn commented as they climbed in the car for their next appointment. ‘It sounded as if he was completely out of his depth. If, as the facts indicate, he joined the Made In Heaven crowd with murder in mind, you'd think he'd want to blend in rather than stand out and attract attention. I wonder what could possibly have prompted him to join such an obviously unsuitable agency.’

It was handy, Rafferty silently answered. He also felt sorry for ‘Nigel’, though that was hardly surprising. ‘Poor bloke's been judged and found guilty just ‘cos he can't do ‘posh’,’ he agreed.

‘To be fair, it wasn't just because of that,’ Llewellyn was quick to remind him. ‘There are plenty of witnesses to say that the man masquerading as Nigel Blythe was the person last seen with both victims. It's fortunate for the real Blythe that he's been exonerated.’

‘Isn't it?’ Rafferty replied, as, out of Llewellyn's sight, he crossed his fingers and wished it were true.

‘I still think it's suspicious that he should be burgled just before the murders and that he should then be so conveniently supplied with alibis. You didn't think there was anything suspicious about those alibis?’

‘No. Not at all,’ Rafferty said hastily. ‘The two women who supplied them struck me as honest, reliable witnesses.’ His crossed fingers tightened as he ventured boldly on with a slanted truth. ‘In fact, both of them said they had considered retracting their statements to protect their respective marriages from fallout. Understandable, I suppose when you consider the potential embarrassment of having to stand up in a law court and admit to spending considerable time alone with Nigel in his bedroom’ – even if one of them had been simply admiring his website, as Kylie Smith had originally claimed.

‘I suppose so. It's just the coincidence that bothers me. I know how little you like coincidences.’

‘I'm happy enough with them when coincidences are all they are, Rafferty assured him. ‘No, the real Blythe's out of it. Accept it.’ Please accept it, Rafferty silently pleaded. Thankfully, Llewellyn said nothing further on the subject.

Toby
Rufford-Lyle, their next appointment, was another of the party guests who lived in some style; a detached house at the leafy end of East Street, which with the spring sunshine lighting all the greenery, looked incredibly lush.

Rafferty took in the large, double bay windows and the imposing front door made of solid oak as Llewellyn turned into the generous, circular, shrub-lined drive. A sports car in British racing green was visible through the open door of the separate double garage.

Rafferty watched as Llewellyn the car-buff indulged a brief, slack-jawed drool. Then duty reasserted itself and he joined Rafferty at the front door.

As Rafferty pressed the buzzer and waited for it to be answered, he mused wistfully on the enviable incomes and lifestyles of his fellow Made In Heaven members, especially the men. Lancelot Bliss, apart from his lucrative TV deal, also had a successful private medical practice. Rory Gifford, he knew, had made a name for himself by making use of his friend's medical knowledge, gift for informative witty one-liners and innate showmanship. And as for Toby Rufford-Lyle – were there any poor barristers, apart from the fictional Rumpole? He had certainly never met any.

If these were the people whose homes Nigel ran his tape measure over every day it was no wonder he'd sneered so at Rafferty's little flat.

When no one appeared in answer to his ring, impatiently, Rafferty pressed the buzzer again. It was strange such men couldn't find steady girlfriends. But, Rafferty answered his own unspoken question; perhaps that was the trouble. They could find any number of girlfriends keen to go steady with them; women would be likely to throw themselves at the Toby, Rory and Lancelots of this world. Presumably, that was the reason they had joined the agency. There, they had been assured, they would meet women of their own standing who wouldn't throw themselves at them. Or rather, who might still throw themselves at them, but who would do the throwing for reasons other than money. Ironic that in Isobel, the agency's secretary/receptionist, they had found a world-class gold-digger. No wonder there had been several complaints about her.

Of the main male suspects only Ralph Dryden's wealth was spurious; worse than spurious. As Llewellyn's inquiries had revealed, Dryden had financially over-extended himself. For all the up-market attractions of the warehouse apartments, they weren't selling quickly enough to resolve some severe cash-flow problems. It seemed that Dryden's myriad business interests were a house of cards – all inter-dependent. Thus far, Dryden's confident exterior had propped up the edifice. But the merest breath of doubt blowing against the walls of the card house risked the collapse of all. Had Dryden feared the precariousness of his business finances was about to be revealed, making a crash inevitable? If Isobel–

Rafferty's thoughts came to an abrupt end as Toby Rufford-Lyle appeared round the side of the house, his thick fair hair tousled and showing an engaging tendency to curl where it met his sweat-flecked neck.

‘Sorry. I was in the garden,’ he said. ‘I like to try to keep the weeds down in case my gardener abandons me to the jungle and decides to retire.’

Toby's figure, though slim and remarkably boyish for his thirty summers, was lithe and tautly muscled beneath his brief shorts and t-shirt. Rafferty wondered if he worked out.

‘Come round,’ Toby invited. ‘It's a warm day and I'm sure you'd like a cold drink.’