Dying For You (25 page)

His Ma studied him for a moment from steady brown eyes, slowly she nodded. ‘That I did. Told her I'd please myself. And I did.’

Rafferty felt they were at last beginning to have a true empathy.

Then his Ma spoilt it by saying. ‘And wasn't I sorry after? I should have listened to my mother.’

The implication being – so should you. But he'd wronged her again as her next words revealed.

‘But as you keep telling me, Joseph, you're a man grown and not my little lad any more. So you must please yourself. Pray God you make a better job of it than your Mammy managed.’

She let a few moments elapse while they both considered this thought, then she rose, slowly, as if every bone had started shrieking its age at her and said, ‘Your old bed's made up. Stay. It'll be company for both of us to think we've a loved one sleeping close.’

Rafferty nodded. ‘I'd like that, Ma. Will I make some cocoa?’

‘Cocoa? It's not cocoa we're wanting, the pair of us, but more of the same.’ She jerked her head towards the brandy bottle. ‘Might help you to have a restful night's sleep. It's what you need, more than anything. I'll make us both a hot toddy and bring it up. Go and wash the sadness from your face. And don't forget to clean your teeth,’ she shouted after him as he went out the door.

For the first time in days, Rafferty managed a genuine laugh. ‘I won't,’ he shouted back. He realized that he felt better and more hopeful than he had since he'd taken his first steps on his particular road to Calvary that was the Lonely Hearts investigation. Maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't end up crucified like Jesus Christ.

Although, when
Rafferty got to work the next morning and tried Lancelot Bliss again, it was to find he still hadn't returned – someone else had – Emma Hartley, the holidaying part-time staff member of the Made In Heaven dating agency. He hurried over to Hope Street, anticipating a firm answer to one thing at least – who had signed Jenny Warburton up to the agency.

His expectation was disappointed when Emma Hartley denied doing so. ‘It was some days ago,’ he said. ‘It might have slipped your memory.’

‘It might, if I'd ever done it in the first place,’ she agreed crisply. ‘Or if I had the kind of mind from which things slipped. But as neither applies, I'm afraid you must look elsewhere for your answer.’

‘You did forget to bring your mobile on holiday with you.’

She immediately contradicted him. ‘No, I didn't. I loathe the beastly thing and left it behind deliberately. I don't see why Caroline thinks I should be at her beck and call when I'm on holiday. Neither does my husband.’

Rafferty left and returned to the station. He knew when he was beaten. Emma Hartley exuded efficiency. Her movements were brisk, her desk a veritable icon to tidiness. He found it easy to believe she had the sort of mind from which nothing slipped. But it meant the mystery of who had signed Jenny up remained. Although the screen software showed Jenny had been entered on the computer under Emma Hartley's password, the staff all knew each other's passwords so any one of them could have entered the details. But they all continued to deny doing so. By now – even without Lancelot Bliss's additional input, Rafferty suspected he knew why. But how did he prove it? He retreated to his thinking zone in the Gent's to ponder the question.

The toilet at the station had provided a refuge more than once during Rafferty's police career, which was why it struck him particularly hard when even that sanctuary proved insufficient to keep life's outrageous slings and arrows at bay.

From his seat in the end cubicle, he heard the voice of Smales and one of his cronies as they entered the toilets and discovered he wasn't alone in regarding the lavatories as a refuge from the world at large and impossible superior officers in particular. Because, above the gush of the urinals as Smales and his friend made use of the facilities, he heard Smales reveal Rafferty's odd behaviour over the two York alibis.

‘When I went to see the inspector I expected him to call Nigel Blythe in for questioning. But he didn't. I couldn't understand it,’ Smales trilled. ‘So I rang the two women again and do you know what they told me? They said that Inspector Rafferty had put the fear of God into them to such an extent they were reluctant to ring up to find out what was happening. I was dumbfounded as you can imagine.’

His friend made encouraging noises of sympathy.

‘Anyway, I was so worried at the thought of Blythe being free to kill again that I knew I had to do something about it.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘I went to see Sergeant Llewellyn last night,’ Smales confided sotto voce, ‘and told him all about it.’

‘And what did Llewellyn say?’

Before Rafferty could discover the answer, he heard the door to the corridor open and other voices and machine noises filtered in. The door slammed shut behind Smales, his friend and whatever response Smales was about to make. In his cubicle, Rafferty put his head in his hands and groaned.

He had hoped his little chat with Smales about the need to keep things confidential in order to protect a possibly innocent Nigel would have kept Smales's tongue still. But even though discretion and Timothy Smales were not close acquaintances, he'd managed pretty well till now as nothing had filtered back to Rafferty. Not unreasonably, the young officer hadn't thought himself to be breaking any confidence when he told Llewellyn all about it.

Rafferty, supposed such an action was inevitable. On its own, Smales's puzzlement as to why Nigel still hadn't been arrested would have encouraged him to seek enlightenment. Rafferty admitted he hadn't been the most approachable of senior officers for some days.

Even if his guilty secret hadn't been about to be exposed, Rafferty had known in his heart that, despite his Ma's staunch determination to provide him with an alibi, once either Nigel or Timothy Smales started singing, her alibi wouldn't fool anyone. And sing Nigel would because it couldn't be long now before he discovered his alibis were non-starters.

Once questions were begun Rafferty knew his hastily-donned new look would be exposed to dissecting scrutiny with the inevitable outcome. But at least he could go to see Llewellyn and try to make him understand; maybe, brain-box as he was, he might come up with a way of pulling his nuts out of the fire; though Rafferty didn't think even Llewellyn's brains equal to the task.

In a way, he was relieved it was all over. He supposed what he really wanted was for Llewellyn to say he believed him when he said he wasn't a murderer. But even that was an unreasonable expectation. How could Llewellyn truly believe in his innocence when Rafferty still wasn't convinced of it himself? Especially as he had contacted his sister earlier and learned her version of that long-ago game of stretch.

‘Kill me?’ Maggie had said when asked about it. ‘You bet your life you meant to kill me. We hated one another in those days, don't you remember? I'd done something on you, can't remember what now and you swore to get me.’ She laughed. ‘Damn nearly did too. You were a murderous little bugger in those days.’

His sister might now laugh about the incident, but her words had chilled Rafferty to the bone. His ma had said that at the time it had been passed off as an accident. But had it been an accident? he wondered now, or had the ‘accident’ been truly murderous in intent and the dangerous game used as the means to an end? A knife, he repeated to himself as he returned to his office and sat at his desk with his head in his hands. A knife had been one of the weapons used in both murders.

When his Ma had brought their nightcap up the previous evening after he had confided about waking with the shakes from his nightmares, she had suggested he lay off the booze. Concerned about him, she had confided that near the end of his life, his father had suffered episodes of the DTs, during which he had seen things that weren't there. Perhaps, she suggested, he was following a similar path to his father.

But, Rafferty thought, people had the DTs when they were awake. His delusions, if delusions they were, occurred when he was asleep.

But he knew he couldn't sit nursing his fears any longer. It was past time he confronted some of them. He had made up his mind to go to see Llewellyn privately. He had come to think of Llewellyn as being a good man to have at your side in a crisis. And if Llewellyn could somehow be made to believe him he wouldn't feel quite so bad about all the rest. This was as far as his reasoning had reached – if such a straw-clutching exercise could be termed reasoning.

Though Rafferty had resolved to confess all to Llewellyn, he didn't want to confess with Maureen present. So after going through the motions of working to get through the rest of the day, that evening he sat in the car and waited till he saw her come out of their flat and disappear up the road. But even then he didn't move. He wasn't relishing confessing to Llewellyn, with or without Maureen present. Only he was aware he couldn't carry on as he was, so he dragged himself from the car and made for Llewellyn's front door.

As he made his slow way up the path and raised his finger to the bell, Rafferty reminded himself that Llewellyn had mellowed since his marriage. But had he mellowed sufficiently to lessen the stiff-necked insistence that all law-breakers – whoever they might be – should face the full rigors of the criminal justice system? He guessed he was about to find out.

After
Rafferty had confessed, he sat, hardly daring to breathe, while he waited for Llewellyn to speak.

But for once Llewellyn seemed to have nothing to say. Instead, he developed a serious case of the fidgets. He rose from his seat, walked to the opposite wall and began to fiddle with one of the pictures, a dreary portrait of a middle-aged man coloured in dull shades who looked almost as worried as Rafferty. Just to break the silence, Rafferty asked him what it was.

‘It's a print of one of Rembrandt's later self-portraits.’

Rafferty nodded. Secretly, he thought the painter would have been better advised to supply posterity with just the younger version of his face, but he wasn't really interested in Llewellyn's dreary picture selection. Tense from waiting for Llewellyn's reaction to his confession, he said, ‘Never mind the bloody picture, Dafyd. Let the bugger stay crooked. Come and sit down and talk to me. I didn't put myself through the torment of confessing just for you to ignore me. With all your fancy education you've surely got some advice as to what's best for me to do?’

Pleased when Llewellyn abandoned his picture-straightening and sat down again, Rafferty was less pleased when his sergeant quietly observed, ‘I imagine you already know what you should do. You don't need my advice. You joined the dating agency under false pretences, using a false identity and with borrowed documentation. An agency, moreover, which had two of its members murdered shortly after you were seen with them. I don't think you have any choice but to go to see Superintendent Bradley, do you?’

Although he hadn't really expected any other response, Rafferty felt unaccountably disappointed. ‘Be fair, Daff,’ he said. ‘I admit I did all that you say, but I did it in all innocence. You know what Ma can be like. Can you blame me for trying to keep from her the fact that I was joining a dating agency?’ Somehow, he forced out the next words, ‘It's not as if I murdered those girls. So help me out, man. How the hell do I prove I didn't kill them?’

Llewellyn's slim body folded itself over on the minimalist settee. ‘I have no idea. How do you prove a negative? Everything points to you.’ Llewellyn gazed steadily at Rafferty. ‘You didn't kill them, did you?’

‘Of course I bloody well didn't.’ Rafferty was so outraged he even managed to put his own doubts behind him. ‘I'm cut to the quick that you can even ask.’ If even Llewellyn believed him capable of murder…

‘I had to ask,’ Llewellyn said. ‘I needed to see your face when you denied it. Not that I really thought you guilty. Not even after I heard what Blythe said to you when I went to fetch a glass of water for your cough.’

He should have guessed that Nigel's great barn of a living room would act like a whispering gallery. ‘So, you've known my secret almost as long as I have. Why didn't you say anything?’

‘What would you suggest I said?’ Llewellyn asked. ‘I was in something of a quandary.’

That makes two of us, Rafferty thought.

‘You might have behaved like a fool, but you were still my superior officer.’

‘Are still your superior officer,’ Rafferty amended. Though he wasn't prepared to guess how much longer that would apply. ‘At least now I understand why you didn't complain about doing most of the work on the case.’ This had puzzled him. But as Llewellyn explained, he had been working so hard to help him.

Rafferty managed a smile and the comment, ‘I'm glad to know you believe me. Why is that? Because I'm such a trustworthy kind of a guy?’

‘No,’ was Llewellyn's blunt reply. ‘It's because you always look so uncomfortable when you lie.’

‘Another hang-up I can blame on the Catholic church. Anyway, how were you so sure I didn't kill those women?’ Rafferty asked.

‘I did study psychology at university,’ Llewellyn reminded him. ‘I've worked with you for some time now. I think I might have noticed if you'd suddenly developed psychotic tendencies. You don't possess a poker face, my dear cousin-in-law. If you'd killed two girls in such a frenzied manner you wouldn't be able to conceal it for a moment. Besides, those murders were hate-filled. In your Nigel persona you had just met those young women. What possible reason could you have to hate them? You might be many things, but a psychopath you're not. Besides, your stern Catholic conscience wouldn't let you rest if you were guilty.’