Dying For You (7 page)

‘I'm Estelle Meredith.’

‘So, Estelle, you're an actress. You've done all the classical roles, I take it? Ophelia, Desdemona, Lady Macbeth?’ Thankfully, as that was the limit of Rafferty's knowledge of classical female leads, Estelle broke in.

‘God, yes. You name it, I've played it. You should have seen my Portia. I weighed the quality of mercy and served it up in such a neat parcel I got three standing ovations. That was a month ago, but I can still feel the tingle. Hollywood is mad for me. I'm to fly out next week to try out for several leading roles.’

‘No.’ Rafferty's face fell.

‘No's right.’ Estelle's face went into matching free-fall. We're playing let's pretend, remember? Unfortunately, next week I'm back in a lowly role in a temporary production of Grabbit and Robbem, set in a firm of solicitors. Likely to be a limited production as Grabbit is only too prone to do just that. Should be paid danger money.’

‘Failing that,’ said Rafferty, as he magicked another couple of glasses of wine from a disappearing waiter, ‘How about a little bit of anaesthesia?’

‘Cheers. Anyway, enough about me. Tell me about you, Nigel. I suppose you have to do a certain amount of acting in your line?’

‘Oh yes. That's certainly true.’ The funny thing was that even as he became better at play-acting, he felt increasingly loathe to do it, especially when, like now, he liked someone.

‘It's all lies, anyway, isn't it?’

Rafferty stared at her. Had he been sussed?

‘Acting, I mean.’ Estelle's enlarged.

‘I suppose it is,’ was Rafferty's lame reply. ‘Can I get you some nibbles before they all go?’

‘Please. I'm starved. I had a late audition today and didn't have time to eat before I left to come here. They want to see me again. I've a chance, a real chance, this time. I feel sure of it. And it would be a terrific role, really challenging. It's a good company, too and the play seems likely to have a long run in the West End. I'm sure I can do it. All I need is the chance.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Rafferty invited.

For a moment, Estelle hesitated, as if worried that to speak about a dream would make it go pop. But then, encouraged by Rafferty's genuine interest, shining-eyed and breathless with hope, she did tell him. She explained the role and what it would mean to her. Before she'd got to the end of her explanation, they somehow found themselves squashed together in a corner behind an enormous floral display, their game of ‘let's pretend’ completely forgotten as they found they both preferred the reality of each other – or the near-reality in Rafferty's case.

Estelle Meredith's engaging, monkey face grew even more appealing to Rafferty as the evening wore on. As he gazed into her golden, toffee-apple coloured eyes he felt the urge to stroke the wild tangle of fair hair that cascaded around her shoulders. But then he remembered her earlier remark about gropers and restrained the urge. She was harder-edged than Jenny Warburton, and had a mischievous, dare-anything air. It intrigued Rafferty so much that he had ignored Simon Farnell's repeated appeals to mingle and remained by her side for the evening.

To his annoyance, Guy Cranston had once again tried to muscle in – it seemed they shared similar tastes in women – but this time, Rafferty hadn't been forced to ease him out. Although Estelle had chatted pleasantly enough to both of them for five minutes, at the end of that time, she had managed to convey to Guy that his presence was no longer required. To Rafferty's relief, although he looked a bit crestfallen, Guy immediately took himself off .

The
evening ended all too soon for Rafferty. Too late, he realized he had been so smitten by Estelle that he had swallowed wine like water. If he hadn't, he could have offered to drive her home. But even in his current, alcohol-influenced rosy glow, something wiser than himself warned him not to court the attention of the traffic cops when he was being Nigel.

He sensed that Estelle could be important to him, important to his future. He knew he'd have to sort out the little discrepancy of his altered identity some time, just not yet, Certainly not with a traffic cop breathing in his alcohol fumes while he demanded his name and papers.

It was getting on for midnight, already people were leaving. But Rafferty and Estelle deliberately lengthened the evening's enchantment by going out through the open door at the back of the annexe and into the grounds for a breath of fresh air. They exchanged phone numbers seated on a convenient bench beneath the stars.

It was unfortunate that just as Estelle was showing a ready willingness to be kissed, his mobile went off. But at least he managed to pull the correct one from his pocket. It was the station. They wanted him in. Rafferty knew he had no choice but to make his excuses to Estelle.

He left the annexe by the side entrance to avoid getting delayed by the loud and lengthy ‘good nights’ of his fellow members and was halfway to the station when his mobile went again. It was the station with an ‘as you were’ message. The problem that had required his presence had been resolved.

Rafferty sighed and almost as soon as he wondered whether he should head back to the party he decided against it. Even if Estelle hadn't left by now, he feared to somehow endanger the happy glow brought by their sweet parting if he attempted to revisit it. So he hailed a cab and as he climbed in the back and it set off for his flat, he gave himself up to dreaming.

Strange, he thought, that he should have spent so many years not even coming close to falling in love and then should fall for two different girls one after the other. The memory of Jenny's deliberate brush-off sobered him. He felt sure that wouldn't happen again. Estelle, as an actress, was only too well-acquainted with the pain of rejection. He was certain she would die before she did such a thing.

Rafferty
had met Estelle on the Saturday and it wasn't till the Monday morning that he had learned from Bill Beard the horrifying news that Estelle had been found murdered in the grounds of The Elmhurst's annexe.

What had he said to himself? That Estelle would die before she gave him the distant brush-off? And she had died.

It
seemed to be the season for bad news, for more arrived the following morning when Rafferty, hanging about the canteen to keep tabs on how Harry Simpson's investigation into Estelle's murder was progressing, discovered just why Jenny hadn't responded to his phone calls.

Her car had never left the grounds of the Cranstons’ home. And even as he struggled to come up with a non-sinister explanation as to why this should be, Rafferty knew he was only fooling himself. It was too much of a coincidence that Jenny's car should have been discovered still parked at the house, a few yards from where a young woman's brutally battered body had been found concealed behind New Hall's large rubbish bins by the Council's refuse collectors.

Although he shied away from the thought, Rafferty knew he had to face the appalling probability that the body was Jenny's and with it came the realization that she must have been there since Friday, the night of the first party, the night he had so cheerfully waved her off to her murderer.

Rafferty was
beginning to fear he must be a jinx where women were concerned. His wife had died young – murdered by cancer. But although that hadn't been love – only lust, a faulty Durex and a pregnancy that had miscarried only after they had made their hasty marriage – Rafferty felt a pattern was forming.

His wife had died young, Estelle had died young. Now, so had Jenny Warburton. Lonely old age stared him in the face. For certain it was that he dare not risk falling in love again...

According to DI Harry Simpson, who had been assigned both murders, Estelle and Jenny had been brutally hacked and bludgeoned, though unusually, Jenny's murder, clearly the first, was a more violent affair than Estelle's. If they were the victims of a serial killer as Harry confided was his suspicion, it would have been more normal – if you could use such a word in relation to such appalling abnormality – for the second victim, Estelle, to have suffered the usual escalation in violence.

Yet, such wasn't the case according to Harry, when, looking like death himself, the DI had returned to the station. It was then, between hacking coughs, that he had repeated Bill Beard's comment which, although he had been expecting it, had chilled Rafferty's blood all over again.

‘Luckily, we've got a prime suspect already.’ Cough, cough, cough. ‘Chap called Nigel Blythe's in the frame for both murders.’ Harry coughed again, seized a strangled breath and went on. ‘Turns out he was definitely the last to see both girls, that is, if the body which has just been discovered does turn out to be the owner of the red hatchback parked at the house.’

‘Didn't the Cranstons think it odd that one of their member's cars should have been abandoned in their grounds?’

‘I wondered about that. But it seems the guests, particularly if they've drunk too much to drive, often leave their cars at the house for several days at a time, especially when urgent business calls them away without the chance to retrieve their vehicles.

‘According to witnesses, this Nigel Blythe left both the agency parties on successive nights with one or other girl in tow. He was last seen exiting the rear door of The Elmhurst's annexe with Estelle Meredith. As you know, her body was found behind some bushes in the grounds.’ Harry paused, found another wheezing breath and continued. ‘Several of the party guests told me there was something not quite kosher about this Nigel Blythe.’

‘Not quite kosher?’ Rafferty repeated before he clutched at the proverbial straw. ‘Reliable witnesses, you reckon?’ As expected, the straw immediately bent.

‘Seem to be. They're all singing from the same hymn sheet, anyway and they were interviewed separately. Unsurprisingly, this Blythe seems to have done a bunk. He's not at his flat. Place has been ransacked, too.’ Harry gave him a strange look. ‘You've gone a queer colour, Rafferty. Someone walked over your grave?’

‘Something like that,’ Rafferty muttered, before he slinked off back to his office. Harry Simpson was a fine one to comment about my queer colour, Rafferty thought. Simpson had been going about the station like an omen of death for months. The weight had fallen off him. Although Harry's insistence to everybody who asked was that he had been on a strict diet, this was patently not the case. Somehow, Harry had found the strength to carry on. But it was obvious it couldn't last. He was clearly suffering and looked weighed down by this horrific double murder. It couldn't be long before he had to bow to his body's demands and take sick leave.

Rafferty's gaze alighted on the skinned-over cup of cold tea on his desk and frowned. He couldn't remember getting it. In fact, lately, there had been a few things he couldn't remember doing – like buying the food that had suddenly appeared in his fridge. But these mysteries were edged out of his mind by other, more important considerations; like the fact he was now doubly in the frame for murder. He'd liked Jenny and Estelle a lot and had agonised as to whether he should come clean. But how could he do so now? It might have been a different matter if he had done so after the discovery of Estelle's body when her identity had been confirmed. But now?

That first, instinctive denial that he knew Estelle had forced him to tangle himself in so many more lies that now he was so hopelessly compromised no one would believe in his innocence.

He'd thought at first that if – when – Harry Simpson went on sick leave and he was put in charge of the investigation that for him – and the victims – it would be a good thing. Rafferty knew he hadn't murdered anybody, so unlike Harry, he could concentrate on finding who had. But, of course, with him, things were never that simple. Because once he'd thought about it, he realized with what difficulties being in charge of the case would present him. For a start, even with the alterations to his appearance he had already decided were necessary, coming face-to-face with the witnesses was going to be a nerve-wracking business, spent waiting for one or more to point the finger and say, ‘but that's him. That's Nigel Blythe. The murderer.’

He'd already begun to give nervous starts whenever Nigel's name was mentioned. Even Ma was becoming concerned about his strange behaviour and had suggested he go to the doctor and get a tonic for his nerves.

Certainly, keeping a low profile when you're meant to be fronting a major inquiry was going to be a tall order. On the other hand, as the officer in charge, he would be nicely placed to steer the investigation away from his innocent cousin and himself and aim it at whoever the real killer might be.

It was fortunate that he had shown an unusual prescience in drinking at an unfamiliar pub and using a strange cab firm to take him to the first party. It meant no one would be able to give a description of his car or reveal his real identity. Even better – from his point of view, rather than Jerry's – he had decided to get into his Nigel Blythe role before the party and had ordered the cab in his cousin's name – though that had of course brought its own problems.

The inevitable discovery that someone had masqueraded as Nigel while the real Nigel had been far away in York at the time of the two murders would also serve to delay the investigation, though Rafferty feared it could only be a matter of time before someone thought to backtrack from the real Nigel to his friends, acquaintances and family – and found him.