He would also have to explain that until he had organised some more secure means of communication, none of the family, including said Ma and girlfriend, was to attempt to contact Mickey on his mobile.
Rafferty cursed his stupidity as, too late, he acknowledged that he should have taken Mickey’s mobile off him when he had the chance. Unfortunately, with so many other things weighing heavily on his mind, it hadn’t occurred to him to do such a sensible thing. The idiot could, by now, have called all and sundry. And as Mickey used a mobile that didn’t provide the useful anonymity of a pay as you go phone, his calls could easily be traced. Even pay as you go phones weren’t entirely without risk as, should the coils of his deceit start to be untangled, the traced location of any calls could only implicate him deeper. Once Mickey was identified from the photo-fit, his current mobile and any calls he might have made on it would provide a sure means for one of the brighter and more ambitious coppers on the team to track the call back to Mickey himself and the caravan where Rafferty had stashed him. From there it was but a short hop, skip and jump to Rafferty himself.
Yet Rafferty dare not call Mickey on mobile and warn him of the danger — at least, not on any phone that could be traced back to him. If Mickey was quickly identified, his call to Rafferty’s mobile would be sufficiently compromising, coming, as it had, when Rafferty was at the murder scene. And although he had deliberately delayed sending either the first or the second, greatly improved, photo-fits of Mickey out to the media in order to postpone this identification, such a failure was also dangerously incriminating. Anyway, he didn’t dare delay this much longer. He was surprised that Llewellyn hadn’t already questioned him about it.
Either way, the naming of Mickey couldn’t be far off. Once he was identified, his home and phone records would be thoroughly scrutinised. It was going to look very suspicious that Rafferty’s brother, the main suspect in the investigation, had contacted him shortly after Seward’s violent death. But, for now, a possible charge of conspiracy to pervert the course of justice was the least of Rafferty’s problems. He just had to hope that he had the case sussed before it came to that, which was why pay as you go mobiles was something else Rafferty had been forced to find time to organise. One conversation with an absconding suspect was bad enough, a whole series of them was something not ever his silver Blarney Stone tongue was beyond explaining.
But it was essential that he be able to speak to Mickey freely. And Mickey, frightened and alone in his chilly caravan, would need to hear at least one friendly, encouraging voice if despair and further unwise and impetuous actions – such as giving himself up and landing both of them even deeper in the brown stuff — weren’t to follow.
So far, apart from not immediately reporting Seward’s dead body when he’d had the chance, Mickey’s instincts had been sound. At least he’d had the wit to ring his brother instead of just taking off into the night and making himself the subject of a nationwide manhunt. Maybe his first instinct to keep quiet about Seward’s violent death and leave before anyone other than the bored and careless security men and the half-sozzled Ivor Bignall had had a chance to clock his features hadn’t been so foolish after all. Especially as the photo-fit and description they had concocted between them, although clearly Mickey to anyone who knew him, could also be any number of other men of his height, build and colouring and could apply to a sizeable chunk of the male population.
As Mickey had said, his and Seward’s past history and the circumstances of Sewards’ death might well have conspired to force Rafferty – or his replacement, once – if – their relationship came to light, to arrest Mickey immediately they confirmed his identity. With a suspect in hand, as it were, another officer without the stake in the case that Rafferty had might not put in the requisite effort or be as keen to check the guest list for other possible suspects as thoroughly as Rafferty intended to.
With his purchases made, Rafferty, his teeth grinding all the way, drove to his Ma’s house to break the news about Mickey. Ma, of course, was already up, dressed and ready for the day. Once he broke the news she was distressed, naturally, but life had made of her one of nature’s stoics. After she had wiped the tears away and organised the essential, hot, sweet tea, she sat back and said, ‘So, what’s to do, Joseph? Sure and Michael can’t stay in that perishing caravan for long or it’ll be the death of him. Not with his chest.’
‘I’m working on it, Ma,’ Rafferty reassured her.
Mickey had always been asthmatic and physically a bit puny, though, with his daily carpentry, he had, over the years, developed a wiry strength that belied his slender physique. That was another worry. Although his physique was deceptive, Rafferty knew his brother’s carpentry had strengthened his muscles; physically Mickey was more than capable of skewering a man as big as Seward.
His Ma bent forward, and her gaze, as it fixed on him, was troubled, as it had every right to be in the circumstances. ‘He didn’t do it, did he, Joseph?’ she asked plaintively. ‘I know that Rufus Seward bullied my Michael even though he would never admit it to me. Times enough I was up that school complaining to the headmaster about it, not that that fool ever did anything to put a stop to it. I’m thinking that Michael’s always had a hot temper, even from a braw boy. But—’
Rafferty leant forward, took her work-coarsened hand, and gave it a squeeze. As much to squash the similar doubts he was harbouring as to comfort his mother, he said firmly, ‘No, Ma. He didn’t do it.’
They continued their embrace for a few moments, giving and receiving mutual solace before Rafferty pulled away, took one of the three new mobile phones from his bag and gave it to her. Next, he handed over a slip of paper, which, he explained, contained the new mobile numbers of Mickey, Ma and himself.
‘That’s how we’re to communicate. Pay as you go mobiles. Untraceable.’ Or as untraceable as anything was nowadays, he silently corrected himself. At least they were as long as none of their names came into the equation, by which time it would probably all be up anyway. ‘Though, just in case, when you ring Mickey, try to do so away from here. That way, in the event the location of any call is traced, it can’t be traced back to your home. I paid by cash in three separate shops, so no paper record can track the purchases back to me.’ And with the precautions he’d taken, neither should any store security cameras or CCTV.
These precautions had stolen precious time he couldn’t really spare at such an early stage in an investigation, but it had had to be done. Although he had little time to spend with Mickey to provide moral support, at least, when he found time to drive to the caravan park where he’d stashed Mickey and deliver his new mobile, he would be able to talk to him freely whenever he needed to.
Rafferty nipped home to find a change of clothes and a couple of baseball caps that his nephews had managed to leave behind after a visit. Between those, and his late father’s old spectacles, which he had found something of a mixed blessing in a previous case, he was hopeful that his appearance had varied sufficiently as he had made each purchase to render any connection unlikely. He didn’t, if the investigation took such a turn, want any store video cameras or street CCTV easily picking him out as the oddball who had bought three separate mobiles in three different shops.
‘You’ll soon be able to speak to him and reassure him, Ma,’ Rafferty promised. ‘Only, as I’ve yet to find time to take Mickey’s mobile to him, you won’t be able to speak to him till much later today. Don’t, whatever you do, attempt to contact him on his usual mobile number. And warn his girlfriend and the rest of the family not to do so either.’
Ma blinked. ‘And what exactly am I to tell them when I speak to them?’ she asked.
In spite of her still lingering fondness for off-the-back-of-a-lorry bargains and preference for improving on an already told tale, Ma wasn’t a liar. She was basically an honest woman and would find it difficult to attempt to deceive her family. Aware of this, Rafferty said, ‘You’d better tell them the truth. We might need their help, after all. Just make sure you impress on them the need to keep their mouths shut.’
He paused for a few seconds to allow her to digest this, then he said, ‘I’ll ring you when I’ve delivered Mickey’s new phone. But, as I said, I won’t have a chance to get over to the caravan park where I’ve stowed him, till later. I’ve already been missing for nearly two hours and must get back to the station and show my face before Dafyd sends out a search party.’
His Ma nodded absently, clearly miles away — further up the coast with Mickey, probably. She was clearly so distracted that Rafferty was forced to repeat his instructions several times till he was sure she had grasped them.
‘He’ll need some provisions – bread, butter, ham – stuff that doesn’t need heating,’ Rafferty told her. ‘If I give you some money, could you get a few bits in and I’ll collect them tonight before I deliver his mobile?’
‘Cold collations? For a son of mine?’ Rafferty was relieved to see by this response that his Ma had rallied. ‘He’ll have a flask with a filling, warming and meaty casserole. And another with some well-laced tea to help keep the cold out. My Michael won’t go hungry. I’ll make sure of that. There’s an old sleeping bag somewhere in the house. I’ll find it and give it a good airing and have the kettle ready when you arrive so I can fill a hot water bottle.’
Rafferty nodded. If concentrating on such basics helped her to cope with their predicament, he wasn’t about to criticize.
‘Only — only, Joseph, promise me you’ll see to the rest?’ His Ma’s determined bravado faltered.
Rafferty knew what she meant by ‘the rest’. She meant it was up to him to get Mickey out of the mess his own foolishness and the murderer had got him into.
Rafferty promised. What else could he do? It would break Ma’s heart if one of her sons ended up going down for murder. Lucky it was for Ma that all her three daughters, put together, had never given a fraction of the worry that just one of her sons had caused her over the years. And although his mother didn’t say it, in his head, Rafferty heard her frequent lament, ‘Oh, what it is to be the mother of sons!’
This plaintive cry was one he and his two younger brothers, Patrick Sean as well as Mickey, had often heard from Ma, and not just in their youth. It was fortunate that Rafferty, her far-from-secret favourite, had always been able to detect the mother’s pride behind the pain. He hoped, when his Ma had got over the shock of this latest trauma, that he would still be able to detect that pride.
But Ma was getting older. She was now in her mid-sixties. How much longer would she have the stamina to cope with her trouble-bringing sons? One day, and that day no longer so distant, would one of her three braw boys be the death of her?
It was a sobering thought for Rafferty, one of the braw boys who had caused Ma so much worry and heartache. So unwelcomingly, sobering a thought was it that Rafferty found his thoughts dwelling on the question of how much anaesthetizing Jameson’s was left in the bottle at home.
Mickey, for once, must be doing as instructed, and keeping his head down and the caravan curtains firmly closed, for Rafferty had heard no reports of a man behaving suspiciously at the caravan park. But even if he managed to continue to do the sensible thing, Rafferty couldn’t be sure his brother’s identity wouldn’t be revealed sooner rather than later. He reminded himself again that he had better look sharp about discovering the identity of the real killer.
Fortunately, so far at least, no one had had the opportunity to put a name to the face in the photo fit, though he couldn’t believe this good fortune would last once it hit the street.
There again, it might, because none of his family, certainly neither of his brothers, had ever socialised with Rafferty in police circles. And even though Llewellyn had met Mickey once, it had been very briefly, for a matter of seconds only, at a Rafferty family wedding. Mickey had spent practically the entire evening at the bar, well away from the teetotal Llewellyn.
Another glimmer of hope was that Mickey, in spite of his sometimes hasty temper, was a well-liked man; generous with his time and his carpentry skills when his more inept DIY-er friends sought his assistance. The people with whom he socialised worked, like most of the Rafferty males themselves, in the building trade, as brickies, plumbers and so on. Only Rafferty himself and his cousin Nigel had branched out. Others of Mickey’s friends worked as traders down the local street market. Building workers and market traders were renowned for having various nice little earners that operated in the black economy out of sight of both the law and the taxman. So, either from reasons of friendship, a desire not to bring themselves to the attention of the authorities or a mixture of the two, they were unlikely to turn Mickey in — certainly not for the sake of someone like Sir Rufus Seward, whom many of them would remember with dislike.
Which was just as well, because once — if — Superintendent Bradley realised that Seward’s unidentified late night visitor and his investigating officer were brothers, Rafferty would be taken off the case so fast his heels would bring sparks, before he was sharply questioned about his ethics. Or worse.
The Bradley agenda was a very good reason for Rafferty to press on with questioning the suspects as a matter of urgency.
In fact, he thought, after he had given Ma another hug and finally managed to show his face back at the station, why not start with Superintendent Bradley himself, whom he had spotted through the stairwell window as he climbed to his second floor office, parking his car in the rear yard? Rafferty congratulated himself on just getting back in the nick of time. He could do without the super noticing his absence.
Temporarily brushing aside a questioning Llewellyn, who had certainly noticed his absence this time, Rafferty hurried off up the corridor, with Llewellyn’s plaintive voice and the word ‘photo fit’ chasing after him.
Putting the super on the spot about his presence at a murder scene, never mind his failure to mention it, would, Rafferty thought, bring some much-needed light relief in the circumstances.