Deadly Reunion (11 page)

Cyrus Rafferty didn't go in for doubletalk, either. When Rafferty got home that evening, he could hear him holding forth in Christian brethren mode as soon as he opened the front door. He found him leaning on the dining-room table as if it was a pulpit. He suspected Abra had come in here, which wasn't a room they'd used much, since they moved in at the beginning of July, to get away from Cyrus and had been followed in.

‘Ah. Joe. Ah was just telling Abra here something about ma early days as a lay preacher. Ah took ma first examples from two outstanding evangelical preachers from the 1700s – Jonathan Edwards and the Rev George Whitfield. Fine preachers, both of them. Men of steel, too, as preaching in those days wasn't a profession for the faint-hearted. As itinerants, even occasional ones, not only had to travel miles in all weathers, they also had to deal with drunken rowdies. And then, of course, there's the redoubtable Billy Graham from our own times. How many sinners that man must have saved from the eternal flame. My usual text is from Acts of the Apostles. You can find enough examples in there to touch the heart of the most determined backslider and—'

He was interrupted in his oratory by Wendy, his wife. ‘Oh, there you are, Cy. You're not preaching at poor Abra again, are you, honey? Do give it a rest. You're a guest in their home, not an invited speaker.' Wendy turned to Rafferty. ‘I'm sorry, Joe, Abra. Once he gets going it's hard to stop him.'

As if he didn't know. He'd had plenty of examples of Cyrus's oratory already.

‘Ah'm preaching the word of the Lord, Wendy, as is ma duty. After these good folks' hospitality, Ah couldn't live with myself if Ah didn't reciprocate by snatching their souls from the snares of Lucifer.'

‘Their souls are their own responsibility, Cyrus. They're adults, not children in your Sunday School class and can make their own decisions. Come on now and come out for a walk with me. You don't want poor Abra going to bed with a sick headache again, do you?'

‘Ah was just a trahin' to do ma duty. And—' Cyrus's Southern twang was getting more pronounced, Rafferty noticed.

‘Yes. We know, sugar. But you know what the doctor said about your throat. He told you to rest your voice, didn't he?'

‘Well. Yes. Ah guess he did. But Lord, Wendy, it's hard when Ah see folks in need of ma ministry.'

‘I guess they're just not so into preachers in England, sugar. I've not seen a single televangelist on TV.'

‘No. And that's another thing—'

‘Cyrus.' Wendy's voice was firm. She gave Rafferty and Abra an apologetic smile as she led Cyrus from the room. ‘We'll be no more than an hour. What say we bring a takeaway back with us?'

‘Would you?' said Abra, brightening at the idea she would be relieved of kitchen duties for the evening. ‘That would be great.'

‘Sure, honey. You work all week. You shouldn't have to cook of a weekend. We'll see y'all later.'

When they heard the front door slam, Rafferty took Abra by the hand and led her back into the living room. ‘Sit. I know what you need.'

‘And it isn't being preached at.'

‘No.' Rafferty poured a large Jameson's out and then another for himself. He passed Abra hers. ‘Ah. Peace,' he murmured as he slumped on the settee. ‘How little we appreciated it. Where are Angel and Louis?'

Angel and Louis Kelly were more cousins, on his mother's side this time. They were New Yorkers, a surprisingly quiet couple and, given Cyrus's domination of the conversation, Rafferty had hardly got to know anything about them. They'd quickly taken Cyrus's measure and had proclaimed themselves born-again converts – who presumably didn't require preaching at – and went out every morning loudly expressing their intention to find a ‘cute little church' on their travels that would meet all their religious needs for the day.

‘They said they'd be out till late. They were going to town to do the London Dungeon, Madame Tussauds and Buck House. Then I think they were going to take in the Tower of London. They said they'd stay in town for dinner and maybe take in a show if they could get tickets.'

‘I admire their energy. Sounds like a recipe for exhaustion, to me. They were able to tell you all that? Without being interrupted? Did Cyrus take himself out for another walk?'

‘Funnily enough, yes. Angel's sweet. God, the things she told me while Cyrus was out. I had her life history this morning. She and Louis were High School sweethearts and have been married for forty years coming up. It'll be their anniversary while they're over here. I thought we might take them out for a celebratory meal.'

‘Good idea. Thanks, sweetheart. I know how much you hate having your home invaded by strangers.'

‘They're strangers to you, too, for all they're your family. I'm sorry if I've given you a hard time over this, Joe. Have I been a perfect bitch?'

‘You know everything you do is done perfectly, my sweet.'

‘Ooh, you!' But she laughed and downed half her whiskey. ‘Promise I'll try harder. But if you could just pray Cyrus gets laryngitis . . .'

Rafferty stayed long enough to eat the Chinese takeaway that Wendy and Cyrus brought back and then he returned to the office for an hour. It was as well that he did, for, unusually, Bradley showed his face. It wasn't like him to put in an appearance at a weekend and Rafferty guessed he'd turned up specially to berate him. It seemed Simon Fairweather's status as a suspect really had got him seriously rattled.

The investigation wasn't progressing well. It wasn't progressing at all, in Bradley's opinion, as he told Rafferty with all the force of a Cyrus led revival meeting.

But Rafferty couldn't find fault with his super's logic. Much as he'd like to. All of the suspects had managed to refute any suspicion of guilt by the simple expedient of saying that their previous relationship with Ainsley was such old history that it had cobwebs. Not only that, it was also true that any time over the previous seventeen years one of them intent on revenge could have found the high-profile Adam Ainsley with little difficulty. A simple study of his movements and habits, which the media were happy to supply, would presumably have provided the opportunity for murder if such was their inclination. They wouldn't have needed to wait for the next reunion and the slim possibility that Ainsley would attend when he never had before.

There must be something else. Something he didn't know about. ‘I think we'll have to do a bit more digging, Dafyd. Maybe Ainsley had some juicy knowledge about one of them and tried a spot of blackmail. His parents don't live too fancy and being a school sports instructor can't bring in much money. Maybe he had an expensive gambling habit. It's all the rage amongst sportsmen; they'd bet on which of two raindrops would reach the bottom of the window first, some of them. Only being over-confident, Ainsley would likely favour the front-on approach to extracting money.'

‘It's certainly a theory.'

‘Just not one to your taste? Oh well, I'm sure to come up with another one. Theories are something I've never been short of. There's always the chance that his alcohol troubles had run up debts. Let's get over to that school where Ainsley worked as a sports master and see if we can't find out something scandalous. There might be someone there even though it's the holidays. But perhaps you'd better give them a ring first to save us a wasted journey.'

Stainforth College was ten miles the other side of Chelmsford. It was a large Victorian edifice with grounds as extensive as Griffin's. He'd got Llewellyn to phone ahead to check whether anyone would be there and had managed to speak to the Deputy Head, who had come in to organize the new term's timetables. She had proved amenable to speaking to him even after he had told her the reason he needed to find out more about Adam Ainsley.

Mrs Hall was a casually dressed forty-something. She'd unlocked the main door for them and given them directions to her office. They'd found her with no trouble and once they were seated in front of her desk that was piled high with papers and files, Rafferty soon brought her to the point of discussing Ainsley.

‘I gather he studied for a career as a Sports Instructor after his professional rugby career finished, which is how he ended up here?'

‘That's right, Inspector. He came to us straight from college. He was very keen and really threw himself into his new role.'

‘Do I detect a but?'

Mrs Hall smiled. ‘How sensitive of you.' Beside him, Llewellyn managed to maintain a straight face at Rafferty's unabashed receipt of such an unusual compliment. ‘Yes, there is a but. I'm afraid Adam's enthusiasm for teaching students palled after the first year. I think he really began to miss being part of a team, rather than being the instructor. He missed the camaraderie and the triumphs. Of course he had a few of those as we're quite a sporty establishment, but it wasn't the same for him. The triumphs weren't so triumphant and the failures failed to bring forth the supportive team spirit. Of course, it was part of Adam's job to raise the spirits of the team, but he had difficulty raising his own. He'd been used to being a star and found the transition difficult. I was against the appointment, but the Head's a keen rugby man and he over-ruled me.'

‘What was he like with the students?' Rafferty asked. ‘We've been speaking to some of his old schoolmates and it seems Mr Ainsley was inclined to be heavy-handed.'

‘He was a bully, you mean?'

Rafferty lowered his head in acquiescence.

‘Several of the boys complained to their parents about his manner to them. He could be very sarcastic, particularly to the students who didn't come up to his sporting ideal. It was a verbal bullying only. We wouldn't have tolerated any other sort. In fact, we weren't prepared to tolerate the verbal sort either. Stainforth's ethos is one of encouragement and support. Adam's services were dispensed with at the end of the summer term.'

‘Really?' That was something that hadn't been mentioned by any of the Griffin reunees. Rafferty could only suppose Ainsley had kept quiet about his sacking. For a man whose entire working life had been one of success and achievement, it must have been a dent to his pride that he wouldn't want his old schoolmates to know about. It explained why he had been putting feelers out re another job.

It was something else to think about, something to weigh in the suicide versus murder debate. A lot of men killed themselves after losing their jobs; employment was said to be a stabilising factor in a man's life. It gave him standing and pride and income. And with the income came a certain lifestyle. Had Ainsley's lifestyle lowered drastically after the end of his professional career? Had he any savings from his high-earning days to tide him through unemployment? Or had he lived high on the hog and spent his income as he earned it? In view of this latest information, Rafferty began to wonder if he hadn't plumped on the side of murder way too soon.

They had yet to pay a visit to Ainsley's home and Rafferty decided they'd return to the station, collect the keys and see if the place yielded up any clues to his death. His bank statements would at least tell him something about his financial health even if they yielded up no clues about his emotional wellbeing.

Ainsley had lived in Elmhurst; he'd had a flat around the corner from the Norman castle. It was a quiet neighbourhood and while he searched through the late Adam Ainsley's possessions, Rafferty deputed Llewellyn to learn what he could from the neighbours.

It was a small, two-room flat, with a shower room and galley kitchen, not at all the style of home that Rafferty had imagined and it indicated that Ainsley's finances hadn't been of the healthiest. It was furnished in a modern style, with blonde wood and white walls against which were arrayed Ainsley's sporting cups and medals. Grouped around these were blown-up portraits of his sporting triumphs. Some of the medals were showing signs of tarnish as if the gloss of success had worn off them. Of course it must be three, four years since he'd played professionally. Maybe depression at his current life had caused Ainsley to neglect the trophies. Or maybe he'd never been one for spit and polish. But this isn't getting the job done, Rafferty reminded himself.

He began in the bedroom. There was a desk in the corner with the usual computer and its assorted accessories. He'd leave that to Llewellyn to investigate if he could. Rafferty concentrated on the desk drawers. He found a heap of fan letters just thrown in a couple of box files with no indication that they had been answered. He found sporting contracts and letters from his agent. He even found the email from Griffin School inviting Ainsley to the reunion. It had been a fulsome epistle, with plenty of admiring superlatives about his sporting career. No wonder Ainsley had taken the trouble to print it out. Rafferty thought Paxton had laid it on a bit thick. It wasn't as if Ainsley had really hit the heights and made it into the England rugby team that won the World Cup. Or any England team, for that matter. No wonder Ainsley had decided to attend the reunion. He must have hoped for further compliments. It would be the balm his poor, sacked soul would crave.

Llewellyn returned as he was reading Paxton's email and Rafferty handed it to him after the Welshman reported that the neighbours had been no help as Ainsley had only been in the flat for a few months and hadn't socialized with them. Stifling a sigh, Rafferty made a start on the bank statements. He didn't have to go far through them to discover that Ainsley had lived up to his star income until relatively recently, but now, his account hovered dangerously near the red every month. Perhaps he had savings? Rafferty searched the desk some more, expecting to unearth evidence of ISAs, stocks and shares and other marks of a wealthy man, but there was nothing and he sat back.