Deadly Reunion (15 page)

‘I've got the boffins checking out Ainsley's computer and the team going through the phone calls made and received by him in the last few months.'

‘That's
them
. I want to know what
you're
doing.'

The correct answer to this question was ‘nothing much'. But that wasn't politically advisable, not with Bradley, who had always been far better at office politics than he was at police work. So instead, Rafferty waffled on for a while about their remaining lines of inquiry.

It was Bradley's turn to go ‘Hmph,' and complain that they didn't amount to much. ‘This is a high-profile case, Rafferty, with plenty of high-ranking interested parties such as Simon Fairweather, the Home Office man. Did he have anything else to say when you last saw him?'

‘No, though he didn't strike me as being ready to fire off letters of complaint in all directions.'

Bradley simply went ‘Hmph,' again, then said, ‘Well, you'd better get on with the pitifully few lines of inquiry that you
do
have. I shall want a report last thing this afternoon and I'll speak to you again in the morning.'

Rafferty didn't wait for a second invitation. Back in his own office, he said to Llewellyn, ‘Organize a couple of the team to go to Chelsea to speak to Ainsley's old neighbours. As for you and me, I think we should go and see Alice Douglas. I've got a niggle where that young woman's concerned. She seemed a bit evasive to me. You've got her address to hand?'

Of course he had. Llewellyn was a man for the minutiae of a case.

‘We'll go to see her this afternoon. Catch her just as she comes home from work. The post mortem on Sophie Diaz is scheduled for two o'clock so that gives us time to see the victims' old headmaster, Cedric Barmforth, and Ainsley's bank manager this morning. Might learn something about old hatreds and where Adam Ainsley's money's gone.'

Jeremy Paxton had told them that Cedric Barmforth had retired early owing to ill health, but when Rafferty and Llewellyn went to see him, he seemed bursting with vitality. Mr Barmforth was in his early sixties, with a great bush of grey hair. He was well over six feet and was firmly built. He certainly had a physical presence, and Rafferty could well imagine that he had kept his former pupils in line with ease and a disregard for pettifogging rules. Rafferty took to him immediately.

He told them he lived alone, having never married. Certainly his ramshackle bungalow was untidy, with half-read books scattered on the furniture and a Cromwellian army in the process of being painted, laid out on the dining table.

‘Great man, Oliver Cromwell. Pity his son was so useless. “Falling down, Dick”, they used to call him. But come out to the greenhouse. I'm having a bit of a tidy.'

They followed him outside to a garden whose grass needed cutting and whose borders needed weeding, but for all that, it was a pretty garden, a bit wild, but full of plants and colour. He led them into a large greenhouse, which had borders populated with more weeds, but with trestles filled with plants and shrubs, which were being grown on.

‘Potted these up last year. I'm a bit late getting them planted out.'

Rafferty wondered where he was going to put them, given that the borders already looked overfull, but perhaps, like his ma, he'd find somewhere to cram them.

‘Your man said on the phone that you wanted to talk about young Ainsley. Terrible thing. Fine athlete, but a bit of a bully. Too much of a golden youth. Given too much, too soon. Only child. Parents too soft. Not a good combination, do you see?' All this was interspersed with vigorous attacks on the weed-strewn border, accompanied by plenty of huffing and puffing. Personally, Rafferty would have waited till the cooler weather returned. The borders looked as if they'd waited a while already so a bit longer wouldn't hurt.

Cedric Barmforth had just given Rafferty a potted history of Adam Ainsley's life and family background and saved him the usual painstaking questions and answers most witnesses forced him to go through.

‘I gather he had something of a colourful love life?'

‘You could say that. Matron had a stream of weeping girls in her room for tea and sympathy. Myself, I always thought Ainsley had a fine contempt for the fair sex. Flitted from one to another and never settled, breaking hearts left and right.'

‘What about enemies? A sporty boy who was a hit with the girls must have created some resentment.'

‘Lord, yes. But he was always a big lad, do you see? Few boys cared to take him on.'

‘That indicates that some did.'

‘Ha! Yes. One or two. Young Kennedy fancied his chances. Got a gang of boys together and beat the stuffing out of him. Gave him a good thrashing, of course. Wouldn't stand for private gangs.'

‘Sebastian Kennedy, you mean?'

‘That's the one. Rebellious youth. Always in my study. Clever, mind. Shame he didn't go to university. Lazy. Hardly worked. Passed his A Levels with ease. Did no studying. Took drugs. Thought I didn't know. Wasted life.'

‘You've heard that Sophie Diaz, Sophie Chator, that was, has also been found dead?'

‘Yes. Another lazy one. Married young. Invited me to the wedding. I went, too. Flashy show. Marquee on the lawn. Posh frocks. Morning suits. Looked the poor relation. Ha. Good spread. Give her that. Husband a banker. Filthy rich.'

‘I understand Mrs Diaz was another one of Adam Ainsley's girlfriends?'

‘Lasted longer than most. More weeping against matron's ample bosom. Often wished Griffin was still just a boys' school. Not my decision to let girls in. Board of Governors. Mistake. Claimed she was pregnant. Wanted to get Ainsley in trouble. Give him a fright. And it did. False alarm. More tears.'

His particular form of verbal shorthand conveyed more information than any amount of normal conversation and Rafferty was grateful for it. He hadn't known that Sophie Diaz had had a false alarm. He wondered if Ainsley had denied paternity and asked Mr Barmforth.

‘Tried. Said she'd been with plenty of other boys. And she had. Little strumpet. There's always one. Bit of a hoo-ha before she found out her mistake. Took the wind out of Ainsley's sails for a bit. Stupid boy. Gave him some condoms and told him to use them. Catholic or no Catholic. Too many people in the world already.'

‘Did any of his discarded girlfriends threaten revenge?'

‘No, nothing like that. A tad Romeo and Juliet, and though Romeo didn't threaten suicide some of the girls did. Few angry fathers. Nothing serious. Tears and tantrums, but no lasting effects. Youngsters resilient.'

Maybe not all of them, was Rafferty's thought. He named the females amongst the seven reunees that had shared Ainsley's table and asked if any of them had been amongst those to threaten suicide.

‘No. Not as I remember.'

Rafferty asked him about the other reunees, but Barmforth was able to give him little pertinent information. ‘It's the bad ones that stick in the mind, do you see? Have more to do with them, of course. But only Sebastian Kennedy amongst your lot could be so described. Young Adam wasn't a lover of rules and regulations either, mind, but he didn't end up in my study as often. My Head Boy, Giles Harmsworth, used to deal with him mostly.'

By now the borders were weed-free. Barmforth was sweating profusely and he cast his shirt aside and, in his vest, he started to rake the weeds into a pile.

There was nothing else Rafferty could think to ask him, so they made their goodbyes.

‘You know your way out? Must get on. Lot to do.'

They made their way through the untidy bungalow and back out into the sunshine. Rafferty was sweating. It had been like a sauna in the greenhouse. Just watching the energetic Barmforth had been enough to make him perspire. Not so Llewellyn, of course. Cool as a lime ice-lolly he looked in his pale green jacket. It made Rafferty want to spit. Once back in the car, he mopped his face with a wad of tissues from a box he kept in the glove compartment. The car was another steam bath and he began sweating again. He took a sniff of his armpit. His ‘Cool Man' didn't seem able to cope with the current temperatures. He hoped he didn't offend the bank manager.

Mr Jarvis was a punctilious little man. He was bald and round and bore a striking resemblance to an egg. His office was in complete contrast to Cedric Barmforth's home. Fussy wasn't the word. After greeting them, he sat down and immediately straightened his already straight blotter, aligning his pen just so.

‘Mr Adam Ainsley. You wanted to know about his finances? Not a prudent man with his money. He was sent the usual savings information, of course, but he never filled in the forms. A professional sportsman. They're not always very wise. A tad Lester Piggotish in their financial affairs.' Mr Jarvis smiled at his little joke.

‘Are you saying he owed money to the taxman?'

‘I don't know. But I shouldn't wonder. Certainly no payment to the Revenue and Customs came out of his account. Not since he moved it to this bank a year before he retired from playing professional rugby.'

‘So he lived up to his income?'

‘Lived beyond it, Inspector. Lived beyond it. Very foolish. He made no provision for the future. I tried to advise him, but he was a headstrong man. Seemed to think his stardom would guarantee him an income. It didn't, to judge from the state of his current account. I think he regretted his lack of prudence. Too late of course. Like a lot of my clients.'

Thinking of blackmail, whether as victim or otherwise, Rafferty asked, ‘did he have any unusual or unexpected sums of money going into or coming out of his account?'

Jarvis gave him a sharp glance, straightened his pen and blotter again and then said, ‘Funny you should ask, but yes. Several sums of money went into his account.'

‘Who were they from?'

‘I don't know. They were just paid in over the counter.'

‘When was the last payment made?'

Jarvis checked his computer screen. ‘A month ago. These sums were pretty regular.'

‘Every month?'

‘More or less.'

‘How much?'

‘A thousand pounds each time. Came to a tidy sum as it had been going on for the past twelve months.'

‘How long do you keep your CCTV images for?'

‘I thought of that, but I was too late, I'm afraid. The tapes from the day of the last payment have already been wiped and reused.'

So, apart from learning that Ainsley was a thousand pounds to the good every month from a mysterious source, they were no further forward. Who could have paid him the money and why? It was going to niggle at him until he found the answer.

He thanked Mr Jarvis, gave him one of his cards and led the way out down to the car and the post mortem.

Sam Dally was in good form. ‘Someone take a photo. This once-only event needs to be recorded for posterity. Inspector Rafferty is on time for the post mortem.'

‘Oh, ha ha,' went Rafferty. ‘You're so droll. I just hope you're a better pathologist than you are a comedian.'

‘Of course I am. I'm the
sine qua non
of pathologists. But enough of this badinage. I've got a lot on this afternoon, so I suggest we make a start.'

Sam fairly raced through the post mortem. Rafferty had never seen ‘Dilly' Dally's knife slice so quickly. Rafferty concluded he must be on a promise. When it was over, he said, ‘I'll want the toxicology report tagged as urgent.'

‘Of course you will. So does every other detective.'

‘Ah, but I'm the only one in the parish with a fresh murder case. That gets me priority.'

‘If you say so.'

‘So, what's on now, then, Sam? Got a date with your Mary for a bit of love in the afternoon?'

‘At my age? I should be so lucky. My days of love in the afternoon are long gone. I'm hard pressed to fulfil the expected conjugals at night, never mind in the day as well.'

‘You want to reply to some of those Viagra ad emails.'

‘So do you with your child bride. How do you keep up with her?'

‘I'm not that much older than Abra. Only twelve years.'

‘Yes, but when she's forty-eight, you'll be sixty and reaching for your pipe and slippers. Anyway,' said Sam, breaking up this latest idle chitchat having had the last word, as usual. ‘This lady was a healthy young woman. Her heart was in good nick as were her liver and lights. Altogether she should have lived to her three score years and ten and beyond.'

‘So you don't know what killed her?'

‘No.'

‘And you a
sine qua non
. Slipping, or what?'

‘I think you'll find it's “or what”. But as you requested, my beautiful assistant will put a priority tag on for toxicology. Satisfied?'

‘It'll do me.'

‘We aim to please. So what have you got on? Some flitting around the country using up your superintendent's budget?'

‘You bet. See you later, Sam.'

Alice Douglas lived in Norwich. It was a straight run once they got on the A11 and, even with the traffic, it took no more than an hour and a half to reach the city's ring road. ‘Where now?' Rafferty asked. The heat had made the satnav go all cranky and Llewellyn consulted the notes he had taken from the A-Z of the city before giving him directions. The Welshman was as efficient in this as he was in everything else and, shortly after, Rafferty pulled up outside a neat terraced house in a suburban street.

The front garden was paved over to accommodate a car, but pots were dotted around the edges and sprouted red geraniums and poppies and tall, creamy lilies.