Deadly Reunion (27 page)

‘Hello,' he said. ‘What are you doing here?'

‘I might ask you the same thing,' said Harrison, clearly not cowed by Paxton's headmasterly authority. ‘The old headmaster, Mr B, never came near the school in the holidays. Apart from a teacher baby-sitting the holiday refugees, it's always been my domain during such times. I hope you're not going to start checking up on me.'

‘Not at all. Let's just say it's a case of new men and new brooms, Mr Harrison,' said Paxton, resplendent in his holiday wear of a turquoise velvet smoking jacket. ‘I came here looking for a bit of peace. With three young daughters of my own at home, it's bedlam. They're all dancing round the living room to the latest pop sensation and I can't get any work done. Don't worry, I'll lock up after myself.'

‘See that you do, then. Or I can't be held responsible.'

Jeremy Paxton seemed more amused than offended by Tom Harrison's complaints and strictures; perhaps a truculent groundsman/caretaker was a school tradition, along with the eccentric headmaster. Nevertheless, from a certain glint in the headmaster's eye Rafferty found himself wondering how soon it would be before Paxton's new broom had swept the surly caretaker right out of the school. In these competitive days, you didn't get to become headmaster of such a prestigious pillar of education without knowing how to hire and fire. Or at least make recommendations. And it had to be said that Tom Harrison wasn't much of an advert for the school. If he was always this surly and insolent to visitors, it was a wonder he'd lasted as long as he had. Even Rafferty could see that the caretaker didn't project the right image. And nowadays, image was all. A case of never mind the quality, feel the width. But, apart from his efficient way with lawns and playing fields, Harrison, it had to be said, had neither width nor quality.

The ‘boys' in the boys' night out, consisting of Rafferty, his two brothers, Mickey and Patrick Sean, Cyrus, Louis and cousin Nigel, all met up, as planned, in the Horse and Groom, Rafferty's new local. After introducing the two Americans to the family, Rafferty introduced them to the concept of having a kitty and they both coughed up without a murmur. There was some discussion about who was going to hold the money, there being no non-drinking and ever-scrupulous Llewellyn in the party, but eventually, after much humming and hawing, Cyrus was elected to the office of cash holder, it being thought that, as a man of God, he could be trusted not to dip into the kitty for extra drinks for himself. As he took the money, Cyrus confided to Rafferty, he had hopes of converting the barmaid he had met during their previous sojourn in the pub, who had taken a shine to him.

He's a Yank, thought Rafferty. She probably thinks he's rich. Still, it had to be said that Cyrus, when he wasn't preaching to the unconverted, had a certain earnest charm about him. He heard the barmaid tell him she loved his accent and, right on cue, Cyrus came back with ‘And Ah love yours, too, honey. You'll have a drink with me?'

Of course, the barmaid said yes. Rafferty, as it dawned on him that he should have kept hold of the kitty himself, hoped Cyrus wasn't going to make a habit during the evening of buying new acquaintances drinks out of their kitty or they would end the night sober.

Cyrus came back with the drinks and they all sat down. ‘Not going to push your advantage with the barmaid?' Rafferty asked him.

‘Shucks, no. This is a family evening. Ah was just gauging her general openness to the Lord. Besides, Wendy told me Ah'm being too pressing about religion. She said it doesn't go down well in this little old country of yours. She told me Ah've yammered into your ears till they've started to bleed.'

Good old Wendy. Rafferty didn't contradict him. Maybe things were looking up on the Cyrus front. Now all he had to do was curtail his ma's eternal religious offensive as well as that of Father Kelly and he'd be home and dry. Atheism, here I come, he thought. He wished.

On the other side of Rafferty, Nigel drawled in his ear, ‘So how are you coping with all this family thing? Want to run away screaming yet?'

Rafferty took a sip of his Jameson's, then said quietly, so as not to be heard by Cyrus or Louis, ‘I might not have been keen on acting as a lodging house, I admit that, but at least I've made the effort, which is more than you've done.'

‘The way I heard it you weren't given much choice, so don't come that old self-righteous crap with me. Besides, families, I find, can be too claustrophobic up close. It's an illness. I can't help it.'

‘Bollocks,' said Rafferty. ‘Let's face it, Nig, you're just selfish to the core.'

Nigel wasn't even offended. ‘Very true. I find it's the only way to be to get on in this world. Maybe you'd have got higher in the police if you'd learned to put number one first, last and in between. And you might get on better with your superintendent if you kissed his arse occasionally, like I have to do with my wealthy clients.'

‘He'd probably fart in my face if I tried. No, I think I'll stick to tweaking his ego and his budget.' He turned to Cyrus and Louis. ‘Fancy a game of darts?'

Cyrus, up for experiencing everything English, enthusiastically agreed. ‘The local bar in ma neighbourhood has a darts board. Ah'm regarded as pretty darn good. What say we have a little bet?'

Rafferty was willing, though he was sure Abra wouldn't like him taking Cyrus's money.

In the event, he didn't have to take the American's cash, as Cyrus thrashed him. Cyrus was ultra competitive, he discovered, and there was not a sign of Christian charity in the way he played and the pleasure he expressed each time he won another game. Rafferty accepted defeat with as much grace as he could muster and paid up, though he backed out of playing any more games with Cyrus. His brother, Mickey, had been watching the game. He had thought Rafferty's thrashing at darts at the hands of an American, the funniest thing he had ever seen, but having watched the game he demurred when Cyrus offered to take him on, too. Nigel didn't play. Darts were beneath him. He thought the game ‘common', full of belching and beer bellies. Too much of the underclass about it altogether. Cyrus was forced to retire as reigning champion, so he went and got more drinks in.

Rafferty, Cyrus and Louis staggered down the main road from Elmhurst's centre, arms around each other, as much for mutual support as for camaraderie, bellowing out
The Battle Hymn of the Republic
for all their worth. Cyrus and Louis had been teaching it to them during the latter part of the evening. It was stirring stuff. Rafferty's pleasure in their poor man's ‘Three Tenors' rendition was spoiled only by Abra who, when he had eventually managed to make the stairs to their bedroom, complained she could hear them coming from half a mile away.

‘I'll have the neighbours complaining to me tomorrow. And we've only lived here for five minutes.'

‘Stuff the neighbours,' said Rafferty, in the glories of intoxication. ‘Complain who dare. I'm heading for the stars.'

‘You're heading for a hangover, anyway,' said Abra. ‘Get into bed and shut up, why don't you?'

‘None shall silence me,' Rafferty declared, in a valiant attempt at some quotation or other. ‘The landlords of three pubs tried, but we walked out those doors with our heads held high, singing our contempt for their petty rules. They hadn't got a music licence, they said, when Louis brought out a penny whistle to accompany us.'

‘You mean you got chucked out of three pubs?'

‘And barred. One of them doing the barring was our new local, so you can forget about enjoying their hospitality any time in the near future. Some people have no soul.' Thus saying, Rafferty fell into bed on his back and started snoring.

In vain, did Abra push at him and shout, ‘Turn over. I don't want to have to listen to that noise all night.'

Failing to either wake or move him, Abra, unlike the fighting republicans, rolled over, pulled the pillow over her head, and admitted defeat.

Gerry Hanks's and the team's further questioning of Adam Ainsley's other schoolmates was gradually bringing in more information. But, so far, only one ex-pupil had been cajoled into admitting that Ainsley had subjected any of the younger boys to sexual bullying and even he refused to come out and say the word ‘rape'. To make admissions more likely Rafferty had instructed his team to make sure they interviewed their witnesses in circumstances conducive to confessions and to avoid questioning anyone in the bosom of his family.

When the results were slow to trickle in, Rafferty had everyone in the incident room in order to give them a moral-boosting pep talk. Having been subjected to Cyrus's conversational style for the best part of two weeks, Rafferty felt he had learned something about public speaking and his rip-roaring team talk brought a new verve and they went back to their phones and their paperwork with greater vigour.

‘Is there really going to be plenty of overtime?' Llewellyn asked afterwards. ‘I didn't think Superintendent Bradley would sanction more outlay.'

‘He didn't. I've gone over his head, haven't I?' said Rafferty. ‘I've gone to Jack Mulcahy and he's OK'd some more money.' Jack Mulcahy was the Deputy Assistant Chief Constable for the county.

‘How has that gone down with the superintendent?'

‘About how you'd expect. I'm even less flavour of the month than I usually am. You watch, when we put in our expenses, he'll query every item. Anyway, let's get off. We've got three more suspect interviews to fit in today, so we'd better get a move on.'

Their re-interviewing of the other reunees was a time-consuming business, involving, as it did, many miles on the country's motorways to all points of the compass. But at least it got them away from the office and Bradley.

They went out to the car. The weather had turned cool and grey clouds, pregnant with rain, stretched from horizon to horizon. ‘Driving'll be fun when that lot starts chucking it down,' Rafferty observed as he did up his seatbelt.

‘I'll drive, if you like,' Llewellyn quickly offered. Never one to admire Rafferty's gung-ho style of driving, the Welshman always preferred to take the wheel when he could. But this wasn't one of those occasions.

‘We'll never get round Harmsworth, Sadiq and Fairweather if you're behind the wheel,' Rafferty told him. ‘As it is, we're lucky that Gary Sadiq had business in London today; we can get him and Harmsworth done before we see the mandarin.'

The rain started in earnest as Rafferty nosed out of the Bacon Lane car park. Soon it was hissing against the windscreen like so many biblical locusts proving almost too much for the wipers and he had to hunch forward over the wheel and peer through the screen with all his concentration. Beside him, Llewellyn was tense, the combination of his inspector behind the wheel and atrocious weather made him nervous. But even Rafferty had to go slowly in such conditions and soon Llewellyn gave up applying an imaginary brake and sat back and relaxed.

The journey into London was stop-start and frustrating. Even more so when they hit the M25, the so-called London orbital that Londoners had nicknamed the Giant Car Park. But eventually they arrived at the family home where Gary Sadiq was staying – the occupants of which seemed to have imposed some sort of code of silence because Sadiq had had nothing to add to what he'd already said and, eventually, Rafferty gave up his attempts to squeeze information out of him.

Back in the car, he made for Giles Harmsworth's home. Harmsworth lived in Canary Wharf, in a Thames-side apartment. Rafferty envied him the outlook if not the traffic.

Harmsworth was every bit as organizing and officious as he'd been at Griffin. He sat them down, decided that, as they were policemen, they'd want tea, and had it made and poured before Rafferty could be contrary and say he'd prefer coffee.

‘Remember me telling you that Alice Douglas had a baby?' Rafferty began. ‘Remember me asking if the kid might have been yours?'

‘Yes. Of course I remember. You never did tell me why you thought it a possibility.'

On the basis of you and Alice both being swots, he might have said. But he didn't. ‘Don't worry, sir. We've now discovered who was the father.'

‘That's a relief. I wouldn't like the possibility that I'd fathered an illegitimate child bandied about. My wife wouldn't like it.' He paused. ‘So, as you say you've now discovered the identity of the real father, why are you here? I really don't know that I can tell you any more than I've already done.' He glanced at his watch. ‘I've a few deals on the go, Inspector, and need to get back to work, so can we make this short?'

Rafferty said he'd do his best to oblige him. But as, one after one, he revealed Adam Ainsley's homosexuality, his pursuit of young boys at Griffin and the possibility of blackmail, he saw that Harmsworth wasn't shocked by any of it.

‘I was Head Boy, Inspector. It was my job to know all this, though of course I didn't know about the blackmail.' He paused, then added, ‘Or Alice's pregnancy.'

Rafferty admitted that blackmail was just a possibility and only one amongst several that they were considering.

‘You say you knew about Ainsley's homosexuality and his pursuit of young boys at the school. Did you do nothing to stop it?'

‘I tried to get evidence – Mr Barmforth, the then headmaster, was hot on evidence of wrong-doing. He didn't like to be told what he called tittle-tattle. But I never managed to get any. I caught Ainsley in the toilets with one of the younger boys once, but if he had been intending to assault the boy, it hadn't gone very far. Certainly the child still had his trousers on, so there was nothing I could take to the headmaster.'