He would have to get rid of Jerry's passport and credit card. Rafferty sighed as he realized that, like Jerry's documents, his expensive designer suit was also going to have to be sacrificed. He had promised he would look after the suit and make sure any stains disappeared. He hadn't expected to have to make the entire suit disappear. But he couldn't risk someone recognizing it – especially if Jerry was in it at the time and looking almost as much like ‘Nigel Blythe’ as Rafferty did. He'd have to stump up for a replacement. To be on the safe side, the Italian leather shoes and the silk shirt he had purchased to wear with the suit would also have to go.
He had already lost Estelle Meredith. He couldn't help but wonder how much more his failed quest for love would cost him before the real killer was found and charged
He dropped into the station reception to speak to Bill Beard, whom he dragged from his immersion in The Mirror to check on the situation vis-à-vis Nigel's apartment. ‘So what's been found at this Blythe's home?’ he asked Bill's bent head. ‘Anything useful?’
Beard looked up from his newspaper for long enough to say, ‘Haven't despatched anyone yet. I'm waiting for a couple of the lads to be freed up from the murder scene. You know how short-staffed we are.’
Rafferty nodded. ‘I've got to go out. Just got a call from one of my snouts,’ he confided.
Beard, who had returned to his Mirror crossword, just grunted.
‘If anyone asks for me tell then I'll be back in an hour.’ Or two. ‘Bill? Are you listening, or what?’
‘Both.’ Beard raised his head from his paper for a moment. ‘I'm listening and or what-ing. Hang on a mo,’ he added as Rafferty made to leave. Beard's finger traced a line of print in the paper. ‘Thirteen down - enclosed place, four letters. Begins with ‘c’?’
To Rafferty, in the frame for murder, the answer came only too-readily to mind. ‘Cell,’ he said, with feeling. He only hoped he could avoid entering the answer to thirteen down.
As
soon as he had dropped his Ma back home after they had ‘discovered’ the burglary, Rafferty stopped at a phone-box. He had told Ma he would report the burglary, but he hadn't thought his plan through to this aspect. Now, of course, he realized that reporting the burglary was the last thing he should do. It would be extremely unwise.
This thinking on the hoof was a tricky business, he discovered. No wonder killers who murdered in an unpremeditated way so often got caught. There was no way he could afford to have his name connected with Jerry's. But amongst his many cousins there were a few more naturally obliging than others. Terry Tierney for one. Fortunately Terry was at home and ready to oblige - for a consideration.
Once he had organised the burglary and the reporting of same, Rafferty had some minutes’ leisure to think back on how he had managed to land himself in such a mess. Like most of the little problems of life that seemed to land in his lap, he had found it simplicity itself.
CHAPTER TWO
Rafferty hovered
on the pavement opposite Made In Heaven's Hope Street office, garnering courage while he essayed fascination with the pharmacy's window display. Finally, alert for familiar faces, he crossed the road and walked under the agency's sign of cherubs playing hide and seek amongst billowing white clouds and through the rose-tinted glass of the dating agency's door.
Inside, was a large and airy outer office, its walls hung with dreamy, soft-focus wedding photographs. Half-a-dozen easy chairs in soft pastel shades were grouped around low coffee tables bestrewn with magazines that followed the walls’ romantic theme.
All the faux-romantic ambience made Rafferty want to turn tail and run. Maybe he would have done, but the pink-suited buxom blonde behind the reception desk raised her head from her magazine for long enough to smile at him with eyes that didn't focus properly on his face and asked if she could help him.
‘I've got a 2.00 p m appointment with Ms Durward,’ Rafferty took a deep breath. ‘Name of Blythe. Nigel Blythe.’
The receptionist, her nose inches from the appointment diary, found his name and ticked it off. ‘Ms Durward will be free shortly. Please take a seat.’
Rafferty selected an easy chair with its back to the window, picked up one of the magazines and began to flick through the pages. Much like the ‘wedded bliss’ pictures on the walls the magazine featured impossibly beautiful brides, gazing adoringly at their equally handsome grooms. He closed the magazine with a snap loud enough to cause the receptionist to raise her head from her own magazine and gaze in his general direction.
Just then, a young man appeared from a short corridor off reception. He was good-looking with a cock-of-the-walk stride. The receptionist welcomed him fulsomely, calling him ‘Darius‘. He called her ‘Isobel’ and continued a conversation about his recent travels that must have started when he had first arrived. Isobel's sole contribution to the conversation was a liberal application of ‘absolutely's and ‘fab's and ‘groovey's every time there was a tiny pause. But as Darius seemed principally interested in talking about himself there were few enough of these. Thankfully, Darius must have had other urgent monologue engagements that day because he left shortly after.
Once he had gone, Isobel turned her attentions to Rafferty. Artlessly, she confided, ‘Darius is the son of one of Mummy's friends. He lives in the most wonderful style. Don't know how he affords it as according to his file he doesn't work and has no private means at all. Well, apart from the little importing firm he told me about.’ She giggled. ‘Said he'd let me have some coke at cost. Wasn't that darling of him?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Rafferty.
The intercom on Isobel's desk beeped, Isobel confirmed Nigel Blythe had arrived and was asked to send him through.
Rafferty walked along the short corridor, found the office, knocked and was bidden to enter, Caroline Durward stood up and came round her desk to introduce herself. Rafferty placed her around the mid-thirties. Tall, three or four inches under Rafferty's six foot, she was a little overweight, but it was extra poundage she carried with dignity. On the plain side, with a prominent nose, her make-up, though heavy, had been expertly applied to make the most of her assets of flawless skin and clear grey eyes. In contrast to the romantic decor, she wore a business-like skirt suit in a brisk navy. She invited him to sit in front of her desk - a delicate-looking construction with ormolu gilding, the obligatory computer perched incongruously on top.
After he had handed over the form that had been posted to him for completion at home she glanced quickly through it and told him with a smile, ‘That seems to be in order.’
Rafferty shifted uncomfortably on his chair as Caroline Durward began to enter ‘his’ details on the computer, for although her manner was friendly, she put him in mind of Miss Robson, the deputy head from his junior school days. She had shared Ms Durward's well-modulated diction. It hadn't stopped her from putting the fear of God into the young Rafferty and his classmates— literally, as she was the Religious Instruction teacher. She had insisted they learn great tracts of the bible by heart and would send the blackboard rubber flying towards the head of the child who failed. So while half of Rafferty was trying to remember he was meant to be a cool middle-class dude, the other half prepared to duck.
A tiny frown marred the previous smooth perfection of Caroline's forehead. Rafferty guessed she had come to the section of his form that was liberally daubed with correction fluid. And as she glanced at Nigel's passport photograph, Rafferty presented her with his best ‘Nigel’ profile and gazed around him at the walls of the office which were decorated with yet more wedding photographs. He suspected they were mock-ups. Sensibly, he had made enquiries and discovered the agency had only been set up six months previously; scarcely time enough for so much wedded bliss to have occurred, he thought. There was even one such photo on Caroline Durward's desk, but as this one lost the dreamy soft-focus and featured a plain bride who was undoubtedly the younger version of Caroline Durward, with a groom whose eyes were so screwed up against the sun that his features were distorted, he guessed this marriage was real enough.
By now, Caroline Durward had bravely fought her way to the end of his form and had ‘his’ details entered on her computer. She looked brightly at him and said, ‘Now, Mr Blythe - or may I call you Nigel?’ At Rafferty's nod, she said, ‘Do call me Caroline. We like to keep things informal here.’ She went on to enlarge upon the information he had received through the post. ‘As our literature states, we're a small, select agency. We serve the professional classes.’
Rafferty kept his face straight as Caroline's rather heavy features darted an unconscious little moue towards his unprofessionally completed form, before she continued, even more brightly. ‘Apart from the guarantee of a minimum of two introductions, you'll be able to attend our regular parties and other functions – trips to the theatre, weekends away in Paris, Amsterdam and so on, so you will have the opportunity to meet as many of our members as care to attend. We also have many action-packed trips and weekends for our more physically-inclined clientele. I see from your form, Nigel, you're not much into physical pursuits.’
This last helped a tiny line force its way through the make-up. Tiny flakes of powder sat on top of it as if for emphasis. Rafferty began to feel he was becoming something of a disappointment to Caroline Durward. Quickly, he assured her, ‘I was sporty when I was younger. But nowadays I get little time.’
‘Time – always a problem for our members. Most of them lead such hectic lives. That's where we come in, of course. Like that old advert that claimed its product took the waiting out of wanting we try to do the same. And as an independent agency rather than part of a large chain, we're able to offer that important personal touch. We keep our gatherings small, usually no more than fifty, occasionally as many as a hundred, but never more than that. We mostly hold our regular ‘Getting-To-Know-You’ parties at my own home, so much more intimate than the usual hotel function rooms.’
Rafferty had a picture in his mind of 100 people crammed way-too-intimately into a standard three-bed semi. But Caroline soon reassured him.
‘Of course, my home, New Hall, is large enough to offer intimacy to such numbers without a crush. I think you'll find it attractive. Most people seem to. But its main advantage is that it makes for much more discretion than the more usual busy hotel locations, though we also make use of facilities at local 4-star hotels, like The Elmhurst. We find their annexe convenient as it's set in its own grounds apart from the main hotel so gives the privacy our members require.’
Rafferty relaxed so much under Caroline's practiced sales patter that he forgot his reservations and told her he was happy to sign up.
A few minutes later, she stood up, shook his hand and as she ushered him to the door, told him, ‘Isobel, our receptionist will take your fee and give you the personal invitations for our current social functions, a list of sensible guidelines, as well as a detailed map of Elmhurst and surrounds. We have two of our ‘Getting-To-Know-You’ parties coming up imminently. As you'll have learned from our literature, we hold a number of these each month to introduce new clients to the other members. Promise you won't be shy and will attend at least one of these parties?’
Rafferty promised, which seemed to earn him an approving smile.
‘Good. Good. Some of our clients tend to need the ‘mother hen’ approach,’ she confided. ‘That's more the province of Simon Farnell, another of the agency partners. Simon does ‘mother hen’ very well.’
Briefly, her eyes flickered with something that was far from a match for the lovey-dovey wedding pictures. Rafferty guessed that, like most businesses, the partners were at loggerheads about something. However, unlike her receptionist, Caroline Durward didn't treat him to gossipy confidences as to what it was about Simon Farnell's ‘mother hen’ approach to which she took exception.
They said their goodbyes and as Rafferty reached the second door in the short corridor it opened and a slim, fair-haired young man emerged. He gave Rafferty a wide smile.
‘A new member, I see. Let me introduce myself. I'm Simon Farnell, one of the partners. And you are?’
‘Nigel Blythe.’ So this was the ‘mother hen’, Rafferty thought. Farnell had the indefinable camp air and exquisite tailoring that proclaimed ‘homosexual’.
‘Good to meet you, Nigel.’ Farnell propped himself against the wall and stuffed his hands nonchalantly in his pockets as though preparing for a neighbourly gossip. He must have noticed Rafferty's frowning glance at the wedding pictures that also lined the walls of the corridor, for he quickly reassured, in a voice that must surely be heard through the panels of Caroline's office door. ‘Don't be put off by all the fake wedding pictures. I told Caroline they were a mistake, but she insisted they were necessary to create the right ambience. They might have been convincing, too, as I told her, if we'd been going for several years. But as it is–’ He broke off and sighed in a long-suffering manner that implied some people couldn't be told anything. He again shook Rafferty's hand with both of his and told him, ‘But I mustn't keep you. I expect you're busy, busy, busy like so many of our other clients.’
As Rafferty removed his hand from Simon Farnell's over-effusive handshake and re-entered reception, he wrinkled his nose. He hadn't previously noticed how cloying was the perfume Isobel favoured. Perhaps she'd just topped it up? There should be a law, he often thought, to stop people imposing their penchant for powerful pongs on the nostrils of others.