There was no way he could impede the investigation into ‘Nigel’, who, as Harry had soon discovered, had shown such a particular interest in the two victims; it would only draw unwanted attention to him. But as he didn't want his cousin to remain in the frame for longer than necessary, before Harry Simpson and his team discovered that Estelle had supposedly left the party in The Elmhurst with ‘Nigel Blythe’, Rafferty had set his other little deception in motion. He had felt he had no choice about arranging the hastily improvised burglary at Nigel's apartment; if he hadn't his cousin would have squealed at the first opportunity. As it was, convincing his cousin to keep silent had been a close run thing.
It was fortunate that Harry Simpson had decided,- until Nigel Blythe could be traced and interviewed, to keep his name under wraps. It was the reason his cousin had agreed, albeit under protest, that as he couldn't even officially
know
about the murders, he would keep quiet for the time being. After all, as Rafferty had pointed out to him, he had an alibi and would soon exonerate himself once his whereabouts had been officially traced. But if Jerry, under pressure, decided to come clean, what was he to say?
Rafferty thanked his guardian angel that Jerry had been miles away in York at the times of both murders and would, as he had claimed, be able to provide solid alibis for both.
Jerry hadn't reckoned on getting involved in a double murder inquiry when he handed over his ID for a ‘lark’ and two hundred smackers. Neither had Rafferty, but at least, unlike Jerry, he expected shortly to be in a position to attempt to guide events.
Guilt and unwillingness to expose his guilt to his cousin's sharp-tongued fury had encouraged Rafferty to put off ringing him. But aware it was likely to be only a matter of time before Harry Simpson discovered Jerry's whereabouts, Rafferty knew he had to get in first and ‘fess up to his cousin before Jerry blurted out his involvement. And when Rafferty had finally plucked up the courage to confess to Jerry that he had unwittingly been put in the frame for murder, Jerry, not unnaturally, had been as livid as Rafferty had feared.
‘You
said there'd be no grief. Nothing dicey you said-’
‘I know what I said,’ Rafferty had told him. ‘But be fair – how was I to know some murdering madman would join the dating agency? I know I've landed you in the shit and–’
‘Damn right you have. And if it wasn't for the fact that my love life's a thousand times more successful than yours and gives me a rock solid alibi for Saturday night I'd be in it up to my neck. It's no thanks to you that I'm not.’
Rafferty supposed he should be grateful that Jerry's boasts about his love-life were not idle ones and provided him with a solid alibi from an unimpeachable if undoubtedly slightly promiscuous source.
‘Look, my colleagues may not realise it yet, but believe me, you're out of it,’ Rafferty assured him. ‘I'm the one in it up to the neck.’ He ignored Jerry's muttered ‘good’ and added, ‘but even though you've got an alibi for Saturday, the night of Estelle Meredith's murder, I lost no time in setting up a scenario that leaves strong doubts that you even joined the dating agency.’
‘I didn't,’ Jerry forcefully reminded him. ‘That was you. Remember?’
Rafferty did, only too clearly.
‘Anyway, tell me about this so-called brainwave of yours that'll convince your colleagues I had no involvement. Though, to be brutally frank, dear boy, the thought of a brainwave from one of the Rafferty side of the family does little to inspire confidence.’
‘I staged a little burglary at your flat.’
‘Apartment. It's an apartment, not the dingy Council accommodation the word flat brings to mind,’ Jerry, the estate agent, had automatically insisted, before it dawned on him what Rafferty had said. ‘You did what? If you've broken anything, I'll–’
Rafferty had interrupted before Jerry got into his stride. ‘Calm down. Nothing's broken. But don't you see, this way, the use of your credit card and passport is easily explained. And the layout of those flats – apartments,’ he quickly corrected himself, ‘was designed for maximum privacy which means that no casual visitor to the other apartments would be likely to notice the door to yours was ajar or tell how long it had been that way. And they didn't. I checked.’
Rafferty had made sure he kept within sniffing distance of the investigation from the time Estelle's identity was established and knew almost as much about it as Harry Simpson. Harry had been unable to find anyone who knew anything about the burglary or when it had occurred, apart from Rafferty's other cousin, the obliging Terry Tierney, who had reported it. As far as Harry Simpson and his team knew – or would know as soon as they officially traced Nigel to York – the apartment had been broken into the night Nigel had left for his estate agents’ convention by someone who had watched him load his bags into his car boot in the parking bay that had thoughtfully been allocated the same number as his apartment.
Rafferty, not wishing another of his cousins to have a hold on him, had told Terry he hadn't reported the burglary because he wanted to avoid the paperwork. Thankfully, Terry, aware of Rafferty's aversion to pen-pushing, had swallowed his excuse and agreed, for a consideration, to ‘discover’ the burglary for him.
‘I've arranged for Terry Tierney to ring you with the bad news,’ he had told Jerry, ‘just to cover our backs. It will be natural for you to rush home and go through the motions of checking what's been ‘stolen’.’
‘Just make sure that nothing else goes missing in the meantime. It'll be down to you if it does. I've got a lot of expensive gear in that apartment and–’
‘It won't.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Jerry sneered. ‘And how did you explain that? A burglar who doesn't like top of the range electrical gadgets? It's not very likely.’
‘A lot of burglars are opportunistic. They'll take credit cards, money, passports and other portable stuff that can be easily sold on. And another thing,’ Rafferty had added as he thought on the hoof. ‘Don't forget you'll have to query the bill from the Made In Heaven dating agency on your credit card statement, as it'll be a large one. And cancel the card.’
At this reminder of the additional trouble to which he'd be put, Jerry cursed Rafferty. ‘This is the last time I do you a favour,’ he hissed down the phone. ‘As if it's not enough that I'm now the chief suspect in a murder enquiry I'm going to have the grief of replacing my passport as well. Not to mention having hassle with the credit card company. They're sure to think I'm pulling a fast one to get out of paying their huge bill.’
Rafferty tried to inject a little humour. ‘I thought you said not to mention that?’ Unsurprisingly, it didn't go down too well.
‘Don't get funny with me, you bastard.’ By now, Jerry had totally lost the smooth estate-agent-speak and reverted to his normal voice. It was thin with spite. ‘I've a good mind to drop you in it.’
Alarmed, Rafferty soothed him. Luckily, he had remembered in time to call his cousin by his adopted name. ‘Don't do that, Nigel. You might be the family's first estate agent, but surely you don't want to be its first grass, as well? Please. Trust me. I've sorted it.’
‘You'd better have,’ Jerry told him. ‘I trusted you before and look where it's got me? I'm going upstairs to pack now while I wait for Terry's call. Your ‘sorting’ had better have cleared me by the time I get home.’
Rafferty
had thought it prudent not to mention to his cousin when he had rang him on Monday that his expensive designer suit would also have to be disposed of. Being too-easily identified as the one Rafferty had borrowed, it would also have to form part of the ‘burglar's’ haul along with his passport and credit card. He sighed as the thought hit him again that it was something else for which he would be expected to pay. Unfortunately, after his self-administered pep talk, Rafferty had gone shopping on the Sunday after he had met Estelle and his purchases of new suits, shirts, etc, had put a serious dent in his credit card limit. He had invested in three new suits, six new shirts and another pair of Italian loafers. They were currently sitting in his wardrobe and taunted him every time he opened the door. So much for his ‘investment’. God knew when he might next have an opportunity to wear them.
Uneasily, he wondered what Jerry would say – and do – when he discovered the ante had now been upped to two murders... He didn't even dare to ponder how much it would cost him to buy his cousin's silence a second time.
Rafferty was beginning to think fondly of his trouble-free days as a sad, lonely, unloved git. He was still all those things of course, but now he had other worries. Joining the dating agency had brought more than its share of grief; so much for positive thinking, look where it had landed him.
But as he thought of Jenny and Estelle and their poor, slashed and battered bodies, he reminded himself that he still had his life. And where there was life there was hope. He must remember to tell that to Jerry/Nigel.
It
was later that week when Rafferty learned the one piece of good news to come his way since Bill Beard had broken his happiness bubble. And it came courtesy of Superintendent Bradley of all people. Although Rafferty felt sorry for Harry Simpson, he was relieved to learn that the fates should have played into his hands so swiftly.
‘So, with Harry Simpson gone off on long-term sick leave, the Lonely Hearts case is now your baby.’ Brusque as only a true Yorkshire-man can be, Bradley dumped a pile of files about the murders on Rafferty's desk. ‘Familiarise yourself. Go and see Simpson and pick his brains, see what he's been keeping to himself. When's Llewellyn back from honeymoon?’
‘Monday.’
‘You can have him on the team.’ Bradley gave what for him passed for a smile. ‘Posh lot at that dating agency,’ he commented. ‘All double-barrels and how-now-brown-cow accents, likely. You'll need Llewellyn's dainty touch. Not to mention his intellect.’ Bradley added the acid reminder. ‘It was your sergeant who solved your last case, wasn't it, Rafferty?’
Rafferty sat silent and grim-faced at Bradley's taunt, knowing he daren't defend himself. If he got his dander up who knew what he might let slip? He consoled himself with the thought that, although he hadn't gone to university like Llewellyn, and whatever Bradley might infer, he wasn't about to be voted in as the Village Idiot.
But perhaps he was, he reflected, as Bradley slammed out of his office. After all, finding himself in charge of a double murder investigation in which he, or rather, his alter ego, Nigel Blythe, featured as chief suspect, wasn't the brightest of achievements.
How simple it had seemed at the time. His plans had slipped into place with a magical ease previously unknown to him. But of course the magic had turned out to be of the black variety which had used a siren's voice to lure him in. Now he was snared, good and proper.
But at least, he assured himself as he looked down at the pile of reports the super had dumped on his desk, by having this case under his own control he would be in a position to steer it away from his cousin. And while he waded through the pile of reports to ‘familiarise’ himself with the inquiry, he had the perfect excuse to avoid interviewing any of the other suspects. Better yet, Llewellyn would be back on Monday. Somehow he'd manage to palm most of the interviews off onto him. At least, by then, the changes in his appearance he had decided were necessary would have matured sufficiently to render the witnesses’ recognition of him as Nigel Blythe far less likely. He hoped so, anyway.
Rafferty,
now officially in charge of the case, made the time to get himself over to Harry Simpson's home. As the Super had remarked, Harry Simpson had a habit of keeping certain things to himself in his investigations. Rafferty was desperate to find out if Harry had kept something back on the Lonely Hearts case.
Harry lived in a tiny flat in a shabby house on St Mark's Road, near the busy commuter station. The street was noisy, not only with the sound of trains, but also with through traffic and the revving of engines as people queued to get into the station car park a few yards down from Harry's front door.
As Rafferty parked and got out of his car, he reminded himself to stay in his own character and out of Jerry's. Harry Simpson might be sick unto death, but he was still sharp enough to notice if he let slip something that only Nigel Blythe could possibly know.
Rafferty pressed the buzzer for Harry's flat and waited. It was some time before Harry answered and released the front door. Rafferty climbed the stairs to the first floor, knocked and walked in through the door of the flat which Harry had opened for him.
Harry lived alone. Divorced by a wife tired of being a police ‘widow’, he was father to four children he barely knew and never saw. Now, stripped of family, home and money, the career for which he had sacrificed everything had also abandoned him.
The flat had two rooms plus a tiny kitchenette with bathroom off. It was a grim little place, the wallpaper faded circa 1950s drab and curling off the wall in places. The furniture screamed ‘job lot of other people's discards’. But Harry had never cared about such things. Until he had finally gone on sick leave, home, whether the marital one or this dreary bachelor flatlet, had been a place he had spent little time. He rarely even ate there as the station canteen was both Harry's larder and cafe. The police force had been his life, even when not on duty or eating, he had still spent a lot of his time loitering in the station canteen to pick up snippets of gossip about other cases.