The only possessions of any interest in the living room were the mementoes of a lifetime in the police force. Scrap books of newspaper cuttings of his cases – both successes and failures – were piled high on every flat surface. Half-a-dozen commendations were piled in another corner, though on the floor this time and more carelessly than the newspapers. But then Harry Simpson had never thought much of his so-called superiors or their commendations. Invariably, as he had confided to Rafferty, they had been given at the wrong time and for the wrong reasons.
The gas fire was full on and churning out such a blast of heat that as soon as Rafferty entered the living room he began to sweat. Harry, though, looked to have no sweat in him. Bone-dry and brittle-looking, he appeared skeletal. The effort of answering the intercom in response to Rafferty's ring had clearly exhausted him. He lay collapsed in an old armchair that sagged nearly as much as Harry, breathing from an oxygen bottle.
Strange, thought Rafferty, that during all the weeks Harry had gritted his teeth and dragged himself into work, he had managed to stave off the exhaustion. It was clear he could stave it off no longer. The acceptance that he was unfit for work had finally allowed him to give in to his body's weariness; his body had taken advantage of such weakness to get its own back
When he could get his breath, Harry gasped out, ‘I know. I look like death. Just don't say it.’
Even Rafferty wasn't that tactless. He offered to make tea, his ma's cure-all, but Harry, long past such cures, shook his head. ‘Can't stomach it. Make some for yourself. There's no milk.’
More to give him time to compose some non-incriminating questions about the case and for Harry to get his remaining breath back, Rafferty walked the few steps through to the tiny kitchenette, filled the electric kettle, plugged it in and began to assemble the makings of tea.
After a while, Harry asked, ‘You said on the phone you've been assigned to the Lonely Hearts’ case.’
Rafferty came to the doorway and nodded.
‘Thought you would be.’ He sighed, adding as if Rafferty was entitled to an explanation for his presumed lack of grit. ‘I knew, when the second girl was found and I realized we might well be in for the long haul of catching a serial killer, that I wasn't up to it.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘You should have heard the Super when I told him I wanted to be taken off the case. You'd think I got this bloody disease deliberately just to spite him.’
Rafferty could imagine. ‘So you won't be expecting him to come sick visiting bearing a bunch of grapes and a bottle of Lucozade?’
‘Every cloud has a silver lining.’ Typically, Harry didn't waste time on self-pity. ‘You've read the files?’
‘Made a start, anyway,’ Rafferty admitted cautiously.
Harry grinned. ‘You and paperwork were never soul-mates, were you? Suppose you want to pick my brains?’
‘That's the general idea. Bradley seemed to think you might have kept something back from the reports.’
‘Into casting aspersions as well now, is he?’
‘And – have you?’ Rafferty forced himself to ask.
He might as well not have bothered because Harry just said, ‘All in good time,’ and posed a question of his own. ‘The first victim – the presumed Jenny Warburton – the one found behind the rubbish bins at the Cranstons’ home – you managed to get a confirmed ID yet?’
Rafferty nodded. ‘After you established that red hatchback left at the side of the Cranstons’ house was hers it was always going to be unlikely that the body wasn't also. You said in your report that the Made In Heaven staff you'd managed to question denied that any Ms Warburton was at the party, which is a bit suspicious, as I know-’ Abruptly, Rafferty broke off. He had been about to add that he knew that Jenny had been at the party as not only had Guy Cranston introduced them, Rafferty himself had chatted to her for a sizeable part of the evening. His name, or rather, Nigel's had been marked off on Caroline Durward's clipboard; surely Jenny's had been also? Of course, his had been marked off while he had been at the bar collecting refills, but hidden in the alcove as she had been for much of the early part of the evening, it was possible Jenny had been missed out which would explain the discrepancy. From the reports Rafferty had so far waded through, it was clear that Guy Cranston had yet to be questioned about her presence.
‘You were saying,’ Harry prompted.
‘What?’
‘As I know, you said. What do you know?’
Harry's sunken eyes looked, to Rafferty's guilty conscience, to have a certain sly knowingness. He had the uneasy feeling that Harry was playing him like a gipsy violin. Quickly, he improvised. ‘Just that the agency must have a record of her if she is one of their members.’
‘According to Mrs Cranston – Caroline Durward as she seems to call herself – Jenny Warburton
is
a member. At least, she's on their computer as such. I hadn't been able to speak to Guy Cranston about the matter before I went sick. Although neither Mrs Cranston nor any of the other staff admit to knowing the girl, she seems to think a part-time member of staff took the Warburton girl on. They must have done, because she's certainly in the agency computer as being a member. Unfortunately, I was told this part-timer is currently on holiday and uncontactable.’
‘Damn. That's inconvenient.’
It's all in my records. I thought you said you'd read them? Missing Llewellyn I take it?’
‘I said I'd made a start,’ Rafferty corrected. Harry's comment made him uneasily aware that his efforts to backtrack and appear to know nothing were as likely to place him under suspicion as knowing too much. It was going to be a very rickety bridge for him to balance on in the coming days. Scared now to open his mouth at all, Rafferty thought it wiser to say nothing.
Harry, after another penetrating stare, told him, ‘the agency's rechecking their files. Said they'd get back to me. You'd better let them know you've taken over the case.’
Rafferty knew what he had to do, but he let Harry have his say and merely nodded, made his tea and sat down opposite his old colleague.
Harry stared at him as if only now taking in his changed appearance. It seemed to amuse him, if the harsh splutter that issued from his lips could be called laughter. ‘So I was right,’ he managed to force through the spluttering before a bout of coughing took over.
Rafferty licked suddenly dry lips. And though his mouth now felt as arid as Harry's laughter, the raised tea-cup made it no further, but hovered in mid-air while the scalding black tea slopped dangerously. ‘Right about what?’ he asked warily when Harry's coughing bout had subsided to a dull wheeze.
‘About you being the man who we thought had done a bunk – the chief suspect, Nigel Blythe.’
CHAPTER SIX
As Harry
uttered Nigel's name, the hot tea jerked from Rafferty's cup and scalded his hand. He cursed, leapt from his seat and hurried through to the kitchen to run cold water over it. As the water gushed over his puckering flesh, he muttered to himself, ‘How did he guess? How did I give myself away? What did I miss?’
But the damage was done. And little as he relished the prospect of Harry grilling him, he could hardly remain in the kitchen posing questions when Harry was the only one who knew the answers.
When he had sat down again, Harry held out a piece of paper. Rafferty looked at it for several seconds before he took it, as gingerly as if he feared it might suddenly grow a mouth and bite him. And as he looked at the paper, he suddenly found himself having to fight for breath as hard as Harry. For it was an artist's impression of his pre-disguise self and an excellent likeness.
‘That's this so-called Nigel Blythe,’ Harry told him. ‘I take it you recognise him?’
Stunned, Rafferty could only nod. His hastily constructed cover-up had been for nothing, he realized. He might have known it would be a waste of time. Didn't murderers always give themselves away? But I'm not a murderer, Rafferty silently protested. Maybe not, but things were looking black for him. After he had told so many lies who was going to believe him now if he tried to protest his innocence? What would Superintendent Bradley say? Worse, what would he do? But Rafferty feared that was one question to which he did know the answer.
Shock had slowed his thought processes and it took him several more seconds to wonder why Harry had so far failed to report his discovery. He tuned back in to what Harry was saying to find out.
‘Luckily for you, none of the witnesses could agree about Nigel Blythe's appearance. The witness who gave that description,’ he nodded at the paper fluttering like a wounded butterfly in Rafferty's hand, ‘came the closest, but I managed to wear him down until he doubted himself and ended up describing someone far less like you.’ Harry's sunken eyes were again staring at Rafferty. ‘Tell me I was right to do that.’
Rafferty managed to gasp out, ‘You were right, Harry. Never doubt it.’
Harry simply nodded and handed him something else. ‘You'll be wanting to lose this as well.’
‘This’ was a small cassette tape of the type used in telephone answering machines. ‘It's from the Warburton girl's ansafone.’
Rafferty had been worrying about the messages he had left on Jenny's machine; Harry was offering Rafferty the lifeline he had been denied. Overcome with gratitude, Rafferty felt a desire to unburden himself. ‘Let me explain– ’
But Harry cut him off. ‘Don't bother. I can't spare the energy required to hear how you managed to get yourself into this ridiculous situation. Just be glad I believe you didn't kill those girls.’ As an afterthought, he added, ‘And be even gladder that I feel reluctant to make our revered Superintendent's week by supplying the evidence that would enable him to get both of us out of his hair.’ He jerked his head at the tape. ‘That's the only copy. Yours are the only messages on it. Take it away and destroy it.’
Rafferty nodded, began to thank him. But he wasn't sure whether Harry had heard him before the sick man's eyes closed and he dropped into an uneasy doze. Rafferty tip-toed to the door, the evidence clutched tightly to his chest, and let himself out.
After
Llewellyn and Maureen's wedding, Rafferty, full of good cheer and Jameson's whiskey, had persuaded them to meet up with him on their return from honeymoon. After all, as he had jovially reminded them, he had a vested interest in their marriage. Without him there might never have been a wedding.
Now, with so much on his mind, Rafferty wished he had kept his mouth shut. He wasn't feeling too sociable just now – in fact, he had turned into more of a shrinking violet than he had been for a large chunk of the dating agency's first party, scared, every time he ventured beyond the station that he would attract the pointing finger and the accusation, ‘but that's him. That's Nigel Blythe.’
But Llewellyn, punctilious about such tentative arrangements as he was about everything else, rang him on the Sunday morning to confirm it was still on. And Rafferty, aware it would look odd if he tried to get out of the arrangement he had proposed with such enthusiasm, had no choice but to agree.
He practised happy smiles in front of the mirror before he set off. Every one looked strained and unnatural. With a fatalistic shrug, he turned away. At least he would get Llewellyn's reaction to his new look now rather than when he returned to work the next day. The last thing he wanted was for the Welshman's comments to start his other colleagues off again with more uncomplimentary remarks about his new look and someone began to wonder what had really prompted it. Fortunately, thanks to Harry Simpson, none of them had had the opportunity to see the police artist's best effort at capturing the face of the supposed ‘Nigel Blythe’. Even more fortunately, the artist was new and had never met Rafferty. Rafferty did his best to keep it that way.
He and Llewellyn arranged to meet at The Black Swan. It was near to Rafferty's flat so he could walk there. Neither Llewellyn nor Maureen drank alcohol so they didn't mind driving. He wondered what they would have to say about his altered appearance.
He didn't have to wait long to find out. From behind his recently-acquired spectacles, Rafferty squinted round the saloon bar. With difficulty, he located the tanned and happy pair at a corner table. He joined them, being extra careful to avoid tripping over the furniture on his approach.
He forced out a jaunty, ‘How do?’ by way of greeting. ‘So how was the honeymoon?’
They both glanced up at him and did a double-take.
‘New look,’ he explained in as airy a fashion as he could manage as he sat down. They had got him a drink in while they awaited his arrival and now Rafferty picked up the pint of Adnams bitter and swigged a third of it back. ‘Was getting stuck in a rut,’ he enlarged. ‘So what do you think?’
Maureen was the first to recover. ‘Did somebody turn your head upside-down?’ she asked.
Rafferty managed a wry smile and waggled his spectacles at her. ‘These are at the top end, so I'm definitely the right way up.’
Llewellyn took a contemplative sip of his orange juice before he ventured a comment. ‘Glasses? They're new.’
‘Mm. Been getting headaches. Optician said I was suffering from eye strain. Not getting any younger, I suppose.’
Llewellyn looked surprised. As well he might. He'd only been away for two weeks and Rafferty had never before mentioned headaches or eye strain.