Carmody glanced quickly back at him. 'But Alice doesn't necessarily know
that.'
Rafferty stared at her as her quiet comment penetrated. 'Are you
suggesting we deliberately try to entrap a young girl into admitting she was
there, that she killed him? After what he did to her?' He frowned. 'Hardly
seems sporting.'
'But we're not involved in a friendly soccer match, sir,' she reminded
him. 'Admittedly, it wouldn't make you the most popular boy in the school, but
the question is, do you want to catch Smith's killer or not?'
Rafferty didn't answer her question. Unfortunately it was one he had
already asked himself several times. And even though, during the course of the
slow, stop-start journey, he had plenty of time to think about it, he still
didn't have an answer when they finally reached Elmhurst.
Liz Green and Llewellyn had still not returned by the time Rafferty and
Mary Carmody got back to the station. After a quick refreshments break in the
canteen, Sergeant Carmody set off for Jaywick to check out what Alice Massey
had told them.
Rafferty, left alone with his troubling thoughts, tried to keep busy. He
got on the phone to Great Mannleigh station to corroborate Frank Massey's
statement but the two officers who had picked him up were off duty and the
Custody Sergeant to whom he was put through was interrupted by wild, drunken
shouting before he could check his records. Yelling down the line, 'I'll get
back to you,' the officer put the phone down.
Rafferty sighed and glanced at the clock. He'd chosen a bad time to
call. Christmas drinking started early and like Elmhurst, Great Mannleigh’s
charge room would be cluttered with the human detritus of pub brawls and
domestic violence, their numbers swelled by the seasonal revellers. He sighed
again as he realised it might be some time before the Mannleigh Custody
Sergeant was able to get back to him.
He reached in his pocket for the bag of boiled sweets that had earlier
that year taken the place of the habitual cigarettes. However, the bag was
empty. Aware that if his urge for lemon sherbets wasn't quickly appeased the
older habit might resurface, he pulled on his coat and headed for the sweet
shop round the corner from the High Street.
It was a still afternoon, the air crisp but with the bite of a wild
animal and, after buying a fresh supply of tooth-rot, Rafferty was anxious to
get back to his warm office. He'd only walked a few yards when he heard music
coming from the High Street. He retraced his steps and turned the corner.
A Salvation Army band had struck up beside the Christmas tree and, in
spite of the icy greyness of the weather, a crowd had gathered. Illuminated by
the lights of the tree, the breath of each rose like a little phantom and
seemed, as it mingled with the rest, to encourage a warm camaraderie to which
Rafferty's current low spirits were drawn.
The crowd, encouraged by the band's enthusiasm and probably a tot or two
of something even warmer, were soon singing along to the carols with gusto. When
the band struck up with God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, Rafferty, who loved a good
singsong as much as most bad singers, forgot his problems for long enough to
join in, belting out the words in his off-key voice. It was only when the
opening bars of Mary's Boy Child, Jesus Christ gentled the mood that he
recollected himself.
What the hell are you doing, Rafferty? his conscience demanded, as it
reminded him: You're in the middle of a murder investigation. You've no
business to be singing carols. He crept away, hoping no one had recognised him.
When he got back to the station he tried to concentrate on reading the
reports that had accumulated in his absence. But, apart from noting that no one
had come forward to say they had seen what time Smith had arrived at the
Bullocks' flat last Thursday evening and that Sam Dally had rang back to
confirm that some of Smith's bruising had occurred ante-mortem, he took little
in.
Try as he might to stop it, his mind kept returning to what Mary Carmody
had said. Was he committed to finding Smith's killer? he asked himself again. Or
would he prefer just to go through the motions and report a failure at the end
of it? Part of him couldn't help feeling that bringing Smith's wretched life to
an end was the best thing for all concerned, Smith included. Yet, the other
half of him chimed in, is anyone, no matter what the provocation, entitled to
act as judge, jury and executioner?
Backwards and forwards his internal arguments went. No final answer
presented itself, but one thing he was sure of was that if he couldn't put
himself heart and soul to the task of catching Smith's killer, he should
consider asking to be taken off the case.
But, before he took such a step, he needed advice. To ask the opinion of
any of his family would be worse than useless. Their own petty foibles apart,
the Raffertys were staunch members of the hang-'em and flog-'em brigade. They
would think that Smith had got what he deserved and that the family’s token
copper shouldn't strain himself to catch his killer.
The only other person he felt he could ask for advice was Llewellyn. He
wondered what the Welshman would say if he went to Bradley and asked to be
taken off the case. But there was no comfortable answer there, either. He
didn't have to ponder the question for long before concluding that, Llewellyn,
although understanding of human frailties, was also a staunch believer in right
and wrong, the rule of law and personal responsibility and he would think he
was trying to avoid his own responsibility. He would be sure to remind him that
a policeman's job didn't just consist of catching vicious killers, but also the
perpetrators of the less clear-cut, more grey-shaded crimes, like this one.
And whether black, white or any shade in between, Llewellyn would
believe their duty as policemen was clear. Rafferty wished he found it easy to
separate the instinctive, human reactions from those of the law enforcer in the
way that the Welshman seemed able to.
Although still niggled by Mary Carmody's question when Llewellyn
returned, to his surprise, his dour sergeant provided a little light relief. Even
better, it seemed that something had dragged the Welshman's mind from the
gloomy contemplation of his love life, for now, Llewellyn's long and generally
lugubrious face quivered with something close to outrage.
'That family!' Llewellyn never swore, but the way he ground the words
out from between clenched teeth was the closest he was likely to get. 'They
shouldn't have charge of a cat, never mind a child. Yet they seem to have a
dozen or more of each roaming around that yard and cats and children both look
hungry and neglected.’
Rafferty gaped at him. He'd never heard Llewellyn go in for such sweeping
judgementalism; that was more
his
style. He just managed to hold back a
grin. 'I take it you're talking about the fruitful Figg family?'
Llewellyn nodded. 'Do you know what one of Tracey Figg's uncles said to
me?' he demanded. 'At least.' He frowned. 'I presume from his age and the
family likeness that he's one of her uncles. He said that if Smith hadn't
broken
her in
– his words, someone else would have. He even suggested she must
have taken to
rough loving
– his words again, as she always got herself
knocked
up
, made pregnant, by her more violent boyfriends. It never seemed to occur
to him that the early assault and subsequent feelings of worthlessness
experienced by so many rape victims might go a long way to explaining her
choice of partners.' Llewellyn threw up his hands. 'What do you do with such
people?'
'Not a lot you can do,' Rafferty told him. 'Though, if it'll make you
feel any better, you can take your frustration out on my expensive new chair. Giving
it a good kicking always does the trick for me.'
Superintendent Bradley had ordered the new furniture. Since being made
Great High Wallah Wallah in the Masons, his self-importance knew no bounds. And,
although the cost had strained Long Pocket's natural parsimony, pride had
dictated that the GHWW and his acolytes must be suitably seated. Frankly, even
though they whizzed about with a far more satisfying vigour than most of the
force, Rafferty doubted the chairs would catch many criminals.
'Families like that are sent to try policeman, Dafyd,' he soothed, when
Llewellyn had calmed down a little. 'They just don't think in the same way as
you or me. I doubt if thinking as such occupies much of their time at all. In
my experience, such people operate on a different level altogether; one of
instinct and appetite.'
'You make them sound like so many wild animals.'
Rafferty shrugged. 'They're human enough. Maybe I should say they
haven't
evolved
– too much in-breeding perhaps accounts for it – you've
only got to look at some of our so-called aristocracy to see the problems that
can cause. Anyway, with people like the Figgs, the usual civilizing influences
seem to pass them by. How do you instil a sense of responsibility, morality
even, in people who have no real understanding of either?'
Unwillingly reminded of his earlier brooding on where his own
responsibilities lay, Rafferty leant back in his chair and determinedly
concentrated his thoughts on the Figgs. 'I remember when I was young, there
were two or three families on our Council estate like the Figgs. They all left
school — when they went at all — without having learned much that employers
would regard as useful. Yet they were all canny enough. The men could all
figure out, without benefit of pen, paper, or calculator, what their winnings
should be from a four-way accumulator. And the women were all adept at
bamboozling whatever petty official the Council sent to enquire why the rent
hadn't been paid.'
His grin escaped his previous firm control. He couldn't help it. Part of
him admired people who managed to get the better of authority. He suspected he
shared something of the Figg outlook himself. 'I bet, if I asked any of the
current breeding stock, they could all tell me exactly what they were entitled
to from the Social, whether it's a new cooker or a cage for the budgie.' He
paused consideringly. 'So, apart from learning that compassion is their middle
name, what else did you discover?'
'That's just it.' Llewellyn slumped in his chair — a less grand version
of Rafferty's, but still impressive. 'I learned absolutely nothing. The men,
those who didn't just sidle out as soon as we arrived, all seemed to be called
either Jack or Jason. And the women all called themselves Mrs Figg, whether
they wore a wedding ring or not. The Jack who elected himself as spokesman
insisted they were all at home on Thursday evening, watching pre-recorded films
on their enormous television. Though, I'd have thought, given the size of the
screen, the quantity of Figgs, and the smallness of the room, there would
scarcely be space for half of them. WPC Green was of the opinion they'd need to
eat, sleep and watch television in relays.'
'What about the daughter, Tracey? Did you manage to see her?'
Llewellyn scowled as he was forced to admit, 'I've no idea. She might
have been there – there were several young women around the right age, but it
was impossible to ask them anything. They all seemed to have two or three
toddlers and babies scrambling all over them and half of the offspring were
screaming. And the smell!' Llewellyn gave a fastidious shudder.
Rafferty had known it was a mistake to send the bandbox fresh Llewellyn
to see the Figg family. He'd have been so busy stopping sticky fingers pawing
at his beautiful suit that he'd have been only too glad to leave; even the high
moral ground Welshman had his weak points. 'Never mind. We'll go and see them
together tomorrow.'
Like a bloodhound on downers, Llewellyn's whole face seemed to droop at
the news. Rafferty was just about to remind him that it was all part of a
policeman's lot, that he'd said himself that they had to take the rough with
the smooth, when, just in time, he remembered that Llewellyn had had no part in
his earlier internal monologue on duty and responsibility. Still, the family
had to be investigated, and he was damned if he was going to be the only one the
babies were encouraged to throw up over when the Figgs tired of being
questioned.
'It might be a good idea to borrow someone from Burleigh nick next time.
Most of the Figgs are, I gather, regular customers there. If nothing else,
they'll be able to tell us who's who.' Rafferty paused. 'What about the
Denningtons? Any joy there?'
With every appearance of relief, Llewellyn turned to the other family. 'They
seem to be out of it. Mother and daughter were both at a pantomime at a London theatre
that evening. The neighbourhood got up a coach party and most of the street went.
The coach didn't get back to Burleigh till after midnight. I checked and they
were both on the coach back from London and their neighbours vouched for their
presence all evening. So they had no opportunity to kill Smith.'
Rafferty nodded. Llewellyn's outburst had made him forget to ask about
Stubbs and Thompson, and now he did so. 'Any joy on the policeman front?'
Llewellyn met his eyes steadily. 'Depends on your point of view,' he
told him. His words indicated that he had guessed some of Rafferty's inner
battle. 'Stubbs goes over to his friend Thompson's house regularly once a week,
usually on a Thursday, though it depends what shift his relief is on.'
'I take it he went there on Thursday last week?'
Llewellyn nodded. 'Though, according to a witness I spoke to, neither
man remained there. They went out in Thompson's car around eight that evening –
the neighbour saw them go past his house and they still hadn't returned by
nine-thirty.'
'Mmm.' Rafferty pulled thoughtfully at his ear. 'You didn't alert Stubbs
or Thompson to our interest in them?
Llewellyn shook his head. 'All Stubbs will find out is that I called to
see him again, which is something he must have been expecting anyway. And I
doubt he'll even give the chap I spoke to the chance to tell him that much, as
he seems to keep the neighbours at arms' length. As for Thompson, all he's
likely to learn is that a stranger admired his house and was told it was
unlikely to be open to offers.'
'Good. If they're innocent, I don't want to make things difficult for
them. Thompson is still in the police service, after all. But now we know
they're still in the running we're going to have to question both of them more
thoroughly. We've given them every consideration so far, but it's time to take
the gloves off. I want to know where they went that night and why, and police
officers, or no, they'll answer.' He paused and gave Llewellyn a faint grin. 'Working
with you might not have given me the wisdom of a Solomon, Daff, but you must
admit my grammar's improving.'