'What's the joke?' Llewellyn asked, as he finished his careful parking
manoeuvres.
Rafferty glanced at him and his chuckles subsided. 'Nothing. I was just
remembering an incident from my schooldays, that's all. You wouldn't appreciate
the joke if I told you.'
Llewellyn shrugged and climbed out of the car without further comment.
The last of Rafferty's amusement vanished at the thought that, for
Maurice Smith, there had been no "Ma" to stand up for him. According
to Records’ information on the family, the mother had been a weak, not over-bright
woman and had been as much a victim of Bullock as her son. Bullock could have
beaten him black and blue if he'd chosen and no one would have tried to stop
him. And, Rafferty reminded himself, Smith's body
had
been black and
blue, some of the bruising was confirmed as having occurred before death. And
not long before death, either. Such a beating would certainly explain why
Darren had said Smith had driven like a maniac. After a beating at the hands of
a man like Bullock, it would be surprising if Smith was able to drive at all.
Rafferty found himself wondering who was the real criminal in all this:
Smith, or the stepfather who had treated him little better than a despised cur.
The worst thing was, he realised as he followed Llewellyn into the Bacon
Lane back entrance to the police station, that Bullock would get away with it. And
it was
his
fault. He'd handled the interview badly. He should have
brought Bullock to the station to question him. It was too late now. If he had
been lying he'd have already contacted his mates from the nearest public phone
box and primed them with what they were to say. And his mates, being no friends
of the police, would undoubtedly be more than happy to back him up.
Although he was beginning to share Llewellyn's feeling that it was
unlikely that Bullock had actually killed his stepson or had any involvement in
subsequent events, Rafferty felt it could be said that Bullock had effected a
killing of sorts; a slow, long drawn-out killing of whatever spirit Smith had
had, and in so doing, had created another monster
Rejected by society, rejected and beaten by the nearest thing he had to
a family, Maurice Smith had still clung on, desperately seeking a sense of
belonging. Had that desperation encouraged him to willingly open his door to
his murderer? Massey, for instance? Hoping a plea for forgiveness, for
understanding, would be heard, had he instead, been forced to plead for life
itself?
Perhaps, Rafferty thought, as he climbed the stairs to his office and
the endless paper mountain that always awaited his return, he'd find out
tomorrow when they questioned Massey again.
The next morning, while Mary Carmody and Hanks drove up to London to see
Frank Massey, Rafferty, with no great hopes, went through the motions of
checking Jes Bullock's alibi. He wasn't surprised when Bullock's friends
confirmed his story. According to them, they had all been at the flat of Mick
Coffey, another of Bullock's cronies, from about seven-forty till just before
nine-thirty on Thursday night, when Bullock had left for his usual drink.
Rafferty was disinclined to believe them, but he couldn't prove they
were lying. Still keen to give Bullock his comeuppance, he had despatched
Llewellyn and Lilley to question Coffey's neighbours. But again, as with their
inquiries about Smith, the icy weather had kept most people indoors, so their
questioning was fruitless. No one had seen Bullock either arrive at the flat or
leave it. Nor had anyone seen or heard his car even though it was a sad and
rusty Ford, and, according to Bullock's own neighbours, had an engine as wheezy
as an asthmatic's chest.
Still keen to charge Bullock with something, on their return, Rafferty
sent Lilley out to try again.
'You don't want me to go with him?' Llewellyn asked.
'No. I've got another little job for you,' Rafferty told him. He nodded
to Lilley and the young officer went out. 'You're coming with me to see Stubbs
and Thompson to find out what alibis they come up with.'
'I thought we'd already concluded that they hadn't—'
'I know we've managed to talk ourselves out of suspecting that they
helped Massey,' Rafferty broke in. 'But we haven't done the same if the
scenario changes to them acting without Massey. He's not the only one still
under suspicion, not by a long chalk.'
'He's the only one to be caught out in a lie,' Llewellyn reminded him.
'Exactly. The only one to be caught. But if the liars and thieves in the
population only consisted of those caught out, what a wonderful place the world
would be. Come on. Let's get it over with.'
However, it wasn't so easy to catch Stubbs and Thompson out in lies. Prompted
either by innocence or canniness, they claimed to have recently discovered a
mutual interest in angling and that they had gone night fishing the previous
Thursday evening. Although they had no other witnesses but each other to back
up their story, instead of telling tall fishermen's tales to add
verisimilitude, each was smart enough to say they had caught nothing, thus
ensuring that freezers empty of fish didn't weaken their lies.
‘If they
were
lies,’ Llewellyn had felt obliged to put in as they
left Thompson's home after he had backed Stubbs' story.
'Bit of a coincidence that they should both take up such an
uncomfortable hobby recently. And in the middle of winter, too,' Rafferty
retorted. Although far more favourably disposed towards them than to Bullock,
Rafferty couldn't persuade himself to believe them either.
Frustrated by stalemate on several fronts, Rafferty hoped their visit to
the Figg family might produce something more than yet another exercise in
futility. Unfortunately, even with the assistance of "Curly" Hughes,
one of Burleigh's most experienced officers, they had been unable to get the
Figgs to shift from their previous dogged stance.
Of course, as Rafferty was aware, families like the Figgs knew how to
use the law to their advantage; they'd had plenty of practice at it if what
Hughes had told them was anything to go by.
They had finally managed to speak to Tracey Figg. She had turned out to
be timid, and, as Rafferty had feared, had not only looked to her father for
the answer to each question, but, in general, appeared so cowed that she would
have made a hopeless witness even if they succeeded in getting anything
valuable out of her. But her parrot-like repetitions of her father's promptings
was all they got and, like a cow chewing the cud in a favourite part of the
field, she couldn't be shifted from it.
Only nineteen, she already had three children – all with different
fathers if the range of skin tones were anything to go by. She had a collection
of bruises, too, which to judge by their coloration, were fairly recent. Of
course, in a family like the Figgs, who were likely to hit first and ask
questions after, if at all, violence was probably a way of life; the bruises
didn't necessarily indicate that she had been persuaded to collude in the
concealment of murder.
The interviews, like Llewellyn's previous efforts, were conducted in the
noisy squalor of the family's living room. And, as Rafferty had prophesied, one
of the children had thrown up over Llewellyn's trousers just as Tracey had made
her first stumble in the obviously rehearsed tale. And when the nauseous
toddler had started up an unearthly wailing which set his siblings and cousins
up in sympathy, they had beaten a hasty retreat to the relative peace and
freshness of the yard.
Rafferty paused long enough to check if any of the vehicles differed
from those which Llewellyn had noted on his previous visit. They didn't. And
none of them had been noticed as being parked near Smith's flat on the evening
of his murder, either. Not that that proved anything, of course. That was the
trouble, Rafferty fretted as he followed Llewellyn and Curly out of the Figgs’
yard. Proof — of anything — was in very short supply.
'I did warn you what they were like,' Llewellyn muttered in aggrieved
tones as he dabbed ineffectually at his trousers with a wad of tissues. 'I
wouldn't be surprised if they coached those children to vomit to order.'
'Very likely. You must admit it's an effective ploy. That and the
bawling got rid of us pretty sharpish.'
Hughes, brought along as the local expert on the Figgs and their tricks,
and reduced to red-faced fury when he had proved inadequate to the task,
suggested hauling them into the station one by one. After mopping his gleaming
bald head, he said, 'We should be able to get 'em for something. If nothing
else, those dogs of theirs look vicious. They're sure to have bitten someone.'
Like Llewellyn, Rafferty had had enough of the Figgs. Anyway, given the
family’s tendency to violence, he doubted they'd get anyone to come forward
even as a witness to the viciousness of the Figgs’ dogs let alone anything else,
so he vetoed the plan. 'Didn't you say the sons have a reputation for being
handy with knives?'
Curly Hughes nodded.
'Would you like to get on the wrong side of such a tribe? If I was one of
their neighbours, I'm damn sure I wouldn't. No. Thanks for the offer, but we'll
leave it and concentrate on the Elmhurst end. At least, if the Figgs are
involved, any witnesses we turn up there are unlikely to know them or their
reputation and would be less likely to be shy at coming forward.'
After dropping Curly Hughes off they made their way back to Elmhurst. At
the station, Llewellyn disappeared into the toilets to wash the Figgs from his
trousers. Rafferty's rumbling stomach beckoned him to the canteen for a bacon
sandwich and a consoling mug of tea. It was there that Llewellyn found him
twenty minutes later.
'Carmody just phoned,' he said. 'Bad news, I'm afraid.'
Rafferty grunted, 'That makes a change,' and carried on sipping his tea.
'Frank Massey's gone missing.'
Rafferty's tea slopped over the canteen's chipped table. He'd been
complaining that the case had come to a standstill and he wanted something to
break, he reflected. But this wasn't quite what he had had in mind. Llewellyn's
choice of words penetrated and he demanded sharply. 'You said
"missing". You don't mean—?'
'No. He's just missing. An entirely voluntary disappearing act,
according to Sergeant Carmody. When he didn't answer her knock, she persuaded
his landlady to let her and Hanks into his room. His passport's gone and so
have most of his clothes. His car is also missing. No one seems to have seen him
since about eight last night when his landlady saw him drive off.'
Rafferty was relieved to learn that even if he'd despatched Carmody and
Hanks to collect Massey when they first got the truth from Great Mannleigh
nick, it wouldn't have made any difference. Now, at least, he realised why
Massey had told them such a stupid, easily disproved lie. It had given him
time; time to get away. And that was all he had wanted.
'What about his books?'
'Books?' Llewellyn frowned. 'She made no mention of books. Is it
important? If so, I can get her on the radio.'
'It'll keep. It's just that he was a book-lover, like you. They were his
escape from reality, if you like. Or, perhaps,' Rafferty corrected, as he
recalled some of their titles, 'they were a form of hair-shirt – a constant
reminder of the past and his own failures. And if he's left them all behind,
maybe it's because he no longer has a need for them in that way.'
'They're symbolic, you mean? That the failures are a thing of the past,
not the present.'
'Could be.' Rafferty swallowed the rest of his tea at a gulp, thrust his
chair back and strode back to his office. When he got there, he glanced at the
wall clock. ‘One o’clock,’ he muttered as he did some swift calculations. 'If
Massey left yesterday evening he's had, what? Seventeen hours or so to make
good his escape. He could be anywhere. Still, at least his doing a bunk would
seem to let his daughter out of the running, wouldn't you say? He'd hardly
skedaddle and leave her to face the music alone if she was the one to kill
Smith.'
Llewellyn nodded. 'Sergeant Carmody said she spoke to Alice Massey again
when they discovered the girl’s father was missing and she now believes Alice
had nothing to do with Smith's murder. The girl's mother says they spent that
evening playing scrabble and that Alice certainly didn't slip out at all. She
was extremely shocked when she realised the reason for Carmody's questions.
'Another point in the girl's favour is that when Sergeant Carmody went
back first thing this morning to check the bus and train staff again, no one
recognised the descriptions of Alice or her mother. They all swore they didn't
see either of them travelling to Elmhurst on Thursday evening, at least. Jaywick's
a small place and out of season strangers would be likely to be noticed and
remembered.'
Rafferty nodded. Mary Carmody was a good officer. And, even without
Frank Massey's disappearance, if she was now convinced that Alice had had
nothing to do with the murder, he would have been inclined to trust her
judgement. Another point against Alice's involvement, he now realised, was her
anger. If she had either killed Smith herself or known that her father had
finally avenged her, that anger would surely have subsided? It hadn't. It was
still bottled up inside her. One less ball to juggle, Rafferty told himself.
'Do we have any idea how much money Massey had with him?' he now asked.
'Carmody's checking that now.' Llewellyn paused. 'She did learn one
thing that might be significant. According to Massey's wife, he and Elizabeth
Probyn used to be very close at one time. They were all three at college
together, I gather, though in different years. She claims her ex-husband and
Elizabeth Probyn had an affair then. The implication being that Ms Probyn might
have helped him get away.'
Rafferty frowned. 'I can't see Elizabeth Probyn risking her precious
career because of some ancient sentimental attachment between her and Frank
Massey.'
'Not so ancient, according to Mrs Massey. She seems to think that her
ex-husband and Ms Probyn might recently have become friendly again. If it's
true he might have confided his intentions to her.'
Rafferty thought it unlikely and said so. 'Still.' He tapped his pen
against his lips. 'We've got to cover all avenues, though I can't say I relish
the prospect of questioning our esteemed prosecutor about her love life. How
the hell do you tactfully ask her if she's into aiding and abetting murder
suspects to do a bunk?'
Llewellyn, aware that Rafferty frequently had trouble in the diplomacy
department said, 'Perhaps I should–'
'No.' Rafferty shook his head. As he explained to Llewellyn, he felt he
owed her the courtesy of questioning her himself. 'Not that she's likely to
appreciate it. What about Mrs Massey herself? I don't suppose she had any idea
where he might have gone? Or the daughter?'
'None. Massey said nothing to either of them. And though Mrs Massey
didn't have any idea where he might be, according to Carmody, she did express
the hope that it was somewhere very warm.'
Rafferty grinned and joked, 'Love, that many splendored thing, hey? Where
does it all go? Sounds like she shared my old man's views on holy wedlock; that
two hours before you die is time enough to get hitched.' He stopped abruptly,
appalled to find himself talking about love with Llewellyn. It was not a
sensible move. Llewellyn's next words confirmed it.
'Clever trick to manage,' Llewellyn muttered and added half to himself. 'Maybe
I should bear it in mind.'
'No,' Rafferty hastily answered. 'The two hours before you die
philosophy is only for cynics like my old man and worn down women like Mrs
Massey. You're too young and innocent to follow such a creed. Anyway,' he
finished with a forced cheerfulness. 'It's too late. Ma's bought her hat.'
Fortunately, Llewellyn didn't take the opportunity to confide any other
thoughts he might have on love, splendored or otherwise. And Rafferty, already
hung about with an uneasy feeling that his well-intentioned nose-poking had
dragged a divisive Mrs Llewellyn too early into the lovers' embrace, hastily
broke the silence before it encouraged such confidences.
'To get back to the task in hand, I want the number of Massey's car
circulated. If he's left the country as seems likely, it may be dumped at one
of the air or sea ports. Get on to them, Daff. You know the drill. We need to
know if Massey has left the country, and if so, where he's headed for. Does he
speak any foreign languages, do you know?'