Unsure how to proceed, Rafferty glanced at Llewellyn, but the Welshman wouldn't meet his eye. Not that he'd really expected any help from that quarter. Llewellyn might be a smart-arse when it came to Latin, but he was hopeless in situations like this.
Still smarting from his own inability to understand the Latin inscription, Rafferty decided that Mastermind could at least make himself useful. Jerking his head sharply at Llewellyn, he mouthed: 'Fetch the housekeeper.'
Rafferty pulled up a chair beside Henry's crumpled-looking figure. Briefly, he gave him the few facts. Henry didn't respond, just sat rocking his lanky body backwards and forwards, as if the movement gave him comfort.
Before Rafferty could break it to Henry that they had good reasons for suspecting that his wife's death hadn't been a natural one, the housekeeper, who must have been hovering like the Grim Reaper outside the library, appeared at his elbow and instantly took over.
It was apparent that Henry Longman was the sort of man who brought out protective instincts in the most unlikely women, as the otherwise formidable housekeeper patted Henry's hand and clucked soothingly at him.
'What you need after such a shock is a hot drink and a lie down.' Glaring at Rafferty, as if Barbara Longman's death was all his doing, she clasped Henry to her thin bosom and marched him to the door. Before Rafferty thought of stopping her, she had shut it firmly behind them, leaving the two bemused policemen staring at it.
Rafferty had hoped to get the body formally identified, but he supposed it would wait. He was about to suggest they return to the station, when the front door slammed, and a loud voice informed the house at large, 'I'm home, Mrs Griffiths. Any news?' Presumably Mrs Griffiths had failed to appear quickly enough, for the voice boomed out again, more impatiently, 'Mrs Griffiths? Where the devil are you?'
Rafferty was ashamed of the momentary relief he felt that it had been Henry's wife who had been murdered, rather than the new arrival's. He guessed the impatient voice must belong to Charles Shore, old Maximillian's only son. He certainly sounded a chip off the old block. As he gave the portrait another glance, he hoped it was the only part of him that resembled the Shore patriarch.
Chapter Three
MRS GRIFFITHS MUST have abandoned Henry for long enough to explain what had happened because, ten seconds later, the door to the library was flung open and a vigorous-looking man of about thirty literally erupted into the room. He made the kind of impact that Rafferty – who had undeniably lost face to the housekeeper – could only admire.
The new arrival shut the door and came forward with outstretched hand. 'Inspector? Charles Shore. My housekeeper's just told me the news about Barbara.'
The white lines around Shore's mouth were the only things that betrayed his shock, for his voice was clipped, as if directed by an iron self-control. Rafferty's hand was pumped in a painful, iron grip, and as he flexed his crushed hand, he wondered if Shore approached everything in life with the same competitive intensity.
'Henry knows, of course? You've told him?'
Rafferty nodded. Although it was apparent that Shore wasn't the type to attempt to run away from reality like Henry, Rafferty sensed that Barbara Longman's death had affected him profoundly, and it surprised him. Although people's reactions to sudden death were often unexpected, he knew the dead woman wasn't a relative; Shore had explained on the phone the previous evening that he hadn't even known her for more than a few years.
Charles Shore was a fleshily handsome man; his jaw-line just beginning to acquire the jowls from good living that usually came far later in life. But, for now, his excess weight was easily balanced by his height and vitality. Physically, he had little of his father in him; Maximillian Shore, to judge from his portrait, hadn't over-indulged in the pleasures of the flesh in any form. He had the gaunt features of a religious fanatic, though his religion had been the amassing of wealth rather than zealous disciples. The only touch of that formidable man that Rafferty could see in his son was in the eyes, which, like Maximillian Shore's, were a light and piercing grey; sharp and calculating; they gave the impression they would miss little and that little would be irrelevant.
Burying whatever grief he felt under a business-like exterior, Shore went to the door and bellowed again. 'Mrs Griffiths? Bring some coffee, will you? I'm sure you'd like a cup, Inspector,' he remarked as he shut the door. He glanced at Llewellyn and frowned as if someone had just reminded him of his manners. With a quick, disarming smile, he added, 'and your sergeant, of course.'
Llewellyn's mouth set in a thin line as Shore unerringly identified him as the junior, and his face took on the bland expression of a waxwork dummy. Rafferty, recognising the rarely apparent signs of displeasure, felt a fleeting amusement. His sergeant so often gave the impression that he considered himself the superior that Rafferty took a very human pleasure in seeing him set down.
When the housekeeper hadn't brought the coffee two minutes later, Shore, as impatient at home as he must be in the office, excused himself and strode out of the room, his demanding tones fading as he disappeared in what Rafferty assumed was the direction of the kitchen.
With a quick glance at Llewellyn's still shuttered face, Rafferty let his mind dwell on Charles Shore. Although he gave the impression of being an autocrat like his father, Rafferty didn't feel that Shore had been intentionally patronising—it was more that, as the top man, he was used to dealing with other top men. It amused Rafferty to be bracketed, even temporarily, with such an elevated crew. To a man as successful as Shore, lowly assistants like Llewellyn were there merely to do what they were told. Apart from their duties, he would rarely consider them or their needs.
It wasn't the first time Rafferty had been granted such an insight into the rarefied world of the powerful. Such men seemed to share a single-minded outlook that was alien to his own easy-going nature. Their drive for profit made them less like fellow human beings and more like computer-controlled machines that calculated everything in percentage points.
He was surprised to discover that he'd taken to Shore; there was something disarming about the man. Of course, he hadn't done anything yet to make him dislike him, he reminded himself, at least not in person. But on bored Sunday afternoons, Rafferty occasionally browsed through the city pages, and because Shore was the local tycoon, he'd taken the trouble to read about him.
Although it had mostly been above his head, he'd learned something about Shore's exploits in the world of corporate take-overs, international deals and behind the scenes fixing. He'd grasped enough of it to understand that the columnist, with his oblique references to insider dealing, had implied that Shore skated close to the line that separated the just legal from the downright criminal, and did it very skilfully. There had been a hint of admiration in the way the article had been slanted. Rafferty couldn't see what there was to admire. In his book, cheating was cheating, whatever fancy name you might give it, and the more successfully you cheated, the more despicable a human being you were likely to be.
Warily, he reminded himself that Charles Shore was very successful, and he hadn't achieved his current position by being understanding or forgiving of others' failures. Rafferty could only hope he succeeded in solving the case with a more impressive speed than he usually managed.
'Mrs Griffiths didn't know how Barbara died,' Shore remarked casually as he returned, slamming the library door to behind him. Llewellyn winced and glanced upwards, as though implying that Shore should have a care for the new widower. Apparently unconcerned that his remark revealed he'd been pumping the housekeeper, and oblivious to Llewellyn's silent reproach, Shore turned away to pour himself a large scotch from the supply neatly concealed behind one of the bookshelves. Although his voice was firm as he enquired, over his shoulder whether Barbara Longman had had a car accident, his hands were less obedient. They had a slight tremor, Rafferty noticed, and his entire body seemed to tense as he waited for Rafferty's reply.
'No, sir. It wasn't a car accident.' Rafferty cleared his th
roat, and told him quietly, 'Although the post mortem has yet to be carried out, I'm afraid there's little doubt that Mrs Longman was murdered.'
Shore turned sharply towards them; either unaware or uncaring that he had slopped some of the Scotch from his glass to the expensive rug. 'Murdered?' he repeated.
Rafferty nodded. 'She was found dead in a place called Tiffey Meadow, about ten minutes' drive from here. We believe she was suffocated. The pathologist thinks she died sometime yesterday afternoon, possibly shortly after she left here.'
'Suffocated? But...' He broke off and stared at them from eyes darkened to a smoky charcoal, shaking his head, as if, like Henry, he would prefer to deny what he had heard. But Shore was a much stronger character and it took him only a few moments to force out the words Rafferty could see forming behind his intelligent eyes. In a choked voice, he asked, 'Like the women in Suffolk, you mean?'
Rafferty gave a reluctant nod, wishing he could tell him otherwise. He did his best to minimise the news. 'Though we can't, of course, be sure at this stage, sir. We'll know more when we've spoken to the Suffolk CID.'
Shore frowned. 'But surely, you can tell? Weren't the women in Suffolk beaten and... and...' He seemed to find the word "raped" difficult to get out.
'The pathologist is fairly certain she wasn't raped,' Rafferty quickly reassured. 'But, of course, we'll have to wait till the post mortem for that to be confirmed.' As Rafferty recalled the single mark on the dead woman's temple and her peaceful expression, he felt able to offer more definite words of comfort. 'She certainly didn't suffer a beating.'
He had hoped the news would provide some solace. Instead, Shore's face tightened, his eyes narrowed to slits of chilly grey that evoked memories of The English Channel in February, before he turned abruptly away. His voice, when he next spoke, was formally polite, whatever passion he felt ruthlessly extinguished. 'Thank you for coming so promptly to break the news to me—and Henry. I appreciate it.' He turned back. 'You've told Henry what you suspect?'
Rafferty admitted he hadn't. 'I'm afraid your housekeeper took him away before I could tell him any more than that his wife was dead. But I'm not sure he would have taken it in in any case.'
'You're probably right. Henry has always favoured the head in the sand approach to unpleasantness. God knows how he'll face up to this when he finally surfaces.' His expression a curious mixture of exasperation and empathy, Shore added, 'If you like, I'll break it to him.'
Relieved to be rid of one burden, Rafferty nodded gratefully. 'Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.'
'Though it'll have to wait till later today.' Briskly business-like once more, he glanced at his watch and told them, 'It's unfortunate, but I'm due at a very important meeting in an hour. Can't miss it, I'm afraid. I only came home to pick up some papers and check if my mobile phone had turned up. It went missing yesterday—my family tend to forget who owns the damn thing.' Shore put down his glass and came to an instant decision.
'I'll ring Henry's GP. Get him to come over and give him a shot of something till I've got time to deal with him.'
For all the world as if he was talking about some dumb animal, thought Rafferty, half-appalled. But, perhaps he wronged the man. Shore seemed the type who would take practical measures to deal with grief, whether it was his own or anyone else's. And, from what he'd seen of Henry, escape from reality, however brief, would be welcomed.
Shore picked up the phone and dialled. Without breaking the even tenor of his breathing, he fielded an obstructive receptionist and was put through to the doctor. Luckily, Henry's GP seemed only too happy to obey Shore's command that he come over right away.
'When do you expect the post mortem to be carried out?' Shore enquired, as he hung up. With a grim smile, and to Rafferty's relief, he supplied his own answer. 'Knowing public servants, I don't suppose it'll be before tomorrow.'
Rafferty didn't bother to contradict him. Shore wasn’t to know that Sam Dally tended to set his own priorities and they didn't always coincide with his own. Still, in view of the case's similarities with the Suffolk murders, he was reasonably hopeful that this time, Dally wouldn't feel it necessary to live up to his name.
'Now then, Mr Shore,' Rafferty began, anxious to make some headway. 'Perhaps, I could just get a few details from you?' Persuasively, he added what he felt certain would appeal. 'Just to save time, you understand?' Shore nodded. This was obviously an argument he couldn't fault. Time was money. 'You called me last night to report Mrs Longman missing. Did you do that as soon as you arrived home?'
'No. When Henr—perhaps I should explain that Henry is my ex-brother-in-law. Anne, my elder sister, was his first wife. They divorced several years ago and Henry married Barbara soon after.'
Shore seemed to have forgotten that he had already explained all that on the telephone, and Rafferty decided to use Shore's lapse of memory to indulge his own curiosity. 'And you were happy to let him live here with his new wife?'
Shore's reply was light and Rafferty thought he detected a tinge of irony. 'Oh, yes. It suited me admirably.' He went on, more briskly, 'I'm afraid my wife, although she's the mother of two children, isn't exactly the maternal type. But Barbara was and the children very quickly came to love her.' He blinked and gave them a bleak smile. 'So you see, Henry isn't the only one who'll miss her.' After a taut pause, he went on, 'Anyway, I came home at eight thirty yesterday evening. Barbara was supposed to be at the hall in Elmhurst, rehearsing a play with my young daughter, but when my daughter came in shortly after, we discovered that Barbara had never arrived at the hall.
'Naturally, I made a few enquiries myself, before I contacted you, but Barbara was a reliable woman and wouldn't go missing for hours without letting someone know where she was. After trying the hospitals with no joy, I rang you.'
Rafferty nodded. 'I see. Mr Longman said something about his wife going to the meadow because of the wild flowers. I take him to mean she had gone there to pick them?'
This seemed to provide Shore with a grim amusement. 'I hardly think so, Inspector. Barbara was a dedicated conservationist. From what I understand, she had gone there, on her way to the hall for the rehearsal, in order to stop someone else from destroying them. According to my housekeeper, she took a telephone message for Barbara about three o'clock yesterday afternoon from one of Barbara's conservationist friends. Barbara went rushing off immediately after that. From what I was able to glean from Mrs Griffiths, the message was that the farmer down the road was about to plough up a meadow full of rare wild flowers, this—what did you call it? Tiffey Meadow. Barbara was furious, apparently. Not much gets –' his lips turned upwards in a peculiarly bitter smile as he corrected himself, 'got – Barbara upset, but she was a staunch conservationist. Kind, but firm, in all areas of her life bar that one. She even worked in the offices part-time for a small salary.'
Shore's words not only explained why Mrs Longman had been at Tiffey Meadow, but they also signalled the first suggestion in Rafferty’s mind that someone other than the Suffolk serial killer had murdered her. Could it be just a tragic coincidence that, in attempting to save the rare flowers she loved from destruction, she had been destroyed herself? It was certainly an odd business, and one which he intended to look into at the earliest opportunity.
'You'll want someone to identify the body, I imagine?' At Rafferty's confirmation, Shore remarked, 'In the circumstances, I think I owe it to Henry to relieve him of that unpleasant duty. If I hadn't persuaded them to come and live here, Barbara would still be alive.' Shore seemed to give himself a shake, before he went on, 'I can come now if it won't take long.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'Charles?' A woman's voice wafted along the hall. 'Mrs Griffiths has just told me the news about Barbara. Why didn't you tell—oh,' she excused her interruption. 'I didn't realise you had company.'
To Rafferty's amazement, as soon as she set eyes on Llewellyn and himself, the sharp, complaining manner vanished, and, like a chrysalis shedding its outer casing, the wo
man was transformed into a butterfly, whose automatic response to men – any men – was to flutter and flirt. Even her slim body seemed to develop more curves as she posed automatically in the doorway, mobile phone in one hand, while she smoothed her expensively tousled blonde hair with the other. Her reaction might have been appealing in a teenager, but in a mature woman, it was ridiculous, as if she had never grown beyond the coquette's tricks to gain male attention. As he glanced at Charles Shore, Rafferty found himself pitying her. Didn't she realise that her husband found her behaviour irritating rather than appealing? Or didn't she care?
She raised the mobile phone carelessly, as though to explain what she was doing with it. 'I found it in Carlotta's room, though when I asked her if she'd had it, she denied it. That girl's such a liar.'
'This is my wife, Hilary.' Briefly Shore introduced them. The introduction was clipped, as if its necessity annoyed him. Once it was done, he didn't spare her another glance; nor did he bother to spare her feelings. 'As Mrs Griffiths had told you that Barbara's dead, you might as well know the rest.' Bluntly, he added, 'The police think she was murdered.'
She gasped, and as if to signal her distress, she dropped with easy grace into a convenient armchair. Shocked or not, she still managed to display her figure to best advantage, leaning forward so her cleavage could be admired, and, after making sure she had got their attention, she directed eyes huge, moist and appealing, at the two policeman. 'Murdered! I can hardly believe it. Poor Barbara. I do hope she didn't suffer?'
As she murmured the words of horror and grief while rearranging the hem of her skirt to show more of her tanned legs, Rafferty was struck by their insincerity. Like a less than grief stricken mourner at a funeral, he felt she was merely uttering what the conventions demanded. Her eyes, too, betrayed her, because, in the brief fraction before she lowered her lashes over them, they showed her real feelings—she was glad Barbara Longman was dead, very glad.
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