RAFFERTY & LLEWELLYN BOXED SET: BOOKS 1 - 4

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RAFFERTY & LLEWELLYN BOXED SET: BOOKS 1 - 4 Page 27

by Geraldine Evans


  'Speaking of happy families. How goes it between you and Maureen?'

  Unfortunately, as Maureen was Rafferty's second cousin, and Llewellyn his partner, his Ma took a proprietary interest in the romance and was continually badgering him as to its progress. He wasn't surprised when Llewellyn's reply amounted to no more than a brief, 'All right,' that more or less advised him to mind his own business. Llewellyn believed in keeping personal things personal, Rafferty reminded himself wearily. The trouble was, Kitty Rafferty didn't share the reserved Welshman's love of privacy. She either didn't, or wouldn't, understand that, although Rafferty had fostered the relationship, from mixed motives of altruism and self-interest, he hadn't expected to oversee it personally. But convinced - with some reason he had to admit – that the emotional hang-ups lingering from a strict Methodist upbringing would render the otherwise perfectly capable Welshman inadequate in the rites of courtship – his Ma felt that Llewellyn needed encouraging. Rafferty reflected that she was just the woman to do it.

  She'd been driving him mad on the subject for weeks, and now that he'd finally broached it, he blundered determinedly on, trying his best to ignore the closed-up expression on the Welshman's face, as he recalled the latest leverage his Ma had primed him with. 'It's Maureen's birthday tomorrow,' he commented, trying to sound unrehearsed, and hoping it would ease a revealing remark or two from Llewellyn. 'I suppose you'll be getting her a present?'

  'Her birthday?' Llewellyn frowned. 'Are you sure? She didn't say.'

  'Course I'm sure.' Although remembering birthdays wasn't something generally expected of a mere male in the Rafferty matriarchy, he was confident that his Ma wouldn't get such a thing wrong. The women in the family did the remembering and the selecting; all that was required of him and the other males was that they coughed up the cash. And as present buying Rafferty-style had as many competitive elements as the Olympics, he reckoned he got off lightly.

  Relieved to be able to abandon the Agony Aunt pose, and adopt instead that of the wise uncle, he went on, 'That's women for you. Expect you to know such things without being told and then get all sniffy when you fail.' He shook his head, pleased, for once, to be able to boast a superior knowledge. 'Women can be very unreasonable about such things, Llewellyn. Take it from me.'

  'Not Maureen,' Llewellyn shook his head, and his lips parted in a rare smile. 'She's far too sensible.'

  Rafferty looked pityingly at him. Although both intelligent and intellectual, at twenty-nine, Llewellyn was still something of an innocent where women were concerned. With an air more of sorrow than superiority, Rafferty put him straight. 'Listen Taff, they're all like that. Don't think just because Maureen's always got her head stuck in some old Greek geezer's book that she's not the same.' If she wasn't, her mother certainly was, he reminded himself, and if they did end up getting hitched, it would be unwise for Llewellyn to get on the wrong side of Maureen's mother so early in the relationship. With a sly glance at Llewellyn, he wondered if his sergeant had realised yet that that formidable snob, Claire Tyler-Jenkins, was being primed by Kitty Rafferty as his future mother-in-law.

  He had been surprised when his Ma had taken a shine to the Welshman. He had been even more surprised when Kitty Rafferty – a committed Roman Catholic who thought the Pope an infallible deity instead of a poor old mortal like anyone else – hadn't raised a murmur against the slowly burgeoning, interdenominational romance between the Welshman and Maureen, Rafferty's Catholic cousin. In fact, once Ma had finally accepted that he and Maureen would never become an item, she had been positively encouraging. No doubt, a change in the Welshman's religion would be his Ma's next campaign. It would be just like her to even offer to give him Catechism instruction herself. Poor Llewellyn.

  Rafferty said no more, but the thoughtful look on Llewellyn's face was sufficient to satisfy him that his point had gone home. Although Llewellyn had confided little, Rafferty felt that the little had been significant. If Llewellyn was at the present buying stage, or even just the present considering stage, it indicated a certain depth to the relationship. That suited him. He'd be happy if it deepened into something permanent—he favoured a very long engagement himself, because, not only had the more irritating edges been smoothed off Llewellyn's personality since he and Maureen had got together, but, as a bonus, all his Ma's considerable matchmaking talents had been concentrated away from him.

  Pleased at his dexterous handling of the situation, Rafferty spared his reflection in the driving mirror a brief congratulatory glance. Two and a half years after being widowed, he was just beginning to savour his freedom, and he was very keen to keep it that way. Beside him in the passenger seat his sergeant was getting restless in spite of the welcome breeze brought by the car's movement.

  'About this present, sir,' Llewellyn began, after another contemplative five minutes. Unlike Rafferty, he wasn't a man for impulsive reactions. 'What do you think I ought to get?'

  'Call me Joe, for God's sake,' Rafferty commanded. Llewellyn's constant "sirring" got on his nerves. He hadn't bothered to get on first name terms before because, although he had been happy to discover that the Welshman was very close-mouthed, he had still harboured doubts about their partnership. But, in many ways, he realised, they made a good team. Odd, perhaps, but better than he'd expected.

  And it would almost be worth welcoming him into the Rafferty clan to see the invariably neat and precise Welshman at one of the family's hooleys, jacket off, tie under his ear, as he leapt about with the rest, a half pint of the water of life whooshing around inside him. Rafferty smiled inwardly and permitted himself another piece of advice. 'I'd send her a bunch of flowers, Dafyd,' he counselled confidently, as he drove into the Shores' entrance. 'Can't go wrong with flowers.'

  Chapter Five

  MRS GRIFFITHS AGAIN showed them into the library, where Henry Longman, the new widower, was slumped in a large armchair. The curtains had been drawn, as if to shut out the world, and a soft lamp bathed the open pages of the wedding album – his own presumably – that rested in his lap. To Rafferty, it seemed a morbid occupation for one so recently widowed. A bottle and a heavy tumbler, half full of Scotch, were conveniently within reach. From Henry's glazed expression, the freshly-broken paper seals discarded on the table, and the level of the bottle, Rafferty guessed it wasn't the first of the day.

  'I'm sorry to have to trouble you so soon after your wife's death, Mr Longman,' he began, 'but it's necessary to ask you a few questions.'

  Henry didn't appear to have heard him. He was unshaven, and he gazed vacantly at the album with eyes red-rimmed from weeping, while his long, slender fingers stroked the glossy print of his dead wife's face. As Rafferty said his name again, Henry raised his head. Conscious of a feeling of intrusion caused by poking his officially sanctioned nose into heavy private emotions, Rafferty wanted to get the interview over as quickly as possible. But, before he could say anything further, Henry launched into a rambling reminiscence.

  'Charles laughed at me when I told him I was going to marry Barbara, you know.' His voice was sluggish as though grief had slowed his mental processes. 'He hardly knew her then and he told me she was a gold-digger, and took pleasure in making sure she knew that he was the one with the money, not me. Thought that would be the last I'd see of her.' He gave a sad, yet triumphant smile. 'But he was wrong. She still married me. She's been good for me, even if...been good for me,' he repeated, before distress twisted his thin features. 'Was. Was good for me. Must remember. Got to remember. Hilary said...must face up to it.'

  Rafferty and Llewellyn shuffled uncomfortably and avoided each other’s' eyes. God, this was awful. But at least he was bearing up better than Llewellyn, who looked as if he was praying for a visitation from the Archangel Gabriel to put an end to Henry's pitiful ramblings.

  Though Llewellyn's prayers were only partly answered, neither of them complained to the Almighty when Charles Shore, presumably summoned by the housekeeper, strode into the room. As Shore took in Henry's slouch
ed figure, irritation seemed to tighten his jaw. He twitched the album from Henry's trembling fingers, and told him, 'Looking through that isn't going to bring her back, Harry.'

  Rafferty winced at Shore's insensitivity, forgetting that he'd thought much the same only a few minutes earlier. But as he gazed at Henry, he decided Charles might have a point. Henry was the type who could turn mourning into a lifetime's occupation. It wasn't doing him a kindness to encourage him. Still, he remembered, it was early days.

  'Have you told him yet?' Rafferty quietly asked Shore, after checking that Henry, his chin once again slumped to his chest, was taking no further interest in them. 'That his wife was murdered, I mean?'

  'I told him.' Shore shrugged and added, 'Though whether he's taken it in or not is another matter.'

  Rafferty nodded. Approaching Henry, he pulled up a chair, and sat down beside him, giving his shoulder a gentle shake. 'Mr Longman, can you please listen to me.' Once he was sure he had Henry's attention, he went on. 'I understand that Mr Shore has broken the news to you that your wife was murdered?'

  Henry nodded. He looked bemused. 'I don't understand it, though. Why would anyone want to murder Barbara?'

  'That's what we have to find out, sir,' said Rafferty. 'That's why we needed to speak to you and the rest of the family. We hope you'll be able to help us. To tell us something about your wife's life, how she spent her time, what she did. If she had any enemies and—'

  Henry looked shocked at the suggestion. 'She didn't have any enemies. It must have been a madman. She was a good woman. Everyone loved her, thought the world of her... especially the children. The children...oh God, who's going to tell Maxie? I can't do it. I really can't.' He turned a stricken face towards Charles. 'You know how much he loved her.' He clutched the arms of his chair tightly, as if he thought they were going to drag him out of it forcibly to break the news to his son.

  Charles Shore took a quick impatient breath. 'Calm down, Henry. I've told him. I've told them all. Who else was there to do it?' he demanded, half to himself, with the first real show of irritation. 'He took it surprisingly well, considering.' He turned away, and beckoning to Rafferty, led him out of earshot of Henry. 'The post mortem's been carried out now, I take it?' Rafferty nodded. 'And? The results confirm she's the third victim of that serial killer?'

  Rafferty shook his head. 'In fact, from our inquiries, I'm inclined to the view that her murderer was someone else entirely.'

  'Someone else?' Shore studied him for a moment, before he asked quietly, 'What makes you think so?'

  'I can't go into that, sir, but I can assure you there are sufficient differences between the three cases for there to be a reasonable doubt. That's why I shall need your co-operation.'

  Shore nodded once. 'Of course, anything I can do. And Henry, naturally. You've only got to look at him to see what all this is doing to him.'

  Rafferty took a deep breath. 'Then he won't mind providing us with a statement. In fact, we'll need statements from everyone here. Perhaps we can start with you, Mr Shore?'

  'Statements?' Shore's cold grey eyes fixed unblinkingly on Rafferty's. Rafferty forced himself not to drop his eyes. He didn't want Shore to think he could intimidate him. 'You surely don't suspect that one of us killed Barbara?'

  'It's just routine, sir,' he quickly placated. 'And you did promise your co-operation,' he reminded him. For a moment Shore looked as if he was going to make an issue of it, but as Rafferty went on, he subsided. 'As I said, I have my doubts that Mrs Longman's murder and the ones in Suffolk are connected, though, of course, the possibility is still being investigated. But, in the meantime, I have to carry on and eliminate as many people as possible. To do that, I need to ask questions that might seem insensitive.'

  Shore drew in a deep breath. 'I see. Very well. You'd better get on with it, then.'

  'Thank you, sir. If we could start with you? My Sergeant will take notes.'

  Without further protest, Shore began. 'I was in my office in Elmhurst most of Thursday. It's near the bus station in King Street. I had to prepare for an important meeting the next day, as I told you, and needed to work on some figures—my staff will confirm it, if necessary. I reached home about 8.30 p m Thursday evening.'

  'And you, sir?' Rafferty turned to Henry Longman. Henry seemed to have shrunk further into his chair. 'Mr Longman? I'm afraid we need to know where you were on Thursday.'

  'Henry was in a meeting,' Charles answered for him. 'At the local Chamber of Commerce. It can't have broken up much before five as there was a lot to go through. Isn't that right, Henry? Henry?' he prompted, raising his voice slightly.

  Henry's head jerked like a marionette's whose strings had been pulled. He ignored the question and asked one of his own. 'When will I be able to bury my wife?' It was simple and poignant and made Rafferty shuffle uncomfortably. 'It won't be just yet, I'm afraid, sir. We have to wait for the Coroner to release your wife's body, and these things can take some time.'

  Thankfully, Henry seemed satisfied with his answer and didn't press for more information. Rafferty had been careful to avoid mentioning the post mortem to him. From past experience, he was aware that the phrase, and all it conjured up, sometimes brought on hysteria in a victim's family, so generally he did his best to avoid it. Not unnaturally, relatives could accept the death of a loved one more easily than they could the thought of them being cut about afterwards. Rafferty thought this could be because murder was at least a very human thing, brought about by hot emotions like lust and hatred that everyone had experienced. But the p m was a chilling clinical procedure, warmed only by irreverent black humour. Whenever he watched one, Rafferty imagined himself on the table, being discussed as if he was no more than a side of beef well past his prime, and he hoped to heaven that, when his time came, he would die a nice simple death, so a post mortem would be unnecessary.

  Henry's head had sunk back to his chest. Reluctantly, Rafferty pressed him for an answer. 'Can you confirm that you were at a meeting at the Chamber of Commerce all day on Thursday, Mr Longman?'

  Henry's eyes had a hunted look, and his words, as he answered, were slurred, as if reluctance, as well as the drink, had thickened his tongue. 'Er yes. That's right. All day.'

  'You're quite certain about that, Mr Longman?' Rafferty looked sharply at him.

  Henry reached for his glass and swallowed what was left of the whisky. 'Course I'm sure. Chamber of Commerce...all day...witnesses.' He stumbled to his feet, almost falling over as he did so. 'Excuse me. Don't feel well.'

  He wove a meandering path across the room. Charles followed, opened the door for him, and bellowed, 'Mrs Griffiths. Henry's not well. See to him, will you?'

  He shut the door behind Henry without bothering to see if his order was obeyed. He was a man used to getting his own way. He walked back and came to a halt before the portrait of his father. After gazing thoughtfully at it for some moments, he turned and commented, ‘they say history repeats itself, Inspector? It seems they're right. Did you know my father was murdered when I was fifteen?' Rafferty nodded and Shore added, as though the information was of much less consequence, 'Two months after my mother died from cancer.'

  'Yes,' Rafferty murmured. 'A tragic loss.'

  Shore's expression was as hard to read as a poker player's and he told them, without any trace of emotion, 'my father was blown to bits, Inspector. The force of the explosion sent parts of the vehicle a hundred yards away. As for my father...' he broke off and a muscle tightened in his jaw as he added, 'Let's just say there wasn't a lot to bury. It isn't difficult to believe someone could hate my father enough to kill him. He could be a hard man when crossed—hard, even when he wasn't. But why would anyone want to murder Barbara? I know you said you don't think it was the Suffolk killer, but...' He shook his head and muttered, as if trying to convince them as much as himself, 'It must have been a madman.'

  'You didn't get on with your father, Mr Shore?' Llewellyn queried.

  Shore stared hard at him, as if he
considered the question impertinent, but then he shrugged. 'I fail to see what relevance that has to your investigation, Sergeant, but, since you ask, no, I didn't; my sister was always his favourite. He was the sort of father who expected a lot from a son. You feared him, respected him, obeyed him; he wasn't interested in such a mealy-mouthed emotion as liking. He believed that softness bred weakness. He always used to say to me, "It's a hard world out there, Charles, and you have to be hard to survive." He told me that by giving me – and Anne, to a lesser extent – proper, English names, Royal names, and by sending us to the right schools, he'd done his bit. The rest was up to us.'

  He smiled bleakly and, for a moment, Rafferty glimpsed the vulnerable child beneath the powerful man; he imagined what it must have been like to be Charles, as a small boy, at the "right" school, but with the pushy, un-English father and the wrong background. Pretty unpleasant, was his conclusion. He wouldn't have got much sympathy from Maximillian Shore, who had survived far worse.

  Shore turned back to the portrait and Rafferty could no longer see his face. 'Of course, he had a terrible time in his youth, so it wasn't surprising that he should feel that way. He refused to accept that the subtler forms of Jew-baiting and class hatred to be found in this country couldn't be overcome, if one were strong enough.'

  'It seems he was right,' Rafferty murmured. 'Such obstacles didn't stop your father getting rich.'

  'My father got rich in spite of his background,' Shore asserted, with a frown, as if Rafferty had just uttered a particularly vile blasphemy. Then he sighed. 'Perhaps, in a funny way it was because of it. His parents died at the hands of the Nazis when he was a teenager. It caused him to be all the more determined to make his mark. With hard work and more hard work, he prospered. And wealth brought him acceptance of a sort, even if, as children, it failed to do the same for Anne and me. Now, of course, I'm grateful for his training.'

 

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