He handed over the plastic-enclosed envelope with its stencilled address. 'We know Maurice Smith was sent an 'outing' letter and according to Mrs Penny, Smith's landlady, the postman brought this envelope on the Wednesday morning before he died. She was able to identify the envelope and, as whoever sent it went to the extraordinary trouble of stencilling the address, it seems a likely supposition that it contained the 'outing' letter.'
'But I thought Mrs Penny and Smith had separate letterboxes,' said Lilley. 'At least, that's what Smales—'
'They do. But she said she generally waited for the postman.' Milkman, baker and candlestick maker, too, probably, Rafferty added silently to himself as he remembered how, on their first visit, she had continued to press more tea and buns on them in an attempt to extend their stay. 'She told me she took the post for both of them most days and was able to tell us that Smith never received handwritten letters—the hate mail ceased long ago, as we know from the postmarks. All he ever received were bills or official, typed letters from one government department or another. Anyway, on Wednesday, when she took the letter into her flat with her own post, she said she forgot all about it till Smith came in some time after eight that evening.'
Smales grinned. 'That's her story and she's sticking to it, hey, guv? Bet she tried to steam the envelope open.'
'That's what you'd do, is it?' Rafferty enquired dryly. 'What a pity for the investigation that not everyone shares your lack of scruples, Smales. And for your information, an envelope that's been steamed open has a bumpy, bubbly look to it when you reseal it and this one hasn't.'
Thankfully, Smales didn't think to enquire how Rafferty had come by such knowledge and he hurried on before it occurred to him to do so. 'You might also ask Mrs Penny's near neighbours if they know when her back gate was damaged. Mrs Penny herself has no idea and, as it seems likely the damage could be tied to Smith's murder, I'd like to know for sure. Right, that's enough for you to make a start. Off you go.'
Once the room had cleared, Rafferty turned to Llewellyn. 'As for you and me, we're going to see Smith's family.'
In view of what they had already learned concerning their relationship with Smith, even Llewellyn, who abhorred the job of breaking news of death, approached the meeting with little trepidation. He had told Rafferty that he doubted Smith's relatives would be too heartbroken.
It wasn't as if they were even what most people would regard as family proper, as Smith's father and mother had divorced when he was two, his father had disappeared into the wide blue yonder, and his mother had married again when Smith was four, producing a half-brother of the marriage eighteen months later. The mother had died shortly before the rape case had come to court, and now the only 'family' Maurice Smith had left was his stepfather and half-brother.
THE BULLOCKS, FATHER and son, lived in a flat near the bus station, in conditions of squalor only too typical of all-male household; discarded chip wrappings and other takeaway containers sharing the decorative honours with crushed lager cans and choked ashtrays. According to what Llewellyn had discovered during his last conversation with them, neither of them had a job.
The television was on, the over-excited voice of a race commentator screamed at them. Rafferty asked for it to be turned off, and without awaiting permission, pressed the on-off button on the TV zapper and the maniacal voice was thankfully silenced.
The son scowled at this interference, but Bullock Senior said nothing, he simply sat back in his well-squashed armchair and awaited developments.
Jes Bullock was a well-built man of fifty-seven and suited his name. His youthful muscles had turned to fat and now overhung his trousers. A thin veneer of politeness covered his natural aggression but it failed to mask the bully beneath. Rafferty took against him on sight; the thick sensual lips, the fingers like pork sausages, the slow, unhurried movements, all spoke of a man with tastes more physical than intellectual. Strangely, when Rafferty broke the news of his stepson's death, he seemed over-anxious to lay claim to a grief Rafferty judged him unlikely to be capable of.
According to Smith's newspaper collection of that time, after the trial Bullock's voice had frequently been raised against his stepson, sprinkled through the anger had been the resentment that he was being blamed for the inadequacies of another man's son, insisting that Smith was 'no blood of mine'. It was obviously a grievance he still felt, but the circumstances and his own claim to the role of grief-stricken stepfather appeared to inhibit his previous free expression of it.
He had little to say when Rafferty told him his stepson had died in less than natural circumstances. It was almost as if, beyond the insincere mouthings of loss, he was keeping a guard on his tongue. Rafferty wondered why he should feel it necessary.
'Mr Bullock, you told my sergeant here that your stepson didn't visit regularly and that you last saw him on the Wednesday before his death.' He paused for Bullock's nod. It was slow in coming. 'I gather you didn't seem very sure of the times involved in your stepson's last visit and I wondered if you'd thought any more about these?'
Jes Bullock licked his plump lips and darted a glance at his son. 'What do you reckon, Kevin?'
Kevin didn't have the winning personality of his father. He was sullen, and, unlike his father, made no attempt to pretend to a grief he didn't feel. Clearly he had resented his half-brother. Although he didn't utter the words, his curled lip said 'good riddance' as clearly as words.
Rafferty found this lack of hypocrisy more refreshing than his father's pretence. It was understandable, too. He and his father must have gone through many difficult times because of Smith, who had still been living at home at the time of his arrest. His family would have drawn nearly as much bile as Smith himself. It must have been especially hard on his younger brother who could only have been in his early teens at the time. Such experiences would hardly endear Smith to either man.
Kevin's mouth was a thin, tight line, as though he was reluctant to tell them anything. But finally, he admitted, 'he was here for only half an hour on Wednesday. Left around seven-fifteen. That's the last we saw of him.'
His father gave a quick nod of agreement.
Rafferty thought he seemed relieved, as though uncertain his son would answer their questions at all, and as he spoke, his voice grew increasingly confident.
'Kevin's right. I remember now. We'd been out since lunchtime, celebrating my birthday and we left the pub when the chippie opened around five.'
Llewellyn broke in to enquire which pub he meant and with an evident reluctance Jes Bullock told them it had been the one on the corner, The Pig and Whistle. 'Kevin had downloaded a couple of films for the evening and Maurice arrived partway through the first one.'
'Yeah,' Kevin chipped in. 'Right when it was getting exciting.'
His father shrugged his meaty shoulders as if to say, what else could you expect? 'He brought my birthday present over.'
Rafferty found it hard to believe that Maurice Smith, the unloved and unloving loner, would waste a chunk of his giro on buying such a stepfather birthday presents. However, he made no comment.
Although he chose not to question him further about times at the moment, Rafferty was surprised also that Kevin should be so precise. He would have thought the earlier birthday celebrations likely to render time-keeping uncertain. But, for the moment, he didn't challenge this statement either, but turned to another matter. 'You must remember the hate mail and threats he received after the trial. Were you aware of any more recent threats? Serious threats?'
Kevin shook his head. 'No. Occasionally the lads around the flats here would chase him and rough him up a bit, but that's been going on for ages and was only because he was such a dipstick. Nothing to do with the court case, if that's what you think—nobody around here knows anything about that.' He scowled as he remembered the murder. 'Bloody well will now, though, won't they? Sod Maurice. If we have to bloody move again—'
Rafferty turned to his father. 'What about you, Mr Bullock?'
&nbs
p; Jes Bullock shook his heavy head ponderously. 'He never said nothing to me.'
'And you're quite sure you've not seen him since Wednesday evening?'
'That's right.' Kevin glowered, as if challenging them to make something of it.
His father chipped in. 'Not one for visiting, wasn't Maurice. We'd see him half-a-dozen times a year, at most. Kept himself to himself.'
'So you definitely didn't see him the next evening? The Thursday?'
'Haven't I just said?' Kevin demanded, the heavy jaw that was so like his father's thrust forward. 'We went out the next night. Up the pub. Maurice wasn't invited.'
'Not a pub man, Maurice wasn't, Inspector,' Jes Bullock informed them cryptically, as if trying to imply that if he had been, he, as his stepfather, would have been the first to extend an invitation.
They left soon after. The Bullocks lived on the second floor, and as they reached the car, Rafferty glanced up to see Jes Bullock watching them from the balcony. As he caught Rafferty's eye, he backed away and re-entered his flat.
Rafferty again had the impression that Jes had something on his mind. And he was willing to bet a month's salary that it wasn't grief. The man reminded him of someone, he realised. He wrinkled his brow, but he couldn't remember who. He was certain it was no one connected with the case and knew it would drive him mad till he remembered.
As they got in the car, he mentioned his suspicions to Llewellyn. 'The Bullocks have every reason to dislike Smith. Every reason to wish him dead. Think they could have done it?'
Llewellyn considered it unlikely. 'Why would they wait till now to kill him? Unlike the families of the victims, or whoever sent that 'outing' letter, they've known where to find him all the time. Besides, if their alibis check out, they were in the public house all evening, presumably with plenty of witnesses.'
Rafferty started the car. 'Maybe they're trusting in their bereaved status and imagine their story won't be checked out.'
However, Llewellyn was right about one thing; they had known where Smith lived and, as far as they had yet discovered, they had less reason to wish to be rid of him now than they'd had ten years ago when the fury over the case was at its height.
'But Jes Bullock's worried about something,' Rafferty insisted. 'I intend to find out what it is. Kevin's information was very precise — too precise for my liking. Get on the radio and get Hanks – no, he's busy – Andrews then—to ask around the flats. Tell him to find out if anyone saw Smith arrive and leave. They said they went to the pub on the Thursday night. Get him to ask the landlord what time the Bullocks' got there that night and if anyone saw Smith pay a second visit to his family on the Thursday night.'
While Llewellyn contacted the station, Rafferty consulted his watch. It was nearly time for the post-mortem. 'We've just got time to grab a sandwich if you want one.' Rafferty's stomach rumbled, but he ignored it; there'd be no lunch for him. 'I hope Sam can narrow the time down, as I've got a feeling time might be very important in this case.'
SAM DALLY WAS WAITING for them, freshly scrubbed and gowned and wearing a cherubic smile.
'Lunched well, I trust?' he asked Rafferty. 'Don't want you fainting away from hunger, do we?'
'Get on with it you old sadist,' Rafferty muttered.
After another even more cherubic smile, Sam did so. He confirmed that Smith had been strung-up after death. He also confirmed that the cause of death was the stab wound to the heart and that he had, in all likelihood, died immediately, thus confirming Rafferty's suspicions that he had not only died in his own flat, but in his own armchair.
Although Smith's armchair had fresh stains, they had been few enough. Sam explained why. 'Unlike incised knife wounds where the edge of the blade makes cutting gashes, stab wounds, where the point of the knife enters the body followed by the rest of the blade, generally cause internal bleeding. The wound has one acute angle cut and one blunt, indicating that the knife used had only one sharp edge.'
Rafferty nodded. This weapon had yet to be found. It hadn't been left at the scene. He was still musing on this some time later, as the attendant with the power saw cut through the top of Smith's skull.
Swallowing hard, Rafferty hastily dragged his gaze from Smith's face to his torso. As this had already suffered the usual indignities his gaze didn't linger long. But it was long enough for him to comment, 'He seems to have a lot of bruises.'
'Nothing gets past you, does it, Rafferty?' Sam taunted. 'It's only taken your rapier-like gaze the best part of two hours to notice the blindingly obvious.’ He demanded of the room at large – and their assembled audience of photographer, technician, Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all, ‘How does he do it?'
'It's your fault, Sam.' Rafferty, a firm believer in the notion of attack being the best form of defence, immediately went on the offensive, and under the noise of the saw, murmured, 'You shouldn't have such stunners as assistants. Can't take my eyes off them.'
As each of Sam's female assistants bore a striking resemblance to Eeyore, the only strategy Sam judged necessary was a loud snort. Ignoring this as well as Llewellyn's pained sigh at such blatant political incorrectness, Rafferty asked, 'reckon someone beat Smith up before knifing him?'
'If you paid more attention to my pearls of wisdom, Rafferty, and less to controlling your lusts and the rumbling of your empty stomach, you'd know contusions can occur post-mortem as well as ante-mortem. And, as you've already said he was moved, not once, not twice, but thrice after death; once when he was taken to the woods, once when he was removed from thence and once when he was strung up again, bruising is to be expected. But, rest assured, my rapier-gaze is well ahead of you. I noted each contusion before you even got here.'
Sam gave a happy sigh as he paused to admire his gleaming array of silverware. 'He was probably concealed in the boot of a car each time, so his body would have been thrown around a fair bit, rupturing blood vessels, particularly those areas engorged with post-mortem hypostasis, causing them to ooze blood into the tissues. As you can see,' Sam pointed his blade at the cadaver, 'such contusions look just like bruising to living flesh.'
Sam broke off again to make more comments into the microphone, then continued. 'But, I'll of course test the injury sites for leucocytes — white cells to you — the things that rush to the site of an injury to begin the healing process. An abnormally high number of white cells would indicate some of the damage happened before death. It'll take a bit of time, though, the contusions are quite extensive.'
Rafferty nodded and managed to keep his end up pretty well through the rest of the post-mortem by musing on Sam's conclusions about the bruises. Although, as Sam had remarked, Smith had been transported about sufficiently after death to suffer extensive bruising, he couldn't help but wonder, if some of the bruises had been inflicted before death, who was the most likely person to administer a beating. It didn't take long for Jes Bullock's face to float into his consciousness.
Chapter Five
IT WAS ALREADY GETTING dark by the time they came out of the mortuary. Rafferty turned the car round and drove towards Habberstone, the busy market town about four miles west of Elmhurst, where ex-Inspector Stubbs had settled on retirement.
Before he did anything else; like interviewing Smith's victims, their families, and Mrs Nye of the Rape Support Group, Rafferty wanted to speak to the inspector who had been in charge of the Smith case. He wanted his opinion of Smith's victims' families, to gain his impression of them as people—and as possible would-be murderers.
Rafferty’s flimsy recollection of the case had been well-bolstered by Smith's newspaper collection. One man interested him greatly—Frank Massey, the father of one of Smith's young victims, who had beaten Smith up and served a term in jail for it. Of course, that had been before Smith and his family had moved to a secret address, but even after such an event, there were ways and means of finding out someone's whereabouts if you were determined enough or rich enough. Was he the only one amongst the four families capable of vengeful violence? Or
were others equally as capable, given the opportunity? One of his victims, the young Walker girl, had killed herself when Smith was freed. Her family had even stronger reasons than Massey to still wish Smith dead.
Innocent or guilty, Rafferty was determined to handle them all with kid gloves, and as the law had already failed them once, he was all the more anxious to prove to them and any other doubters, that the law could be efficient, caring and just. It would be bad enough for them having all that emotion stirred up again, but to know that, for the second time in their lives, Maurice Smith was the cause, would, for some of them, be almost too much to bear.
Rafferty took a deep breath. First things first, he reminded himself. Let's get this interview over with before you start worrying about the next ones. God knew, from what he'd learned on the phone when speaking to some of Inspector Stubbs's old colleagues, this one was likely to be difficult enough.
Archie Stubbs was reckoned to be a lonely and bitter man. It was odds on that he'd resent their questions, their prying into his conduct of the Smith case, the implication that if it hadn't been botched the victims and their families would have suffered much less. Certainly, Massey would probably never have tried to extract his own justice; never have gone to jail, lost his job, had his marriage torn apart. The Walker girl would likely still be alive. Uneasily, Rafferty realised he had yet to discover what other tragedies might have sprung from Smith's release. Who amongst them had additional reasons to hate Smith?
Stubbs; Rafferty repeated the name of his next interviewee uneasily to himself. In a way, he had become another of Smith's victims. He had lost his career, been pushed into early retirement from the force, he'd even lost his wife shortly after. Yet, if Stubbs had wanted revenge, he could have extracted it long before this, as easily as the Bullocks; with his contacts he could have found out Smith's whereabouts with little difficulty.
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