RAFFERTY FINALLY CALLED a halt at 10.00 p m. He was nearly home before he remembered his promise to Llewellyn. He'd have rung his Ma and asked her about accommodating Llewellyn's mother, but, even if he'd thought of it, he'd had no chance during the day and he knew his Ma hated getting telephone calls late at night; she always expected disaster. For some inexplicable reason, she didn’t harbour the same suspicions about visitors at a similar late hour.
But a promise was a promise. She'd still be up, he knew, as she rarely went to bed before midnight. With a tired sigh, he turned the car and made for her home.
He opened the door with his key, shouting, 'It's only me,' as he shut the front door, and opened the one to the living room.
His Ma was sitting in her armchair, staring into space, at her feet the box containing the Christmas decorations, and in her hand the baby Jesus from the manger scene she always set up in the corner.
He remembered most of the decorations from childhood; the paper bells and lanterns that hung from the ceiling, the cheap balls with the chips of colour missing that hung from the tree. They were all pretty tatty by now, but as they held years of memories in their every chip and tear, his Ma refused to throw them out. Every Christmas, when she dug them out, she'd smile and say the same thing, 'Do you remember—?'
Strangely, this time, she said nothing at all.
‘Ma?' Rafferty finally gained her attention. 'What's the matter? You look a bit down.'
Kitty Rafferty sighed and told him, 'Sure and I've had some bad news, son. It's Gemma. She's pregnant.'
Rafferty stifled a groan of dismay. Gemma was his eldest niece, the daughter of his first sister, Maggie. Gemma was sixteen, and looked even younger. He searched the mass of family photographs on the wall for the latest one of her; his Ma had so many of them all—angelic babies, grubby-faced toddlers, cheekily-grinning school-kids, serious at First Communion and Confirmation ceremonies.
He finally found the photo he was looking for; it could only have been taken a few months ago and, from the happy smile, had been before she had known she was pregnant. She had a dimple in the chin like him. Dimple in chin, devil within, his gran had always said. She'd certainly been a little devil when she was younger, and was always the first to lead the rest into mischief. He supposed that was why she was his favourite.
Rafferty hunkered down beside his Ma's chair and gave her a hug. 'It's not the end of the world.' He paused and tried to cheer her up. 'You wait—in another few days you'll be looking forward to the birth and knitting like a demon. And you'll be the first great-grandma on the street. It's one in the eye for her next door, hey?'
Kitty Rafferty gave a watery smile. 'I suppose so.'
'So, when's it due?'
'She's only two months gone. That worried me, too. It's bad enough that she's pregnant, but today, when Maggie told me, she said Gemma's daddy was pushing for her to have an abortion. Just like a man, looking for a short-term solution and creating a long-term problem.'
Rafferty knew an abortion would upset his Ma even more than the pregnancy. Unlike him, she was a staunch Catholic, and although she had her little idiosyncrasies and didn't blindly follow the Vatican line on everything, abortion was a subject on which she felt very strongly.
'What about Gemma? What does she want?'
This time the smile was more definite. 'Apparently, she told her father she was going to make him a granddad whether he liked it or not.'
'That's our Gemma. And what about after? Will she keep it or have it adopted?'
'Adopted? My first great-grandchild?' Ma's voice was indignant. 'She'll not have it adopted, not if I've got anything to do with.' She got up and made for the adjoining kitchen, adding, in a firmer voice, 'It's early days yet for such decisions. Wait till the baby's in her arms and then let her see if she can let him go to strangers.'
He heard the kettle filled with water and plonked on the gas stove, her voice raised to be heard above the kitchen noises. 'It's not as if young Gemma has no one to turn to; she's got a large family. She'd never forgive herself if she gave the baby up; she'd always be wondering what he was like, whether the new parents were kind to him, or whether he had been shunted aside by the arrival of a natural child. I knew a girl when I was young who gave her baby up. She never got over it. I don't want that to happen to Gemma.'
Rafferty propped himself against the kitchen door. 'What about the father?'
His Ma sniffed. 'He's no more than a kid himself. Same age as Gemma. What sort of a father would he make?'
The kettle boiled and she made the tea, automatically she began buttering bread while she waited for the tea to brew. The scratch meal was soon ready and Rafferty carried it into the living room.
'So,' his Ma began. 'You never said. What brings you here so late?'
Rafferty told her.
The idea of the visit from Mrs Llewellyn seemed to cheer her up immensely. 'Of course, she'll come for Christmas,' she decided. Rafferty tried to dissuade her, but she was adamant. 'It'll give her a chance to meet all the family.'
'Are you sure that's a good idea?' Rafferty asked.
'And why wouldn't it be?' She bridled. 'Admittedly, Maureen's mum's likely to be a bit of a starchy-arse, her and her lah-di-dah notions, but I can always give her a jollop of something to loosen her up a bit.'
'That wasn't quite what—'
Ma waved him to silence. 'Dafyd's mum must take us as she finds us. If she turns her nose up, it's better for Maureen to know it now than after the wedding.' Her face softened, even her tight Christmas perm seemed to loosen a bit as she added, 'You must remember, Joseph, Mrs. Llewellyn's only got the one chick. She's entitled to give us all the once-over. She wants her boy to be happy, same as any mother would. Should I begrudge her the chance to make sure he's marrying the right girl?
‘Talking of weddings,' she went on, 'that reminds me. I've picked up a new suit that would fit you a treat. Come and have a look.'
Following her into the hall, Rafferty helped himself to The Elmhurst Echo, the local paper that also covered the neighbouring towns and villages. He glanced at its head-lines while she rummaged in the wardrobe. Not surprisingly, they were still leading with Smith's murder. Determinedly, he turned the page. A small paragraph caught his eye. ‘Wedding outfitters robbed’. It was certainly one way to cut the costs of the average wedding. He wondered if Llewellyn had considered it. It was news to him, but then it had happened in a neighbouring station’s bailiwick, so there was no reason why he’d have learned of it.
He glanced again at the paragraph as his Ma held up a smart grey suit of far better quality than the ones he usually bought.
'What do you think?’ she asked. ‘Reckon it's about time you gave that tired brown suit a holiday.' She held the jacket out to him. 'Feel the quality of that. Lovely bit of cloth. Real bargain it was.'
Rafferty's gaze narrowed. Ma and her "bargains" were a by-word for trouble. And as his mind married up her ‘bargain’ with the robbery at the wedding outfitters, his suspicion grew. 'Why are there no labels on it?' he demanded. 'Suit's got to be a bit iffy if it hasn't got any labels. So where did you get it? It says here in the paper that—'
Ma raised her eyes to the ceiling and complained, 'The man's offered a quality suit at a bargain price, and he worries about a little thing like labels. I'll put a blessed label in if you're that fussy.'
'Not if it's bent gear. You know—'
'Bent? What kind of language is that? Slightly out of kilter it may be, but that's all. The man I got it from said he was doing a favour for a friend. Some poor devil of a tailor down on his luck, he said.'
'You mean an insurance fiddle? A put up job?'
'Sure and I didn't ask the man his private business. You know me, I've never been one to pry. Anyway, even if what you say is true, nobody's lost anything. Only the insurance company, and as everybody knows they're the biggest bunch of crooks this side of prison bars, you couldn't really call it a crime at all. More an act of mercy. Like Ro
bin Hood.'
'I doubt the force would agree with you, Ma,' he said as he followed her back to the living room. 'Perhaps you should come and defend me when I'm hauled in front of the Super for not only receiving stolen goods, but for wearing the blessed things. Get rid of it, Ma. Please. For all our sakes.'
Chapter Seven
RAFFERTY GAVE A LOW whistle as he pulled up in the short drive of Prosecutor Elizabeth Probyn's house just after noon on Saturday. 'She's spent a few bob here recently on security.' He grinned. 'Wonder who else she's managed to rub up the wrong way? One of those criminals she feels so impartial about, perhaps?'
The burglar alarm squatted like a square red carbuncle on the white-painted face of the house; the front door had a spyhole, and the ground floor windows all had dark green metal shutters that could be rolled down at night.
Although Rafferty had only once before, some five months previously, had occasion to visit the house, he knew none of these precautions had been in evidence then. He grinned again. He couldn't help it. Of course Llewellyn had to speak up for her.
'I think you misjudge her. She does her job well; but she does it within the limits of the law. If one were to listen solely to your opinion of her, one could be forgiven for thinking she wasn't successful.’
‘Could one?’
Llewellyn ignored the sarcasm. ‘But she is successful—frequently. As for the security, I imagine she receives the usual threats when one of the more vindictive amongst the criminal fraternity gets sent down. Why make it easy for any who decide to carry out their threats?' He rang the bell.
Rafferty's lip curled. His sergeant was of as cool and impartial a turn of mind as Elizabeth Probyn, and could be relied upon to stand up for her. Of course Llewellyn hadn't experienced the shouting matches that he had with her. Or rather, ruefully, he corrected himself—he had been the one to do the shouting. Typically, Elizabeth Probyn had responded in that cool manner of hers that always infuriated him even more.
Unlike several other Crown Prosecution Service lawyers with whom Rafferty had worked in the past, Elizabeth Probyn made no attempt to pretend she was there to help the police to nail villains. On the contrary, she insisted that the role of the prosecutor was an objective, impartial one; to lay before the court both the facts for the accused as well as those against. As she had crisply informed Rafferty on more than one occasion, the Prosecution Service was a representative, not of the police, but of the public, on whose behalf cases were brought. Winning or losing didn't come into it.
Rafferty had no patience with such legalese; it invariably rendered him incoherent with rage. Older and wiser after their first few confrontations, he had with difficulty learned to control his feelings when they met and, while simmering underneath, on top he was all unnatural politeness like a reluctant dancing partner.
The door was eventually answered by a dumpy middle-aged woman in a dingy grey overall, who through lips that held a dangling cigarette, told them she was Mrs Chadden, and that she "did" for the prosecutor. She was new, too, Rafferty realised. He remembered the previous cleaner had been thin, elderly, and tending to sniffiness when Rafferty had introduced himself. He had concluded that, out of the courtroom at least, Elizabeth Probyn dropped a large chunk of her prized impartiality. No doubt the other cleaner had retired.
They were expected, and Mrs Chadden let them in with all the chatty enthusiasm of one whose main occupation was finding excuses to stop work. The state of the kitchen confirmed that she had little trouble in finding such excuses. It was barely superficially clean. It was obvious that as a "treasure" she had limited worth. Rafferty was surprised Elizabeth Probyn didn't get rid of her and hire a more competent model.
'Madam said she'd been delayed and I was to look after you,' she told them when her first rapid flow of chat was finally used up. 'I don't normally work weekends, but she rang and asked me to come in special this morning.' She left them in no doubt that she regarded this as a major concession.
'I suppose you want tea?' Not pausing for their response, she filled the electric kettle and plonked it down on its base on the worktop and switched on, before reaching into a cupboard for mugs. 'Course what with that high-powered job of hers, and now, with her daughter being in hospital, she seems to spend all her time running from pillar to post. And then her previous lady retired suddenly. She was lucky I was available at such short notice.'
Which explained her employment of Mrs Chadden. Rafferty said, 'I didn't know she had a daughter.'
It was hardly surprising. Their stilted working relationship scarcely encouraged the bringing out of the family albums. Rafferty, who liked to get to know colleagues on a deeper, more personal level, found her standoffish attitude even more constraining.
'Been abroad at school, I imagine. Not met her meself. As I said, it was the hospital visiting on top of her work that got me the job. Some sort of women's trouble, the daughter has, I gather,' Mrs Chadden confided, in delicately lowered tones. 'Must admit, she does look terrible peaky in the latest photos the Missis took of her. So, as I say, what with the long hours the Missis works and then the hospital visiting, she needed a decent woman to look after her, and I was happy to oblige. Recommended I was.'
The idea appeared as startling to her as it did to Rafferty, who concluded it must have been a disgruntled copper who had made the recommendation. Rafferty watched, fascinated, as the cigarette, in apparent defiance of the laws of gravity, remained perched on the edge of her lower lip as she chattered on. 'Best little job I've had for a long time, I don't mind telling you. Course, I've only worked here a few weeks, and she might be being on her best behaviour, like. Some do. But then,' she gazed round the barely clean kitchen with a proprietary air. 'You can see she's used to having things nice.'
She glanced at the clock and frowned. 'I hope she's not going to be much longer, only I've got to get to the chemist in town and it's their early closing day. Promised my old mum I'd pick up some snaps of her and some other old biddies she was in the forces with. I don't like to leave you here on your own. Hardly hospitable.'
Rafferty's glance caught her straw basket, through the holes of which a 2lb bag of sugar was visible, and it occurred to him that it wasn't politeness that was making her anxious so much as concern that, left on their own, the law's finest might half-inch stores that she regarded as her prerogative. Judging from the other holes, the sugar had company. Careful to keep the amusement from his voice, Rafferty attempted to reassure her, but she showed no inclination to trust them and depart.
'Two hours a day I put in here, Monday to Friday,' she told them. 'From eight to ten in the morning, but as it’s the weekend, she didn’t ask me to come before ten.' It was now 12.10 a m on a Saturday and she was obviously getting restive. She slopped water into the cups, gave the teabags a dunk or two, and tipped the milk in. 'Help yourselves to sugar,' she invited, as she dumped the cups before them and sat down. Her invitation notwithstanding, as she chattered on, she gazed with a pained expression as Rafferty helped himself to three sugars, took a tentative sip of the weak brew, and just managed not to pull a disgusted face.
Thankfully, they weren't to be subjected to Mrs Chadden's runaway tongue beyond bearing, as, after another couple of minutes, she cocked her head on one side and announced, 'Here she is now,' before rearranging the folds of a cardigan more discreetly over the basket and getting into her coat. 'I'll be off then,' she told Ms Probyn, as the Prosecutor came into the kitchen.
Elizabeth Probyn was a tall woman, and although she was undoubtedly a little overweight, Rafferty noted once again that she carried both height and weight well. She was, he knew, thirty-six, two years younger than him, though from her poised, confident air, she always seemed much older. In a burst of honesty, Rafferty acknowledged that if he hadn't lacked these qualities himself, he wouldn't feel nearly so irritated by her possession of them. Unconsciously, he straightened his shoulders, commenting, 'Charming woman,' when Mrs Chadden had left.
If she suspected th
at Rafferty was making a sly dig about her poor choice of cleaner, Elizabeth Probyn didn't let it show. 'Can't say I've noticed myself,' she briefly commented, adding, 'shall we go through to the drawing-room?'
The drawing-room was a spacious, comfortable room, though like the kitchen, the air of neglect was evident. Rafferty had learned on the police grapevine that Elizabeth Probyn was divorced. Grudgingly, he admitted she had her work cut out keeping up a house of this size if the only help she had was the slapdash Mrs Chadden. She certainly looked tired; the mauve shadows under her eyes were beginning to deepen to purple and gave her an air of fragility he had never noticed before.
Determined to start the interview off on the right foot for once, as they sat down, Rafferty forced a sympathetic comment, 'I gather Mrs Chadden's something of a stop-gap while your daughter's in hospital?' She stared at him, as if she resented his familiarity, and he said quickly, 'It must be a worrying time for you.' The frown told him she suspected he had deliberately encouraged her gossiping treasure.
She said, 'It is,' and abruptly changed the subject. 'I gather you wanted to speak to me about the Maurice Smith case?'
His friendly overtures rebuffed, Rafferty now became equally abrupt. 'Yes.' Curiosity compelled him to let his gaze travel surreptitiously round the room, as he gestured to Llewellyn to take out his notebook. The only other time he'd been here, he'd got no further than the hall, and now, he noticed lots of framed photographs, presumably of the daughter, as a tiny baby and young woman, resting on top of the piano in the window alcove. She was an attractive girl, or could be, if she took some trouble. But she dressed drably, as so many young women did nowadays, and she gazed out at the world with wary eyes from beneath an unkempt mop of dark hair.
'I just wanted your general recollections, if any,' Rafferty continued, forcing a calmness he was far from feeling. Keep it light, Rafferty, he advised himself. Don't let her get to you. She's bound to be uptight about her ancient failure, especially as it's you asking the questions. 'For instance, you were the prosecutor in the case. Did you believe Smith to be guilty?'
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