RAFFERTY & LLEWELLYN BOXED SET: BOOKS 1 - 4

by Geraldine Evans

  Although Rafferty had never met Sinead Fay, he had heard of her and what had happened to her, so he knew what to expect. However, the reality was still shocking and he tried not to stare at the ruin of her face as he quickly made the introductions.

  The doctors had done a fairly neat job of stitching up the knife slashes, but some of them had gone deep—to the dermis and beyond, to the layer of subcutaneous fat beneath. Eight years ago, the techniques for repairing such facial injuries hadn't been as advanced as they were now, but surely, he thought, even now, something more could be done for her?

  'Pretty, aren't they, Inspector?' she commented by way of greeting. 'I call them my feminist battle scars.' Although her voice was careless, matter of fact even, the rage still came through in the aggressive line of the jaw and the resolute stare with which she met his gaze, daring him to show revulsion or pity.

  Some of Rafferty's colleagues who had met her were of the opinion that Sinead Fay had left her scars as they were in order to make men feel guilty. Rafferty suspected they were right. It certainly worked on him. She would, he was sure, make good use of such a natural male reaction. It would be more effective to the feminist cause than any number of rallies and demonstrations.

  She must have been an enchantingly pretty girl before the vicious assault on her, Rafferty decided. She shared the glorious Black Irish colouring of his sister, Maggie; hair, as dark as a raven, skin creamy as Jersey milk, and eyes the bright blue of lazy Caribbean skies fringed with lashes as thick and lustrous as palm fronds.

  'How did it happen?'

  Rafferty was torn abruptly away from his poetical musings by Llewellyn's question, and wished he'd thought to warn him what to expect. Of course, he hadn't anticipated that the normally sensitive Llewellyn would voice such a question.

  Sinead Fay smiled softly, as though pleased that another unsuspecting male had fallen so neatly into her trap. Rafferty wondered just how much of a kick she got out of telling each new man she met.

  'I was attacked by a knife-wielding thug, Sergeant,' she told him. 'One who didn't seem to understand that I found him entirely resistible. I had already refused to go out with him several times. I gather he thought that, with my face carved up, I wouldn't be able to be so particular. Oh and he raped me as well, just to thrust the message home, as it were.'

  Llewellyn merely nodded. Rafferty guessed she had expected the usual male response; a shuffling of feet, the lowering of embarrassed eyes, the muttered apology, for when the Welshman failed to do any of these things, her eyes narrowed, her provocative mouth thinned, so that, strangely, it became even more provocative, and she spun on her heel with the words, 'You wanted to speak to me about the death of Maurice Smith, I believe?'

  'The murder of Maurice Smith, yes,' Rafferty corrected.

  At his correction, she glanced fleetingly over her shoulder, then led the way into what he assumed was her living room, though it looked more like the headquarters of an anarchist group. The walls were covered with posters; some urging the empowerment of women; others featuring the uglier face of man in all its aggressive guises, warrior, rapist, mugger. Piles of leaflets littered every surface and he realised that it was their headquarters, their advice centre, their meeting point where they planned future campaigns. Was it here that the 'outing' campaign had been formulated?

  There were two other women present. They were bent over a table piled high with letters which they were stuffing into envelopes. He guessed these were the other two women who formed the breakaway Rape Support Group.

  The elder of the two stared at them boldly. She had the kind of dark, gypsyish good looks that had no need of make-up. Rafferty guessed it probably infuriated her that her own natural attractiveness would encourage men to indulge in the kind of meaningless flirtation she must despise. As though to counteract her own good looks, she wore a shapeless pair of khaki dungarees with a badge on the strap that said, "Mother Nature Nurtures—What Does Father Nature Do?"

  She was about thirty-five, he guessed and his assumption that she was Ellen Kemp was confirmed as Sinead Fay made the introductions. The strong chin and squared shoulders spoke of the confident woman that Mrs Nye had described. She had told them that Ellen Kemp ran her own very successful business as well as bringing up her daughter single-handedly. She had the air of quiet self-assurance about her that made him wonder why she hadn't assumed the mantle of leader. But presumably her business took up a lot of her time. And there was always the position of the power behind the throne. The other woman was about twenty-five and was introduced as Zonie Anderson. She just nodded, but said nothing.

  Ellen Kemp held his gaze for several seconds before she said, 'Gwen Nye rang and told us you were on your way, though really, I can't imagine what you—'

  'We just want to ask a few questions, Ms Kemp, nothing to worry about. We're investigating the murder of Maurice Smith and—'

  'Wow! Men!'

  Astonished to hear a voice in this house enthuse over his sex, Rafferty's head swivelled. A teenage girl stood in the doorway behind Sinead Fay. She shared Ellen Kemp's bold stare, but the stare she directed at him and Llewellyn was much warmer, the smile so naturally flirtatious that Rafferty wondered what malign trick of the fates had placed her in a house where males were regarded as some kind of alien race. Behind him he heard Ellen Kemp give the briefest of sighs.

  'This is my daughter, Jenny,' she told them shortly.

  Rafferty almost laughed at the cruel irony of it. About eighteen, Jenny's similarity to her mother was striking, though it obviously extended no further than the physical.

  As though to demonstrate this fact, Jenny, hips swaying, sashayed slowly across the room and sat on the arm of her mother's chair, where she commenced a provocative swinging of one bare and slender leg. 'What are they doing here?' she asked her mother, as she appraised Llewellyn with such a steady, under-the-lashes stare of admiration, that his ears began to turn bright pink.

  With a restraint obviously born from plenty of practise, Ellen Kemp merely commented, 'These are policemen, darling. I can't imagine they'll be here long.'

  'Pity,' Jenny said, continuing to stare moony-eyed at the discomfited Welshman.

  Across Ellen Kemp's face passed a succession of emotions; irritation, affectionate exasperation, resignation and finally, determination. 'If you've got nothing better to do, why don't you take the post to the mailbox?'

  'What's the rush?' Jenny countered. She removed her gaze from Llewellyn for long enough to assess and dismiss the table with its piles of leaflets and already filled envelopes and said, 'There's nothing there that can't wait.'

  As Jenny showed no inclination to leave, her mother was forced to resort to bribery. She dug in her pocket and said, 'Here's twenty pounds. Why don't you and Cindy go to the pictures? You said you wanted to see that new romantic comedy.'

  'Trying to get rid of me, Mum?' Jenny asked. However, the bribe worked, because she took the heavy-handed hint and the crisp note, pushed herself up from her mother's chair and, after picking up the post, swayed her way back to the door. 'All right, I'll make myself scarce. Maybe I'll go to see Aunt Beth later. Her house can't be any drearier than this place, and maybe I might be able to cheer her up.'

  'I don't think that's a good idea, Jenny. She could do without your particular brand of cheering at the moment.

  Jenny shrugged.

  'And remember what I said about going with Cindy. I don't want you going on your own.'

  Jenny pulled another face as she made for the door again. 'Honestly, Mum, the entire world isn't populated by dirty old men in raincoats, you know. Though to hear you—'

  'Please, Jenny, just do as I ask.'

  Jenny flounced her way out, though she paused for long enough as she passed Llewellyn to say, 'Ciao', and blow him a kiss. The front door slammed behind her leaving a strained silence, which, after a moment, Rafferty broke. He gestured at the unoccupied settee, and asked, 'Okay if we sit down?' Sinead Fay nodded. 'As I said, we wante
d to talk to you about the murder of Maurice Smith.'

  Interestingly, none of the women made a comment about his death. Given their frequent outbursts in the press about the leniency of the Courts in dealing with rapists and other violent criminals, he'd have expected a ‘good riddance’, at the very least, and it was revealing that they chose to remain silent. He guessed Jenny's behaviour had not only embarrassed them, but had also to an extent taken the wind out of their sails. He decided to take advantage of it by launching a surprise attack.

  'I wonder, Ms Fay, if you can tell me what your car was doing parked by the victim's flat from last Wednesday morning to Thursday evening?'

  There was a moment's electrified silence. But something about Rafferty's body language or choice of words must have given him away, for Ellen Kemp told them calmly, 'you're mistaken, Inspector. Sinead's car was parked in my garage all last week.'

  Rafferty admired her coolness. Assuming it was the same car and it had been parked there for the reason he suspected, she was taking a chance that nobody had noted the number. Still, it was a calculated risk and he doubted Ellen Kemp ever did anything without calculating the odds. It was probably the character trait that had made her a successful businesswoman. And she had had several days since Smith's murder to plan her answers.

  A small voice of caution whispered in his brain that they'd hardly have parked the car outside Smith's flat if they'd been planning to murder him, and he as quickly riposted that murder mightn't have been the plan, merely the result. Having witnessed the pragmatic means she had used to remove her wayward daughter from the room, he doubted Ellen Kemp was fanatical enough to incriminate herself deliberately or to allow the other two to do so. A woman of her spirit would find the restrictions of a long prison sentence unendurable.

  He questioned her further 'You say Ms Fay's car was in your garage?' She nodded. 'Can you explain why?'

  'It's simple enough. It was playing up. It's quite an old car, and Sinead was tired of being ripped off by male mechanics and having to put up with their sexist comments. She knows I'm quite good with cars, so she asked me to have a look at it.'

  'And you didn't take it out at all?'

  'Well, of course I took it out. I had to give it a test run to make sure I'd cured the problem. But I only took it round the block. Nowhere near Smith's flat.'

  'You know where he lived, then?' he quickly asked and she answered equally quickly.

  'I should imagine the whole world knows by now. Or don't you read the papers, Inspector?'

  Rafferty began to see where Jenny got her pertness from; they took different directions, that was all.

  'I had no idea where he lived before his death.' She met his eyes as though daring him to contradict her. 'I had no reason to. None of us did.'

  Rafferty nodded. Hoping their investigations would reveal whether she was telling the truth or not, he gestured to Llewellyn to take over the questioning; possibly, his more low-key technique would get through their defences. Besides, he wanted a few free moments to study their faces.

  As though suspecting she might be a weak link, Llewellyn turned first to Sinead Fay. 'I understand you and Ms Kemp and Ms Anderson here, have recently broken away from the main Rape Support Group organisation,' he began. 'Can you tell me why that was?’

  When she answered, it was clear she had taken her guide from the older woman's responses. 'Are you saying you don't know?'

  'We don't operate on hearsay, Ms Fay,' Llewellyn told her mildly. 'I'd like to hear it from you.'

  She shrugged. 'They'd become a bunch of bleeding heart liberals, writing polite little letters to their MPs, asking the Members to do something about the rising levels of rape.'

  Llewellyn had been wise to put his questions to Sinead Fay, Rafferty realised. Because, although she made an attempt to lose the "rant" from her voice, as she continued, she was unable to keep it up.

  'Asking!' Her blue eyes were scornful. 'They should have been demanding, not asking. Making the cause front page news, not—'

  'How?' Rafferty immediately asked. He was quickly interrupted.

  ‘Sinead,' Ellen Kemp's voice held a warning note. 'I'm sure they don't want to listen to all this.'

  'Oh, but we do,' Rafferty assured her. He turned back to Sinead Fay, 'How?' he asked again. From his pocket he pulled a photocopy of the threatening letter he had found in Smith's sideboard. Holding it in front of him, he leaned forward challengingly to encourage an incautious response. 'By ‘outing’ the rapists? Was that how you planned to get banner headlines?'

  Or had they planned an even more newsworthy publicity campaign? Sinead Fay, for one, seemed fanatical enough for anything, and Ellen Kemp might have been unable to restrain her. If so, Sinead must be very pleased with her efforts. The story of Maurice Smith's "execution" had filled the front page of every newspaper in the country.

  For a moment Sinead Fay's eyes glowed with something akin to triumph, and Rafferty was sure she was going to confess to Smith's murder. But then, as Ellen Kemp frowned at her, the fanatical light faded and she drew back. He could almost see the shutters go down.

  'I just told you how,' she said flatly. 'By hounding as many MPs as we could, by making their lives a misery until they agreed to take up our cause. As for that letter, it's nothing to do with us. I've never seen it before.' The other two echoed her statement.

  With an apologetic shrug, Rafferty gestured to Llewellyn to resume the questioning.

  'Yet, I understood from Mrs Nye that all three of you proposed the idea of an ‘outing’ campaign here in Elmhurst. Are you saying that's not the case?'

  As though concerned that Sinead Fay might let herself be goaded into making further provocative statements, Ellen Kemp answered. 'No. She's merely saying that we haven't organised such a campaign.' As though anxious to take their interest away from her outspoken friend and on to herself, she continued, 'But maybe an ‘outing’ campaign is what's needed to make the authorities sit up and take notice. Women have always been too quiet, too undemanding about the things that affect them. That's why their needs are so often ignored. They should take their cue from the AIDS lobby.'

  The other two were nodding. Obviously this was a much discussed issue.

  Although she kept her voice level, her feelings in check, it was evident that Ellen Kemp felt every bit as strongly as the younger woman. 'Do you know how much money and help the AIDS campaigners have had showered on them?' she asked. 'All right,' she admitted, 'many people would say it's a worthy cause. But then, so is helping the victims of rape. So is doing something about the level of sexual assault.' She leant forward as though to convince them. 'Apart from financial input from the government, the AIDS campaign get film stars hosting charity dinners, rock stars throwing charity concerts. What do rape victims get? You know the answer yourself—pretty pastel rape suites in police stations if they're lucky; a few pot plants to give the impression that the powers that be give a damn about women's fears.'

  Ellen Kemp rose, walked to the table and picked up a selection of the RSG leaflets and handed them to Rafferty. 'I suggest you read these, you'll find all the facts in there. Were you aware, for instance, that over 20,000 women and girls are raped or sexually assaulted in this country every year? - and that's just the tip of the iceberg. There are many more who never report it. A fifth of the victims are under sixteen; little girls, Inspector. Vulnerable little girls, just like Smith's victims. Easy prey for rapists, of course, that's why they target them. They can be pretty sure that the ordeal of testifying in court will deter most of them from seeking justice. Understandable, of course, when you know how their courage is rewarded by the – mostly male – legal system.’

  She opened a leaflet and began to read, her voice matter-of-fact rather than ranting. 'Take just one year — 1991 — more than 4,000 women and girls reported rape to the police and just 559 men were found guilty. Roughly one in eight. With time off for good behaviour, most of them were out in very few years. It's their victims who got t
he life sentence.'

  Rafferty knew what she said was true. It often angered him; he had a mother, sisters, nieces. Maybe one day, he'd even have daughters. He knew the terrible, life-long damage such assaults inflicted, the shattered lives, the mental trauma and the vanished confidence that was so often the victim's lot. Some, like the Walker's daughter, committed suicide. He could understand the women's anger, their determination to do something. He frequently felt the same way. That was the trouble.

  But he knew he couldn't afford to show his weakness. These women were suspects in a murder case, and it would be as well for him to remember it. Now, thrusting aside his instinctive sympathies, he said bluntly, 'I'm aware of all this, Ms Kemp. But I'm only a policeman. I just try to catch villains. And whatever Maurice Smith did or didn't do, and whether I like it or not, I have the task of finding his killer. Now, perhaps you could tell me where you all were on the evening of Thursday 18 December, when we understand Maurice Smith was murdered.'

  'Certainly. We were here. We were all here.'

  'All evening?’

  She nodded.

  As an alibi, it was far from convincing. Rafferty was beginning to think of them as The Three Musketeers—one for all and all for one. He'd made a bad mistake in speaking to them together like this. Next time he'd make sure he spoke to each of them alone; that way the wiser head of Ellen Kemp would be unable to restrain Sinead's hotter one.

  'What about your daughter? Was she here, too?'

  Ellen Kemp's smile was ironic. 'No. As you saw, my daughter prefers ogling men to getting involved with her mother's campaigns. She spent that entire day at her friend Cindy's house and slept over. Check, if you like.' She supplied the address of her daughter's friend and sat back.

  They were too much on their guard for Rafferty to imagine they would get much more out of them today and, recognising the futility of continuing the interview, he stood up to go. But he was more than ever convinced they were involved.