Rafferty had discussed the matter with forensic and had been told that this knife must be at least 10" long, as it had gone through the thin padding of the cheap armchair in which Smith had been sitting, before penetrating the flesh and piercing the heart.
A fluke? Or a knowing thrust? They were aware of no one with any reason to kill Smith who had sufficient medical knowledge to pierce the correct spot knowingly; certainly not from behind and through a padded chair. Rafferty stared at the report with anxious eyes as the face of Stubbs danced before them. A policeman would have more opportunity than most to learn.
Archie—Archibald Stubbs; unhappily, Rafferty rolled the name around on his tongue. Although he was much older, grey, taciturn and given to cryptic observations, Rafferty felt that beneath the superficial differences, he and Stubbs weren't so dissimilar. They even had unfortunate names in common, though at least Ma hadn't saddled him with Aloysius as a first name.
Stubbs had been a good copper, a straight copper, everyone he had spoken to about him had agreed on that, though he had the unfortunate knack of rubbing his superiors up the wrong way; another similarity. Rafferty found himself smiling ruefully.
Before his premature retirement from the force, Archie Stubbs had been generally regarded as an honest, plain-speaking man, the sort who called a spade a bloody shovel. Again like me, was Rafferty's immediate response. But when it came to devious behaviour, he'd been no match for the politicos upstairs. No match at all.
Thompson, too, had paid the price for embarrassing the brass. Like Stubbs, he had decades of genuine service and successes under his belt, had passed his inspector's exams, and should have received promotion. Instead, because of one failed case – in which the decision to prosecute hadn't even rested with the police – he had been shunted sideways, back into uniform, and his career had advanced no further.
Who could blame either of them, if their resentment had simmered over the years; Stubbs, in his arid, lonely bungalow, and Thompson, denied the rank he must feel he deserved, as less experienced men were promoted over him? Smith had been the catalyst of their misfortunes. But, he wondered again, would they act ten years later?
Yes, he realised, they just might; if, as he and Llewellyn had discussed, another more recent occurrence could be traced back to Smith. Some tragedy or trauma that could be connected with him. Aware he had been putting off any further investigation into the police suspects, scared of what he might find, he knew he couldn't delay checking them out much longer. But for the moment, he was able to thrust the thought aside as more reports came in.
The Australian police had got back to them. According to Hanks, the Walker family had checked out, and were in the clear. None of them had made a surreptitious trip back to the old country. They had all been seen about their business in the normal way around the time Smith had died. So, that was one lot of suspects out of the running. Which – apart from the police suspects – left them with the Masseys, the Figgs and the Dennington families, plus Sinead Fay and her friends.
The Dennington boys’ regiment had cleared them. They had both been on duty during the relevant time, the fact verified by senior officers. And, with the father dead, that left only the victim herself and her mother.
Hanks also reported on his other assignment and Rafferty's forehead began to resemble a ploughed field as he learned that Ellen Kemp was either entirely innocent or had the luck of the devil. It turned out she had a double garage, a sizable old-fashioned affair that was built to house the larger cars of an earlier era; the Bentleys, Daimlers and Rollers, and had more than enough space to accommodate two modern cars, as well as providing ample space to work on them.
Sinead Fay's neighbours had proved no help either. Hanks had checked and the neighbours on the other side of RSG woman had been out on the evening of Maurice Smith's murder. They had left home by cab around seven that evening and hadn't returned till the early hours.
The elderly couple on the other side were no more helpful, even though Hanks said they seemed desperately eager to be so. His visit was, Hanks told Rafferty, obviously the most exciting thing that had happened to them in years. Rafferty sighed. As he had guessed, the television had been on all evening and had drowned any sound from next door. What Ellen Kemp had told them about her daughter had also checked out.
Rafferty perked up when Lilley returned to the station and reported that he had spoken to Smith's other neighbour, but he deflated again when he learned that the wretched man was unable to remember what he'd done with the piece of paper on which he had scribbled the registration number; worse, his wife now thought that she'd thrown it away after persuading her husband not to ring the police and report it.
'Isn't it just great?' he complained to Llewellyn after dismissing Lilley with the instruction to keep pushing the couple to find the elusive paper. 'Why did they have to be so damn reasonable that night of all nights? Any other time and half the street would have been behind the net curtains with their biros and scraps of paper, noting down strange men, strange cars and windscreens lacking the Road Fund Licence, left, right and centre.'
Rafferty had hoped for a definite confirmation that the Zephyr had been Sinead Fay's. Now, he was still in Limbo-land and didn't know whether to accept that the piece of paper would never turn up, and start, instead, to further check out the other Zephyr-owners, their friends and relations, in order to eliminate them, or whether he should delay such checks in the now faint hope that the piece of paper would still turn up. In the end, he decided to wait and see.
BY THE NEXT MORNING they had received no more helpful news in the case and Rafferty knew he could no longer delay checking out Stubbs and Thompson. He turned to Llewellyn and opened his mouth to issue instructions, but his sergeant was far away in a world of his own, gazing out the window with an anxious frown.
Rafferty could guess why. Llewellyn's mother had arrived already – Ma had never been one to put off till tomorrow what could be done yesterday – Rafferty guessed such a tendency came from having had six kids to get up and out every morning. So, the extension of the invitation, the railroading of any excuses and the arrival of her house guest had all occurred in little more than twenty-four hours.
Rafferty had given Llewellyn a few hours off to drive to London and collect his mother from the train. He felt he had to, as Llewellyn was insistent that his mother would be unable to find her way around London’s Liverpool Street Station to find the line to Elmhurst. He was about to ask how his mother was settling in, and if she and Maureen had taken to one another, when Llewellyn's pensive expression caused him to think better of it. He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. Besides, he excused his moral cowardice with the thought that he had enough on my plate at the moment without going out of his way to find other things to plague him.
He interrupted Llewellyn's doleful wool-gathering to say, 'I'm going to have to drive up to London tomorrow to check out Frank Massey and his ex-wife and daughter. They'll all have learned of Smith's death by now, so I imagine they'll be expecting to hear from us. Not,' he added quietly, 'that I imagine that will make it any easier. I want you to go and see the Dennington, and Figg families. Ring first and warn them you're coming. They all still live in Burleigh. Take Liz Green with you. Lilley can keep pressing Smith's neighbour to find that registration number.' He paused, then added, 'Could you look into Stubbs' and Thompson's movements as well? If you have time, that is.'
Thankfully, Llewellyn came out of his reverie on being asked to carry out the delicate task of questioning the police officers. Of course, he knew, none better, that Rafferty felt more than a sneaking sympathy for Stubbs and Thompson.
They were busy the rest of that day keeping on top of the reports. It was late when Rafferty finally stretched, yawned, and checked his watch. It had been another long day with little to show for it; the sort of day Rafferty found most tiring—nothing happening to give him an adrenalin rush, but masses of paperwork to be read and absorbed. Still, he decided, it wasn't to
o late for them to see the Bullocks again that evening and reluctantly, he heaved himself from his comfortable chair. The office was warm and it was freezing outside; the window sporting icicles.
'It'll be interesting to find out what Bullock claims he was doing last Thursday evening that was important enough to make him late for his pint,' he remarked to Llewellyn on the way out. 'Spot of light dusting, perhaps. Though from the look of their flat, I doubt it.'
ALTHOUGH IT WAS NINE o'clock on an icy winter's night, children as young as eight were still out on the Bullocks' estate, their pinched faces blue with cold and their eyes watchful.
As Rafferty and Llewellyn got out of the car, one of the older boys yelled at them. 'Hey, copper. You wanted to know when Roger the Rapist was about last week.'
Rafferty turned. The youth was about fifteen, but he already had cold, watchful eyes and hardened features. 'That's right,' he said. 'Why? Can you help?'
The boy nodded. His name was Darren, he told them. 'He was 'ere last Thursday. I saw him leavin' from up on the balcony.'
Rafferty frowned. 'Thursday? You're sure about that? Sure it wasn't the Wednesday?'
'Nah.' Darren shook his head. 'Eastenders had just finished on the telly and I went to knock for me mate. While I was waiting for him to open the door I saw Roger the Rapist's car pullin' out of the car park.'
Rafferty was surprised that a lad like Darren should help the law. From the look in his eyes, so was Darren. 'You live here?'
'Yeah. Number 58.'
Rafferty felt a sudden doubt. How well could Darren have known Smith? After all, not only had Smith visited his family infrequently, he was far from outgoing, and unlikely to pause to swap gossip with the local toughs. 'You're sure it was Maurice Smith?'
'Course I'm sure. I know everything that goes on in these flats. It's my place. Besides, 'ow could I mistake that miserable ferret face? It's been splashed over the newspapers enough lately.'
'I'm not saying I don't believe you Darren. But you must realise that what you've told us is important. Can anyone corroborate what you say?'
'Do what?'
'Do you know if anyone else saw him at the same time?'
Darren's face cleared. 'Yeah. My mate's mum. Sharon Gates at number 23. She'd be able to tell you. She opened the door to me just as he reversed his car out of the parkin' bay like a bleedin' maniac. She yelled at him over the balcony that he'd kill somebody, drivin' like that.'
His eyes narrowed. 'Course, she didn't actually see him, any more than I did. The angle was wrong. But we both recognised his car.' Darren's lip curled as he added, 'Boasted to my kid brother once that he was an Advanced Driver—passed the test, like. Lyin' bastard. The way he reversed out Thursday night, I shouldn't fink he's even got a license. Thought old Bullockbrains, his dad, was a rotten driver, but he's worse. All over the road, he was, nearly ran into my old man's car.'
Darren was wrong, Rafferty knew. Maurice Smith had passed the Advanced Driving Test. The searches through his flat had confirmed as much. It was Smith's one solid achievement in life. 'Might have been drunk,' Rafferty suggested.
'Nah. Not him. Kevin, his brother, told me once he hardly touches a drop.' This was said with the scorn of the experienced drinker. Darren's lips drew back over sharp teeth. 'Know why too, now, don't we? Must 'ave been scared he'd give away his real identity and let slip what he does to little girls. I mean, it's not somefing old Bullock would want him to boast about, is it? Not like 'avin' a bank robber in the family. Must be a bugger 'aving a creep like that in the family, especially if people find out.'
Darren's sharp features suddenly became even more razor-edged. 'Here—maybe he was worried it was goin' to come out?'
'Why do you say that?' Rafferty asked.
'Jes Bullock was offering money in the pub to 'ave him duffed up late Thursday afternoon; a persuader to get him to move, he said. Why should he do that after all this time unless he had reason to think it was going to get out? Obviously, 'e was 'oping to scare him away from the area. Or else,' Darren added darkly, 'he changed his mind and decided to get rid permanent. I mean, Roger the Rapist is dead, ain’t he? You can't get more permanent than that.'
Darren having declined to tell them if anyone in the pub had taken up Jes Bullock's offer, Rafferty decided not to press the matter, and let Darren go off with one of his mates, leaving the two policemen to check his story with Sharon Gates, his friend's mother. She confirmed that Maurice Smith had been at the flats on Thursday evening.
'I told you Jes Bullock had a guilty secret,' Rafferty remarked smugly as they tramped back down the stairs. 'Do you think it was him driving the car that night and not Maurice Smith at all? He might not have been good at anything else, but you've got to be a first rate driver to pass the Advanced test. His stepfather's a big bloke. He could easily have overpowered Smith and taken him somewhere private so his mates could convince him it would be healthier for him if he left town. Or maybe Darren's right, and he decided to end the problem of his stepson once and for all. It's possible, especially if Maurice had told him about the ‘outing' threat.'
Llewellyn didn't agree. 'Why bring him back to Smith's flat, stab him, then take him all the way to Dedman Wood to leave him suspended on The Hanging Tree? If there was one way to guarantee that Smith's picture appeared on the front page of every newspaper, that was it. Surely that would be the last thing Jes Bullock would want? Even if he did decide to rid himself permanently of his stepson, he would be certain to remove all traces of Smith's identity and dump the body far from home. That way the body would be just another John Doe and Jes Bullock could tell anyone who asked that his stepson had moved away.'
Rafferty nodded. 'Maybe.' As Llewellyn made in the direction of the other staircase that would lead them to the Bullocks' landing, Rafferty stopped him. 'After what we've just learned, I think, we should wait till Sam Dally's got a few more answers for us on those bruises before we tackle Bullock again. He surely can't be much longer, unless his Christmas rush has started, after all. Anyway, I want to check what Darren told us with the pub landlord. Let's get along there and see what we can find out.’
WITH A CERTAIN RELUCTANCE, Tim Hadley, the landlord of the Pig and Whistle confirmed Darren's story about Jes Bullock offering to pay someone to beat his stepson up. However, he added, as Bullock had the reputation of being a penniless scrounger, no one had taken him up on it as far as he knew.
'When my regulars just jeered at him and asked to see the colour of his money, he shouted that he'd do the job himself, then stormed out of the bar. He was the worse for drink, of course.'
That had been around four on Thursday afternoon, they learned. Five and a half hours later, Mrs ffinch-Robinson had found Smith's body hanging in Dedman Wood.
'Remind me to give Sam Dally a bell in the morning before I go to London,' Rafferty remarked as they left the bar. 'I want to get in early before he gets busy and remind him I'm still waiting for those test results on Smith's bruises. If he has them, and they confirm what I suspect, we might be able to lever a little more out of Bullock. Might even get a confession out of him,' he added in a brief spurt of optimism.
Llewellyn didn't seem to think it likely. 'Drunk or sober, I can't believe Bullock would be so stupid as to kill Smith after making such an announcement. If Smith had died accidentally from a blow, it would be different, but he didn't. He died from a single knife wound to the heart. Rather unlikely that could have happened accidentally. Even more unlikely that Bullock wouldn't have tried to cover his tracks.'
Rafferty had to admit that Llewellyn had a point. He scowled and commented tartly, 'it's just one damn obfuscation after another, isn't it?'
Llewellyn merely nodded, shot a quick glance at Rafferty, cleared his throat and murmured, 'Er, Sir–Joseph.'
Oh God, thought Rafferty. Here it comes. Although he'd long ago asked Llewellyn to stop being so formal and call him by his first name, he rarely did. When ‘Joseph’ came accompanied by throat-clearing, it was a sure
sign he was about to be told something he would rather not hear. For instance, that Mother Llewellyn's visit was already promising to be an unmitigated disaster. And that it was his fault. He took a deep breath and forced himself to ask, 'So what's on your mind?'
'It's just—' Llewellyn paused, looked doubtfully at him for a moment and then began immediately to backtrack. 'It's nothing. Really. Never mind.'
Rafferty, never being a believer in meeting problems halfway, didn't push it.
Chapter Ten
RAFFERTY WAS GLAD OF the excuse to get away to London. It would give him a brief respite from the endless reports as well as from the increasingly hang-dog look that Llewellyn had worn since his mother's arrival.
Rafferty was convinced that his earlier fears about the visit were coming true. Especially as, when in the office, Llewellyn had taken to spending a large part of his time uncharacteristically staring into space, and his face, long and serious at the best of times, seemed now to have a brow permanently creased by frowns.
Rafferty had already tried several times to find out the worst from his Ma and sisters, but none of them returned his calls. Now, becoming paranoid, he decided they were making him sweat it out as punishment for inflicting Llewellyn's Welsh dragon mother on them. If it suited her, his Ma was more than capable of forgetting that she was the one who had insisted that Llewellyn's mother visit at Christmas.
As he stared at Llewellyn's long, lean profile, Rafferty asked himself why he had pushed the Welshman into agreeing to this visit. It was obvious now that Llewellyn hadn't been that keen. Grimly, he resolved to never, ever again get involved in someone else's love life. It was a fool's errand. God knew, it wasn't as if he had made a huge success of his own. It was hardly surprising that as Christmas Day and the big family dinner got nearer he felt more and more apprehensive.
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