Forcing his mind back to business, he asked Llewellyn, 'Have you managed to get anything on who might have been passing the Rape Support Group official information about Smith?'
Llewellyn dragged himself from his reverie and stared blankly at him. 'I'm sorry. What did you say?'
Rafferty repeated his question.
As though annoyed by his own inefficiency, Llewellyn's frown deepened. 'I meant to tell you. I haven't been able to find out anything on the police angle. Apart from us, nobody has recently accessed the computer for information on Smith, but an official at the Department of Social Security got back to me first thing this morning before you got in. He told me one of their young clerks had admitted giving out Smith's address.'
'Did this clerk remember anything about the person they spoke to?'
'Only that the voice sounded sufficiently authoritative to persuade her to part with the information, and that it was a female voice.'
Rafferty nodded and Llewellyn once more lapsed into silence. Wary of Llewellyn's silences and what they might bring forth, Rafferty hastily got on the phone to Dally. Sam told him the tests on Smith's bruises had yet to be done, but that he expected them to be finished by the end of the day.
Rafferty rang off, got up, and pulled on his overcoat. Made anxious by the simmering undercurrents, he gave his instructions with unusual hesitancy. 'About Stubbs and Thompson,' he began. 'I know I don't have to warn you to be discreet, but—'
'Don't worry.' Llewellyn gave him a bleak smile. 'I shall be as discreet as if it were you I were investigating.'
Rafferty wasn't sure he liked the comparison, but at least he knew he could rely on Llewellyn; he was the most discreet copper he knew. 'I'll probably be away for most of the day. I'm taking Mary Carmody with me. These interviews with the families are going to be difficult enough without us flat-footed males making it worse.'
Usually, Llewellyn would have been sure to point out that his comment was unfair; certainly as far as he was concerned. The fact that he didn't left Rafferty even more convinced that his sergeant had other things on his mind. Worried that Llewellyn might overcome his reluctance to confide with more success than he had managed the previous night, he made his escape to London.
Left alone, Llewellyn stared broodingly into space for another five minutes before, giving himself a mental shake, he picked up the phone and rang through to Liz Green. After telling her he'd be back to pick her up later for the interviews with the Dennington and Figg families, he made for the car park. He was glad of another busy day. It would keep his mind occupied. Putting aside his unprofitable thoughts on personal matters, which he had, anyway, already gone through over and over again without forming any constructive conclusion as to what he should do, Llewellyn forced himself to concentrate on the tasks Rafferty had left with him. At least there he felt he had a reasonable chance of success.
He decided to begin the delicate task of investigating the two police suspects by first looking into Stubbs's movements. Of the two men, he felt the older, more senior, man had been the most affected by the failure of the case. It was therefore logical to assume he would be the most likely of the two to take action. Llewellyn felt it wouldn't have been difficult for him to get hold of a police uniform; he might have managed to hold on to his old one from the time before he had joined the CID.
Llewellyn, having taken Rafferty's hints to heart, resolved to speak to Stubbs himself only if he could find out what he needed to know no other way. Stubbs, like Thompson, had devoted years of his life to the force and deserved a certain consideration—especially if he turned out to be innocent. He felt Rafferty had been right about that. Llewellyn was a little surprised to find himself agreeing with his inspector. It was a novel experience.
Settling on Stubbs's cheery neighbour as the obvious source of information, he parked the car round the corner from their street. Fortunately, he had only to wait half-an-hour before he saw Stubbs drive off towards town.
Llewellyn waited for a minute, drove round the corner and parked in front of Stubbs's bungalow. He got out of the car and, for the benefit of Stubbs's gnome-like neighbour who was standing at his front door chatting to the postman, he made a pantomime of disappointment at finding Stubbs's drive empty.
Things were falling into place nicely, Llewellyn reflected, with a tiny, self-mocking smile. If Stubbs's neighbour hadn't been standing at his own door, he would have had to knock which would have robbed the visit of the casual air with which he had cloaked it.
The neighbour shouted hello and walked up the path as the postman resumed his deliveries. 'Aren't you one of those chaps who visited Mr Stubbs the other day?'
'That's right.' Llewellyn walked over to the gate.
'Thought I recognised you. I'm afraid you've missed him. What a pity. He gets so few visitors.' The gnome seemed a kindly man, and was genuinely upset that Stubbs should have missed this one. But then he cheered up. 'He's only gone to get a bit of shopping. I don't suppose he'll be more than half-an-hour.'
Llewellyn made a play of consulting his watch. 'I can't wait, unfortunately, and I won't be able to return till Thursday evening. I suppose he'll be in then?'
'Thursday?' The gnome frowned. 'He's not often in on Thursday evenings. Usually, he goes to visit a friend of his—a chap called Thompson. Perhaps you know him?'
'No. I'm afraid not, though I know of him.' Llewellyn hadn't expected it to be so easy. Now he knew where Stubbs was generally to be found on Thursday evenings; the next step was to try to find out if he and Thompson had actually been at Thompson’s place last Thursday. Llewellyn gave the helpful gnome one of his rare smiles. 'Thank you. You've saved me another wasted journey.'
'Maybe I can give him a message for you?'
Llewellyn paused as if considering. 'No. I don't think so. It's nothing that can't wait. But thanks for the offer. I'll contact him myself another time.' Llewellyn said goodbye and as he walked back down the path, he could almost hear Rafferty's cryptic voice telling him he was a jammy devil. 'Simply a matter of finesse and delicacy, sir,' Llewellyn murmured under his breath as he got in the car. 'You should try it some time.' His shoulders slumped as he remembered that finesse and delicacy weren't working quite so well in other areas of his life.
He checked in his notebook for Thompson's exact address and set off, working out how best to repeat his success thus far. However, this repetition proved elusive as he soon discovered that Thompson had no neighbours. He got out of the car and walked round the perimeter of the cottage. There was not a sign of another house for half-a-mile in any direction. The loneliness of the location brought a return of the melancholy thoughts.
Too late, he realised he should never have let Rafferty talk him into agreeing to his mother coming for a visit while his relationship with Maureen was still so new. Of course Joseph Rafferty's enthusiasm for his own ideas had a way of carrying all before him. Besides, it had been a generous offer, and it would have been churlish to turn him down.
Llewellyn felt sure of nothing but his own uncertainty. He'd never been in this situation before; a woman on either side pushing him, and he wished he could find the courage to act forcefully.
Briefly, he wondered how Rafferty would deal with a similar situation and his unhappy expression lightened momentarily as he realised that Rafferty would undoubtedly start shouting, slam out and go up the pub; a simple outlook perhaps, but at least he would have done something, however pointless. Llewellyn felt incapable of doing anything at all. He longed for the boldness which he had always lacked in relationships, wished he could convince himself to act decisively, but too much thinking had always been his trouble.
He had already tried to ask Rafferty's advice once and had then thought better of it, but now he wondered whether he ought not try again? After all, the inspector had a reputation at the station as something of a ladies' man, and if the canteen talk was true, he certainly had plenty of experience with women. There again, was it the right sort of experience?
Llewellyn's lips twisted at the thought that if he was truly considering asking Joseph Rafferty's advice about his love life he, must be desperate; the inspector had a tendency to give advice first and think about its wisdom afterwards, if at all. Had he reached the point where he was desperate enough not just to ask for his advice, but to take it?
Conscious that a decision was as far away as ever, he forced his thoughts back to work matters. Reluctant to return to the station to report failure, he sat in the car for several more minutes, turning over what they already knew about the two men. Out of all his old colleagues, Stubbs had kept in contact only with Thompson, his right-hand-man during the long drawn out rapes investigation. Thompson had been transferred from Burleigh police station to Great Mannleigh after the collapse of the Smith trial, and had remained there ever since.
Llewellyn wondered about the friendship between the two men. On the surface it was as unlikely a one as the growing bond between himself and Joseph Rafferty. Stubbs, very much the loner in every other respect but this one, self-contained and apparently self-sufficient, and Thompson, also a widower as it happened, though a very recent one, was reported to be a much more outgoing character and was a regular at the police club in Great Mannleigh. The only tie likely to bring them together in such a friendship of opposites was their mutual bitterness over the Smith case.
Rafferty, with an ease Llewellyn couldn't help but envy, had tapped into the police grapevine with as little trouble as a bird tapped through the foil on a milk bottle. With a rude joke and the rough exchange of banter that Llewellyn knew he would never manage Rafferty had learned that, as they had suspected, Thompson's hopes of advancement had been continually blocked. The taint of the Smith case and the embarrassment it had caused his superiors had effectively removed the career ladder from Thompson's feet.
Such things happened, Llewellyn knew. It served no purpose to rage about their unfairness as Inspector Rafferty was inclined to do. They were both aware that a word here, a whisper there, were sufficient to bring a man's career to a standstill or to an abrupt end like that of Stubbs.
Unconsciously, Llewellyn echoed Rafferty's unspoken question: Why, if they had killed Smith should they act now? There was no reason, or none that they had been able to discover. Thompson's wife had died in a road accident a few months ago certainly, but Smith hadn't been involved, they'd checked. Even the death of Stubbs's wife, which could be attributed indirectly to Smith, had happened years ago. So why act now?
Aware he was going round and round in circles, chasing his own tail in a way that Rafferty so often did, Llewellyn forced his mind to pause and consider. He remembered he had seen a pub a mile back along the road, presumably it was Thompson's local and he decided it might be worth paying it a visit.
From the outside, the pub looked for all the world as if it was designed to repel strangers. Small and scruffy, it appeared strictly a neighbourhood pub, which indicated the locals would be familiar with one another's routines.
After parking the car, he opened the pub door, and was pleased to find that, inside, the pub wore a far more welcoming air. It was a real old-fashioned place and had a smell all its own, made up of some aromatic tobacco in the unlit pipe of one of the old men playing dominoes in the corner, hearty vegetable soup simmering its way to lunchtime from the kitchen behind the bar, and the sharp tang of wood smoke curling from the fire. Tense earlier, Llewellyn found himself relaxing into the ambience of the place.
The landlord was as welcoming as his pub and put his paper away and gave Llewellyn a warm smile and a 'What can I get you?'
As he perched on the well-polished oak bar stool. Llewellyn was beginning to understand something of Rafferty's inclination to head for the nearest pub when life was proving difficult.
Llewellyn hesitated. Although teetotal and relatively unacquainted with pub rituals, he had learned enough during his time with Rafferty to be certain that the purchase of his usual orange juice or tonic water would be insufficient to encourage the landlord to gossip. As he ordered a pint of Elgoods, he sent up a silent prayer that Inspector Rafferty didn't somehow get to hear of it. For a man of his age and rank, Rafferty could be extraordinarily childish and would be sure to tease him unmercifully if he learned of his broken non-drinking vow.
'Not seen you in here before, sir,' the landlord commented. 'Just passing through?'
'That's right.' Llewellyn took a sip of his beer, surprised to discover that bitter was a misnomer. It was actually rather sweet and the feeling of distaste that had been building quickly waned. 'Attractive countryside round here. It must be delightful in the spring.'
'Tis that.' One of the old men in the corner spoke up. 'Very popular with young couples is this area.'
'It certainly appeals to me. Actually,' catching Rafferty's habit, he crossed his fingers against fate's revenge, even though the bulk of what he said was true. 'I'm hoping to marry soon, and I was by this way last Thursday evening and noticed a cottage I thought might be ideal for my girlfriend and me. There was no For Sale sign, so I didn't knock and make enquiries—not that there were any lights visible. That's why I came back today, but there's still no one in. Perhaps you know it? It's about a mile up that way.' Llewellyn gestured with his thumb back the way he had come. 'It's set back from the road quite a way.'
'That'll be Harry Thompson's place,' the landlord told him. 'Doubt he'll sell, though. He'll not be there now. You should have knocked last time you passed it. He's generally at home on a Thursday night.' He turned to the old man who had spoken earlier. 'Doesn't he have that retired copper friend of his over on Thursday nights, Sid?'
'Ar. That's right. Two Thursdays out of the four, anyway. He's usually on duty the others.' Sid ambled over to the bar, stroking his unshaven chin. 'Though, now I come to think of it, the pair of them passed my place around eight last Thursday evening. Still weren't back when I walked by for me nightly pint at half-nine.' Sid sniggered. 'Maybe Harry fixed his mate up with a blind date.'
'Blind?' his friend in the corner echoed and commented, 'she'd need to be, and all. That mate of Harry's has a face on him that'd stop a clock. Miserable looking bugger.' The other men laughed.
'Maybe you should try coming back another time if you're that taken with the place,' the landlord suggested. 'Though, as I said, I doubt Harry will sell. He lost his wife a few months back so I shouldn't think he'd want the upheaval of moving just yet.'
Llewellyn nodded, pleased he had learned so much with so little time and effort. It meant he now had ample time to return to the station, pick up Lizzie Green and drive to Burleigh. Altogether it was turning out to be a very successful day, and he spared a thought for Rafferty. Interviewing Massey, his ex-wife and daughter would be difficult, requiring a tact and delicacy that Rafferty rarely displayed. Llewellyn hoped he didn't make a hash of it. Apart from any other consideration, having the inspector stomping about the office in a foul temper was the last thing he needed right now.
'Another in there, Sid?' the landlord asked.
The old man was still at the bar clutching his empty pint pot, and Llewellyn, although unused to pub traditions, was quick to guess what was expected of him. 'Allow me,' he said and put a five pound note on the counter.
'Ta very much.' Sid smiled, exposing a mouth entirely innocent of teeth. 'Don't mind if I do.' He raised his replenished glass and saluted Llewellyn. 'You'll find the natives friendly hereabouts, young man, if you do move this way.'
'Aye.' The landlord laughed. 'Any man not afraid to put his hand in his pocket can be sure of a welcome from Sid at least.'
Reassured that there were still some areas of his life under his control, Llewellyn finished his drink, made his farewells to his new friends and returned to the station.
Liz Green was waiting for him, and they wasted no time in heading for Burleigh and his interviews with the Dennington and Figg families. If only everything in life went as smoothly, was his pensive thought as he drove north.
Chapter Eleven
RAFFERTY'S MORNING, as Llewellyn had predicted, wasn't going quite so smoothly. Feeling Frank Massey would be more communicative if he questioned him alone, he had left Mary Carmody in the car. But, as it turned out, Massey seemed to have no inclination for talking whether it be to one person or twenty-one.
After Rafferty had explained the reason for his visit, a haunted look entered Massey's eyes. His body visibly trembled and Rafferty was afraid he'd collapse. But Massey managed to get himself together. He let go of the doorpost and, after staring at Rafferty with a mixture of fear and aggression, he turned abruptly on his heel and left Rafferty to follow or not as he pleased.
Massey had not only gone down in the world in terms of money and social standing, Rafferty realised as he followed the man into the room and shut the door. He had also let himself go. Not altogether surprising, he acknowledged as he sat down on a hard wooden chair. From being a respected academic, a university lecturer, he was now unemployed and had exchanged a comfortable semi-detached house for a bed-sitter and success for defeat; Rafferty could smell the sour odour of it in the damp walls, the unwashed body and rumpled, none-too-clean clothes. The fumes of strong lager and cigarette smoke added to the fetid atmosphere.
Rafferty knew Frank Massey wasn't yet forty, yet already he looked old. His hair, what remained of it, hung lank and greying over his shirt collar and his neck was thin and stringy with the wrinkles from age that were more commonly seen in a much older man. Even his fingers, long and slender like those of an artist, showed the decline and were stained with nicotine, the nails bitten to the quick.
All this Rafferty took in in a few seconds, conscious of a terrible feeling of pity. He could imagine what a man like Massey would have suffered in prison, and his experiences would be unlikely to encourage him to still view the police and the judicial system with any confidence.
Rafferty couldn't blame him. The poor sap had been confident of justice, and when the law had failed him, he had attempted to supply it himself, and had instead brought that very justice down on his own head. Between them, the law and Maurice Smith had destroyed him: his marriage, his career, his entire life, had been smashed to smithereens. Conscious of this, and aware that his sympathy was already heavily engaged in Massey's favour, he was careful how he proceeded.
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