Rafferty was cheered a little at the reminder.
'Sergeant Llewellyn told me that none of them had ever counselled her, so how would they, ten years later, recognise her as one of Smith's child victims?'
Unfortunately, Rafferty's brain raced ahead of her and reluctantly, he added, 'Even if they consider men far from being the greatest thing since sliced bread, I don't suppose they elect to remain in purdah. I imagine Sinead Fay and her friends visit other Rape Support Groups from time to time. For all we know or are likely to be able to find out after all this time, one of them met her on a visit to Burleigh and befriended her. Ellen Kemp's the most likely. She's the right age to have done so. And even if they didn't help her, there's always her father. He has a car.'
'But according to you, by that time he'd been picked up by the police.'
'According to Massey he'd been picked up by then. We've yet to check it out. But did you notice—his car's got two aerials? The betting is he's got a car phone. God knows why or how he affords it. But there's a phone box on the corner of Smith's road; maybe, if she killed Smith, she contacted her father from there and told him what she'd done. Do you really think her own father would have left her to take the consequences? Especially after he'd made such a hash of things ten years ago. He'd have helped her get rid of the body.'
Mary Carmody called a halt to her questioning for long enough to filter her way on to the M25, the ring road around London. It was busy. The rush hour started earlier and earlier, particularly in the lead-up to Christmas. Rafferty was thankful to have a respite from her probing questions. But, the respite didn't last long and five minutes’ later, they resumed.
'So who moved the body from the wood?'
'Who else but Sinead Fay and her friends? We know full well where their sympathies lie—certainly not with the police. They'd have been only too happy to muddy the waters of the police investigation into Smith's death. Even if they didn't help Alice herself, they must have seen it all, as it's pretty certain that it was them watching Smith's flat. They were probably hoping to make sure he didn't do a bunk after he received their ‘outing’ threat and elude their punishment. If, as I think most likely, Frank Massey helped his daughter shift the body to the wood, those women would have followed and removed it.'
'So why would they – presuming it was them – string it up again?'
God knows, Rafferty thought. I certainly don ‘t. But, just in time, instinct came to his aid. 'Because they'd acted on impulse, hadn't really thought through the consequences. Then cold, hard, common sense set in and they got scared.' Rafferty, aware his thoughts were still muddled, fought for answers. 'It would only be later that they would have been likely to appreciate what they’d done; that they had a corpse on their hands, or rather, in Sinead Fay's car boot. They could hardly leave it there. As Smith was strung up again, I imagine they decided that Massey and his daughter had had the right idea in the first place. Smith was dead. They might as well get some useful publicity from his death. Hiding his body served no purpose, so they decided to put it back where they found it. They just took the precaution of removing his wrist ties and the hood in an attempt to confuse us and protect his killer.
'Unfortunately for them, they didn't realise we already had a description of how the body had originally been left. Though, even if we hadn't known, the cord on his wrists had left recognisable marks. I don't suppose they noticed those as they must have done the necessary in a great hasty panic. I doubt they even looked at him much. Easy to miss such a giveaway in the circumstances. Easy too, to miss the fact that he was stabbed, as most of the bleeding was internal and his tracksuit, being dark, would have meant the blood wouldn't have shown up too well.'
He glanced quickly across at her, almost asked how he was doing, but decided such a question was beneath his dignity. Instead, he said, 'Shame we've no proof one way or the other; no prints, no nothing. Smith's visitor didn't even shed a hair, according to forensic.'
Carmody glanced quickly back at him. 'But Alice doesn't necessarily know that.'
Rafferty stared at her as her quiet comment penetrated. 'Are you suggesting we deliberately try to entrap a young girl into admitting she was there, that she killed him? After what he did to her?' He frowned. 'Hardly seems sporting.'
'But we're not involved in a friendly soccer match, sir,' she reminded him. 'Admittedly, it wouldn't make you the most popular boy in the school, but the question is, do you want to catch Smith's killer or not?'
Rafferty didn't answer her question. Unfortunately, it was one he had already asked himself several times. And even though, during the course of the slow, stop-start journey, he had plenty of time to think about it, he still didn't have an answer when they finally reached Elmhurst.
Chapter Twelve
LIZZIE GREEN AND LLEWELLYN had still not returned by the time Rafferty and Mary Carmody got back to the station. After a quick refreshments break in the canteen, Sergeant Carmody set off for Jaywick to check out what Alice Massey had told them.
Rafferty, left alone with his troubling thoughts, tried to keep busy. He got on the phone to Great Mannleigh station to corroborate Frank Massey's statement, but the two officers who had picked him up were off duty, and the Custody Sergeant to whom he was put through was interrupted by wild, drunken shouting before he could check his records. Yelling down the line, 'I'll get back to you,' the officer put the phone down.
Rafferty sighed and glanced at the clock. He'd chosen a bad time to call. Christmas drinking started early, and like Elmhurst, Great Mannleigh’s charge room would be cluttered with the human detritus of pub brawls and domestic violence; invariably worse during the season of goodwill, their numbers swelled by the seasonal revellers. He sighed again as he realised it might be some time before the Mannleigh Custody Sergeant was able to get back to him.
He reached in his pocket for the bag of boiled sweets that had earlier that year taken the place of the habitual cigarettes. However, the bag was empty. Aware that if his urge for lemon sherbets wasn't quickly appeased the older habit might resurface and he’d go on the cadge amongst the smokers in the station, he pulled on his coat and headed for the newsagent’s around the corner from the High Street.
It was a still afternoon, the air crisp but with the bite of a wild animal and, after buying a fresh supply of tooth-rot, Rafferty was anxious to get back to his warm office. He'd only walked a few yards when he heard music coming from the High Street. He retraced his steps and turned the corner.
A Salvation Army band had struck up beside the Christmas tree and, in spite of the icy greyness of the weather, a crowd had gathered. Illuminated by the lights of the tree, the breath of each rose like a little phantom and seemed, as it mingled with the rest, to encourage a warm camaraderie to which Rafferty's current low spirits were drawn.
The crowd, encouraged by the band's enthusiasm and probably a tot or two of something even warmer, were soon singing along to the carols with gusto. When the band struck up with God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, Rafferty, who loved a good singsong as much as most bad singers, forgot his problems for long enough to join in, belting out the words in his off-key voice. It was only when the opening bars of Mary's Boy Child, Jesus Christ gentled the mood that he recollected himself.
His conscience demanded: What the hell are you doing, Rafferty? It reminded him: You're in the middle of a murder investigation. You've no business to be singing carols. He crept away, hoping no one had recognised him.
When he got back to the station he tried to concentrate on reading the reports that had accumulated in his absence. But, apart from noting that no one had come forward to say they had seen what time Smith had arrived at the Bullocks' flat last Thursday evening, and that Sam Dally had rung back to confirm that some of Smith's bruising had occurred ante-mortem indicating he’d been in a fight, he took little in.
Try as he might to stop it, his mind kept returning to what Mary Carmody had said. Was he committed to finding Smith's killer? Or would he prefer j
ust to go through the motions and report a failure at the end of it? Part of him couldn't help feeling that bringing Smith's wretched life to an end was the best thing for all concerned, Smith included. Yet, the other half of him chimed in, is anyone, no matter what the provocation, entitled to act as judge, jury and executioner?
Backwards and forwards his internal arguments went. No final answer presented itself, but one thing he was sure of was that if he couldn't put himself heart and soul to the task of catching Smith's killer, he should consider asking to be taken off the case. Or resigning.
But, before he took such a step, he needed advice. To ask the opinion of any of his family would be worse than useless. Their own petty foibles apart, the Raffertys were staunch members of the hang-'em and flog-'em brigade. They would think that Smith had got what he deserved and that the family’s token copper shouldn't strain himself to catch his killer.
The only other person he felt he could ask for advice was Llewellyn. He wondered what the Welshman would say if he went to Bradley and asked to be taken off the case. But there was no comfortable answer there, either. He didn't have to ponder the question for long before concluding that, Llewellyn, although understanding of human frailties, was also a staunch believer in right and wrong, the rule of law and personal responsibility and he would think he was trying to avoid his own responsibility. He would be sure to remind him that a policeman's job didn't just consist of catching vicious killers, but also the perpetrators of the less clear-cut, more grey-shaded crimes, like this one.
And whether black, white or any shade in between, Llewellyn would believe their duty as policemen was clear. Rafferty wished he found it easy to separate the instinctive, human reactions from those of the law enforcer in the way that the Welshman seemed able to.
Although still niggled by Mary Carmody's question when Llewellyn returned, to Rafferty’s surprise, his usually unprovokable sergeant provided a little light relief. Even better, it seemed that something had dragged the Welshman's mind from the gloomy contemplation of his love life; for now, Llewellyn's thinly-handsome face quivered with something close to outrage.
'That family!' Llewellyn never swore, but the way he ground the words out from between clenched teeth was the closest he was likely to get. 'They shouldn't have charge of a dog, never mind a child. Yet they seem to have a dozen or more of each roaming around that yard, and dogs and children both look hungry and neglected.’
Rafferty gaped at him. He'd never heard Llewellyn go in for such sweeping judge-mentalism; that was more his style. He just managed to hold back a grin. 'I take it you're talking about the fruitful Figg family?'
Llewellyn nodded. 'Do you know what one of Tracey Figg's uncles said to me?' he demanded. 'At least.' He frowned. 'I presume from his age and the family likeness that he's one of her uncles. He said that if Smith hadn't sexually broken her in—his words, someone else would have. He even suggested she must have taken to rough loving—his words again, as she always got herself knocked up, made pregnant, by her more violent boyfriends. It never seemed to occur to him that the early assault and subsequent feelings of worthlessness experienced by so many rape victims might go a long way to explaining her choice of partners.' Llewellyn threw up his hands. 'What do you do with such people?'
'Not a lot you can do,' Rafferty told him. 'Though, if it'll make you feel any better, you can take your frustration out on my expensive new chair. Giving it a good kicking always does the trick for me.'
Superintendent Bradley had ordered the new furniture. Since being made Great High Wallah-Wallah in the Masons, his self-importance knew no bounds. And, although the cost had strained Long Pocket's natural parsimony, pride had dictated that the GHWW and his acolytes must be suitably seated. Frankly, even though they whizzed about with a far more satisfying vigour than most of the force, Rafferty doubted the chairs would catch many criminals.
'Families like that are sent to try policeman, Dafyd,' he soothed, when Llewellyn had calmed down a little. 'They just don't think in the same way as you or me. I doubt if thinking as such occupies much of their time at all. In my experience, such people operate on a different level altogether; one of instinct and appetite.'
'You make them sound like so many wild animals.'
Rafferty shrugged. 'They're human enough. Maybe I should say they haven't evolved – too much in-breeding perhaps accounts for it – you've only got to look at some of our so-called aristocracy to see the problems that can cause. Anyway, with people like the Figgs, the usual civilising influences seem to pass them by. How do you instil a sense of responsibility, morality even, in people who have no real understanding of either?'
Unwillingly reminded of his earlier brooding on where his own responsibilities lay, Rafferty leant back in his chair and determinedly concentrated his thoughts on the Figgs. 'I remember when I was young, there were two or three families on our Council estate like the Figgs. They all left school — when they went at all — without having learned much that employers would regard as useful. Yet they were all canny enough. The men could all figure out, without benefit of pen, paper, or calculator, what their winnings should be from a four-way accumulator. And the women were all adept at bamboozling whatever petty official the Council sent to enquire why the rent hadn't been paid.'
His grin escaped his previous firm control. He couldn't help it. Part of him admired people who managed to get the better of authority. He suspected he shared something of the Figg outlook himself. 'I bet, if I asked any of the current breeding stock, they could all tell me exactly what they were entitled to from the Social, whether it's a new cooker or a cage for the budgie.' He paused consideringly. 'So, apart from learning that compassion is their middle name, what else did you discover?'
'That's just it.' Llewellyn slumped in his chair—a less grand version of Rafferty's, but still impressive. 'I learned absolutely nothing. The men, those who didn't just sidle out as soon as we arrived, all seemed to be called either Jack or Jason. And the women all called themselves Mrs Figg, whether they wore a wedding ring or not. The Jack who elected himself as spokesman insisted they were all at home on Thursday evening, watching pre-recorded films on their enormous television. Though, I'd have thought, given the size of the screen, the quantity of Figgs, and the smallness of the room, there would scarcely be space for half of them. Lizzie Green was of the opinion they'd need to draw up a rota in order to eat, sleep and watch television.'
'What about the daughter, Tracey? Did you manage to see her?'
Llewellyn scowled as he was forced to admit, 'I've no idea. She might have been there—there were several young women around the right age, but it was impossible to ask them anything. They all seemed to have two or three toddlers and babies scrambling all over them and half of the offspring were screaming. And the smell!' Llewellyn gave a fastidious shudder.
Rafferty had wondered about the advisability of sending the bandbox fresh Llewellyn to see the Figg family but, hard-pressed, he’d sent him anyway. Llewellyn of course, would have been so busy stopping sticky fingers pawing at his beautiful suit that he'd have been only too glad to leave; even the high moral ground Welshman had his weak points. Rafferty grinned inwardly at the picture he’d conjured up and appeased with, ‘never mind. We'll go and see them together tomorrow.'
Like a bloodhound on downers, Llewellyn's whole face seemed to droop at the news. Rafferty was just about to remind him that it was all part of a policeman's lot, that he'd said himself that they had to take the rough with the smooth, when, just in time, he remembered that Llewellyn had had no part in his earlier internal dialogue with his conscience on duty and responsibility. Still, the family had to be investigated, and he was damned if he was going to be the only one the babies were encouraged to throw up over when the Figgs tired of being questioned.
'It might be a good idea to borrow someone from Burleigh nick next time. Most of the Figgs are, I gather, regular customers there. If nothing else, they'll be able to tell us who's who.' Rafferty paused. 'Wh
at about the Denningtons? Any joy there?'
With every appearance of relief, Llewellyn turned to the other family. 'They seem to be out of it. Mother and daughter were both at a pantomime at a London theatre that evening. The neighbourhood got up a coach party and most of the street went. The coach didn't get back to Burleigh till after midnight. I checked and they were both on the coach back from London and their neighbours vouched for their presence all evening. So they had no opportunity to kill Smith.'
Rafferty nodded. Llewellyn's outburst had made him forget to ask about Stubbs and Thompson, and now he did so. 'Any joy on the policeman front?'
Llewellyn met his eyes steadily. 'Depends on your point of view,' he told him. His words indicated that he had guessed some of Rafferty's inner battle. 'Archibald Stubbs goes over to his friend Thompson's house regularly once a week, usually on a Thursday, though it depends what shift his relief is on.'
'I take it he went there on Thursday last week?'
Llewellyn nodded. 'Though, according to a witness I spoke to, neither man remained there. They went out in Thompson's car around eight that evening—the neighbour saw them go past his house and they still hadn't returned by nine-thirty.'
Rafferty pulled thoughtfully at his ear. 'You didn't alert Stubbs or Thompson to our interest in them?
Llewellyn shook his head. 'All Stubbs will find out is that I called to see him again, which is something he must have been expecting anyway. And I doubt he'll even give the chap I spoke to the chance to tell him that much, as he seems to keep the neighbours at arms' length. As for Thompson, all he's likely to learn is that a stranger admired his house and was told it was unlikely to be open to offers.'
'Good. If they're innocent, I don't want to make things difficult for them. Thompson is still a serving copper, after all. But now we know they remain in the running we're going to have to question both of them more thoroughly. We've given them every consideration so far, but it's time to take the gloves off. I want to know where they went that night and why, and police officers, or no, they'll answer.' He paused and gave Llewellyn a faint grin. 'Working with you might not have given me the wisdom of a Solomon, Daff, but you must admit my grammar's improving.'
RAFFERTY & LLEWELLYN BOXED SET: BOOKS 1 - 4 Page 81