RAFFERTY & LLEWELLYN BOXED SET: BOOKS 1 - 4

by Geraldine Evans

  Llewellyn elected for a “no comment” on the improvement or otherwise in his grammar and Rafferty's grin faded. 'Let's hope ex-Inspector Stubbs appreciates the grammatical quality of my English when I question him again.' Quickly, Rafferty related what he had learned in London and added, 'I'm waiting for Great Mannleigh nick to get back to me.'

  Mary Carmody put her head round the door. 'I've just got back from Jaywick, guv. Alice Massey and her mother were there all right, from late Thursday afternoon to the Sunday morning. They were staying at a guest house called “Sunnyside”. Mrs Johns, the owner, confirmed Frank Massey's visit and the times he arrived and left, though she couldn't swear to it that neither Alice or her mother didn't slip out later without her noticing.

  'It's only a short walk to Clacton along the seafront. They could have got a train from there to Elmhurst. There's also a bus service from both Jaywick and Clacton to Elmhurst. I asked the staff on duty at both the train station and the bus depot, but no one recognised my descriptions of Alice or her mother. I'll check again when the staff shifts are due to change.'

  Rafferty nodded.

  'DC Lilley's in the canteen waiting to see you, guv. Shall I send him in?'

  'Only if he's got good news,' Rafferty told her, only half jokingly. He hated this stage of a case when all the ends still seemed to be dangling, with various suspects with poor or non-existent alibis. He was beginning to feel like a juggler with too many balls in the air and too few hands; constantly in danger of dropping one of them.

  Lilley's news turned out to be neither good nor bad, only more of the same. Smith's neighbour had still not found the piece of paper with the registration number of the Zephyr.

  Rafferty decided he could no longer delay checking out the other registered Zephyr owners and he told Llewellyn to get it organised. 'Though it'll probably be a waste of time.' He stuffed a sherbet lemon in his mouth and crunched. 'Kids tend to borrow their parents’ cars without always bothering to ask or even mentioning their borrowing afterwards. And if they find out that Mr Plod the policeman is investigating Daddy's Zephyr they'll keep shtum for sure.'

  The phone rang and Rafferty broke off his complaints. After listening for a while, he asked a few questions, then ended the call and looked at Llewellyn. 'That was Great Mannleigh. They confirm they picked up Frank Massey last Thursday. Though at nine-thirty, not seven-thirty as Massey claimed. He was drunk as a lord, and kept shouting something about proving he was a man after all.'

  Llewellyn raised an elegantly arched eyebrow. 'He didn't say what form this machismo test took, I suppose?'

  'No, worse luck. Unfortunately, he threw up all over the arresting officer's boots before he could confide in him further. He went rather quiet after that. Could be something, could be nothing. Maybe no more than that he'd got lucky with some woman. Still, at least now we know he had ample time to kill Smith.'

  Llewellyn nodded and made the same observation that Rafferty had made in London. 'Great Mannleigh is only a short drive from Elmhurst. Certainly short enough for a man looking to prove his manhood.'

  Rafferty repeated the thought that had already teased him several times. 'Makes you wonder just how friendly Massey became with Stubbs and Thompson, doesn't it? We already know that Smith had received an ‘outing’ letter. They would be aware any attempt to use the police computer to locate Smith could be traced back to them, so would need to use other means of finding him.

  'Could be they got a sympathetic female friend to ring the Social and persuade that young clerk to part with Smith's address and then passed it on to the breakaway Rape Support Group. If so, why would either of them draw the line at passing the same information to Massey? Especially as Massey was already a friend, and a hard-done-by friend at that. Especially as, like Stubbs and Thompson, the case concerned him so intimately.'

  'If Stubbs and Thompson were involved and had lent Thompson's official uniform to gain Massey entrance to Smith's flat, they would hardly have left him to cover up his own tracks,' Llewellyn objected. 'His stupid lie would seem to indicate that if Massey did kill Smith, he didn't have police help to do it.'

  'That's true.' Rafferty felt relieved when Llewellyn pointed out the obvious as he hadn’t relished the prospect of arresting either Stubbs or Thompson. Trouble was, he wasn't over-keen on proving anyone guilty. 'So, whose help did Massey have? Smith's door was undamaged, remember. Yet, if Massey had been alone, he'd have had to break his way in. Smith certainly wouldn't have opened the door to him.'

  As he'd mentioned to Llewellyn, Massey was an intelligent man. He'd been out of prison for eight years; if he'd been determined on it, he could have traced Smith long ago. So why hadn't he? Was it only lack of money? Against that, he came back to the fact that Massey had lied to them. Why else would he do that?

  Round and round went Rafferty's thoughts, when, into the middle of them popped the words: maybe he was protecting someone. Which led him back to the earlier reluctant suspicions that Mary Carmody had forced him to confront. Into his mind came a picture of Massey's daughter, Alice; petite, young-looking for her age, and with all that pent-up emotion waiting to be released. He tried to push the picture out again with more words, but it stubbornly refused to budge.

  'I wondered earlier whether Massey might have gone in for the double-bluff of again failing to provide himself with an alibi, but thinking about it, I really don't believe – even after his prison education – that the man has the type of mind for such deviousness. Which means either that he's innocent. Or guilty, but unconcerned about getting caught.'

  'The latter's unlikely, I would have thought,' Llewellyn commented. 'Could he take another prison sentence?'

  'Maybe.' Reluctantly, Rafferty confided his suspicions concerning Alice Massey. 'If he felt that by doing so, he was protecting someone even less likely than himself to survive in prison—his daughter, for instance. You haven't met Alice Massey, but Mary Carmody will confirm that she seems such a mass of bottled-up rage she could easily go looking for revenge on her own account. If she did, I think Frank Massey would sacrifice himself in order to protect her. He’d lost her love, her respect. For Massey, such a sacrifice would be a way to regain both.'

  He shoved another sweet in his mouth and sucked fiercely. 'Let's face it, she would have had a much greater chance of getting Smith to open his door than Massey would. She's small, dainty—just the way Smith liked 'em. And she looks much younger than eighteen. Maybe she sweet-talked him into opening the door and he was so flattered he let her in.'

  For a change, Llewellyn didn't immediately apply his usual cutting logic to shoot his theory down in flames. All he said was, 'Do you want them both picked up for questioning?'

  Rafferty's conscience juggled with the opposing demands of natural justice and duty. Duty won, but only just. However, still squeamish, he postponed its application. 'It's a bit late to drive up to town. Massey will keep till morning.'

  Perhaps Llewellyn suspected Rafferty's internal battle where this case was concerned, for he immediately said, 'And the daughter?'

  Rafferty struggled a bit more, before deciding. 'Just Massey. He's the one we've found out in a lie. If we get nothing from him, we can speak to his daughter again. Mary Carmody and Hanks can pick him up.' He consulted his watch and got up from his comfortable chair. 'And while it may be too late to journey to the great Metropolis, it's still early enough to take a little drive to see Jes Bullock. Even if he didn't kill Smith, he's certainly hiding some guilty secret. And now that we've got Sam Dally's report on Smith's bruises we might be able to use it to lever it out of him.' The thought was a satisfying one.

  Chapter Thirteen

  GLAD OF SOMETHING TO get his teeth into at last, Rafferty set off happily. He didn't like Jes Bullock and he was relieved this case had thrown up one suspect who didn't make him feel like the rope in a tug of war contest.

  When they reached Bullock's flat, Rafferty didn't shilly-shally, but came straight to the point. 'Why did you lie to us, Mr Bullo
ck?'

  Jes Bullock stared blankly at him. 'I don't know what you're talking—'

  'I'll explain it to you.’ Rafferty cut off Bullock’s expected denials. ‘You told us your late stepson visited you on the Wednesday before he died. Strange that you should forget that, whatever he did on Wednesday, he certainly visited you on the Thursday. He was seen by two witnesses.'

  'Well, I didn't see him.' Bullock thrust a belligerent face inches from Rafferty's and breathed lager fumes in his face. 'Who told you I did? Some lying little toe-rags, was it? Tell me their names and I'll—'

  Rafferty hoped the lager Bullock had drunk might make the man more incautious than even nature had intended. 'You'll what?' Rafferty broke in. 'Arrange to have them beaten up like you tried to do with your stepson?'

  Bullock's lips clamped shut and he backed away, but Rafferty was relentless. Aware that he was taking his other frustrations out on Bullock, he was, nevertheless, unable to stop himself; not that he saw any reason to do so. 'We know you offered to pay someone to beat up your stepson, so you needn't trouble to deny it.'

  Bullock shouted back at him. 'All right, so what if I did? If you know that, you also know that no one took me up on it.' His heavy features, thrust forward aggressively, challenged them to contradict him.

  'Was that when you decided to do it yourself?' Bullock said nothing and Rafferty went on. 'We know you stormed out of the pub, shouting you'd do the job yourself. We also know from the pathology report that your stepson had sustained a number of bruises before death and—'

  'What does that prove?' Bullock broke in. 'He bruised easy and he was always awkward. As a young 'un he'd trip over a matchstick, likely as not. Even now, old as he is – was – he was as likely to bump into the furniture as avoid it. Ask anyone.'

  Rafferty's lips tightened. Damn the man. He knew as well as they did that Maurice Smith's anti-social lifestyle provided few, if any, current witnesses to contradict his assertion. He signalled to Llewellyn to take over the questioning.

  'We understand you were later than usual arriving at the public house the evening your stepson died, Mr Bullock,' Llewellyn quietly began. 'Perhaps you could tell us what delayed you?'

  Suddenly Bullock lost his temper. Rafferty guessed it would be an unstable element in the man's personality at the best of times.

  'I'm telling you nothing,' he roared. 'I didn't kill him and that's all you need to know. You should try hounding that bunch of mad bitches he had on his tail instead of trying to—' Abruptly, Bullock clammed up.

  Rafferty and Llewellyn exchanged a glance. So, it said, in spite of his previous denials, Bullock had known about the ‘outing’ letter.

  Rafferty silently reviewed what they had so far learned about the letter. The Document Examiner's report had told them that while inevitably the envelope had many prints as it passed through the postal system, the ‘outing’ letter itself had only Smith's prints on it.

  Other checks had revealed no saliva on either the seal or the stamp on the envelope, indicating that it had been sent by someone knowledgeable about DNA and the dangers inherent in leaving bodily fluids behind.

  Taken together with the stencilled address, which negated handwriting identification while ensuring the envelope arrived at its destination without drawing too much attention to itself, it pointed pretty conclusively to the probability that this had, in fact, been the envelope in which the ‘outing’ letter had arrived. And according to their information, Maurice Smith hadn't received it till after he returned from the Bullocks' on Wednesday evening, as Mrs Penny had taken it in with her own post that morning and forgotten about it till Smith's return.

  So, Rafferty now mused, if, as Bullock claimed, he hadn't seen Smith at all on the Thursday, how had he known about this letter? Smith hadn't gone out again on the Wednesday night, according to his landlady. She had told them that she often slept badly and that night had been no exception. She had said she had heard Smith pacing about till the early hours. Now, Rafferty asked, 'Do you have a phone, Mr Bullock?'

  Bullock didn't answer straight away, but as the matter could easily be checked, he finally admitted that the flat had neither landline nor mobile.

  'You stepson didn't receive this letter till the Wednesday evening after he returned from his visit to you, so perhaps you can explain how you knew about it?'

  Rafferty could almost see the metaphoric clunking and whirring taking place inside Bullock's brain as he sought to provide an answer that didn't implicate him further. He had already admitted that his stepson's notoriety had caused him and his son a lot of difficulties in the past. Once he had learned of the ‘outing’ threat had he decided enough was enough? He had certainly uttered threats in the pub. Had he gone one further and carried them through himself? After all, as young Darren had said—Maurice was dead.

  Bullock's brow unfurrowed. His air became quite jaunty. 'He dropped a note through the door didn't he? Sometime last Thursday, mentioning this threat he'd received. Of course, I'm only guessing that it was women behind it. Maurice didn't say either way. But, I do read the papers and to my mind, this has got man-hating bitch written all over it, just the same as those other cases I've read about. It's the sort of thing these bloody feminists would go in for. Anyway, he asked my advice as to what he should do.'

  Aware he had been snookered, Rafferty tried to put a brave face on it and continued to stare Bullock down. 'So, where is it, this note?'

  'Threw it away, didn't I? What would I keep it for? Not my problem.'

  'What about your son?' Llewellyn broke in. 'Did he see it? Surely you mentioned it to him.'

  Bullock transferred his truculent gaze to Llewellyn. Again the whirring and clicking were evident as Bullock presumably decided whether to strengthen the lie by committing his son to confirm it, or whether to brazen it out. Given his belligerent personality, it wasn’t surprising when brazen won. 'Why would I do that? Not his problem either, was it? He never saw it and I never mentioned it to him. Saw no reason to.'

  Rafferty took over again. 'When did you find this note? Morning? Afternoon?'

  Bullock shrugged. 'Afternoon. Found it on the mat when I got in.'

  'Was this before or after your threats in the pub?' Rafferty questioned.

  Bullock ignored him and went on with his explanation as to what he had done with the note as if Rafferty had never interrupted.

  'Screwed it up and threw it over the balcony when I'd read it, didn't I? Nothing to do with me.'

  'Oh, come on!' Rafferty countered. 'Nothing to do with you? If you felt that way, why did you try to get him beaten up that very day?'

  Bullock's lips drew back. Rafferty could practically see words hovering. But then he clamped his lips shut. Rafferty cursed inwardly as Bullock showed he still had sufficient wit to say nothing.

  'He asked for your advice,' Llewellyn pointed out reasonably into the sudden silence. 'Are you saying you never tried to contact him?'

  Bullock dropped into an armchair, leaned back and, as if aware that victory was his, demanded softly, 'why should I? Told you, it was his problem. Nothing to do with me.'

  'Apart from any other considerations, you were his step-father.'

  Bullock scowled and slumped in a chair. 'Hardly my fault. I married his mother—I got him as well. Doesn't make me responsible for him for life.'

  Presumably exhausted at successfully answering so many ticklish questions, Bullock now tried for the sympathy vote as if hoping to waylay any more awkward questions. 'If you'd known what it was like for us in the past you'd understand why I didn't want to know.'

  He reached for another can of lager and sucked on it for comfort, like a baby with a dummy. 'Couldn't even send my lad to school when Maurice was arrested. Killed the Missis, of course. Killed her stone dead, the shame and worry of it. Nobody thinks about the families, do they? Nobody thought what it would be like for us when they let him go.'

  Although Rafferty was reluctant to sympathise with the man, grudgingly he found hims
elf nodding. But sympathy didn't stop him saying, 'You realise I'll need an alibi from you for Thursday evening? It's up to you, of course, but you must understand that it would be better, from your point of view, to admit that you beat him up earlier that evening and give us the names and addresses of anyone who can give you an alibi for later, than be suspected of anything worse.'

  A crafty look came into Bullock's eye as if he realised Rafferty had deliberately not pointed out the other alternative.

  'Beat him up? My own stepson? Not me, Inspector.' He drained a can of lager, threw it in the general direction of the kitchen and opened another. Apparently, he realised that this late declaration of paternal affection was unbelievable, because he added, 'I admit I shouted my mouth off a bit in the pub. But I was upset at the thought that all the trouble was going to start up again. I didn't really mean it. Course I didn't. I've barely laid a hand on him since he was fifteen. As a matter of fact, I met a few mates to talk business that evening. We're thinking of buying a dog—a greyhound.' He mentioned two names of these ‘mates’, and where they were likely to be found.

  Damn the man, thought Rafferty again as he recognised the names of two persistent troublemakers, both with several convictions. He thought he'd got Bullock rattled enough not to realise he had a get out. He so much wanted Bullock – rather than anyone else – to be guilty of Smith's murder, he'd been over-eager.

  'You ask my mates,' Bullock continued confidently. 'They'll confirm I was with them last Thursday. And none of us saw Maurice. If he came round here that night, as you say, I never saw him. I wasn't in. He must have gone home again.'