Llewellyn ignored his interruption. ‘She may well believe that if — when — we drop the charges against her, she will soon be a very rich and very merry widow. I think someone ought to inform her of the true facts and what her actual position will be.’
‘Do you now? And who's going to do that?’ Rafferty wondered aloud. ‘Can't say I fancy it, myself. I know — why don't you do it? After all, you'll enjoy breaking the bad news so much more than I ever could. Must be that dour, killjoy Methodism of yours. You tell her.’Feeling that his present predicament and the need to travel all the way across the country to Wales to try to sort out Gloria's problem was somehow Llewellyn's fault, he wanted to punish him. It was unfair of him, he knew — unwise, too, in view of the fact that he had yet to break the news of this little trip, but that didn't stop him. Unsure whether he was disgusted with himself, with Llewellyn or with his ma for being such a devious woman, Rafferty turned away and walked straight out of the office.
‘So, how did she take it?’ Rafferty demanded upon Llewellyn's return from breaking the news of her poverty to Felicity Raine.
‘Surprisingly well,’ Llewellyn admitted.
Rafferty grinned. ‘Bet that knocked the wind out of your sails.’
Llewellyn didn't rise to the bait.
‘So, come on. What exactly did she say?’
‘Not much really. She seemed remarkably philosophical about losing her home and any hopes of a wealthy inheritance. She even said she probably deserved it as a punishment for deserting Dunbar when he really needed her.’
‘By the way,’ Rafferty told Llewellyn. ‘Something else turned up while you were out. Two somethings in fact. We had a call from the Australian police. They were able to exonerate Ray and Mike's cousin, Andrew Armstrong. Apparently, he hasn't left Oz for over a year.’
‘And what was the other thing?’
‘We've finally traced Felicity's father. Turns out he's not dead after all.’
Rafferty's digging into Felicity Raine's family background had sprung from his determination never again to get his wires crossed with regard to relationships, as he had with that of Stephanie Raine and her stepson. Along the way, this determination had been tempered by his desire to find someone — anyone — with whom Felicity could claim kinship. In her situation, she must feel desperately alone and in need of someone to care about her. So he was delighted when his digging had finally turned up trumps shortly before Llewellyn had returned. They now had an address to go with the name — Frederick Franklin — of Felicity's father.
When he'd realised Franklin was still alive, Rafferty had been astonished the man hadn't contacted them on learning of his daughter's plight. He was pleased for Felicity's sake to learn she wasn't, after all, entirely alone in the world. Though when he arrived at the prison to let Felicity know the good news, he felt somewhat deflated when she looked more upset than delighted at the discovery.
‘Why on earth did you bother looking for my father?’ Felicity asked, in the first show of vivacity he had seen her display. ‘If it was for my sake, I'm afraid you've been wasting your time. If I were you, I wouldn't waste any more of it by going to see him, which I imagine is what you're thinking of doing?’
Rafferty admitted it was.
‘There's really no point, inspector,’ Felicity assured him. ‘We haven't set eyes on each other for several years. I really thought he must be dead by now as he wasn't a young man when I was born and his dietary habits were always far from healthy. But even though he's still alive, I can't imagine what you think he could tell you that would help me.’
Neither could Rafferty — now. But after going to all the trouble of looking for Mr Franklin, he might as well see the man. Though he couldn't help but think how dreadfully sad it was that Felicity, with no one else in the world to call her own, should show no interest at all in seeing her father. In fact, when he pressed her to do so, she dug her heels in.
‘No. There would be no point. We've never really got on,’ she told him. ‘We put up with one another while my mother was alive, but after she died I didn't visit any more. Believe me when I say we both prefer it that way. Please don't think me terribly churlish after all the trouble you must have taken to find him, but I assure you he won't thank you if you turn up there with my tale of woe. He won't be interested. He certainly won't come prison-visiting, if that's what you're hoping for.’
That was exactly what Rafferty had been hoping for, but he decided not to admit as much to Felicity.
‘That's for you and your father to decide,’ he told her. ‘But at least he's entitled to know what's been happening, whether he decides he wants to see you or not.’
‘Do I really get no say in it?’ she asked in a plaintive voice from which tears weren't far away. ‘Please, inspector, I'm over eighteen. Am I not at least allowed a say in who is informed of my situation? I've lost so much already -whether or not through my own fault — please let me retain a semblance of dignity by keeping my father in ignorance of my present situation for as long as possible. I'm begging you.’
Rafferty would have been happy to oblige her on the point, but for the fact that he wanted to speak to Mr Franklin anyway and question him about Felicity's marriage to Peter Dunbar. Even if, as Felicity claimed, she and her father had never been close, surely the man would be able to tell them something they would be unable to get from another source?
He already felt like an insensitive brute in the face of her distress. To stop her becoming even more upset, he simply told her a little white lie and said he would think about her request.
‘Thank you, inspector. You're very kind. I appreciate it.’ She reached out a slender hand and rested it on his arm for a moment before she quickly withdrew it — perhaps worried that even this light touch might break some arcane prison rule she was unaware of and she would be penalised.
‘Why did you tell her that?’ Llewellyn asked once Rafferty had finished recounting what had happened while he was out of the station.
‘God knows,’ Rafferty replied. ‘I felt such a heel for not being able to agree to her request. I suppose I thought what she doesn't know won't hurt her. And if her old man acts as couldn't-care-less as she claims, I can't see there's any harm done, as it's not as if he's likely to contact her to let her know we've spoken to him.’
Frederick Franklin lived in a run-down block of council flats in Burleigh, in the north of the county.
Felicity must indeed have been a late baby, as she had told them, Rafferty realised once Frederick Franklin answered their knock and they'd introduced themselves and given a brief explanation as to why they had come. Franklin looked to be approaching his seventies.
Mr Franklin frowned as if he was still trying to get his head around what Rafferty had told him. ‘You said this was about my daughter and her husband?’
Rafferty nodded.
‘I don't know what you think I can tell you,’ Mr Franklin said. ‘I haven't seen my daughter for several years, not since my wife died. What did you say she'd done? Murdered her husband? Why ever should she do that? God knows I never had much of an opinion of Peter Dunbar, but he was harmless enough.’
Rafferty was astonished to discover that Felicity's father seemed unaware that she and Dunbar had divorced, but then he reasoned that the divorce and her remarriage had happened after her mother's death and she had said she had had no contact with him since. He thought it past time someone broke the news to him. He was just sorry it had to be him.
‘Your daughter is no longer married to Peter Dunbar. They divorced early last year. She's been married to a Mr Raymond Raine for around fifteen months. That is to say—’
Rafferty, aware from Mr Franklin's bewildered expression that he was making a ham-fisted job of his explanation, paused briefly to regather his forces before he went doggedly on.
‘She was married to him, that is to say. Unfortunately, her husband died last week — he was murdered, in fact, a crime to which your daughter confessed, although she has
since retracted her confession. At the moment, she's on remand charged with the murder of her husband. Her second husband that is, Raymond Raine.’
Unsurprisingly, Mr Franklin still looked bewildered. When he regained the power of speech, he asked, ‘Why on earth would she kill Pe — whichever of her husbands it was?’ He shook his head. ‘Modern marriages,’ he muttered. ‘I suppose you'd better come in,’ he ungraciously invited.
They followed him into an untidy living room. Mr Franklin sat himself back down in an armchair in front of the TV, where obviously he had been immersed in the day's horse racing.
He picked up his copy of Sporting Life, glanced longingly at it, then with a look of regret put it down again. ‘Young people nowadays seem to jump in and out of their marriages as easily as my generation get in and out of a bath.’ With a grimace, he touched his stiff leg, which Rafferty had already noticed, and added, ‘Easier.’
‘Your daughter didn't tell you she had divorced her first husband and remarried?’
‘Clearly not. We were never close. Like chalk and cheese, if you want the truth. If her mother had still been alive, doubtless she would have told her.`
Rafferty stared curiously at the grizzled features of Mr Franklin; he could see no sign that Felicity Raine had inherited her delicate beauty from her father. Although he was short, like his daughter, being no more than five foot five or six, all resemblance ended there. Where Felicity was slender, her father was stout; and whereas Felicity seemed otherworldly Frederick Franklin was so much of this world that one glance around the living room of his first-floor flat revealed a fondness for most of the human vices. The television was currently showing horse racing at Newmarket; clearly, Frederick Franklin had placed several bets as, beside the cigarette-end-filled ashtray and the half-empty bottle of gin, the day's Sporting Life was open and several runners were marked in each race. There was no sign of any other newspaper. Felicity's father, like her ex-husband, appeared to be a man who was one of life's weaker vessels; certainly, the flat and its cheap contents didn't indicate that his gambling habit was anything other than the unlucky sort. Evidently, he was no more skilled at fatherhood either, for he asked no more questions about his daughter and her plight and made no enquiries as to her welfare or otherwise.
No wonder Felicity hadn't troubled to keep in touch, Rafferty thought. Clearly, there was nothing for her here.
Frederick Franklin must have realised he would be unable to return to his racing until he'd posed a few questions for them to answer, as he said, ‘Well, go on, then. Tell me exactly what happened.’
Quickly, Rafferty explained the events of that fatal Monday morning.
‘She knifed him, you say?’
Rafferty was pleased to note this had startled him out of his complacency.
‘It's the first I've heard of it.’
Astonished, half pitying, Rafferty said, ‘Surely someone — neighbours, friends — would have told you what was happening in your daughter's life?’
‘The neighbours never met Felicity. And although they learned from my late wife that we had a daughter, they had no reason to suppose this Felicity Raine, you tell me she's now called, was her. For that matter, neither had I. Mind, I always told the wife Felicity was too pretty for her own good and that spoiling her as she did would make matters worse. Bound to come to a bad end, as I told her.’
‘You don't seem to have any doubts that she did it.’
‘Should I have?’ Frederick Franklin stared at him. ‘I thought you said she'd confessed and you'd charged her? Why would you do that if you didn't think she did it?’
Good question, thought Rafferty. ‘Things are not always as straightforward as they might at first appear,’ he explained. ‘In fact a number of other possible suspects have since come to our notice. And as I believe I said, your daughter's retracted her confession.’
Rafferty, distracted by the still-playing television, sat down in front of it, picked up the zapper from the arm of Mr Franklin's chair and turned the sound down.
He noticed Mr Franklin's frown at this action and ignored it. But before Rafferty could explain further, he saw that he had lost Franklin's attention. His gaze had strayed to the silent television screen and the steaming horses pictured thereon.
However, once he'd ascertained the names of the winners — none of which was apparently his, to judge from the way he pulled some betting slips from his shirt pocket and ripped the top one in half then half again — he turned his attention back to Rafferty.
‘So — did she do it or didn't she? It's over a week ago now, you said. Surely you've managed to find out which applies?’
Rafferty sighed. He hoped Llewellyn was taking note of this latest example of the perversity of human nature and would alter his outlook accordingly.
He explained the sequence of events that had contrived to delay the start of the case. ‘So when your daughter promptly collapsed after making this confession, she was hospitalised and comatose for three days. We were unable to interview her, so we've had less time than you think.’
‘So why are you wasting time with me? I'm sure my daughter's already told you we haven't had any contact for several years. I can tell you nothing. So what, exactly, is it that you want from me?’
‘For myself, nothing,’ Rafferty told him bluntly. ‘But I thought, as her father, you might offer Felicity some comfort. I can organise a visit to the prison where she's being held on remand—’
Mr Franklin interrupted him. ‘Has she asked to see me?’
Rafferty was forced to confess that she hadn't.
‘I didn't think so. She made clear to her mother and me that she intended to make her own way in the world. I thought she was ashamed of us. Certainly, I've barely set eyes on her since the day she married Peter Dunbar.’ He shook his head. The Lord knows where my wife and I got Felicity from. I'm a plain man, as you can see, and my wife, if anything, was plainer. Felicity was always a changeling from the day she was born, though she was a determined one, always straining to be off somewhere we knew not where, off on her own, without having her old parents dragging after her. Eventually, she got her way and we let her go.’
‘She must have been quite young when she and Mr Dunbar married,’ Llewellyn remarked.
‘Aye, she was that. Barely twenty. But she had always been a magnet for the boys from the time she was thirteen or fourteen. She thought, I suppose, that she'd had enough boyfriends to recognise the one she wanted when he appeared. Her mother tried to tell her no good would come of it, that her character hadn't finished forming yet, all the usual stuff you churn out to youngsters determined on going their own way. For all her efforts, Felicity went ahead and married him anyway. And now you tell me she divorced that one and married another fellow who's now dead?’ He shook his head. ‘It's a rum do and no mistake.’
Strangely, Frederick Franklin didn't seem particularly surprised by these events.
‘She was always a secretive little thing,’ he now revealed. ‘Even as a small girl. But reserved with it. That's why I was astonished when she said she wanted to train for work in the theatre. I thought she meant she wanted to be an actress, but no, she wanted to train as one of the backstage staff, powdering people's shiny noses or some such. It didn't seem much of a job to me, but she said it would give her the chance to travel and to work in the West End, and it would provide her with far more regular work than being an actress. I suppose me and the wife were relieved at that, as actresses have such rackety lives. But then, I suppose she started to find that line of work not as exciting as she'd hoped because she threw it all up a few months before she gained her certificate and decided she wanted to marry Peter Dunbar. Older than her, he was, too. Me and the wife didn't approve, but, as I told you, that didn't stop her.’
He glanced again at the still silently flickering TV screen and sighed heavily over all the exciting horse races their intrusion was making him miss.
Quickly, before his attention strayed again, Rafferty sa
id, ‘I realise now that, as you were unaware your daughter had divorced Peter Dunbar and taken Raymond Raine as her second husband, you can't tell me anything about that marriage. But in a murder investigation, every piece of information, no matter how seemingly irrelevant to the case, can be helpful. So if you can tell us anything — anything at all — about her marriage to Peter Dunbar?’
‘I'm not sure that I can, to be frank.’ He snorted. ‘Saw little enough of them once they married. But what little I did see made me think they were an ill-matched pair. Never understood what she saw in him. I said to the wife that she must have married the fellow for his money, though the wife wouldn't have it. She told me Felicity had confided the business had been in trouble for longer than she'd let on, yet Felicity had stood by him even when the money started dribbling away. But I still think she married him for his money. She must have done, to my way of thinking,’ he insisted. ‘I was damned if I could see why else she would have wanted to marry him. Man had no drive, no backbone either. No backbone at all. Hardly surprising both Dunbar and his business collapsed. Nothing holding them up, d'you see?’
The words ‘pot', ‘kettle’ and ‘black’ entered Rafferty's head. Although he had no idea what line of work Mr Franklin had been in before his retirement, to judge by his less than luxurious home it didn't seem likely that he had been noticeably successful at it, whereas Peter Dunbar had achieved something substantial, even if he had lost it all, whether through misfortune or mismanagement
Rafferty saw little point in remaining any longer. After asking for and obtaining Mr Franklin's telephone number and telling him he would keep him apprised of developments regarding his daughter, he and Llewellyn left. He heard the volume turned up on the TV before they reached the front door.
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