‘How are you, Glo?’ Rafferty asked. ‘I was so sorry when Abra told me what had happened.’
Gloria shrugged and gave him a brief, faltering smile. It was a mere shadow of the vivacious grin he remembered from Christmas. ‘I suppose I'll live. I feel so stupid, Joe. It was such an idiotic thing to happen.’
‘You're in good company, Gloria. You'd be surprised how many people have found themselves in a similar position after a fit of absent-mindedness. These huge supermarkets aren't always user-friendly.’
She tried another smile to show her thanks at his attempt at comfort. Again it quickly faded. ‘But sit down and have your breakfast.’ He heard the forced brightness as she placed a plate piled high in front of him.
‘I thought you'd like a fry-up after that long drive.’
‘Mm. Looks good.’ He picked up his knife and fork and attacked the breakfast with gusto.
Ten minutes later, replete, he sat back and picked up his second mug of tea. ‘What did you say was the name of the officer in charge of Gloria's case?’ he asked Abra.
‘Jones. Detective Inspector Jones. As I told you on the phone, by a stroke of luck it came back to me that Dafyd mentioned him ages ago. They used to be great friends, as I recall.’
It was nice to get some good news at last, Rafferty reflected. ‘Sounds hopeful,’ he said. ‘With this Inspector Jones being a friend of Dafyd, we stand a good chance of persuading the local cops not to press charges. Have you managed to see this DI Jones yet?’ he asked Abra.
She shook her head. ‘He wasn't in the station either time I went to speak to him. Hopefully, you'll have better luck, especially now Gloria's agreed you can reveal she's Dafyd's mum. Though you'll have to make this DI Jones promise not to contact Dafyd.’
Rafferty nodded and glanced at his watch. ‘No time like the present. But perhaps I ought to ring first and check he's in.’ He pulled out his mobile.
Abra found her handbag and produced a slip of paper. ‘That's the phone number.’
Rafferty's brief telephone call established that Inspector Jones was in the station, had no morning appointments and was able to see him. After another trip to the bathroom to clean his teeth, he shrugged into his jacket.
‘I'd better be off,’ he said. The sooner I see this DI Jones, the sooner we'll get you out from under,’ he told Gloria.
The light of hope entered her eyes at this.
‘Thanks, Joe. It's good of you to drive all this way and try to sort this out for me.’
‘No problem.’
He was about to add that Dafyd would have done the same for him when he realised that Dafyd trying to use his professional influence to get charges dropped against a Rafferty family member was about as unlikely as him turning into a serious boozer. It was the reason he was here, after all, and why Gloria had agreed to Abra telling him what had happened. It was clear that even Gloria considered it unlikely that her son wouldn't turn all sanctimonious on her if she were to tell him the truth.
Confident that Llewellyn's old friend would be able to smooth things over, Rafferty got the directions from Gloria and made for the police station.
As he drove through the narrow streets, Rafferty caught the occasional glimpse of the remains of a ruined castle on a ridge about a mile outside the town. Not much more than the keep remained. He had read something of the great medieval castles of Wales, built either by the native Welsh princes to defend themselves against the hated English, or by their main persecutor, Edward I. He had even found the time to check if any were near Gloria's home. Maybe if he sorted Gloria's little problem out quickly, he might be able to spare half an hour to look it over.
His gaze rested briefly on one of the tourist information signs and he learned that this particular castle had been built in the thirteenth century by Llywelyn ab Iorweth, as the Welsh called him. The name translated in to English as Llewellyn the Great, he read.
Wouldn't you know it, he thought with a wry grin, that the name Llewellyn would have the epithet ‘Great’ attached to it. It would be all he needed for Llewellyn to start claiming he was descended from royalty …
DI Jones turned out to be a sallow, thin-faced man in his mid-thirties with eyes that were set too close together. But Rafferty didn't let his first impression put him off. Looks were often deceptive, he reminded himself — hadn't he and Dafyd got off on the wrong foot when they first began working together? And DI Jones had agreed to speak to him privately.
As he followed Jones down the corridor to his office, Rafferty rehearsed again the words he thought most likely to persuade the Welsh DI to agree not to charge Gloria.
‘But—’ Rafferty, reduced to incoherent spluttering only five minutes later, stared uncomprehendingly at DI Jones after his carefully worded request had been denied. ‘What do you mean, you can't help? I thought Dafyd Llewellyn was a friend of yours?’
Jones gave what Rafferty could only describe as a smirk.
‘Oh, no, Inspector Rafferty. You've been badly advised. Dafyd Llewellyn and I were never friends. You must have me confused with ex-DI Dai Jones. Thick as thieves the two of them were. He retired two months back. He might have been prepared to abuse his position to help family and friends escape punishment for their wrongdoings, but I'm not.
‘No.’ DI Jones rocked back on his heels and directed a look of self-righteous piety at Rafferty. ‘The law must take its course and I'm here to make sure that it does. Now.’ He strode to the door, pulled it open with a sharp jerk and gave Rafferty a smile that he didn't like the look of. ‘Doubtless I'll see Mrs Llewellyn in court.’
‘Doubtless,’ Rafferty muttered as he strode past Jones, wishing as he did so that the word didn't sound such an unwelcome echo to that which had featured in Sam Dally's invitation to the latest post-mortem.
Deflated, Rafferty wondered how he was he going to tell Gloria and Abra that he'd cocked up big-time. Too late, now, he realised what he should have done was make some discreet enquiries before he arranged the appointment with Jones. If he had, he would have learned the facts that DI Jones had just told him with such relish. Common sense should have told him that the police-station personnel would not necessarily have remained the same since Dafyd's transfer to the Essex force. In the police service, as in life, nothing remained static.
Maybe he ought to find out where the retired DI Dai Jones lived and see if he could still exert some influence on Gloria's behalf? After all, according to the other DI Jones, Dai had only retired two months ago and, in spite of his previous reflection that nothing remained static, Dai Jones might well have some good mate in a position of greater authority than Poison Ivy Jones and who might be willing to pull a few strings.
However, when he re-entered the police station, after first making sure the current DI Jones wasn't around, he discovered that finding Dai Jones wasn't going to be that simple.
‘Dai Jones is retired from the police service,’ the young constable behind the desk informed him.
Rafferty nodded. ‘I know that. But I want his advice on a case,’ he told him.
‘And what case would that be, sir?’
‘I'm not at liberty to discuss it,’ Rafferty said. ‘It's hush-hush.’
‘Hush-hush, is it?’ The young officer seemed to find this amusing and he told Rafferty, ‘I think you'll find that Dai Jones's whereabouts are also hush-hush. The inspector told me I'm to give you no information on that particular topic. He said he thought you'd come creeping back looking for Dai Jones's address. He told me he thinks you're some sort of subversive and not a policeman at all.’
As Rafferty had managed to leave his warrant card back in his flat in Elmhurst, he was unable to contradict the young officer, whose Welsh lilt flowed most lyrically. Rafferty suspected he was putting it on for all he was worth, to remind Rafferty that he was an outsider — and an unwelcome, subversive, English outsider at that.
Too late, he recalled Llewellyn explaining something of the reasons for the Welsh antagonism towards the Engl
ish, which nowadays still occasionally inclined them to burn down English holiday cottages. King Edward I was one reason, of course, as he had ruthlessly crushed Welsh independence and littered the landscape with his mighty castles. The local-government reforms in the seventies hadn't gone down a bundle either. And although Llewellyn's county, Gwynedd, taking as it did the name of the ancient capital of north-west Wales, was a more imaginative name choice than some, the resentment over the reforms made by their English rulers in faraway London still simmered beneath the surface.
Clearly, he was not going to find out where Dai Jones lived from the local police. Though it was ironic really, he reflected, as, apart from being born in London, he wasn't English at all. His bloodlines were Irish on both sides. Perhaps he should have explained that, he thought, and encouraged a little Celtic fellow-feeling?
But he suspected it was too late now; and it was unlikely that treating them to a third dose of his London accent would encourage them to belatedly embrace him as a fellow-Celt. More likely to act as a red rag to the Red Dragon, as it had already done twice over.
He abandoned the idea and left the police station to find a phone box. But when he looked at the endless listings for ‘Jones’ in the directory he almost gave up.
He glanced at his watch. Time was getting on. He had told Llewellyn he would be back in Elmhurst by late afternoon; but if he didn't manage to trace this Dai Jones pretty quickly there was little chance of that.
Maybe he should accept the situation. He did have a murder to solve, he reminded himself, and Gloria's problem, although upsetting for her, was trivial in comparison. For all he knew, his Jones wasn't even listed and Dai not even his correct first name but his second.
Yet he had given Gloria and Abra his word that he'd do his best. After telling himself not to be a faint heart, he quickly glanced round to see if anyone was watching him -he wouldn't like to risk someone reporting him and giving DI Jones the satisfaction of charging him with malicious damage. But the High Street was deserted. Surreptitiously he tore the pages listing the Jones entries from the directory and stuffed them in his pocket. He'd find the nearest pub and use his mobile; at least he could have a pint or two while he worked his way through the listings.
Two hours and two pints later, Rafferty still hadn't traced the elusive Dai Jones. If he could have used official channels it wouldn't have been a problem, but he'd already made himself high-profile enough in Dafyd's home town; if Dafyd ever found out he'd been here he'd certainly wonder what had brought him. He would start asking questions of the neighbours and the local cop shop and then Gloria's little secret wouldn't be a secret any more.
He checked his watch again. It was long past time he started thinking about driving back to Elmhurst. He didn't want Llewellyn to be able to complain that he had broken his promise on his return time, though it now looked as though he wasn't to be spared that particular irritation.
To ward off the worst of Llewellyn's ire, he phoned him and asked him to put the appointment with Mike Raine back couple of hours. Before Llewellyn could voice any complaint, Rafferty remembered the ruse Abra had used to get out of having to make further explanations before she took off for parts west. Quickly, he told Llewellyn the reception was poor and cut him off. He left the pub and drove back to Gloria's house to confess his failure.
It was an hour later, after another meal and an emotional parting from Abra, when Rafferty set off on the long drive home. He felt relieved and guilty in about equal measure that Gloria had been so understanding of his failure to help her.
He had hoped the task of speaking to Dai Jones and enlisting his help would be a quick and successful one; he'd never thought he wouldn't manage to speak to the man at all.
Apart from seeing Abra again, the entire trip had been a waste of time. And although he would continue to try to trace Dai Jones and get him onside once he arrived home, he felt it unlikely he would trace the man before Gloria was charged, especially as he had to concentrate on the murder. And after driving for hours he was not going to be in the freshest state for conducting the interview with Mike Raine …
Think positive, he advised himself. But no sooner had his mind formed the words than it provided a vivid reminder of the trouble he had got into the last time he had thought positive. With him, it seemed, positive thinking had a strange knack of leading to negative experiences. Maybe it would be better if he didn't think at all and just concentrated on his driving and the magnificent mountain and lakeland scenery that surrounded him and for which this part of Wales was justly famous.
Between the rugged mountains, the dramatic passes which had been natural allies to the Welsh princes all those centuries ago as they conducted their guerrilla warfare against the English, and the serene lakes, it was the sort of spectacular scenery designed to make a mere mortal feel very humble and insignificant, as Rafferty discovered to his chagrin. The Welsh police, unfortunately, had had the same effect.
Chapter Fifteen
Tired and still smarting from his humiliating failure in Wales, Rafferty got back to his Elmhurst flat at around quarter to six that evening. He rang Llewellyn and told him he'd meet him at the Raines’ family offices. He remembered to pick up his warrant card before he left. Just in case their questioning should encourage the second confession in the investigation …
He had cut it fine, but at least neither Mike Raine nor Llewellyn would be able to complain that he was late for the rearranged interview.
The business premises of the Raines' family fashion firm, with its decor of black, grey and silver and accents of white and scarlet, looked as sleek and upmarket as on their last visit. So did Jane the receptionist, who clearly hadn't forgotten them, as a chill descended as soon as they entered the building and approached her desk.
Rafferty flipped open his warrant card and, for the second time, revealed the information that had found no favour first time round. ‘We have an appointment with Mr Raine.’
As before, they were told to take a seat.
After learning how the cousins must have been encouraged by the terms of the trust to view one another as rivals, he thought it would be understandable if there had been no love lost between the pair. And Mike Raine had clearly lied to them about not knowing the identity of Raymond's solicitor. It had been a stupid lie, and Mike Raine hadn't struck him as lacking intelligence. What had prompted it? he wondered. Maybe he'd learn the answer shortly. Rafferty kept a curious eye on the receptionist's body language as she picked up the phone. The flirtatious manner with which she reported their arrival indicated she was speaking to Mike Raine rather than his secretary. Along with her earlier hostility, it strengthened the suspicion raised during their previous visit that she might have designs on the cousin whose future looked so much rosier now than it had but a short time before. Was Jane ambitious to produce the Raine family heir now that Raymond's wife could no longer do so? he wondered.
Jonas Singleton had made clear that, as trustee, he felt no inclination to shield the younger Raine cousin or any other family member should any of them turn out to have had a hand in Raymond's death. In fact, he had gone out of his way to fully explain Mike's position both before and after Raymond's death.
Understandable if Mike had felt bitter about the unfairness of his situation as the junior partner. Had he decided he would prefer to be top dog, and set about murdering Raymond in order to achieve it?
But if he had, why on earth hadn't he made a proper job of the planning? The way he had just blurted out the thoughtless lie about not knowing who Raymond's solicitor was was surely more indicative of panicked innocence? Besides, he'd put up with his cousin lording it over him for more than two years. So what had changed?
Mike was twenty-seven and was not only unmarried but without a partner of any sort. In fact, their questioning of Jonas Singleton had revealed that Mike Raine lived alone. Yet, in spite of this and the fact that he had no girlfriend there had been no hint that he had homosexual leanings, which was something Ra
fferty had wondered about, given that the rag trade was largely run by homosexuals.
Jonas Singleton, he recalled, had let slip that Mike would make sure Felicity was looked after financially. And as he thought of Felicity's haunting beauty, he wondered if she was the catalyst for change. Did Mike have leanings in that direction?
Certainly, to Rafferty, Mike's evident concern for Felicity's financial well-being indicated a degree of tenderness. And now, if he suspected that Felicity had killed Raymond, Mike, at last about to take what he must regard as his proper place in the firm, had even more reason to feel tender towards the woman who might well have made that rise possible.
Could Felicity and Mike together have conspired to bring about Raymond's death and Mike's inheritance? Having failed to provide Raymond with the heir to the Raine kingdom Felicity might have thought that throwing in her lot with his successor might be a good idea. If Mike had a yen for Felicity and if his feelings were reciprocated, they could provide him with an additional motive to the basic, business one, to remove Raymond. And with Raymond gone, who knew to what — or whom — else Mike might aspire?
If only Felicity, as though determined to sacrifice herself to some savage god, hadn't made that hasty confession. Because although, as he had prophesied right at the beginning of the case, she had soon been persuaded to retract, that confession had coloured and influenced his conduct of the case right from the start when she had stumbled into the police station reception in her bloodied dress, soaked to the skin and, in a voice that made clear she could hardly herself believe that she had done the deed, told them she had just killed her husband.
From recollecting the recently discovered Raine family history, Rafferty was dragged back to the present by the still-cool voice of the receptionist.
‘Mr Raine is free now,’ she told them. You may go up and he will meet you at the lift on the sixth floor as before.’
The receptionist had failed to mention that Mike had removed himself from his smaller office to his late cousin's much larger corner suite.
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