‘Expenses. That’s another area where you deliberately flout his wishes. You know what importance he places on keeping within the budget. Perhaps the rump steak you insisted on the other day wasn’t such a good idea.’
‘OK, Dafyd, give it a rest. I’ll try to be good and kiss arse in future.’
‘I don’t think “kissing arse”, as you call it, is necessary. Just behave towards him as you would towards any other senior officer whom you respect.’
‘Ah. There’s the rub. I don’t respect him. He should never have risen beyond inspector.’
‘Well he has, and you have to deal with it.’
Rafferty nodded and sighed. ‘Go and check on your Taffy Maffy and leave me to practise puckering.’
But Llewellyn’s investigation of Fairweather revealed that the mandarin had been telling the truth when he had said he had worked in the petrochemical industry.
Rafferty was disappointed, but, he reminded himself, Fairweather could still have the knowledge required to find out what he needed to know. He’d be one up on most people when it came to doing the appropriate research. So Under Secretary Simon Fairweather wasn’t out of the woods yet, not by a long way. Although Llewellyn’s research indicated that Fairweather had spent just under ten years working for British Petroleum as was, that only took him back to his mid-twenties or thereabouts. It was possible he had worked in – what would it be – organic chemistry? He wasn’t sure. But Llewellyn’s Home Office pal could certainly find out what aspects of chemistry Fairweather had studied for his degree and find out if he had worked in any other area before he joined BP and the Home Office. He just wished he’d hurry up. Although the Welshman was efficient and thorough, he could be painstakingly slow.
But Rafferty curbed his impatience and just waited for whatever information Llewellyn managed to extract from what he still insisted on calling the Taffy Maffy.
FIFTEEN
Adam Ainsley’s agent had been right in his guess where the grand a month that Ainsley had received was from. The new month had brought another payment and this time, Mr Jarvis, the bank manager, had instructed his staff to keep the tapes. Ainsley’s generous benefactor turned out to be a customer of the bank and well known to the staff. He was quickly traced and had admitted he had paid the money into Ainsley’s account. When asked ‘why?’ he had simply said, ‘He was the best. Many’s the time I’ve watched Adam score a try when we thought the game was lost. I heard he was down on his luck and decided to help him out. I’ve been in the Far East and only heard he was dead after I made this last payment. A grand a month’s not much to me, but his player’s earnings wouldn’t go far, not the way he behaved off the pitch, his two divorces and his squiring of high maintenance women about town. He’s given me a lot of pleasure. I just thought I’d reciprocate.’
So at least that was one mystery solved.
At last the night of the family reunion came round. Rafferty found he was rather sorry that his visitors were all going home. Now that Cyrus had given up the religious preaching, it was pretty good to have an in-house drinking buddy who could match him, drink for drink. Even better, he had taken to regaling him with tales of his ma’s youth after Abra went to bed. Rafferty was sure one or two of these titbits would come in useful in the future. He was surprised that Cyrus seemed to have such an affinity with drink, especially given his religion and he asked him about it once.
But Cyrus had said, ‘Even Baptists have vices they shouldn’t have, much like everyone else, Joe. I might have taken a vow to abstain from alcohol, but didn’t you take a vow at your wedding to bring up your children Catholic? And how likely is it that you will?’
Rafferty had nodded. It was a low blow, but an accurate one. As Cyrus had intimated, it was likely to be a vow more observed in its neglect than anything else. Much like Cyrus and booze.
Somehow, in spite of his murder investigation, in spite of Bradley and his ever-increasing complaints about results and budgets, Rafferty had found the time, with his two brothers, to put up the multi-nation flags that Ma had decreed were essential to make the evening go with a swing. As he came into the hall with Abra, he admired his handiwork and had to admit they made an effective backdrop to such an evening. Ma had also decreed that everyone should dress in the colours of their national flags, with the result that there was a preponderance of red, white and blue. The Irish, Canadian and South African contingent were the only exceptions to this patriotic colour scheme.
Ma was already there. She had come over during the afternoon to supervise the placing of the chairs and tables and generally chivvy up the caterers. She was still bustling around on Rafferty’s arrival. He and Abra had come a little early to help make sure everything was ready and most of the far-flung Rafferty and Kelly families had yet to arrive. Cyrus and Wendy had also elected to come early and had accompanied Rafferty and Abra in the car. Wendy was a bit shy and was soon taken under Ma’s wing. Not so Cyrus, he was off across the hall, introducing himself here and introducing himself there. No shrinking violet him.
Rafferty was beginning to feel a bit like a spare groom at a wedding as everything looked set for the evening and there didn’t seem to be anything for him to do. That being the case, he was glad to see the bar was open and he headed over there and had just got himself outside a large Jameson’s when Cyrus bustled up.
‘You’ll have a drink with me, Joe? You and Abra?’ He eyed their glasses, accurately concluded what their contents were and gave the order to the barman. He drank his own Jameson’s as swiftly as most people down nasty medicine and would have been off on another round of circulating but for Father Kelly, who chose that moment to appear beside them. Rafferty introduced them.
‘So you’re Cyrus Rafferty.’ Father Kelly positively bristled and Rafferty gazed at him with interest. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’
‘Oh really?’ said Cyrus with a pleased smile. ‘Who from?’
‘My cousin, Kitty.’
‘Mighty fine woman, Kitty.’ Cyrus’s chin went up as he caught the unfriendly cut of Father Kelly’s jib.
‘Isn’t she?’
Rafferty wasn’t sure he could believe what he was seeing. Surely they couldn’t be squaring up to each other? Not over Ma?
Fascinated, he watched as Father Kelly, celibate Catholic priest, and Cyrus, another of those with a hotline to God and with a wife of over forty years, danced round one another like two heavyweight boxers.
‘Is it right that you’re not staying with Kitty while you’re over here? I thought you would be. I thought that was the plan.’ It was clear that such a plan had not met with Father Kelly’s approval.
‘It was, sir, but Kitty changed it at the last minute. Ah don’t really know why.’
Rafferty did. He also now knew the real reason why Father Kelly had pushed her into the change. Ma had wanted Cyrus to bring religion back into her errant son’s life and Father Kelly, pragmatist to the last, hadn’t given a damn about his mortal soul and was more concerned about Cyrus staying in Ma’s home. He was astonished to discover that Father Kelly seemed to think his ma was a delicate, vulnerable soul who needed protecting from predatory males. Rafferty almost laughed out loud.
Father Kelly’s cross-questioning continued. ‘I hear you’re a preacher back in America?’
‘That’s right, sir,’ said Cyrus, puffing out his chest like a bantam cock as if he was anticipating a fight. ‘Ah’m a lay preacher and Ah’ve been told Ah’m a mighty fine orator and—’
‘But sure, and you’re not the real McCoy, are you? You haven’t taken vows of any sort?’
‘No, sir. That Ah haven’t. But there’s a fine tradition in ma country that any man with something worth saying and with an audience willing to listen can stand up and preach the word of the Lord. The sweet, sacred Jesus belongs to all of us, after all.’
Father Kelly’s slight inclination of the head acknowledged the truth of this, before he leant forward and put the boot in. ‘Personally, I don’t agree with
lay preachers. I think they can lead people astray through ignorance. A Catholic priest has a rigorous training. Eight years of study beyond High School, including a college degree, followed by four or more years study at a seminary. You can’t just walk off the street and start preaching.’
‘Is that so? But Ah’ve studied the Gospels, like you. I know the Holy Bible from beginning to end, in all its glory. Ah preach every opportunity Ah get and folks seems to appreciate it. Ah’ve had more than a few standing ovations.’
‘Standing ovations?’ Father Kelly’s whiskey-red face looked outraged. ‘Preaching shouldn’t be part of the entertainment industry. It’s a sacred trust and should be treated with reverence.’ Father Kelly leant forward and stared at him. ‘What denomination are you?’
‘Ah’m a member of the Church of the Lord of Savannah, Georgia,’ Cyrus proudly proclaimed. ‘Ah guess we’re non-denominational, though Ah have Baptist leanings, and some of our members are strayed Methodists.’ Cyrus grinned, still trying hard to be friendly. ‘Ah guess you could say we’re a pretty catholic bunch and—’
He didn’t get a chance to finish his explanation for Father Kelly pounced. ‘The Church of the Lord? And you say that you’re not even a proper denomination, like Methodist or Baptist? Not a proper church at all. Ha. I rest my case.’ With that, Father Kelly stalked off as if he’d just been talking to the devil incarnate.
Cyrus looked upset and turned to Rafferty. ‘It is a proper church, Joseph. It’s as holy a place as Ah know.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ said Rafferty who knew little about the place. ‘Take no notice of Father Kelly. He’s one of the old school Catholics, who believe that every other church, every other religion, is bogus and the only way to the Lord is with the aid of the Pope and the Holy Catholic Church.’
‘Ah guess so.’ Cyrus perked up a bit. ‘Ah bet he’s a mighty fiery preacher.’
‘He is that,’ said Rafferty. ‘Though the fire he mostly calls up consists of the Hellish sort, with devils and demons to torment the dear departed.’
‘Not a kindly preacher, then? Not one who sees good in the soul of the worst sinner.’
‘That’s right. Sometimes, I think the good Father would question the purity of the soul of JC himself. Give me the Church of the Lord every time. I bet you have some great tunes to sing along with.’
‘That we do. Although we’re only a small church, we’re hooked up to the whole of Georgia and our services go out over the air. We had an orchestra in the week before I left.’
‘Your Church sounds a hell of a lot more fun than St Boniface. A hell of a lot more forgiving as well,’ said Rafferty as he clapped Cyrus on the back, ‘Though I thought we’d agreed not to talk about religion. Let’s get a drink instead.’
‘Good ahdea, Joe. Your round, Ah think.’
Rafferty turned for the bar and as he did so he caught his ma’s eye and in the split second before she changed it, he caught an expression of pleased satisfaction on her face.
‘Still got it, Ma,’ Rafferty murmured to himself as he fell in behind Cyrus and headed for some alcoholic refreshment.
In dribs and drabs, the other members of the extended family arrived. Rafferty’s hand was sore from all the enthusiastic pumping, his head a whirl of instantly forgotten names. He was thankful when his ma called for a bit of hush and asked everyone to their tables. In deference to the assorted national food preferences, Ma had plumped for an innocuous chicken dish with a salad for the vegetarians. The meals were soon served and the noise level in the room went down as everyone concentrated on their food. But drink had been taken and soon the hall was a noisy hubbub again as people exchanged life histories and explained their particular branch of the two family trees.
‘Look at Cyrus,’ said Rafferty’s mother who was seated next to him on the top table as the proud organizer of it all. ‘You’d think he’d come and sit down. I saved him a place beside me specially.’
Rafferty hid a smile. He bet that hadn’t gone down too well with St Boniface’s own hellfire preacher. And as for Cyrus, ever keen on new members to swell the church’s coffers and soul-salvers, he was still going around glad-handing everyone, particularly his fellow Americans.
‘His meal’s getting cold. Why doesn’t he come and sit down?’ she said again. ‘He can carry on saying hello to everyone afterwards.’
But when he came near enough for Ma to shout at him, Cyrus said he wasn’t hungry. The prospect of gaining so many potential souls apparently fed his appetite better than any food. Father Kelly was a bit of a backslider in this regard; he was sitting down, stuffing his face with the best of them.
‘Now there’s a man to be admired,’ said Ma to her lapsed Catholic eldest son as she nodded in Cyrus’s direction. ‘You could do worse than take a leaf out of his book.’
‘You know, Ma,’ said Rafferty, who had also been watching Cyrus, ‘you could well be right.’ He pulled out his mobile and dialled Llewellyn, got a couple of phone numbers and crossed his fingers that he was on the right track at last.
‘Can’t you put that thing away,’ his ma said. ‘This is supposed to be a night for family. Cyrus told me how hard you’ve been working, but tonight’s not a night for wicked murders.’
Rafferty snapped his phone shut, put it in his pocket and said, ‘You’re right, Ma. As usual. Tomorrow will do well enough for that.’ He glanced at her plate. ‘Have you finished?’ She nodded. ‘Then let’s go and mingle.’
The night had gone with a swing. No one seemed to want to go home and the noise levels were louder than ever as Raffertys and Kellys chatted as if they’d been intimate friends all their lives rather than pen-pals, or unheard of before Ma had got on the internet.
Eventually, with the meal over and a few drinks under his belt, Rafferty had done some more mingling himself. He’d lost Ma and Abra hours ago but was enjoying himself so much that he hadn’t stopped to look for either of them. To his horror, he found his new wife eventually, chatting to Father Kelly and Nigel, of all unlikely combinations. Their heads were close together and he couldn’t help wondering what they could possibly find to talk about so earnestly. Sure it wasn’t to his good, he hurried over and interrupted them.
‘You three look as thick as thieves. What are you up to?’
Abra blushed, but said nothing. But he knew what she was like when she’d let her hair down and he was worried that she’d blabbed to Father Kelly about them trying for a baby.
And so it proved as Father Kelly slapped him on the back and said, ‘Glad it is I am to hear that you and Abra are trying for another babby after your sad loss.’ Abra, like Angie, his late first wife, had lost a baby in the early months of pregnancy. ‘And won’t your mammy be pleased?’
Rafferty gave a sickly smile and shot an accusing glance at Abra who had the grace to hang her head.
‘You’ll have the baby baptized, of course. I’ll book you in for next year. What names are you thinking of?’
‘Hang on, Father. Abra’s not even pregnant yet. Give us a chance.’
‘Sure and a fine, fecund, Irish Catholic family such as yours, you’ll have no trouble at all. You wait, it’s my guess that this time next month, you’ll have news of a happy event.’
Rafferty could only hope so, because the thought of months of trying, with Ma and Father Kelly egging him on, was too horrible to contemplate.
Nigel chipped in his twopenn’orth. ‘You want to cut down on the booze, Joseph, if you’re trying for a baby.’ He slipped his hand in his inside pocket and pulled out a brochure. ‘You want to get yourself some vitamins, too. There’s a fine range for would-be daddies. And Milk Thistle’s good for raddled livers. It’s a new venture of mine. Here, take the brochure. You’ll be sure to find something in there to help if you have any problems with the old fertility.’
It was amazing, Rafferty thought as he took the leaflet and stuffed it in his pocket. Trust Nigel to think there could be a profit in his and Abra’s hopes for a baby. Was there nothi
ng the man wouldn’t look to find the bottom line in?
It seemed not, because as he wandered back to the bar, he noticed several people studying Nigel’s cards. Should any of the family decide on a second home in little old England, Nigel wanted to be sure his was the first office they went to. Rafferty had wondered why Nigel had shown his face at the family reunion. Now he knew. He saw it simply as a marketing opportunity.
SIXTEEN
The next morning, sore head or not, Rafferty made sure he got up early. He had turned the clock radio up so he’d be sure to hear it when it went off. He rang the station to get the troops mobilized and was out the door in fifteen minutes flat, not even stopping to make Abra her tea. He reviewed everything he had found out last night once his ma and her sharp ears had become lost in the throng and after he’d phoned a couple of the reunees. Everything fitted neatly into his latest theory like a size zero model down a drain hole; even the letter they had found in Adam Ainsley’s flat. Admittedly, as with the case against Alice Douglas, it was all circumstantial, but he knew a way to make one of the circumstances stick, at least.
Llewellyn was the first to hear his latest theory. And when Rafferty reached the end of the recitation of it, Llewellyn’s usually serious and sallow face looked tinged pink with excitement.
‘I really think you’ve got it this time.’
‘I have, haven’t I?’ Rafferty grinned. ‘How many of the team have you ordered to accompany us?’
‘Just two. I think our suspect will come quietly, don’t you?’
Rafferty nodded. ‘Oh yes. A well brought up soul like that would do nothing else. Are you all set? Then let’s go.’
Rafferty roared out of the car park exit like Lewis Hamilton on speed, causing Llewellyn to grip the dashboard with white-knuckled fingers. ‘Why the rush?’ he gritted out through clenched teeth. ‘If he’d wanted to disappear, he’d have done it by now.’
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