Down Among the Dead Men

by Geraldine Evans

  Maximillian Shore had been a man who enjoyed power. What could provide more power than a knowledge of others' weaknesses? Accumulating money had been like a religion to the man, Rafferty realised, and that made the possibility even more likely that, in his younger days, at least, he'd been a blackmailer.

  Was that how his interest in theorising had begun? he wondered. Had he developed a fancy to launder his own dirty little habit once he was established and successful? He wouldn't have been able to bring himself to destroy the material that had given him wealth and power. Where safer then to keep such explosive stuff than with the later theoretical papers that most of his family had no interest in reading? Charles had been amused by his little hobby, despised it even, perhaps, deep down, pleased to have a reason to feel superior to the father he had probably feared; his father, the dabbler in theories that no-one wanted.

  Charles Shore had apparently thought so little of his father's theories that he hadn't made any effort to keep them safe, had assumed they had gone on the gardener's bonfire and hadn't seemed particularly concerned about the possibility that they had been destroyed. Would Maximillian have confided to his son the probable truth about the source of the family wealth? As Rafferty pictured the old man's proud face, he thought it unlikely.

  It was even more unlikely that Maximillian had confided in the wayward Anne. She had said she had taken the papers hoping to have them published. But on reading them, had she unravelled the coded secrets and had an even better idea? Had she tried to make use of the secrets her father had accumulated? Her anger when he had mentioned the manuscript made Rafferty believe that she had tried - and failed. Any man Maximillian could have blackmailed would probably already have been middle-aged at the beginning of his blackmailing career. Presumably, most of them would be long dead by now - just like Shore.

  But, as the papers seemed to have disappeared, he couldn't prove anything, either way. Not that he thought there was any mystery about how that had happened. Rafferty could imagine Anne Longman throwing them out in a drunken rage when they failed to earn her the fortune she sought, rather than replacing them as she had claimed to have done.

  As another thought occurred to him, he sat rigidly in the passenger seat, frightened to move in case it vanished as rapidly as it had come before he got a handle on it. But what if she hadn't been lying when she said she had replaced them? What if, on failing to crack the code, she had lost interest? She wasn't the type to persevere. What if Barbara had discovered Shore's incriminating papers after Anne had replaced them? The indefatigable Barbara, who made everything her business, might well have come across them, in her enthusiasm for improving on the Shore housekeeping. She would have found deciphering the code easier than would Anne. From what they had learned of her, she would have had the patience, perseverance and intelligence to accomplish the task.

  Of course, if he was right, he would have to abandon his favourite theory that one of the family had killed her. What possible secrets could they have had a decade and a half ago? Charles would have only been fifteen, Anne eighteen and Henry not much older when Maximillian had died. Any blackmail material that Barbara might have discovered would have been on outsiders, mostly long-dead outsiders at that.

  Rafferty persisted. But, what if one or two were still alive? What if Barbara had, in all innocence, let one of Maximillian's few still-living victims know she was aware of their awful secret? What if she had attempted to reassure whoever it was that their long-buried secret wasn't about to be dredged up by her, and had failed to convince? Could a simple misunderstanding have been the reason for her murder? It could have been that way, Rafferty reckoned. With her moralistic ways, she would be likely to attempt to right a wrong, but, equally, would probably handle the guilty secrets of others badly.

  Sure now that he was onto something, Rafferty determined to make another attempt to locate the papers. He would tackle Mrs Griffiths himself, when they got back. From what Anne had said it was evident that - whatever had happened to them since - they hadn't been destroyed at the time of Shore's death, as Charles had implied.

  'Think, Mrs Griffiths,' Rafferty implored. 'If Barbara removed the papers during a spring clean in the library, but decided they were worth keeping and didn't throw them away, where would she be likely to put them?'

  She pursed her lips, though whether from annoyance at his persistence or from deep thought, Rafferty couldn't tell. 'Well,' she eventually admitted. 'They're certainly not in her bedroom, as I've given it a thorough going over and sorted through her clothes and things for Mr Henry and there was no sign of any such papers. They might be in one of the outhouses. Mr Charles hasn't bothered with them and she used to keep a lot of her own stuff stored in them; furniture and so on from the flat she lived in before she married Mr Longman.' Her thin lips parted in the semblance of a smile. 'There's a lifetime's rubbish there for you to hunt through.'

  Rafferty groaned silently. Still, he'd started now and he wasn't going to give Llewellyn the satisfaction of thinking he wasn't up to the challenge. Besides, although he had checked and eliminated the possibility of one of the local taxi firms being used by the murderer, he had yet to eliminate the other possibility. He could kill two birds with one stone and look for a pushbike or similar vehicle while he checked for Shore's manuscript.

  Several hours later, tired, filthy, and in a thoroughly bad temper, Rafferty conceded defeat. They'd been through all the outhouses. They'd found rats and garden tools and old car tyres. They'd even found Henry's portrait of his wife. It was surprisingly good, and though it was unfinished, Rafferty gained a clear idea of Barbara's personality. She gazed calmly out of the portrait, exuding an air of wholesomeness, determination and devotion to duty that a nun might envy.

  They found plenty of papers too, enough to convince Rafferty that the sole responsibility for the depletion of the Amazonian rain-forests rested with the Shore family. But of Maximillian Shore's theoretical manuscript, there was no sign.

  He surveyed the last of the outhouses with distaste. It was the same hotchpotch as the others had been; ancient flowerpots with great cracks down their sides - apparently too valuable to throw away, a wheelbarrow with a wheel missing, a canoe with a broken paddle, fishing tackle, great sacks of fertiliser, seemingly brought here and then abandoned, a bike with no handlebars - the only one they'd come upon, and, regretfully, Rafferty put away his mental picture of a furiously peddling Henry. The shed's only saving grace was that it was the smallest of the three outhouses.

  'That's it, then,' he admitted, unwillingly confirming Llewellyn's opinion that they'd been on a wild goose chase. 'Obviously this is where they stash their more useful rubbish.'

  There were no great stacks of papers to be gone through anyway; he wasn't sure whether to be pleased or sorry about that. The blasted manuscript was obviously long gone.

  The shed had a funny smell, composed of an esoteric mixture of damp earth, rotting wood, and long-dead tiddlers jettisoned in the bottom of the torn fishing nets. Another, more elusive odour was mixed with the rest, but Rafferty couldn't pinpoint it, until he spotted the damaged Airfix Spitfire resting in the wheelbarrow. With a nostalgic sigh, he picked it up. It still gave off a faint scent of glue and immediately plunged him back years. How many happy hours had he spent as a lad, putting these old kites together? he mused. Now youngsters preferred to sniff the glue.

  The discovery of The Spitfire made him feel suddenly, inexplicably happy. He forgot the frustrations of the case, as he experimentally hefted the plane, and with a boyish grin, he guided it through an intricate flying manoeuvre, unable to resist providing the sound effects. 'Bandits at twelve o'clock. Bandits at twelve o'clock. Okay Algy, let 'em have it. Rat a tat a tat.'

  Llewellyn heaved a long-suffering sigh as he watched Rafferty's antics. 'Hadn't we better get on?' he suggested, making purposefully for the door. 'The smell in here is affecting my sinuses.'

  Rafferty snorted. It was the first he'd heard about any sinus trouble. But
it sounded like just the sort of ailment Llewellyn would be afflicted with. He had to accept, however, that the Welshman had a point. The stink from the nearby Tiffey added to the other aromas to make a pretty powerful stench. Reluctantly he abandoned the Spitfire and followed Llewellyn outside.

  It came as no surprise to him to discover that the Welshman had managed to remain relatively clean through all their rag-and-bone scavenging, though - if the disgruntled expression on his face was anything to go by - anyone would think that Rafferty had personally dipped him head first in the cesspit.

  'You should have listened to Mrs Griffiths,' Llewellyn accused, unerringly voicing Rafferty's own conclusion. 'As I suspected before we started, we've been wasting our time. I can't understand, why, if you're so interested in this manuscript, you didn't arrange for properly equipped officers to tackle the job.'

  'I told you. It was just an idea of mine,' Rafferty defended himself. Honestly, he muttered, with Llewellyn's carping, it was sometimes difficult to remember which of them was supposed to be the superior officer. 'It wasn't something I could expect Bradley to sanction. You know what a tight-fisted old...'

  'Well, what next?' Llewellyn broke in, with a touch of asperity. 'Those papers are obviously long gone. Though what you hoped to...'

  Irritated, Rafferty forget his previous advice to himself and blurted out his suspicions about Maximillian Shore. 'If he was into blackmail and Barbara Longman found the evidence and contacted the victim, it would certainly be a motive for the blackmail victim to get rid of her.'

  'That's true,' remarked Llewellyn.

  Rafferty glanced suspiciously at him. Something in the Welshman's demeanor gave him the uneasy feeling that Llewellyn's combine-harvester brain was about to make clear of what chaff his latest idea was made. He wasn't wrong, he discovered, a few seconds later. Because, as Llewellyn told him, if she had been killed by a virtual stranger, it was extremely unlikely the murderer would have known her well enough to use the wild flowers in the meadow as a lure. Which logic, not only put paid to Rafferty's latest idea completely, but, as an unwanted bonus, ensured that Llewellyn well and truly had the hump.

  After looking down at his dusty suit with an expression of distaste, the Welshman complained cuttingly, 'If you had thought to share your theory with me in the first place, we could have been saved all this menial labouring.' He sniffed the air and briefly closed his eyes, as though he offended his own sense of smell. 'I smell like a ... like a ...'

  His imagination obviously wasn't up to describing what he did smell like, but Rafferty's wasn't so limited. With a gratification bordering on the sadistic, he proceeded to rub the usually meticulously groomed Welshman's offended nose in it. 'You stink like a particularly smelly old goat, Dafyd, my son,' he observed with relish. He sniffed. 'So do I. A couple of old goats perfumed by rotting fish.'

  In spite of his attempted humour, the day's failure and Llewellyn's sour mood deflated him and his shoulders slumped. 'If it makes you feel any happier, I'll admit I was wrong, okay? Come on, let's go home. Today's been a dead loss all ways round. Perhaps tomorrow will bring a change of luck.'

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It had been a long and particularly frustrating day. When Llewellyn dropped him off at 10.30 p m, Rafferty knew just how he intended to spend what remained of it. He was going to climb off the wagon and into a hot bath with a comfortingly large whiskey. The last person he wanted to see was his mother.

  Yet when he pushed open the living-room door of his flat, there she was, duster in hand, face glowing from exertion, as she gave the place a belated spring clean. Ever since his wife, Angie, had died, two and a half years ago, his ma had insisted on doing it. He'd more than once told her not to bother, suspecting that the cleaning provided his mother with the perfect excuse to investigate his love-life.

  'A bit late for housework, isn't it, Ma?' he asked caustically, as he sank wearily into a chair and let his eyes close.

  'Better late than never, which seems to be your philosophy,' she retorted, as she pummelled a cushion into submission. 'Besides, I was on my way from the bingo. Won fifty pounds, too.' As she clinked two bottles together he briefly opened his eyes. 'And I thought I'd come and celebrate with you. As you weren't here, I decided I might as well give the place a bit of a going-over while I waited. Not before time either, judging by the odd smell .'

  The lingering odour of old goat, Rafferty concluded.

  'Was it that Dafyd who dropped you off?' He nodded and let his eyelids droop again. 'It's a pity he didn't stop, as I'd like a word with him about the present he got our Maureen for her birthday.' She sniffed. 'I can't say I was impressed.'

  Remembering that the selected gift had been his idea, Rafferty opened his eyes again. 'Oh? What was the matter with it? Flowers wasn't it?' he queried, all innocence.

  'Yes. Yellow roses. I ask you! He's certainly got a funny way of courting a girl.'

  Tired and irritable, he enquired, with a touch of belligerence, 'What's the matter with yellow roses?'

  'Don't they teach you anything in that police force? For your information, when a man gives a girl yellow roses, it's a message that his love is waning.' Straightening a lop-sided and romanticised view of Southend at night, she went on tartly, 'They also symbolise infidelity, and one or two other things, I shouldn't wonder. Red roses are for love. Everyone knows that. And if that sergeant of yours is playing fast and loose with our Maureen... I know he's your partner,' her voice wore on remorselessly, 'but you can tell him from me that if he's toying with our Maureen's affections he'll be sorry.'

  The idea of the lugubrious Dafyd Llewellyn toying with anyone's affections, much less his bluestocking cousin Maureen's, rendered Rafferty temporarily speechless. How his mother imagined that Llewellyn had it in him to emulate even Casanova's shadow, much less the man, he couldn't fathom.

  'So, if that sergeant of yours wants to stay in my good books, you make sure you tell him to send red roses next time.'

  Rafferty nodded absently, gratified to discover that the know-all Llewellyn had made a botch of his gift-giving. He would enjoy passing on his ma's message.

  Rafferty returned to the office the next morning to find that, during their absence in London, more reports had accumulated. There were so many of them that Rafferty, who was beginning to feel swamped by a paper tide, forgot all about passing on his ma's warning.

  As he had expected, no witnesses to the murder had come forward, and, although several people had reported seeing a red hatchback heading along the main road near the meadow, Rafferty didn't feel he could place any reliance on their statements. The reported times varied widely, and it was just as likely to have been another lone woman rather than Barbara Longman. She had driven one of the most popular colours of a very common car.

  Owing to her good works in the town and her prominent links with several local organisations, it was unfortunate that none of the several people who had reported passing such a vehicle actually knew her by sight.

  According to Recycled Rita, Barbara Longman had been in the habit of giving lifts to all and sundry, so it was possible that she might have actually picked up her murderer. The forensic boys were still going over her car, but Rafferty, increasingly desperate for a conclusive lead, as, one by one, his many theories had withered and died, knew he couldn't depend on one coming from that quarter.

  The team searching the meadow had turned up nothing either, apart from a small amount of the expected wind-blown litter. Of course, saliva coated cigarette stubs, carelessly discarded by a tensely waiting murderer, were too much to hope for, but Rafferty felt it wasn't unreasonable to expect a little bit of help from the murderer's chosen killing field.

  Frustrated on so many fronts, Rafferty was surprised when one area of frustration came to an end. They had tried on several occasions, without success, to talk to Hilary Shore again, but she was rarely at the house. Her visits seemed to be so fleeting that Rafferty was becoming convinced she was avoiding him. But they finally
struck lucky that evening. She was on her way out in her car as Rafferty turned into the Shores' driveway and he had to brake sharply to avoid a collision. Llewellyn, who was becoming renowned at the station for the cautiousness of his driving, drew in a sharp breath at the near miss.

  'All right. Keep your hair on,' Rafferty advised him. 'We missed her.' He ignored Llewellyn's muttered 'only just,' got out of the car and approached the other vehicle.

  'Mrs Shore. Glad I've managed to catch you. I wanted another word.'

  Hilary Shore didn't look too happy about it, he noticed. Her voice lacked its previous flirtatious tone as she told him, 'I'm in rather a hurry, Inspector. Can't this wait?'

  'I'm afraid not.' Their second interview had already waited long enough, as far as Rafferty was concerned. He didn't like being given the runaround. 'It's unfortunate that we seem to keep missing you.' Dryly, he added, 'And I know, you being so fond of Mrs Longman and all, that you'll want to do whatever you can to help us catch her killer.'

  She could hardly disagree with this. But her lips formed a sulky line as she nodded. 'Very well.' Engaging reverse, she executed a racy return to the house in her stylish if slightly dented sports model.

  Llewellyn tutted his disapproval at this manoeuvre and commented on the dents. 'Looks like some poor devils haven't been so lucky.'

  'Probably lacked my lightening reactions,' was Rafferty's quick-fire reply.