Dying For You

by Evans, Geraldine

  Though, if he was honest, he had been the one whose previous lack of willingness to commit had helped to bring about those marriages, those steady relationships, those upping of sticks to Newcastle or Sydney. He'd had no lack of ‘willing to commit’ ladies to complain about as his ma had frequently pointed out to him.

  He decided he deserved the consolation of a swift half of Adnams and popped into the nearest pub. But before he ordered the beer, he visited the Gent's and after using the facilities, he disconsolately studied his face in the mirror. He saw blue eyes that had been a more intense blue in his youth, the thick mop of unruly auburn hair and the chin with the dimple. Not wildly handsome, not even his Ma would say that, but he wasn't plug-ugly, either. He was an average-looking bloke, with all his own teeth. So what was wrong with him that had decided Jenny not to answer his calls?

  It couldn't be his looks. Average-looking – and worse – men found women to love them. Perhaps it was his manner? Hadn't Llewelyn implied he had a tendency to be too glib and jokey? It was a protective skin, of course. What he needed to do, and he didn't know if he was capable of it, was to try to shed at least some of his protective skin and dare to bare the inner man, the deeper, more spiritual side. Trouble was, he was worried he might discover he didn't have a more spiritual side. Like the child who actually met the bogeyman, he feared the early Catholic indoctrination had driven any spirituality so far underground he'd need an earth-mover to disinter it.

  His earlier relationships had been superficial and ultimately unsatisfying; much like his marriage to Angie, his late wife. It had only been Llewellyn's steady and serious courtship of his cousin Maureen, which had brought home to him that lasting relationships were not necessarily to be found between the pages of a little black book; not even if it was the blue of a summer sky with a hopeful but meteorologically unlikely rainbow arching over all.

  But as he left the Gents’ and his soul-searching behind him and ordered his beer, Rafferty consoled himself with the thought that he'd taken a step in the right direction, even if, with Jenny, that step had turned out to be a false one, he'd done something positive to help himself and that must surely be a good thing.

  He found a table and sat down. After he had swallowed half his drink, he forced himself to accept that Jenny had changed her mind and didn't want to see him again. But it still upset him. He had taken to Jenny at once and had thought she had liked him, too. Disappointed, Rafferty put thoughts of Jenny from his mind. Plenty more fish in the Made In Heaven sea, he told himself even as the plaintive little voice remarked that, for him, not one of them had held the same appeal as Jenny. But even though Jenny didn't want him, someone else might, and after paying out so much money for the privilege of attending their parties, he was damned if he was going to just throw it all away. He should just stick with it and wait for the different occasions to come round. He finished his beer and headed for home.

  As he picked up his car keys that evening and set off for town, Rafferty reflected that it was fortunate the agency social whirl left little time for brooding. The party tonight was to be held in the annexe of The Elmhurst, the posh hotel on Northgate. Close to the centre of town, it was one of Elmhurst's larger hotels.

  Rafferty had been in The Elmhurst before – the bar, anyway, but never its annexe. For some reason, he had been expecting some kind of cobbled together construction. The word ‘annexe’ to him always suggested ‘making do, 50s austerity. But after he had parked his car a discreet distance away, showed his invitation to the two smartly uniformed doormen and followed the signs for the Made In Heaven party, he saw there was no sense of making do at this annexe. Stupid, really, that he had imagined there might be.

  The Elmhurst was a four-star hotel with everything provided for its guests’ comfort. And although not particularly old – being no earlier than Edwardian – The Elmhurst was opulent, from the gorgeously decorated ceiling in the largest of the three ballrooms to the deep marble baths and even deeper mattresses on the huge double beds in the suites that Rafferty had only heard about. But then those years before the First World Ward were golden ones for the wealthy.

  As he entered the second of the hotel's annexe ballrooms and glanced round, the opulence made him feel even more conscious that he was wearing Nigel's peacock suit for the third time in a week. He had convinced himself that members who had attended both parties must know the suit almost as well as he did. The silk shirt was the same also, though he had washed it himself first thing that morning. Perhaps it was time he splashed out.

  Mentally, Rafferty reviewed his tired wardrobe and knew, if he was going to continue attending the social functions of the Made In Heaven agency he'd have to get himself suitably kitted out. He couldn't expect to make a long-term loan out of Nigel's suit. ‘Clothes maketh the man’ had never been Rafferty's watchword phrase as it seemed to be Llewellyn's. But if he wanted his membership of the agency to achieve the desired result he would have to accept he would be judged on his appearance. And whether he liked it or not clothes were part of that outward show.

  He decided, a little later, as he grabbed his second glass of wine from a passing waiter and met and held the encouraging gaze of an engagingly monkey-faced young woman standing some six yards away, that he could get to like such an extravagant lifestyle. Emboldened by her encouraging smile, Rafferty made his way towards her, snaffling another glass of wine on the way so he had something to offer besides himself.

  She smiled. ‘Just what I like; a man who can command the attention of waiters.’

  Her face looked even more endearingly monkey-cute at close quarters, he realized as he handed her the glass. ‘That's me,’ said Rafferty. ‘Elmhurst's very own Michael Winner.’

  ‘Don't tell me you're a film director, too?’

  Briefly tempted, Rafferty decided not to go down that road. He'd already told enough lies. ‘No. The only directing I do is of people around bijoux residences I think they might want to buy.’ Bijoux residences – God, Rafferty, you're getting a bit too into this estate agent-speak, he told himself. Before you know it, you'll be talking like Nigel, who was all ‘select apartments’ never ‘flats’ and ‘spaciously laid-out’ instead of ‘barn-like and expensive to heat’.

  ‘Pity, because I'm an actress. At least, that's what I do when I'm not ‘resting’ – doing temp jobs of typing and filing for bosses who work you to death and who think their pay entitles them to groping privileges. Damn.’ Her face fell. ‘I forgot I'd intended to be all sophisticated. And me an actress, too.’

  Rafferty grinned. ‘We can always try ‘let's pretend’.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Let's pretend we've just met and start again. I'm Nigel, by the way. Nigel Blythe.’ Rafferty was beginning to realize how much he hated the name. Why couldn't Jerry have chosen a name with a bit more dash to it? Adam, he could cope with, or even Sebastian, which had a touch of the droit de seigneurs about it.

  ‘I'm Estelle Meredith.’

  ‘So, Estelle, you're an actress. You've done all the classical roles, I take it? Ophelia, Desdemona, Lady Macbeth?’ Thankfully, as that was the limit of Rafferty's knowledge of classical female leads, Estelle broke in.

  ‘God, yes. You name it, I've played it. You should have seen my Portia. I weighed the quality of mercy and served it up in such a neat parcel I got three standing ovations. That was a month ago, but I can still feel the tingle. Hollywood is mad for me. I'm to fly out next week to try out for several leading roles.’

  ‘No.’ Rafferty's face fell.

  ‘No's right.’ Estelle's face went into matching free-fall. We're playing let's pretend, remember? Unfortunately, next week I'm back in a lowly role in a temporary production of Grabbit and Robbem, set in a firm of solicitors. Likely to be a limited production as Grabbit is only too prone to do just that. Should be paid danger money.’

  ‘Failing that,’ said Rafferty, as he magicked another couple of glasses of wine from a disappearing waiter, ‘How about a little
bit of anaesthesia?’

  ‘Cheers. Anyway, enough about me. Tell me about you, Nigel. I suppose you have to do a certain amount of acting in your line?’

  ‘Oh yes. That's certainly true.’ The funny thing was that even as he became better at play-acting, he felt increasingly loathe to do it, especially when, like now, he liked someone.

  ‘It's all lies, anyway, isn't it?’

  Rafferty stared at her. Had he been sussed?

  ‘Acting, I mean.’ Estelle's enlarged.

  ‘I suppose it is,’ was Rafferty's lame reply. ‘Can I get you some nibbles before they all go?’

  ‘Please. I'm starved. I had a late audition today and didn't have time to eat before I left to come here. They want to see me again. I've a chance, a real chance, this time. I feel sure of it. And it would be a terrific role, really challenging. It's a good company, too and the play seems likely to have a long run in the West End. I'm sure I can do it. All I need is the chance.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Rafferty invited.

  For a moment, Estelle hesitated, as if worried that to speak about a dream would make it go pop. But then, encouraged by Rafferty's genuine interest, shining-eyed and breathless with hope, she did tell him. She explained the role and what it would mean to her. Before she'd got to the end of her explanation, they somehow found themselves squashed together in a corner behind an enormous floral display, their game of ‘let's pretend’ completely forgotten as they found they both preferred the reality of each other – or the near-reality in Rafferty's case.

  Estelle Meredith's engaging, monkey face grew even more appealing to Rafferty as the evening wore on. As he gazed into her golden, toffee-apple coloured eyes he felt the urge to stroke the wild tangle of fair hair that cascaded around her shoulders. But then he remembered her earlier remark about gropers and restrained the urge. She was harder-edged than Jenny Warburton, and had a mischievous, dare-anything air. It intrigued Rafferty so much that he had ignored Simon Farnell's repeated appeals to mingle and remained by her side for the evening.

  To his annoyance, Guy Cranston had once again tried to muscle in – it seemed they shared similar tastes in women – but this time, Rafferty hadn't been forced to ease him out. Although Estelle had chatted pleasantly enough to both of them for five minutes, at the end of that time, she had managed to convey to Guy that his presence was no longer required. To Rafferty's relief, although he looked a bit crestfallen, Guy immediately took himself off .

  The evening ended all too soon for Rafferty. Too late, he realized he had been so smitten by Estelle that he had swallowed wine like water. If he hadn't, he could have offered to drive her home. But even in his current, alcohol-influenced rosy glow, something wiser than himself warned him not to court the attention of the traffic cops when he was being Nigel.

  He sensed that Estelle could be important to him, important to his future. He knew he'd have to sort out the little discrepancy of his altered identity some time, just not yet, Certainly not with a traffic cop breathing in his alcohol fumes while he demanded his name and papers.

  It was getting on for midnight, already people were leaving. But Rafferty and Estelle deliberately lengthened the evening's enchantment by going out through the open door at the back of the annexe and into the grounds for a breath of fresh air. They exchanged phone numbers seated on a convenient bench beneath the stars.

  It was unfortunate that just as Estelle was showing a ready willingness to be kissed, his mobile went off. But at least he managed to pull the correct one from his pocket. It was the station. They wanted him in. Rafferty knew he had no choice but to make his excuses to Estelle.

  He left the annexe by the side entrance to avoid getting delayed by the loud and lengthy ‘good nights’ of his fellow members and was halfway to the station when his mobile went again. It was the station with an ‘as you were’ message. The problem that had required his presence had been resolved.

  Rafferty sighed and almost as soon as he wondered whether he should head back to the party he decided against it. Even if Estelle hadn't left by now, he feared to somehow endanger the happy glow brought by their sweet parting if he attempted to revisit it. So he hailed a cab and as he climbed in the back and it set off for his flat, he gave himself up to dreaming.

  Strange, he thought, that he should have spent so many years not even coming close to falling in love and then should fall for two different girls one after the other. The memory of Jenny's deliberate brush-off sobered him. He felt sure that wouldn't happen again. Estelle, as an actress, was only too well-acquainted with the pain of rejection. He was certain she would die before she did such a thing.

  Rafferty had met Estelle on the Saturday and it wasn't till the Monday morning that he had learned from Bill Beard the horrifying news that Estelle had been found murdered in the grounds of The Elmhurst's annexe.

  What had he said to himself? That Estelle would die before she gave him the distant brush-off? And she had died.

  It seemed to be the season for bad news, for more arrived the following morning when Rafferty, hanging about the canteen to keep tabs on how Harry Simpson's investigation into Estelle's murder was progressing, discovered just why Jenny hadn't responded to his phone calls.

  Her car had never left the grounds of the Cranstons’ home. And even as he struggled to come up with a non-sinister explanation as to why this should be, Rafferty knew he was only fooling himself. It was too much of a coincidence that Jenny's car should have been discovered still parked at the house, a few yards from where a young woman's brutally battered body had been found concealed behind New Hall's large rubbish bins by the Council's refuse collectors.

  Although he shied away from the thought, Rafferty knew he had to face the appalling probability that the body was Jenny's and with it came the realization that she must have been there since Friday, the night of the first party, the night he had so cheerfully waved her off to her murderer.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Rafferty was beginning to fear he must be a jinx where women were concerned. His wife had died young – murdered by cancer. But although that hadn't been love – only lust, a faulty Durex and a pregnancy that had miscarried only after they had made their hasty marriage – Rafferty felt a pattern was forming.

  His wife had died young, Estelle had died young. Now, so had Jenny Warburton. Lonely old age stared him in the face. For certain it was that he dare not risk falling in love again...

  According to DI Harry Simpson, who had been assigned both murders, Estelle and Jenny had been brutally hacked and bludgeoned, though unusually, Jenny's murder, clearly the first, was a more violent affair than Estelle's. If they were the victims of a serial killer as Harry confided was his suspicion, it would have been more normal – if you could use such a word in relation to such appalling abnormality – for the second victim, Estelle, to have suffered the usual escalation in violence.

  Yet, such wasn't the case according to Harry, when, looking like death himself, the DI had returned to the station. It was then, between hacking coughs, that he had repeated Bill Beard's comment which, although he had been expecting it, had chilled Rafferty's blood all over again.

  ‘Luckily, we've got a prime suspect already.’ Cough, cough, cough. ‘Chap called Nigel Blythe's in the frame for both murders.’ Harry coughed again, seized a strangled breath and went on. ‘Turns out he was definitely the last to see both girls, that is, if the body which has just been discovered does turn out to be the owner of the red hatchback parked at the house.’

  ‘Didn't the Cranstons think it odd that one of their member's cars should have been abandoned in their grounds?’

  ‘I wondered about that. But it seems the guests, particularly if they've drunk too much to drive, often leave their cars at the house for several days at a time, especially when urgent business calls them away without the chance to retrieve their vehicles.

  ‘According to witnesses, this Nigel Blythe left both the agency parties on successive nights with one or other
girl in tow. He was last seen exiting the rear door of The Elmhurst's annexe with Estelle Meredith. As you know, her body was found behind some bushes in the grounds.’ Harry paused, found another wheezing breath and continued. ‘Several of the party guests told me there was something not quite kosher about this Nigel Blythe.’

  ‘Not quite kosher?’ Rafferty repeated before he clutched at the proverbial straw. ‘Reliable witnesses, you reckon?’ As expected, the straw immediately bent.

  ‘Seem to be. They're all singing from the same hymn sheet, anyway and they were interviewed separately. Unsurprisingly, this Blythe seems to have done a bunk. He's not at his flat. Place has been ransacked, too.’ Harry gave him a strange look. ‘You've gone a queer colour, Rafferty. Someone walked over your grave?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Rafferty muttered, before he slinked off back to his office. Harry Simpson was a fine one to comment about my queer colour, Rafferty thought. Simpson had been going about the station like an omen of death for months. The weight had fallen off him. Although Harry's insistence to everybody who asked was that he had been on a strict diet, this was patently not the case. Somehow, Harry had found the strength to carry on. But it was obvious it couldn't last. He was clearly suffering and looked weighed down by this horrific double murder. It couldn't be long before he had to bow to his body's demands and take sick leave.

  Rafferty's gaze alighted on the skinned-over cup of cold tea on his desk and frowned. He couldn't remember getting it. In fact, lately, there had been a few things he couldn't remember doing – like buying the food that had suddenly appeared in his fridge. But these mysteries were edged out of his mind by other, more important considerations; like the fact he was now doubly in the frame for murder. He'd liked Jenny and Estelle a lot and had agonised as to whether he should come clean. But how could he do so now? It might have been a different matter if he had done so after the discovery of Estelle's body when her identity had been confirmed. But now?