Dying For You

by Evans, Geraldine

  Rafferty could imagine. ‘So you won't be expecting him to come sick visiting bearing a bunch of grapes and a bottle of Lucozade?’

  ‘Every cloud has a silver lining.’ Typically, Harry didn't waste time on self-pity. ‘You've read the files?’

  ‘Made a start, anyway,’ Rafferty admitted cautiously.

  Harry grinned. ‘You and paperwork were never soul-mates, were you? Suppose you want to pick my brains?’

  ‘That's the general idea. Bradley seemed to think you might have kept something back from the reports.’

  ‘Into casting aspersions as well now, is he?’

  ‘And – have you?’ Rafferty forced himself to ask.

  He might as well not have bothered because Harry just said, ‘All in good time,’ and posed a question of his own. ‘The first victim – the presumed Jenny Warburton – the one found behind the rubbish bins at the Cranstons’ home – you managed to get a confirmed ID yet?’

  Rafferty nodded. ‘After you established that red hatchback left at the side of the Cranstons’ house was hers it was always going to be unlikely that the body wasn't also. You said in your report that the Made In Heaven staff you'd managed to question denied that any Ms Warburton was at the party, which is a bit suspicious, as I know-’ Abruptly, Rafferty broke off. He had been about to add that he knew that Jenny had been at the party as not only had Guy Cranston introduced them, Rafferty himself had chatted to her for a sizeable part of the evening. His name, or rather, Nigel's had been marked off on Caroline Durward's clipboard; surely Jenny's had been also? Of course, his had been marked off while he had been at the bar collecting refills, but hidden in the alcove as she had been for much of the early part of the evening, it was possible Jenny had been missed out which would explain the discrepancy. From the reports Rafferty had so far waded through, it was clear that Guy Cranston had yet to be questioned about her presence.

  ‘You were saying,’ Harry prompted.

  ‘What?’

  ‘As I know, you said. What do you know?’

  Harry's sunken eyes looked, to Rafferty's guilty conscience, to have a certain sly knowingness. He had the uneasy feeling that Harry was playing him like a gipsy violin. Quickly, he improvised. ‘Just that the agency must have a record of her if she is one of their members.’

  ‘According to Mrs Cranston – Caroline Durward as she seems to call herself – Jenny Warburton is a member. At least, she's on their computer as such. I hadn't been able to speak to Guy Cranston about the matter before I went sick. Although neither Mrs Cranston nor any of the other staff admit to knowing the girl, she seems to think a part-time member of staff took the Warburton girl on. They must have done, because she's certainly in the agency computer as being a member. Unfortunately, I was told this part-timer is currently on holiday and uncontactable.’

  ‘Damn. That's inconvenient.’

  It's all in my records. I thought you said you'd read them? Missing Llewellyn I take it?’

  ‘I said I'd made a start,’ Rafferty corrected. Harry's comment made him uneasily aware that his efforts to backtrack and appear to know nothing were as likely to place him under suspicion as knowing too much. It was going to be a very rickety bridge for him to balance on in the coming days. Scared now to open his mouth at all, Rafferty thought it wiser to say nothing.

  Harry, after another penetrating stare, told him, ‘the agency's rechecking their files. Said they'd get back to me. You'd better let them know you've taken over the case.’

  Rafferty knew what he had to do, but he let Harry have his say and merely nodded, made his tea and sat down opposite his old colleague.

  Harry stared at him as if only now taking in his changed appearance. It seemed to amuse him, if the harsh splutter that issued from his lips could be called laughter. ‘So I was right,’ he managed to force through the spluttering before a bout of coughing took over.

  Rafferty licked suddenly dry lips. And though his mouth now felt as arid as Harry's laughter, the raised tea-cup made it no further, but hovered in mid-air while the scalding black tea slopped dangerously. ‘Right about what?’ he asked warily when Harry's coughing bout had subsided to a dull wheeze.

  ‘About you being the man who we thought had done a bunk – the chief suspect, Nigel Blythe.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  As Harry uttered Nigel's name, the hot tea jerked from Rafferty's cup and scalded his hand. He cursed, leapt from his seat and hurried through to the kitchen to run cold water over it. As the water gushed over his puckering flesh, he muttered to himself, ‘How did he guess? How did I give myself away? What did I miss?’

  But the damage was done. And little as he relished the prospect of Harry grilling him, he could hardly remain in the kitchen posing questions when Harry was the only one who knew the answers.

  When he had sat down again, Harry held out a piece of paper. Rafferty looked at it for several seconds before he took it, as gingerly as if he feared it might suddenly grow a mouth and bite him. And as he looked at the paper, he suddenly found himself having to fight for breath as hard as Harry. For it was an artist's impression of his pre-disguise self and an excellent likeness.

  ‘That's this so-called Nigel Blythe,’ Harry told him. ‘I take it you recognise him?’

  Stunned, Rafferty could only nod. His hastily constructed cover-up had been for nothing, he realized. He might have known it would be a waste of time. Didn't murderers always give themselves away? But I'm not a murderer, Rafferty silently protested. Maybe not, but things were looking black for him. After he had told so many lies who was going to believe him now if he tried to protest his innocence? What would Superintendent Bradley say? Worse, what would he do? But Rafferty feared that was one question to which he did know the answer.

  Shock had slowed his thought processes and it took him several more seconds to wonder why Harry had so far failed to report his discovery. He tuned back in to what Harry was saying to find out.

  ‘Luckily for you, none of the witnesses could agree about Nigel Blythe's appearance. The witness who gave that description,’ he nodded at the paper fluttering like a wounded butterfly in Rafferty's hand, ‘came the closest, but I managed to wear him down until he doubted himself and ended up describing someone far less like you.’ Harry's sunken eyes were again staring at Rafferty. ‘Tell me I was right to do that.’

  Rafferty managed to gasp out, ‘You were right, Harry. Never doubt it.’

  Harry simply nodded and handed him something else. ‘You'll be wanting to lose this as well.’

  ‘This’ was a small cassette tape of the type used in telephone answering machines. ‘It's from the Warburton girl's ansafone.’

  Rafferty had been worrying about the messages he had left on Jenny's machine; Harry was offering Rafferty the lifeline he had been denied. Overcome with gratitude, Rafferty felt a desire to unburden himself. ‘Let me explain– ’

  But Harry cut him off. ‘Don't bother. I can't spare the energy required to hear how you managed to get yourself into this ridiculous situation. Just be glad I believe you didn't kill those girls.’ As an afterthought, he added, ‘And be even gladder that I feel reluctant to make our revered Superintendent's week by supplying the evidence that would enable him to get both of us out of his hair.’ He jerked his head at the tape. ‘That's the only copy. Yours are the only messages on it. Take it away and destroy it.’

  Rafferty nodded, began to thank him. But he wasn't sure whether Harry had heard him before the sick man's eyes closed and he dropped into an uneasy doze. Rafferty tip-toed to the door, the evidence clutched tightly to his chest, and let himself out.

  After Llewellyn and Maureen's wedding, Rafferty, full of good cheer and Jameson's whiskey, had persuaded them to meet up with him on their return from honeymoon. After all, as he had jovially reminded them, he had a vested interest in their marriage. Without him there might never have been a wedding.

  Now, with so much on his mind, Rafferty wished he had kept his mouth shut. He wasn't feeling too s
ociable just now – in fact, he had turned into more of a shrinking violet than he had been for a large chunk of the dating agency's first party, scared, every time he ventured beyond the station that he would attract the pointing finger and the accusation, ‘but that's him. That's Nigel Blythe.’

  But Llewellyn, punctilious about such tentative arrangements as he was about everything else, rang him on the Sunday morning to confirm it was still on. And Rafferty, aware it would look odd if he tried to get out of the arrangement he had proposed with such enthusiasm, had no choice but to agree.

  He practised happy smiles in front of the mirror before he set off. Every one looked strained and unnatural. With a fatalistic shrug, he turned away. At least he would get Llewellyn's reaction to his new look now rather than when he returned to work the next day. The last thing he wanted was for the Welshman's comments to start his other colleagues off again with more uncomplimentary remarks about his new look and someone began to wonder what had really prompted it. Fortunately, thanks to Harry Simpson, none of them had had the opportunity to see the police artist's best effort at capturing the face of the supposed ‘Nigel Blythe’. Even more fortunately, the artist was new and had never met Rafferty. Rafferty did his best to keep it that way.

  He and Llewellyn arranged to meet at The Black Swan. It was near to Rafferty's flat so he could walk there. Neither Llewellyn nor Maureen drank alcohol so they didn't mind driving. He wondered what they would have to say about his altered appearance.

  He didn't have to wait long to find out. From behind his recently-acquired spectacles, Rafferty squinted round the saloon bar. With difficulty, he located the tanned and happy pair at a corner table. He joined them, being extra careful to avoid tripping over the furniture on his approach.

  He forced out a jaunty, ‘How do?’ by way of greeting. ‘So how was the honeymoon?’

  They both glanced up at him and did a double-take.

  ‘New look,’ he explained in as airy a fashion as he could manage as he sat down. They had got him a drink in while they awaited his arrival and now Rafferty picked up the pint of Adnams bitter and swigged a third of it back. ‘Was getting stuck in a rut,’ he enlarged. ‘So what do you think?’

  Maureen was the first to recover. ‘Did somebody turn your head upside-down?’ she asked.

  Rafferty managed a wry smile and waggled his spectacles at her. ‘These are at the top end, so I'm definitely the right way up.’

  Llewellyn took a contemplative sip of his orange juice before he ventured a comment. ‘Glasses? They're new.’

  ‘Mm. Been getting headaches. Optician said I was suffering from eye strain. Not getting any younger, I suppose.’

  Llewellyn looked surprised. As well he might. He'd only been away for two weeks and Rafferty had never before mentioned headaches or eye strain.

  ‘What can you possibly have been doing since we went on honeymoon to damage your eyesight so much you need spectacles?’

  ‘Probably been trying to read his own handwriting,’ Maureen tartly remarked.

  ‘You have rather come to rely on my notes during an investigation, Llewellyn commented. ‘But even so–’

  ‘Does it matter what caused it?’ Rafferty demanded irritably. He repeated in a Bradley-brusque tone. ‘As I said, I've been getting headaches.’

  ‘You do drink rather a lot. In fact, I–’

  ‘In fact – nothing. It's nothing to do with drink,’ Rafferty insisted. ‘I told you what the optician said.’

  ‘Which one did you go to? Only I can recommend an excellent optician if you want a second opinion.’

  Trust Llewellyn to be ready with advice. He didn't even wear glasses.

  ‘He has a large range of attractive designer frames.’ The stylish Llewellyn eyed Rafferty's horn-rimmed spectacle frames with a moue of distaste.

  Rafferty couldn't altogether blame him. They were an old pair of his late father's that he'd helped himself to when he'd taken his Ma home from their recent shopping cum burglary expedition. Considering how warped they made his vision it was a wonder he didn't have headaches. Judging by the style – or lack of it – the frames were first generation National Health Service. But time had been pressing and choice not an option. ‘I like them,’ he lied. ‘I think they do something for me.’

  ‘Yes, but what?’ Maureen asked with saccharine sweetness. ‘Were you trying for the intellectual look?’ Her tone suggested he'd fallen short.

  Llewellyn at least had no acerbic comment to make, beyond the plaintive, ‘You don't look like yourself. It's disconcerting.’

  Relieved to hear the first of Llewellyn's observations, Rafferty had to agree with the second. His appearance disconcerted Rafferty as well, each time he looked in the mirror. Stranger still, now, instead of shaving his face every day he had to keep going to the barber to keep the No 1 in prime Premier style.

  Although Rafferty had insisted after their wedding that since he and Llewellyn had become family Llewellyn should give over ‘siring’ him, now he drew rank. ‘My round, I think. Same again, sergeant?’ he pointedly asked as he picked up the glasses. ‘Are we all having the roast beef? If so, I'll get it ordered before they run out.’

  At least his drawing of rank had the desired effect. Because Llewellyn's brown eyes simply looked sharply at him, he nodded a yes to each of Rafferty's questions and said no more.

  As he stood at the bar waiting to be served, Rafferty could see Llewellyn and Maureen reflected in the mirror behind the bar. They were whispering together and giggling. Llewellyn giggling? What next? Drinking pints of Adnams with whisky chasers? Rafferty scowled. Then he caught sight of himself in the mirror and was disconcerted all over again. Maureen's arch comment hadn't been entirely undeserved. Between his heavy horn-rimmed glasses, his new-grown and somewhat rusty-looking beard and his No1 haircut, he looked a cross between a mad Polytechnic lecturer and a football hooligan. His own mother had trouble recognising him. But at least, when he was finally forced to face them, his new look made it less likely that any of the dating agency's clients or staff would look at him and see Nigel Blythe. It was a comforting thought.

  By the time he was finally served in the lunch-time crush and returned with fresh drinks, it became clear that Llewellyn and Maureen had concluded their wisest course was to ignore his altered appearance. Because as soon as he sat down they began a determined description of what they had seen on their honeymoon tour of the sites of Ancient Greece, which continued as they ate their meal and didn't stop till an hour later when Rafferty, overdosed on Ancient wonders, said he had to go.

  ‘But you haven't told me anything about this latest case,’ Llewellyn protested. ‘The one the media is calling the Lonely Hearts murders. Don't–?’

  ‘Time enough for that tomorrow, Dafyd,’ Rafferty told him gruffly. ‘You're just back from honeymoon, man. Can't you leave it till then before you start neglecting your new wife?’

  Scared in case Llewellyn persisted and pushed him into revealing the name of the chief suspect, Rafferty made a swift exit before he got the chance. He was relieved to get out of the pub and not just to avoid discussing the case with Llewellyn after downing a few relaxing beers. It was his cousin Maureen's presence which was the inhibiting factor. Because Rafferty knew if he were to start discussing the case with Llewellyn and Nigel Blythe's name should slip out, Maureen would be on to it in a flash. Well, Nigel was her cousin, too. She would immediately reveal the Rafferty family connection. And anyone making a connection between himself and Nigel Blythe was the last thing he wanted.

  He was thankful to reach the sanctuary of his flat without seeing anyone who knew him. Once safely inside, he yanked off his glasses and slumped down in an armchair. Thanks to the prescription lenses of his father's spectacles, his head was now throbbing in earnest and he swallowed a couple of aspirin to deaden the pain. He might, so far, have managed to avoid being questioned about the murders, but he was still being punished for his deception in other ways. In his haste to adopt a disguise it
had never occurred to him that his father's prescription lenses might be a disguise too far.

  But it was too late now. He would have to continue to wear them until the case was solved. He only hoped he didn't end up half blind.

  The next morning, Llewellyn was in the police station bright and early. Rafferty found him hovering like an alert greyhound when he reached his office. And as he studied the witness’ statements, Dr Sam Dally's post-mortem findings and the grisly photographs of the two dead girls, Llewellyn commented, ‘Looks to me as if we might have a misogynist on our hands.’

  ‘A whatonist?’ Rafferty asked with a frown that blurred his already blurred vision even more. His headache was back with a vengeance. It made concentration difficult.

  ‘A woman-hater. A man with a pathological loathing of women. According to Harry Simpson's reports and Dr Dally's post-mortem findings, both victims were killed in a frenzied blood-letting. There was hatred there. Although it seems likely they died quickly both women must have experienced some moments of pure terror.’ Llewellyn paused before he added bleakly ‘And now another young woman seems to have gone missing.”

  Rafferty's head jerked up. The pain was but a moment behind and he winced when it caught up. ‘What did you say?’

  Llewellyn waved one of the reports at him. ‘Have you not yet seen this?’

  ‘No.’ Rafferty leaned forward in his chair and snatched the paper from the startled Llewellyn. Too hasty, he told himself. His eyes flew over the report, but he couldn't focus on it. Impatiently, he snatched the glasses from his nose and while he pretended to clean them he hurriedly read through the latest report, appalled to learn that Isobel Goddard hadn't turned up for work. Nor was she at her flat. Dear God, he pleaded, not another one.

  Don't panic, he warned himself. Then he remembered Lancelot Bliss had said her parents owned a decaying pile somewhere in Suffolk. ‘Maybe she's gone home to her family? It's what I'd do, if I were Isobel Goddard, after the murder of two young women so close to home. Give the agency a ring, Dafyd. They should have a number for her next-of-kin.’