He hadn't anticipated the sudden and untimely show of initiative. But it was too late now and Rafferty applied his mind to damage limitation.
Mollified after Rafferty's effusive compliments, Smales remarked, ‘It's strange, isn't it, sir, that they should both have somehow got hold of the wrong end of the stick about Nigel Blythe?’
‘Mm.’ Rafferty agreed. ‘Wonder how they could have got such an idea?’ Even as he posed the question, he suspected the newly-inspired Smales would be able to enlighten him. And so it proved.
‘I asked them about it,’ Smales revealed, ‘and they both said that you'd told them.’
‘They did?’ Rafferty put on what he hoped was a convincing show of bewilderment. He shook his head more in sorrow than anger at the vagaries of human nature. ‘But then, when you've had as much experience as I have of the behaviour of witnesses, you'll realize what a contradictory lot they can be. Not only do they not listen properly, they change their stories at the drop of a hat. They're not to be relied upon, Smales. If you learn nothing more than that during your early police career, you'll be doing very well.’
Even as he tried to muddy the waters of Smales's evidence, Rafferty was struck by the horrified realization that it had only been the fact of his ‘solid’ alibis that had stopped Nigel from dropping him in it. And now, thanks to Smales's untimely show of initiative, Nigel had no alibis...
His judgement had slipped badly and he set out to retrieve what could turn out to be a real danger to both himself and Nigel. He managed to divert Smales's suspicions and sympathies on to a different track entirely, by saying to him, ‘We only have the word of two women who've shown they're unreliable. They're both married women, Smales, does it not cross your mind that after speaking to you they were more worried about their husbands’ learning about their adultery than they were about Nigel Blythe's future? How would you feel if your name was smeared in the paper before you had a chance to prove your innocence?’
Put like that, Smales admitted he would feel outraged
‘So would I. So, for the time being I want you to say nothing to anyone about these alibi retractions. Leave it to me to consider the best interests of all concerned, including Nigel Blythe. Okay?’
Even though Smales gave a conspiratorial nod at this, Rafferty hadn't much faith in Smales's silence lasting. But just as long as it lasted till he'd found the murderer, he would ask no more.
‘The two ladies said they'd phone you and retract officially, like.’
Rafferty nodded. He didn't doubt it. As if on cue, his phone began to ring.
After Rafferty had dismissed Smales, he had listened with a fatalistic air as, in turn, Mesdames Smith and Jenkins explained that of course they hadn't been thinking about the effect on their marriages when they had told the young officer they wanted to withdraw their alibis. No, they had realized it was their public duty to tell the truth now they understood that Nigel Blythe might be a dangerous criminal. It was the thought of Nigel stalking the streets looking for further victims that had prompted their attacks of conscience and their decision to tell the truth, not any concern for their own marital accord. Nigel hadn't been with them at all, both women insisted. They hadn't even seen him since shortly after lunch on either day.
Naturally, Rafferty – who had been clinging to the wreckage of his cousin's alibis – hadn't wanted to believe them. He had been blunt with both women. ‘So, now, in spite of your previous statement,’ he challenged Kylie Smith, ‘you're denying that you and Nigel spent the entire evening together on Friday, the 4th of April?’
‘I most certainly am.’
Rafferty could picture Kylie Smith at the other end of the phone, shaking her bleached blonde curls indignantly.
‘I'm a professional, inspector,’ Mrs Smith had insisted. ‘My firm paid for me to go to that delightful post-modern hotel for training purposes, not to pick up men. After spending no more than half-an-hour, if that, in Nigel's room, I went to my own and studied the training literature. That would have been around 2.30 in the afternoon. I didn't see Nigel again after that.’
And from this stance, she wasn't to be shifted. Neither was Kayleigh Jenkins who took a line so similar about Nigel's alibi for the Saturday night they might have practised it together. Perhaps they had. The only good aspect about the two telephone interviews was that they hadn't been overheard. It meant he would be able, for a while anyway, to conceal from his cousin – and the super and the rest of the team – that Nigel's alibis were worthless. Such a revelation would quickly propel his cousin into ‘telling all’; something he had to avoid at all costs.
Even though he had been unwilling to believe the women were now telling the truth, such had been the conviction in their voices that Rafferty was forced to the unwelcome conclusion that Nigel's alibis really were as worthless as they claimed.
So where had Nigel been? More to the point – what had he been doing and why had he lied about it?
It was only then that a possibility occurred to Rafferty that he had never before considered. If, as he believed, the two women were now telling the truth, Nigel could have had ample time to drive back to Elmhurst from York. He even knew where the Made in Heaven parties were being held as Rafferty had mentioned it when he had telephoned him on his mobile to thank him again for his help.
Was it possible he'd been doing his best to shield Nigel and remove him entirely as chief suspect when all the time his cousin had been guilty of the brutal murders of the two women?
He found it hard to believe. Nigel might be a bit of a rogue where money, deals and women were concerned, but surely he wasn't into murderous violence as well? Still, the possibility stunned him so much that he was at a loss what to do next. If he challenged Nigel about his failed alibis, his cousin, who had been the soul of discretion thus far, albeit in return for Rafferty paying him some not inconsiderable sums, would, if innocent, feel so outraged he would sing like a caged canary.
Rafferty knew he had no choice but to suppress the knowledge of the alibis’ retraction. Apart from himself, Smales was the only one who knew the truth and he'd been silenced for the moment.
Alone in his office, Rafferty had too many moments to consider the inevitable repercussions should Smales fail to meet this discretion test. Rafferty knew he would be exposed, reviled and probably caged himself.
He put his head in his hands and breathed out on a long, shuddering sigh. After everything else, the thought of being hauled before the beak courtesy of little Timmy Smales, of all people, was too much to bear.
While his troubles multiplied, Rafferty was comforted by the thought that at least he was still managing to avoid meeting the main witnesses. He didn't know how much longer he would be able to achieve the trick, but fortunately, Llewellyn, who had at first kept harping on about it, had quickly resigned himself to doing the bulk of the interviews.
This acceptance had surprised Rafferty, but he was too grateful to question it. But, although he kept well away from anyone with any connection to the Made In Heaven dating agency, the nightmares pushed Rafferty into an even more assiduous study of all the reports and witness statements as they came in. He read them over and over as if they were Holy Writ, sure there must be something there that would start the grit in the oyster of his memory. He had been there, he reminded himself again, as if a reminder was necessary. He must have the pre-knowledge that would point him to the solution of the case.
But, of course, at both parties he had been doing his best to keep his policeman persona under wraps. He had been so concerned with keeping up his accent and his corner and keeping down his alcohol intake and his dropped ‘aitches, that he had been fully occupied. Even so, he thought, surely there must be something in all this vast pile of verbiage?
But if there was something, Rafferty hadn't been able to find it, with or without his father's glasses. The continuing headaches didn't help, of course. Now he had the nightmare-induced sleepless nights to contend with also.
His unchara
cteristic devotion to paperwork had, early in the investigation, brought the inevitable observation from Llewellyn that this case seemed to have sparked a marked change of character in Rafferty. Rafferty had taken this to mean he wasn't being his usual cavalier self in his attitude to paperwork, and he had warned himself to be careful and indulge his feverish study of the reports only when Llewellyn was absent from the station. But with so much else to think about Rafferty knew he hadn't managed that particular essential too well.
Strangely, however, Llewellyn had made no further comment about it, which was pretty uncharacteristic of him. Rafferty couldn't help but wonder why this should be. Although he was aware that Llewellyn thought him mercurial, he had no reason to think him so mercurial that he would change the habits of a lifetime so completely.
And then there was another thing that puzzled him. Although they still occasionally had the spats which had characterised their early days of working together, their differences had been mostly set aside and they had turned into a good team. At least they had, before this case had put Rafferty under such a strain. He was basically too honest – too simple – a man to find living a lie easy. It made him hit out – no doubt from Llewellyn's point of view – unfairly.
But oddly, Llewellyn failed to retaliate in his previous superior manner. Instead, he would go silent. It was almost as if Llewellyn was making allowances for behaviour that Rafferty couldn't help. Occasionally, Rafferty would catch Llewellyn looking at him with something close to pity in his eyes. And, much to his irritation, Llewellyn would try again to bring up the subject of matchmaking Rafferty with this Abra woman.
Rafferty suspected that Llewellyn, newly come to wedded bliss, increasingly regarded him as some poor, love-lorn creature who, if left to his own resources, would be doomed to a solitary life. And when he was forced to think again about the poor savaged bodies of Jenny and Estelle, he began to believe Llewellyn might be right.
By dint of desperation and ingenuity, Rafferty had managed to divert Smales's suspicions and obtain his Ōmerta promise. That left the two women. But, he felt reasonably confident that his threat to charge them would be sufficient deterrent to further probing when Nigel remained unarrested.
After the latest fraught experience in a fraught-filled week, Rafferty felt he was entitled to think the day could hold no more punishing surprises. But he had thought without his own particular bête noire, Superintendent Bradley.
For, twenty minutes after he'd got off the phone to Nigel's ex-alibis, he learned that Smales's revelation wasn't the last of the day's traumas.
He had just reached for the latest reports and began to settle down in an attempt to absorb them when the phone rang. And, as he discovered, his caller wasn't in the best of tempers.
‘What's this I hear?’ Superintendent Bradley's bluff, gruff Yorkshire tones bellowed in Rafferty's ear.
Warily, he replied, ‘I don't know, Super. What is it you hear?’
‘Don't come the mimic with me, Rafferty. From what I've just learned but, you're in no position to act the smart-Alec.’
The hairs on the back of Rafferty's neck rose up in alarm at this. What had Bradley heard? Surely even Smales couldn't have blabbed already?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Only too aware that Bradley was capable of baiting a trap and waiting to see what fell in, Rafferty was wary. ‘I don't know what you mean, sir,’ he said.
‘Allow me to enlighten you. Dereliction of duty is what I mean. Correct me if I'm wrong, but it was you I put in charge of the Lonely Hearts murders?’ Obviously, this was a rhetorical question, because Bradley didn't wait for a reply. ‘Only it seems that Sergeant Llewellyn's running it and doing nearly all of the vital witness interviews. What's going on, Rafferty? Bottle gone since Llewellyn stole your thunder on your last investigation?’
‘No sir.’
‘You do want to solve this case, I take it?’
‘Of course I do, sir.’ And how. ‘But there was a lot to do and I had to prioritise. Amongst other things, I felt it was vital I check out this Nigel Blythe's alibis, which involved travelling up to York. It's not as if Sergeant Llewellyn isn't more than capable of conducting the important initial interviews. As you yourself said, sir, he did solve our last case. I have every faith in him.’
‘Coming from a lapsed Catholic who presumably has damned little faith in anything, that's not comforting, Rafferty. I want to see more active involvement from your good self. See that I do.’
The receiver banged down. Fortunately, Rafferty, used to his chief's penchant for reverberating exits, had removed his ear just in time. ‘Yes sir,’ he muttered to the empty office. ‘Should I arrest myself now or would you prefer me to suffer on for a while longer?’
But whatever else he did, it was clear he could no longer avoid the main witnesses. Still undecided about what action to take on the Nigel front, Bradley's order at least aided decision on one aspect. It also served as a reminder that his performance in his last investigation had done little to enhance his reputation. It made it doubly-unfortunate that he should be so hog-tied in this case. He needed results, not only to give the two dead girls justice and save his own hide and Nigel's, but also – supposing by some miracle he managed such a quiver-full of tricks – to ensure Bradley wouldn't have another failure with which to beat him.
At least Llewellyn would have no further call to wonder about his uncharacteristically dutiful study of the witnesses’ statements. And as his new cousin-by-marriage had long since taken his measure, he was thankful to have one small mercy in his sea of troubles.
The following morning, after he woke, sluggish from yet another nightmare, Rafferty thought his spirit could sink no further. But then he recalled the day's duties and almost pulled the duvet back over his head. But he forced himself out.
On arrival at the station Rafferty briskly informed Llewellyn they were both to make another visit to the agency. Even now, with his choice of action removed by Bradley's order, his feet dragged as they approached the agency's Hope Street offices. The arrow-clutching rosy cherubs peering out from their clouds above the shop front seemed to gaze at him with reproachful eyes. Somehow, Rafferty forced himself to follow Llewellyn through the doorway.
He was surprised to find that Isobel Goddard hadn't taken off for her parents’ home again, but was seated behind her desk in reception. At their entrance her head jerked apprehensively upwards. And even when Llewellyn moved closer so her short sighted eyes could recognize him, the apprehension lingered. As Isobel squinted in Rafferty's direction, his heart started up such a wild beating he thought it might leap out of his chest. He had taken the precaution of remaining near the door, out of her field of vision and he felt a hot, sweaty relief, when, without a flicker of recognition, her attention returned to Llewellyn.
‘Not you again?’ she asked.
‘I'm afraid so, Miss Goddard,’ Llewellyn replied. ‘I've brought Inspector Rafferty with me this time. He wanted to ask you some questions.’
Isobel pouted and spared Rafferty a myopic glance. ‘It's taken him long enough. I suppose you expect me to repeat my statement yet again? How many more times must I-?’
‘As often as necessary,’ Rafferty told her in a deliberately deepened voice that brought a narrowing of Llewellyn's gaze. ‘Surely I don't have to remind you that two young women have been murdered? I would have thought you would be only too anxious to help us catch the person responsible.’ He paused, wary of saying more, in case something in his voice betrayed him. But when another pout was her only response, he was emboldened to continue. ‘I have some questions about Estelle Meredith. Can you tell me how long she had been on your books?’
Isobel shrugged. ‘Several months. She dated practically every halfway decent male we can offer.’
Her tone indicated her resentment of the fact. Rafferty got the impression that Isobel regarded the more affluent male clients as her private fiefdom and resented the competition; but given what he had already heard about her,
this didn't come as a surprise. ‘But,’ he began, before he stopped abruptly as he realized he had been about to reveal that Estelle had said she had only joined the agency the previous week and had had few dates. Of course, as Nigel, he knew that, but as the investigating policeman, he couldn't know. For God's sake, Rafferty, he rebuked himself, try to remember. If Isobel Goddard was to be believed, Estelle hadn't been entirely honest with him. But then she was in good company…
‘But?’ Isobel repeated. ‘But what?’
Rafferty, tired of being pulled up every time he uttered a one-word objection, managed to come up with a plausible one. ‘But I understood from the statements that very few of the other members admit to going out with her.’
‘They would, wouldn't they, given that she's been murdered? But it's true enough, because most of the ones who did are no longer on our books. Not that I'm suggesting that Estelle Meredith scared them off.’ She frowned and added, ‘though she did flirt outrageously. She seemed to be out to prove something.’
‘Like what?’
Isobel shrugged. ‘That she was attractive to men, I suppose. I got the impression with Estelle that she wasn't nearly as confident as she made out.’
‘Like much of the rest of humanity.’ Rafferty paused. ‘There was one other matter I wanted to ask you about. I understand you were concerned you might have been the murderer's intended victim. I wondered if there was a particular reason why you should think so.’
Isobel became defensive. ‘No, not really. It was just a feeling I had, that's all. You know, that feeling that someone's walked over your grave?’
It was a feeling Rafferty had lately become familiar with. ‘So you've no particular reason to think you might have been the intended target?’
‘I told you, no.’ Isobel's hands formed into white-knuckled fists where they rested on the desk and as though conscious of their capacity for betrayal, she lowered them to her lap, out of sight. ‘I just became scared, as anyone would.’
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