Dying For You

by Evans, Geraldine

  Rafferty could think of no more questions he could safely ask Isobel that didn't risk him revealing something else he wasn't supposed to know. Instead, he asked if Simon Farnell or Caroline Durward were in.

  Isobel nodded. ‘Simon is. But Caroline's working at home today.’ She made no attempt to use the intercom to alert Simon Farnell to their presence, instead, she got up from behind her desk with something approaching alacrity and made for the hallway where the private offices were situated. Her, ‘I'll tell Simon you want to see him,’ floated behind her as she vanished from sight.

  While they waited, Llewellyn picked up one of the magazines from a table, began to flick through it and was soon immersed.

  Rafferty was glad Llewellyn was occupied. It gave him some thinking time. Again it struck him that he and the killer might not be the only ones with guilty secrets. Isobel's defensive manner, her alacrity in pushing them and their questions on to Simon Farnell indicated she, too, might have something to hide.

  Only now did he recall that on the night of the first party, Isobel had followed Jenny Warburton from the Cranstons’ drawing room. Was it merely coincidence? Or had she followed Jenny deliberately?

  By the time he had managed to push his way through the throng she had been halfway across the hallway. Had Isobel veered in the direction of the Ladies only when she became aware of his presence behind her? He couldn't be sure; as the case progressed, the more hazy his memory became and badgering it only made it hazier. He put it down to stress. But at least, early in the case, he had retained sufficient of his Nigel persona recollections to prime Llewellyn with appropriate questions. The statements revealed that another guest had also noticed Isobel's exit immediately after Jenny. Questioned about it, Isobel had said she had wanted to get away from a bore and repair her make-up, which Rafferty acknowledged was plausible. From his fading recollections of Bliss's party gossip, it fitted her character. If she hadn't been following Jenny, she might well have spotted a better prospect over the bore's shoulder and been intent on doing some running repairs to her make-up made necessary by the steamy weather.

  Another vague impression swam into his memory – that on his return from saying goodbye to Jenny the door to the Ladies had been ajar. Isobel could have listened to their conversation, heard him return and enter the Gents’ and realized that Jenny had set off to the car park alone. She could have followed only a few seconds behind, collecting previously hidden weapons and protective clothing on the way and taken Jenny by surprise with the first blow.

  But what possible motive could the girl have? Admittedly, she seemed to regard the more wealthy of the male clientele as her private harem. In addition, according to Bliss, Isobel carried a wealth of family expectation on her back. But surely, the family pressure, even with the ruthless Elizabethan forebear providing an example of how to deal with love rivals, would be insufficient to prompt her to remove the competition permanently?

  Even to Rafferty, who was often given to flights of fancy, such a possibility seemed far-fetched. Apart from anything else, it was doubtful if Isobel had the brains to get away with murder. Not that such a lack would necessarily stop her trying. Rafferty paused, mid-thought. Was Isobel really as dim and shallow as she appeared or was it a protective façade? What had the statement that Llewellyn had taken from her parents’ garrulous neighbour said about her? That it was sad how she had changed. That was it. That she used to be such a bright little thing, nose always in a book. ‘Now, she's just man mad. Her life's an endless round of partying. Where has the child gone, I wonder, who used to watch the stars with me on clear summer nights and ask such intelligent questions?’

  Where indeed? Rafferty thought. Had Isobel been hiding the light of her intelligence under a bushel of coquetry because she believed men still feared intelligent women? Or was the concealment done for more sinister reasons?

  Isobel had presented herself as being too dim to get away with murder. She had even returned to her parents’ home, leaving the impression behind that she was scared she might be the killer's real target. But if she wasn't so dim after all, her flight home could have been an attempt to cover her tracks.

  He was beginning to wonder why it was taking Isobel so long to inform Simon Farnell of their presence in reception, when Farnell came out and ushered them into his office and Rafferty had to put any further speculation aside.

  ‘What can I do for you, inspector?’ Farnell asked after Llewellyn had made the introductions and they had all sat down around his desk.

  ‘I just wanted to ask a few more questions, sir. I was surprised to see Miss Goddard back in the office. You told my officers she believed she might have been the murderer's intended target. Strange she should have returned at all, especially to work at the very agency which has had two members killed.’

  Simon Farnell smiled. ‘Unfathomable are the ways of women, Inspector. Or so I've always found. But then I've never thought Isobel terribly bright. I imagine her mother convinced her she was being stupid, put some back-bone and much-need sense into her and persuaded her back to work.’

  Baulked of a satisfactory explanation from Isobel, Rafferty persisted. ‘Have you any idea why Miss Goddard should think she might have been the intended target? Had she been threatened in some way?’

  ‘If she had, she didn't mention it to me. But Isobel's a bit of a drama queen, Inspector. If attention isn't revolving round her she's prone to do or say something outrageous to encourage it.’ Farnell shrugged. ‘I wouldn't take anything Isobel says too seriously. As you yourself said – she's back. So how worried could she have been? And as I told her, if someone did want to kill her, they would have to be singularly inept to make a botch of it not once but twice.

  ‘Besides, even Isobel's capable of concluding that she's unlikely to find a rich husband while she's buried at home in the country, especially as her family no longer has the money to entertain.’

  Rafferty leaned back in his chair and tried for nonchalance. Lancelot Bliss had said something similar. ‘You surprise me. You'd never think it to look at Miss Goddard.’ He straightened his off-the-peg and increasingly shabby brown jacket and remarked self-deprecatingly, ‘Of course I'm just a male plod and pretty ignorant about such things, as the female members of my family frequently tell me, but Miss Goddard's suit looked suspiciously like a designer one to me.’

  From the corner of his eye Rafferty caught another startled glance from the designer-suited Llewellyn, who well knew the extent of his inspector's ignorance in matters sartorial. He shrugged aside Llewellyn's reaction, keen to officially learn as much about the party guests as ‘Nigel’ had so as to lessen the risk of revealing prior knowledge. And as Simon Farnell appeared to be as avid a gossip as Lancelot Bliss, this was a prime opportunity.

  Farnell smiled. ‘You've a good eye, inspector. Isobel's suit is designer. But it's true the family hasn't a bean.’ He told them this with a certain relish. ‘Rumour has it that some foolish speculative venture did for them financially just before Isobel entered her teens. They've been on their uppers ever since. Every penny they have is put on Isobel's back. I gather she's meant to be the human sacrifice that placates the gods and puts everything right.’

  ‘Human sacrifice?’ Rafferty echoed.

  ‘Isobel's supposed to sacrifice herself on some rich man's altar, snare herself said husband and so restore the family fortunes.’

  ‘I thought stuff like that went out with the Victorians.’

  Farnell laughed. ‘Don't you believe it, Inspector. Persuading a nubile daughter to sacrifice herself for the sake of the family is still pretty rife, at least amongst the upper elements of society. Hasn't the aristocracy a reputation for ruthlessness in pursuit of their desires? Not that Isobel's unwilling, far from it. That's the trouble. For all that she's from a real ‘true blue’ background, Isobel's vamp routine's been borrowed from the Mae West school of seduction. It gives the agency a bad image as I've several times complained to Caroline. Of course, as far as the agency
's concerned, the sacrifice of the not-so-nubile daughters can be lucrative. We get a lot of business from fathers of plain, middle-class girls past the first flush egged-on by mothers who want grand-children before it's too late. We have a side-line in makeovers and have an arrangement with a first-class plastic surgeon who's also joint owner in a beauty salon, so we're able to quickly arrange for a bit of plastic surgery, boob jobs, laser eye treatment, botox, etc. After all that, mummy and daddy have a real chance of wedding bells and babies.

  ‘Demeaning for the girls to realize that even their parents believe they have no hope of hooking a worthy man without such measures. I feel sorry for them sometimes.’

  So did Rafferty. And to think he hadn't even clipped his nasal hair before climbing into his ill-fitting borrowed suit and entering the agency dating ring. ‘And you say that Isobel's willing to do whatever's necessary?’

  ‘Why wouldn't she be? Isobel would like a return to the good life as much as the rest of her family. She's already had a boob job – you might have noticed she has plenty to put in the shop window. I gather she's speedily amassing funds to have her short sight corrected. She's paying for the operations herself, too. God knows where she gets the money as her salary's not large.’

  Rafferty was beginning to have one or two ideas about that.

  ‘You won't know this, of course, having just met the girl’ – was that another hint of criticism? Rafferty wondered, aware he was becoming sensitive to such sly rebukes – ‘but she's not only dim and not very efficient, she's also lazy and indiscreet – not the best secretary/receptionist from the agency's point of view, which is something else I've been at pains to make clear to Caroline.’

  Rafferty wanted a few moments to think, so he signalled to Llewellyn to take over. Farnell certainly seemed to have a down on Isobel. Was that just because he was clearly homosexual and Isobel's crass style offended his own impeccable taste? Or was there a deeper reason? Lancelot Bliss had revealed that Isobel was a bit of a snoop. Did she have something unsavoury on Farnell? But given that Farnell made no secret of his homosexuality, what could she have on him? Isobel would be unable to use her usual weapon – her body – to prise his secrets from him, as some of the recent statements hinted she did.

  Llewellyn had discovered that Farnell had pushed to set up a ‘gay’ section to the dating agency and although Guy Cranston had made no objection, Caroline had. Was it possible that Farnell was the killer but that he had mistakenly killed the wrong women? Given that Caroline had crushed his ambition by rejecting out of hand his desire to set up the gay section and if Isobel did have some kind of hold on him, either woman could have been his chosen victim.

  If so and Farnell had made a botch of it, his remark that such a killer would have to be completely inept to make such a mistake not once, but twice, could be a double-bluff.

  ‘You're looking very thoughtful, inspector. I do hope you're not judging me too harshly for my frank comments about Isobel.’ Simon Farnell gave him a coy glance from under his lashes.

  Rafferty assumed the man must have a taste for the butch look he currently sported. Dear God, he thought, please don't let him start flirting with me. Not on top of all my other troubles. I might just land him one.

  ‘Just so you don't think I'm being a spiteful queen, let me give you an instance of Isobel's ineptitude. The party where we've since learned Jenny Warburton was murdered was another of her muddles. She caused both Caroline and me to arrive late. We didn't realize until we got to The Elmhurst hotel and found there was no booking that Isobel had given us invitations for the previous week's function. It wasn't the first time something like that has happened, either. I can only think Caroline puts up with her because it was Guy who took her on.’ Simon sighed. ‘The perils of nepotism.’

  Rafferty recalled Simon and Caroline's late arrival at the first party; now he knew the reason for it.

  ‘I wish Isobel would find herself a wealthy man to keep her in style.’ Farnell looked archly at Rafferty. ‘Wouldn't mind one myself, come to that.’

  Beside Rafferty, his sergeant was emitting strange muffled sounds. He ignored them and observed stiltedly, ‘Isobel's plan doesn't seem to be working. I gather she's been on the staff since the agency opened. How old is she, twenty-seven?’ Farnell nodded. ‘So what's she doing wrong?’

  ‘As I said, Inspector, I find the female of the species unfathomable. But you're a red-blooded male, my dear, what do you think she's doing wrong?’

  Rafferty winced at the ‘my dear’. Careful to call to mind only Isobel's office clothing of low-cut blouse and scarlet lipstick rather than her barely-there party dress, Rafferty shrugged. ‘She's a bit obvious, I suppose. Shows a bit too much flesh and wears too much make-up. It hints at desperation.’

  ‘Perhaps you should tell her that. Then we might get her married off before she tries her vampish tricks on any more clients. Several have complained about her. She's also inclined to be inquisitive, which doesn't go down too well. Our clients expect discretion. It's the reason they come to us in the first place.’

  There was no question now that Farnell had a definite down on Isobel. But as Rafferty recalled the comments in the statements of some of the male members, perhaps Farnell perhaps had a point.

  ‘Isobel's a bit of a snoop,’ Lancelot Bliss had said. ‘Caught her going through my desk once I often work at home and keep lots of confidential stuff there. Luckily, I keep the main section locked. God knows what she was looking for.’

  ‘Isobel's a bit of a bike’ – this had been Ralph Dryden's comment. ‘Most of the members here have had a ride or two on her.’

  ‘Isobel likes expensive presents,’ Rory Gifford had revealed.

  Tired of trying and failing to find a rich husband, had Isobel settled for expensive trinkets and a side-line career as a blackmailer? Could that be why she made her body available to rich men who might have a murky secret or ten? Men forgot to be discreet when their trousers were down and their passion was up. If she was into using her body to encourage men to reveal their secrets it would explain why she had thought herself the murderer's intended target .

  The fact that Jenny, Estelle and Isobel were all superficially alike, all being blondes, around the same height and build and all favoured little black dresses increased the possibility of mistaken identity. In the sparsely illuminated car parking area at the Cranstons’ home and the equally dimly-lit rear grounds of The Elmhurst's annexe it would have been easy to mistake one girl for another.

  Rafferty mentioned the possibility to Llewellyn when they left the agency offices and were back in the car. Llewellyn had taken to being the driver as quickly as he had taken to running most of the investigation. Rafferty was beginning to suspect, if he ever managed to divest himself of the shackles tying his hands in this case, he might find himself permanently in the passenger seat in more ways than one.

  ‘After all,’ he said, ‘why should she think she might have been the intended victim if she didn't harbour a guilty secret or two?’

  ‘Such a possibility had occurred to me, sir,’ Llewellyn told him. ‘I put something similar in my last report if you recall. I can't think how you missed it as you've been studying the paperwork so assiduously.’

  Rafferty couldn't think how he'd missed it, either. He supposed he could put it down to his father's glasses. The headaches were now getting pretty insupportable. Obviously, he couldn't tell Llewellyn this. Instead, he clutched at a dim memory. ‘Must be that bang on the head that's affecting my memory.’

  ‘What bang on the head?’

  ‘Happened when you were on honeymoon.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Llewellyn.

  ‘What do you mean, Ah?’

  ‘Just that it would explain a lot.’ Llewellyn briefly studied him, before he returned his attention to the road. ‘You've been subdued lately, not like yourself. Not like yourself at all,’ the usually eloquent Welshman repeated. ‘You've been behaving, well, as I said, not like yourself.’ Solicitously,
he asked, ‘Are you feeling unwell?’

  Rafferty, seeing the genuine concern on Llewellyn's face, felt a brief temptation to ‘tell all’. Fortunately it passed. But he was hungry for sympathy, so he decided to seize the moment and the ready excuse for his recent uncharacteristic behaviour. He made his voice weak and lacking in conviction. ‘I'm all right, really. I suppose.’ His pathetic reply brought the desired response.

  ‘You're not, though, are you? Even Maureen said she's never seen you so subdued. Why not tell Dr Llewellyn what the problem is?’

  The normally dour, dry as a desert Llewellyn must be worried to make such a naff effort at humour, Rafferty realized. I'm not lying, he told his nagging conscience before it got into its stride, as he confessed. ‘I haven't been sleeping well. Apart from these headaches, I keep getting recurring nightmares.’

  ‘Nightmares?’ Llewellyn echoed again. ‘What about?’

  Rafferty was again tempted to confide his troubles to Llewellyn and put himself out of his misery. But again the temptation lasted only a moment. He could imagine Llewellyn's reaction if he told him his nightmares consisted of bloody visions, with him in the role of double murderer. So he temporized. ‘I keep getting nightmares about murdering Ma.’ Well, that was true, too. He had sometimes had murderous thoughts in that direction. He was only human. But the knowledge that his ma always bested him had put a stop to such dreams. He had never managed to win an argument with her, never mind a struggle to the death.

  ‘There's nothing else troubling you?’

  Rafferty was quick to deny it.

  ‘Then, apart from making an appointment with your doctor for a check-up, I suggest you need a holiday. You should try to get away when we've resolved this case. A long break from murder is probably exactly what you need.’

  Rafferty merely nodded, smiled and said, ‘You're probably right.’ It was the possibility that he'd have a very long break – an involuntary one, courtesy of Her Majesty – that had exacerbated the nightmares. But, of course he said nothing about that. Keen to get all the most problematic interviews over as quickly as possible, he simply suggested Llewellyn put his foot down – a request sure to encourage the suddenly chatty Welshman into stubborn silence