'Quite.'
'But,' Rafferty repeated determinedly, ignoring Llewellyn's tart rejoinder, 'You must admit she seemed pretty ill-at-ease to be discussing the matter.'
'I did notice. But then,' Llewellyn dryly added, 'so would I be in her position, if you were the one doing the questioning. You really must be the proverbial red rag to a bull as far as Ms Probyn's concerned.' He started the car. 'Lucky for you she's tethered by such admirable self-control.'
Rafferty subsided, muttering, 'Leave a bloke his fantasies, at least. They're all that keeps me warm these cold nights.' Especially the one where he banged her up in a cell for the night with a couple of the more downmarket toms for company. He bet that would make her lose that cool, legal manner that got up his nose so much.
As though determined to make Rafferty admit that there was another side to Elizabeth Probyn, as he waited in the driveway for a break in the traffic – always a long-winded business with Llewellyn — the Welshman commented, 'Did you notice that wonderful piano?'
Rafferty refused to be drawn. 'You mean that big polished brown thing by the window? No. Can't say I did.'
'It was a Steinway, that's all. Beautiful thing. The Rolls Royce of pianos.'
'Only the best for Ms Probyn. What did you expect her to have? An out of tune, second-hand job, with yellow keys and wonky pedals?'
The image put him in mind of his own youth and, softer-voiced, he added, 'Funny, you rarely see one now, but everyone used to have a piano when I was a kid. We even had one. God knows why, as none of us could play it, though my old man used to do a bit of a turn on his fiddle when he was merry.' He sighed. 'Happy days. Simpler, kinder too, in many ways. We all used to play out till all hours, especially in the summer holidays. Who would let their kids do that now? Everyone used to be able to leave their front door-key hanging from a length of string behind the letterbox. Try doing that now. You'd think prosecutors like Elizabeth Probyn would have a bit more sympathy with the public's anxieties.'
Wisely, Llewellyn said nothing and, now that the road was clear for well over a hundred yards in either direction, he pulled out and turned in the direction of the refuge and Mrs Nye.
Fortunately Mrs Nye was a woman unlikely to set Rafferty's teeth on edge. He had always found her sympathetic, understanding and willing to help. He hoped this occasion wouldn't prove an exception. She was a widow, well-set up financially, with time on her hands, and she used her money and her time in a variety of benevolent works.
She welcomed them in her usual friendly manner and led them to her office. 'How can I help you, Inspector?' she asked as they all sat down.
As the women he thought the most likely senders of the 'outing' letter were colleagues of Mrs Nye, Rafferty eased gradually around to the reason for their visit. 'We're investigating the murder of Maurice Smith,' he told her. 'I imagine you've read about the case?'
She nodded and clasped her hands firmly together, resting them on the cheap deal table she used as a desk. 'Forgive me for being blunt, but I don't see how I can help you. The women who come here are victims of violence not its perpetrators.'
Rafferty paused before he answered. He admired Mrs Nye, respected her. He didn't want to antagonise her. He hadn't wanted to antagonise Elizabeth Probyn, either, he wryly reflected, but he had still managed it. He reminded himself that Mrs Nye was not Elizabeth Probyn. Often, in the past, her persuasion had convinced a rape victim to make a statement, submit to a medical examination, and thus help the police get a conviction. He wanted her on his side. She was educated, fair-minded and most of all, she believed in justice. He appealed to that last trait now.
'It wasn't actually the women of the refuge we wanted to speak to you about.' She raised an enquiring eyebrow and he continued with the point she had herself raised. 'You know, in many ways I think it's fair to say that Maurice Smith was also a victim – of his upbringing. Apart from being physically unprepossessing, he came from a broken home, had an inadequate mother, a bullying step-father, little love of any description according to his police record. Is it any wonder he became what he did?'
Rafferty had expressed his views on criminal matters often enough to feel like a hypocrite as he voiced their opposite. But it was true that Maurice Smith had had little enough going for him. One of the 'underclass' politicians had taken to spouting about in recent years, Smith had undoubtedly been a victim of sorts. Thankfully, Mrs Nye was too polite to point out his volte-face. She pointed out something else, instead.
'But he still had a choice, Inspector. To rape — or not to rape. Oh, I know the case was thrown out of court, but even his own family – if the papers are to be believed – were quick to disown him as if they, too, believed he was guilty. I'm not condoning his murder. Like you, I believe in the rule of law.'
Rafferty shifted guiltily in his chair and wished his own belief in the law was as firm now as it had been twenty, even fifteen years earlier.
'If there's any way I can help you catch his killer, I'll do it gladly.'
Rafferty was relieved she had made the offer. It made it easier for him to broach the subject. 'As you know, there have recently been a spate of rapist or suspected rapist ‘outing' cases in various areas of the country.' She nodded. 'We've had one or two locally. Maurice Smith was a victim.' He watched her. She didn't seem surprised at the news.
'”Outing” a rapist is a long way from killing him, Inspector.'
Rafferty nodded. He dug in his pocket and laid a photo-copy of the letter Smith had received on the table. 'You said you wanted to help us catch Smith's killer. Quite possibly the people who sent him this had nothing to do with his murder, but I'm sure you appreciate that they need to be questioned. If you suspect any of your Rape Support Group members might have anything to do with 'outing' threats, I hope you'd tell us.'
Mrs Nye's expression was unhappy. 'Even if this,' she tapped a fingernail on the letter, 'has any connection with my members, it's a long way from murder,' she repeated. '”Outing”, as I understand it, is to alert residents to potential dangers, to deter the rapist himself from further rape and hopefully, encourage him to seek help.'
'And is it not also to terrorise him a little?' Rafferty added softly. 'To give him a taste of what it feels to be a victim?'
'I'm sure the motives are mixed.' She handed back the photo-copy. 'The people who carry out such acts are misguided, of course, but understandably so in view of the many lenient sentences handed out by the courts. I don't agree with such actions, but many people do.'
Rafferty felt she was getting away from him, was losing her sympathy and was about to insist she give him some names, some indication if she suspected the involvement of any of her members, when from beside him, Llewellyn intoned softly, '"For evil to triumph, all it takes is for good men to do nothing".'
There was a long pause, then Mrs Nye said, 'Point taken, Sergeant.' Firmly, she added, 'Firstly, I have to say that I don't know anything – not for certain, but I'll tell you who I suspect.' She paused again. 'Three members broke away from my group several weeks ago, and I'm ashamed to say that these three did push for an official 'outing' policy. I believe they had gained the secret support and confidence of several disgruntled policemen in the area, so they had no difficulty in learning of the whereabouts of such men as Smith. They left to form their own group when I told them that, with or without the connivance of maverick policemen, I couldn't condone them breaking the law.'
Mrs Nye must have noticed their quickly exchanged glances at this, for before Rafferty could ask her, she added dryly, 'Oh, I don't know the names of the officers concerned. If I did, I'd give them to you. I approve of policemen taking the law into their own hands even less than I do of anyone else doing so.'
Because policemen usually had the necessary knowledge to get away with it, Rafferty guessed she meant. That was another area of concern for him in this case; the possibility that Smith had been murdered by a copper gone wrong. Because, if a professional, experienced copper like Stubbs h
ad killed Smith, he stood a good chance of getting away with it. It was disconcerting that the thought didn't trouble him more.
Although one half of his troublesome Libran personality pulled him towards the underdog, which was undoubtedly what Smith was, the other half had an even stronger pull towards natural justice – in whatever guise it appeared. Between the two viewpoints, the policeman element came a poor third. God help him and his career, if Superintendent Bradley ever suspected it, for Bradley's zeal for convictions was nearly as strong as his interest in policing on the cheap.
Unfortunately, the information Mrs Nye gave them was not conclusive. Although she had confirmed that her ex-colleagues had pushed for an official "outing" policy, she had no proof that they had actually gone ahead with it on their own. But she had given him their names, and at least Rafferty now had evidence of intention with which to confront them.
Their leading light was one Sinead Fay. 'Let's get round to her house,' he said. 'Mrs Nye seemed to think she'd be at home. I'll be interested to discover what cars Ms Fay and her friends drive and whether we can get them to let anything slip over this “outing” business. I'm more and more convinced they're involved.'
They got in the car and Llewellyn consulted his street atlas before pulling away from the kerb.
'When we've seen Ms Fay and her friends, we'd better make a start on interviewing Smith's victims and their families,' Rafferty told him. 'The sooner we do that the sooner we should be able to remove a few names from the list.'
'What about Stubbs and Thompson?' Llewellyn asked.
'Don't worry. I haven't forgotten them. Actually,' Rafferty glanced across, 'I'd like you to check out their movements.'
As far as he could tell from Llewellyn's poker-face, the Welshman welcomed this difficult task. 'I'll have to drive up to London to speak to Frank Massey, his daughter and ex-wife as soon as I can fit it in; maybe you could check out the policeman angle then?' Llewellyn nodded. 'Only try to find out what we need to know by roundabout means if you can. I doubt Archie Stubbs would bother to thank me for it, but I feel we owe him and Thompson a bit of discretion. If they're innocent and word got out that they had been suspects in a murder case it could cause Thompson, as a serving copper, problems. We all know mud sticks and coppers are even more vulnerable to such taints.'
There was an alleyway giving access to residents' parking running behind Sinead Fay's house. Rafferty stopped Llewellyn before he made for the gate, reminded him of their interesting discoveries at the rear of Smith's flat, and said, 'Let's take a look round the back. We may just learn something to our advantage.'
Rafferty wasn't totally surprised to find a Zephyr, the same car that Lilley had described as being seen parked near Smith's flat on the night he had been reported missing. How many of these old cars could still be running? he wondered and made a mental note to check it out. He doubted there would be more than a dozen in the whole area.
He was surprised an educated feminist like Sinead Fay – if she had been involved in Smith's death – should be so careless, should have so little idea how to protect herself. Of course, leaving aside the matter of the “outing” letter for the moment, it might indicate her innocence of Smith's murder. Equally, she might simply be displaying her contempt for males, in particular males in positions of authority, like policemen.
Another possibility occurred to him. Did she subconsciously want to get caught? Using such an old and easily recognisable car when she was involved in dubious enterprises was certainly one way of drawing police attention and media publicity to your activities.
He quickly noted the registration number before peering in the driver's window. However, there was nothing to see and it was unlikely he'd been able to persuade a magistrate to issue a search warrant when their evidence was merely circumstantial. He tried the boot, but it was locked. Had Smith's body been transported in this? he wondered. Like a fox scenting a rabbit, he felt his pulse quicken and the adrenalin start to flow.
CHAPTER EIGHT
However, for the moment, the car wasn't going to tell them anything more and Rafferty and Llewellyn walked round to the front of the house. After radioing through to the station to check that the car was Sinead Fay's, they walked up the path and knocked on the door.
Although Rafferty had never met Sinead Fay, he had heard of her and what had happened to her, so he knew what to expect. However, the reality was still shocking and he tried not to stare at the ruin of her face as he quickly made the introductions.
The doctors had done a fairly neat job of stitching up the knife slashes, but some of them had gone deep — to the dermis and beyond, to the layer of subcutaneous fat beneath. Eight years ago, the techniques for repairing such facial injuries hadn't been as advanced as they were now, but surely, he thought, even now, something more could be done for her?
'Pretty, aren't they, Inspector?' she commented by way of greeting. 'I call them my feminist battle scars.' Although her voice was careless, matter of fact even, the rage still came through in the aggressive line of the jaw and the resolute stare with which she met his gaze, daring him to show revulsion or pity.
Some of Rafferty's colleagues who had met her, were of the opinion that Sinead Fay had left her scars as they were in order to make men feel guilty. Rafferty suspected they were right. It certainly worked on him. She would, he was sure, make good use of such a natural male reaction. It would be more effective to the feminist cause than any number of rallies and demonstrations.
She must have been an enchantingly pretty girl before the vicious assault on her, Rafferty decided. She shared the glorious Black Irish colouring of his sister, Maggie; hair, as dark as a raven, skin creamy as Jersey milk, and eyes the bright blue of lazy Caribbean skies fringed with lashes as thick and lustrous as palm fronds.
'How did it happen?'
Rafferty was torn abruptly away from his poetical musings by Llewellyn's question and wished he'd thought to warn him what to expect. Of course, he hadn't anticipated that the normally sensitive Llewellyn would voice such a question.
Sinead Fay smiled softly, as though pleased that another unsuspecting male had fallen so neatly into her trap. Rafferty wondered just how much of a kick she got out of telling each new man she met?
'I was attacked by a knife-wielding thug, Sergeant,' she told him. 'One who didn't seem to understand that I found him entirely resistible. I had already refused to go out with him several times. I gather he thought that, with my face carved up, I wouldn't be able to be so particular. Oh and he raped me as well, just to thrust the message home, as it were.'
Llewellyn merely nodded. Rafferty guessed she had expected the usual male response; a shuffling of feet, the lowering of embarrassed eyes, the muttered apology, for when the Welshman failed to do any of these things, her eyes narrowed, her provocative mouth thinned, so that, strangely, it became even more provocative, and she spun on her heel with the words, 'You wanted to speak to me about the death of Maurice Smith, I believe?'
'The murder of Maurice Smith, yes,' Rafferty corrected.
At his correction, she glanced fleetingly over her shoulder, then led the way into what he assumed was her living room, though it looked more like the headquarters of an anarchist group. The walls were covered with posters; some urging the empowerment of women; others featuring the uglier face of man in all its aggressive guises, warrior, rapist, mugger. Piles of leaflets littered every surface and he realized that it was their headquarters, their advice centre, their meeting point where they planned future campaigns. Was it here that the 'outing' campaign had been formulated? he wondered.
There were two other women present. They were bent over a table piled high with letters which they were stuffing into envelopes. He guessed these were the other two women who formed the breakaway Rape Support Group.
The elder of the two stared at them boldly. She had the kind of dark, gypsyish good looks that had no need of make-up. Rafferty guessed it probably infuriated her that her own natural attractiv
eness would encourage men to indulge in the kind of meaningless flirtation she must despise. As though to counteract her own good looks, she wore a shapeless pair of khaki dungarees with a badge on the strap that said, "Mother Nature Nurtures - What Does FATHER Nature Do?"
She was about thirty-five, he guessed and his assumption that she was Ellen Kemp was confirmed as Sinead Fay made the introductions. The strong chin and squared shoulders spoke of the confident woman that Mrs Nye had described. She had told them that Ellen Kemp ran her own very successful business as well as bringing up her daughter single-handedly. She had the air of quiet self-assurance about her that made him wonder why she hadn't assumed the mantle of leader. But presumably her business took up a lot of her time. And there was always the position of the power behind the throne. The other woman was about twenty-five and was introduced as Zonie Anderson. She just nodded, but said nothing.
Ellen Kemp held his gaze for several seconds before she said, 'Gwen Nye rang and told us you were on your way, though really, I can't imagine what you—'
'We just want to ask a few questions, Ms Kemp, nothing to worry about. We're investigating the murder of Maurice Smith and—'
'Wow! Men!'
Astonished to hear a voice in this house enthuse over his sex, Rafferty's head swivelled. A teenage girl stood in the doorway behind Sinead Fay. She shared Ellen Kemp's bold stare, but the stare she directed at him and Llewellyn was much warmer, the smile so naturally flirtatious that Rafferty wondered what malign trick of the fates had placed her in a house where males were regarded as some kind of alien race. Behind him he heard Ellen Kemp give the briefest of sighs.
'This is my daughter, Jenny,' she told them shortly.
Rafferty almost laughed at the cruel irony of it. About eighteen, Jenny's similarity to her mother was striking, though it obviously extended no further than the physical.
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