Rafferty could guess why. Llewellyn's mother had arrived already – and Ma had never been one to put off till tomorrow what could be done yesterday – Rafferty guessed such a tendency came from having had six kids to get up and out every morning. So, the extension of the invitation, the railroading of any excuses and arrival of guest had all occurred in little more than twenty-four hours.
Rafferty had given Llewellyn a few hours off to drive to London and collect his mother from the train. He was about to ask how she was settling in, and if she and Maureen had taken to one another, when Llewellyn's pensive expression caused him to think better of it. He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. Besides, he excused his moral cowardice, I've got enough on my plate at the moment without going out of my way to find other things to plague me.
He interrupted Llewellyn's doleful wool-gathering to say, 'I'm going to have to drive up to London tomorrow to check out Frank Massey and his ex-wife and daughter. They'll all have learned of Smith's death by now, so I imagine they'll be expecting to hear from us. Not,' he added quietly, 'that I imagine that will make it any easier. I want you to go and see the Dennington, and Figg families. Ring first and warn them you're coming. They all still live in Burleigh. Take Liz Green with you. Lilley can keep pressing Smith's neighbour to find that registration number.' He paused, then added, 'Could you look into Stubbs' and Thompson's movements as well? If you have time, that is.'
Thankfully, Llewellyn came out of his reverie on being asked to carry out the delicate task of questioning the police officers. Of course, he knew, who better? that Rafferty felt more than a sneaking sympathy for Stubbs and Thompson.
They were busy the rest of that day keeping on top of the reports. It was late when Rafferty finally stretched, yawned and checked his watch. It had been another long day with little to show for it; the sort of day Rafferty found most tiring – nothing happening to give him an adrenalin rush, but masses of paperwork to be read and absorbed. Still, he decided, it wasn't too late for them to see the Bullocks again that evening and reluctantly, he heaved himself from his comfortable chair. The office was warm and it was freezing outside; the window sporting icicles.
'It'll be interesting to find out what Bullock claims he was doing last Thursday evening that was important enough to make him late for his pint,' he remarked to Llewellyn on the way out. 'Spot of light dusting, perhaps. Though from the look of their flat, I doubt it.'
Although it was nine o'clock on an icy winter's night, children as young as eight were still out on the Bullocks' estate, their pinched faces blue with cold and their eyes watchful.
As Rafferty and Llewellyn got out of the car, one of the older boys yelled at them. 'Hey, copper. You wanted to know when Roger the Rapist was about last week.'
Rafferty turned. The youth was about fifteen, but he already had cold, watchful eyes and hardened features. 'That's right,' he said. 'Why? Can you help?'
The boy nodded. His name was Darren, he told them. 'He was 'ere last Thursday. I saw him leavin' from up on the balcony.'
Rafferty frowned. 'Thursday? You're sure about that? Sure it wasn't the Wednesday?'
'Nah.' Darren shook his head. 'Eastenders had just finished on the telly and I went to knock for me mate. While I was waiting for him to open the door I saw Roger the Rapist's car pullin' out of the car park.'
Rafferty was surprised that a lad like Darren should help the law. From the look in his eyes, so was Darren. 'You live here?'
'Yeah. Number 58.'
Rafferty felt a sudden doubt. How well could Darren have known Smith? After all, not only had Smith visited his family infrequently, he was far from outgoing and unlikely to pause to swap gossip with the local toughs. 'You're sure it was Maurice Smith?'
'Course I'm sure. I know everything that goes on in these flats. It's my place. Besides, 'ow could I mistake that miserable ferret face? It's been splashed over the newspapers enough lately.'
'I'm not saying I don't believe you Darren. But you must realise that what you've told us is important. Can anyone corroborate what you say?'
'Do what?'
'Do you know if anyone else saw him at the same time?'
Darren's face cleared. 'Yeah. My mate's mum. Sharon Gates at number 23. She'd be able to tell you. She opened the door to me just as he reversed his car out of the parkin' bay like a bleedin' maniac. She yelled at him over the balcony that he'd kill somebody, drivin' like that.'
His eyes narrowed. 'Course, she didn't actually see him, any more than I did. The angle was wrong. But we both recognised his car.' Darren's lip curled as he added, 'Boasted to my kid brother once that he was an Advanced Driver — passed the test, like. Lyin' bastard. The way he reversed out Thursday night, I shouldn't fink he's even got a license. Thought old Bullockbrains, his dad, was a rotten driver, but he's worse. All over the road, he was, nearly ran into my old man's car.'
Darren was wrong, Rafferty knew. Maurice Smith had passed the Advanced Driving Test. The searches through his flat had confirmed as much. It was Smith's one solid achievement in life. 'Might have been drunk,' Rafferty suggested.
'Nah. Not him. Kevin, his brother, told me once he hardly touches a drop.' This was said with the scorn of the experienced drinker. Darren's lips drew back over sharp teeth. 'Know why too, now, don't we? Must 'ave been scared he'd give away his real identity and let slip what he does to little girls. I mean, it's not somefing old Bullock would want him to boast about, is it? Not like 'avin' a bank robber in the family. Must be a bugger 'aving a creep like that in the family, especially if people find out.'
Darren's sharp features suddenly became even more razor-edged. 'Here — maybe he was worried it was goin' to come out?'
'Why do you say that?' Rafferty asked.
'Jes Bullock was offering money in the pub to 'ave him duffed up late Thursday afternoon; a persuader to get him to move, he said. Why should he do that after all this time unless he had reason to think it was going to get out? Obviously, 'e was 'oping to scare him away from the area. Or else,' Darren added darkly, 'he changed his mind and decided to get rid permanent. I mean, Roger the Rapist is dead, isn't he? You can't get more permanent than that.'
Darren having declined to tell them if anyone in the pub had taken up Jes Bullock's offer, Rafferty decided not to press the matter and let Darren go off with one of his mates, leaving the two policemen to check his story with Sharon Gates, his friend's mother. She confirmed that Maurice Smith had been at the flats on Thursday evening.
'I told you Jes Bullock had a guilty secret,' Rafferty remarked smugly as they tramped back down the stairs. 'Do you think it was him driving the car that night and not Maurice Smith at all? He might not have been good at anything else, but you've got to be a first rate driver to pass the Advanced test. His stepfather's a big bloke. He could easily have overpowered Smith and taken him somewhere private so his mates could convince him it would be healthier for him if he left town. Or maybe Darren's right, and he decided to end the problem of his stepson once and for all. It's possible, especially if Maurice had told him about the “outing”' threat.'
Llewellyn didn't agree. 'Why bring him back to Smith's flat, stab him, then take him all the way to Dedman Wood and string him up from The Hanging Tree? If there was one way to guarantee that Smith's picture appeared on the front page of every newspaper, that was it. Surely that would be the last thing Jes Bullock would want? Even if he did decide to rid himself permanently of his stepson, he would be certain to remove all traces of Smith's identity and dump the body far from home. That way the body would be just another John Doe and Jes Bullock could tell anyone who asked that his stepson had moved away.'
Rafferty nodded. 'Maybe.' As Llewellyn made in the direction of the other staircase that would lead them to the Bullocks' landing, Rafferty stopped him. 'After what we've just learned, I think, we should wait till Sam Dally's got a few more answers for us on those bruises before we tackle Bullock again. He surely can't be much longer, unless his Christmas rush has s
tarted, after all. Anyway, I want to check what Darren told us with the pub landlord. Let's get along there and see what we can find out.’
With a certain reluctance, Tim Hadley, the landlord of the Pig and Whistle confirmed Darren's story about Jes Bullock offering to pay someone to beat his stepson up. However, he added, as Bullock had the reputation of being a penniless scrounger, no one had taken him up on it as far as he knew.
'When my regulars just jeered at him and asked to see the colour of his money, he shouted that he'd do the job himself, then stormed out of the bar. He was the worse for drink, of course.'
That had been around four on Thursday afternoon, they learned. Five and a half hours later, Mrs ffinch-Robinson had found Smith's body hanging in Dedman Wood.
'Remind me to bell Sam Dally in the morning before I go to London,' Rafferty remarked as they left the bar. 'I want to get in early before he gets busy and remind him I'm still waiting for those test results on Smith's bruises. If he has them, and they confirm what I suspect, we might be able to lever a little more out of Bullock. Might even get a confession out of him.'
Llewellyn didn't seem to think it likely. 'Drunk or sober, I can't believe Bullock would be so stupid as to kill Smith after making such an announcement. If Smith had died accidentally from a blow, it would be different, but he didn't. He died from a single knife wound to the heart. Rather unlikely that could have happened accidentally. Even more unlikely that Bullock wouldn't have tried to cover his tracks.'
Rafferty had to admit that Llewellyn had a point. He scowled and commented tartly, 'It's just one damn obfuscation after another, isn't it?'
Llewellyn merely nodded, shot a quick glance at Rafferty, cleared his throat and murmured, 'Er, Sir – Joseph-'
Oh God, thought Rafferty. Here it comes. Although he'd long ago asked Llewellyn to stop being so formal and call him by his first name, he rarely did. When ‘Joseph’ came accompanied by throat-clearing, it was a sure sign he was about to be told something he would rather not hear. For instance, that Mother Llewellyn's visit was already promising to be an unmitigated disaster. And that it was his fault. He took a deep breath and forced himself to ask, 'So what's on your mind?'
'It's just—' Llewellyn paused, looked doubtfully at him for a moment and then began immediately to backtrack. 'It's nothing. Really. Never mind.'
Rafferty, never being a believer in meeting problems halfway, didn't push it.
CHAPTER TEN
Rafferty was glad of the excuse to get away to London. It would give him a brief respite from the endless reports as well as from the increasingly hang-dog look that Llewellyn had worn since his mother's arrival.
Rafferty was convinced that his fears about the visit were coming true. Especially as, when in the office, Llewellyn had taken to spending a large part of his time uncharacteristically staring into space, and his face, long and lugubrious at the best of times, seemed now to be permanently creased by frowns.
Rafferty had already tried several times to find out the worst from his Ma and sisters, but none of them returned his calls. Now, becoming paranoid, he decided they were making him sweat it out as punishment for inflicting Llewellyn's Welsh dragon mother on them. If it suited her, his Ma was more than capable of forgetting that she was the one who had insisted that Llewellyn's mother visit at Christmas.
As he stared at Llewellyn's long, lean profile, he asked himself why he had pushed him into this visit? It was obvious now that he hadn't been that keen. Grimly, he resolved to never, ever again get involved in someone else's love life. It was a fool's errand. God knew, it wasn't as if he had made a huge success of his own. It was hardly surprising that as Christmas Day and the big family dinner got nearer he felt more and more apprehensive.
Forcing his mind back to business, he asked Llewellyn, 'Have you managed to get anything on who might have been passing official information about Smith?'
Llewellyn dragged himself from his reverie and stared blankly at him. 'I'm sorry. What did you say?'
Rafferty repeated his question.
As though annoyed at his own inefficiency, Llewellyn's frown deepened. 'I meant to tell you. I haven't been able to find out anything on the police angle. Apart from us, nobody has accessed the computer for information on Smith, but an official at the Department of Social Security got back to me first thing this morning before you got in. He told me one of their young clerks had admitted giving out Smith's address.'
'Did this clerk remember anything about the person they spoke to?'
'Only that the voice sounded sufficiently authoritative to persuade her to part with the information and that it was a female voice.'
Rafferty nodded and Llewellyn once more lapsed into silence. Wary of Llewellyn's silences and what they might bring forth, Rafferty hastily got on the phone to Dally. Sam told him the tests on Smith's bruises had yet to be done, but that he expected them to be finished by the end of the day.
Rafferty rang off, got up and pulled on his overcoat. Made anxious by the simmering undercurrents, he gave his instructions with unusual hesitancy. 'About Stubbs and Thompson,' he began. 'I know I don't have to warn you to be discreet, but—'
'Don't worry.' Llewellyn gave him a bleak smile. 'I shall be as discreet as if it were you I were investigating.'
Rafferty wasn't sure he liked the comparison, but at least he knew he could rely on Llewellyn; he was the most discreet copper he knew. 'I'll probably be away for most of the day. I'm taking Mary Carmody with me. These interviews with the families are going to be difficult enough without us flat-footed males making it worse.'
Usually, Llewellyn would have been sure to point out that his comment was unfair; certainly as far as he was concerned. The fact that he didn't left Rafferty even more convinced that his sergeant had other things on his mind. Worried that Llewellyn might overcome his reluctance to confide with more success than he had managed the previous night, he made his escape to London.
Left alone, Llewellyn stared broodingly into space for another five minutes before, giving himself a mental shake, he picked up the phone and rang through to Liz Green. After telling her he'd be back to pick her up later for the interviews with the Dennington and Figg families, he made for the car park. He was glad of another busy day. It would keep his mind occupied.
Putting aside his unprofitable thoughts on personal matters, which he had, anyway, already gone through over and over again without forming any constructive conclusion as to what he should do, Llewellyn forced himself to concentrate on the task Rafferty had left with him. At least there he felt he had a reasonable chance of success.
He decided to begin the delicate task of investigating the two police suspects by first looking into Stubbs' movements. Of the two men, he felt the older, more senior, man had been the most affected by the failure of the case. It was therefore logical to assume he would be the most likely of the two to take action. Llewellyn felt it wouldn't have been difficult for him to get hold of a police uniform; he might have managed to hold on to his old one from the time before he had joined the CID.
Llewellyn, having taken Rafferty's hints to heart, resolved to speak to Stubbs himself only if he could find out what he needed to know no other way. Stubbs, like Thompson, had devoted years of his life to the force and deserved a certain consideration – especially if he turned out to be innocent. He felt Rafferty had been right about that. Llewellyn was a little surprised to find himself agreeing with his inspector. It was a novel experience.
Settling on Stubbs's cheery neighbour as the obvious source of information, he parked the car round the corner from their street. Fortunately, he had only to wait half-an-hour before he saw Stubbs drive off towards town.
Llewellyn waited for a minute, drove round the corner and parked in front of Stubbs' bungalow. He got out of the car and, for the benefit of Stubbs's gnome-like neighbour who was standing at his front door chatting to the postman, he made a pantomime of disappointment at finding Stubbs' drive empty.
Things we
re falling into place nicely, Llewellyn reflected, with a tiny, self-mocking smile. If Stubbs's neighbour hadn't been standing at his own door, he would have had to knock which would have robbed the visit of the casual air with which he had cloaked it.
The neighbour shouted hello and walked up the path as the postman resumed his deliveries. 'Aren't you one of those chaps who visited Mr Stubbs the other day?'
'That's right.' Llewellyn walked over to the gate.
'Thought I recognised you. I'm afraid you've missed him. What a pity. He gets so few visitors.' The gnome seemed a kindly man and was genuinely upset that Stubbs should have missed this one. But then he cheered up. 'He's only gone to get a bit of shopping. I don't suppose he'll be more than half-an-hour.'
Llewellyn made a play of consulting his watch. 'I can't wait, unfortunately and I won't be able to return till Thursday evening. I suppose he'll be in then?'
'Thursday?' The gnome frowned. 'He's not often in on Thursday evenings. Usually, he goes to visit a friend of his — a chap called Thompson. Perhaps you know him?'
'No. I'm afraid not.' Llewellyn hadn't expected it to be so easy. Now he knew where Stubbs was generally to be found on Thursday evenings, the next step was to try to find out if he and Thompson had actually been there last Thursday. Llewellyn gave the helpful gnome one of his rare smiles. 'Thank you. You've saved me another wasted journey.'
'Maybe I can give him a message for you?'
Llewellyn paused as if considering. 'No. I don't think so. It's nothing that can't wait. But thanks for the offer. I'll contact him myself another time.' Llewellyn said goodbye and as he walked back down the path, he could almost hear Rafferty's cryptic voice telling him he was a jammy devil. 'Simply a matter of finesse and delicacy, sir,' Llewellyn murmured under his breath as he got in the car. 'You should try it some time.' His shoulders slumped as he remembered that finesse and delicacy weren't working quite so well in other areas of his life.
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