The Hanging Tree

by Geraldine Evans

  He checked in his notebook for Thompson's exact address and set off, working out how best to repeat his success thus far. However, this repetition proved elusive as he soon discovered that Thompson had no neighbours. He got out of the car and walked round the perimeter of the cottage. There was not a sign of another house for half-a-mile in any direction. The loneliness of the location brought a return of the melancholy thoughts.

  Too late, he realised he should never have let Rafferty talk him into agreeing to his mother coming for a visit while his relationship with Maureen was still so new. Of course Joseph Rafferty's enthusiasm for his own ideas had a way of carrying all before him. Besides, it had been a generous offer and it would have been churlish to turn him down.

  Llewellyn felt sure of nothing but his own uncertainty. He'd never been in this situation before; a woman on either side pushing him and he wished he could find the courage to act forcefully.

  Briefly, he wondered how Rafferty would deal with a similar situation and his unhappy expression lightened momentarily as he realised that Rafferty would undoubtedly start shouting, slam out and go up the pub; a simple outlook perhaps, but at least he would have done something, however pointless. Llewellyn felt incapable of doing anything at all. He longed for the boldness which he had always lacked in relationships, wished he could convince himself to act decisively, but too much thinking had always been his trouble.

  He had already tried to ask Rafferty's advice once and had then thought better of it, but now he wondered whether he ought not try again? After all, the inspector had a reputation at the station as something of a ladies' man and if the canteen talk was true, he certainly had plenty of experience with women. There again, was it the right sort of experience?

  Llewellyn's lips twisted at the thought that if he was truly considering asking Joseph Rafferty's advice about his love life he must be desperate; the inspector had a tendency to give advice first and think about its wisdom afterwards, if at all. Had he reached the point where he was desperate enough not just to ask for his advice, but to take it?

  Conscious that a decision was as far away as ever, he forced his thoughts back to work matters. Reluctant to return to the station to report failure, he sat in the car for several more minutes, turning over what they already knew about the two men.

  Out of all his old colleagues, Stubbs had kept in contact with only Thompson, his right-hand-man during the long drawn out rape investigation. Thompson had been transferred from Burleigh police station to Great Mannleigh after the collapse of the Smith trial and had remained there ever since.

  Llewellyn wondered about the friendship between the two men. On the surface it was as unlikely a one as the growing bond between himself and Rafferty. Stubbs, very much the loner in every other respect but this one, self-contained and apparently self-sufficient and Thompson, also a widower as it happened, though a very recent one, was reported to be a much more outgoing character and was a regular at the police club in Great Mannleigh. The only tie likely to bring them together in such an unlikely friendship was their mutual bitterness over the Smith case.

  Rafferty, with an ease Llewellyn couldn't help but envy, had tapped into the police grapevine with as little trouble as a bird tapped through the foil on a milk bottle. With a rude joke and the rough exchange of banter that Llewellyn knew he would never manage Rafferty had learned that, as they had suspected, Thompson's hopes of advancement had been continually blocked. The taint of the Smith case and the embarrassment it had caused his superiors had effectively removed the career ladder from Thompson's feet.

  Such things happened, Llewellyn knew. It served no purpose to rage about their unfairness as Inspector Rafferty was inclined to do. They were both aware that a word here, a whisper there, were sufficient to bring a man's career to a standstill or to an abrupt end like that of Stubbs.

  Unconsciously, Llewellyn echoed Rafferty's unspoken question: Why, if they had killed Smith should they act now? There was no reason, or none that they had been able to discover.

  Thompson's wife had died in a road accident a few months ago certainly, but Smith hadn't been involved, they'd checked. Even the death of Stubbs's wife, which could be attributed indirectly to Smith, had happened years ago. So why act now?

  Aware he was going round and round in circles, chasing his own tail in a way that Rafferty so often did, Llewellyn forced his mind to pause and consider. He remembered he had seen a pub a mile back along the road, presumably it was Thompson's local and he decided it might be worth paying it a visit.

  From the outside, the pub looked for all the world as if it was designed to repel strangers. Small and scruffy, it appeared strictly a neighbourhood pub, which indicated the locals would be familiar with one another's routines.

  After parking the car, he opened the pub door and was pleased to find that, inside, the pub wore a far more welcoming air. It was a real old-fashioned place and had a smell all its own, made up of some aromatic tobacco in the unlit pipe of one of the old men playing dominoes in the corner, hearty vegetable soup simmering its way to lunchtime from the kitchen behind the bar and the sharp tang of wood smoke curling from the fire. Tense earlier, Llewellyn found himself relaxing into the ambiance of the place.

  The landlord was as welcoming as his pub and put his paper away and gave Llewellyn a warm smile and a 'What can I get you?' as he perched on the well-polished oak bar stool. Llewellyn was beginning to understand something of Rafferty's inclination to head for the nearest pub when life was proving difficult.

  Llewellyn hesitated. Although teetotal and relatively unacquainted with pub rituals, he had learned enough during his time with Rafferty to be certain that the purchase of his usual orange juice or tonic water would be insufficient to encourage the landlord to gossip. As he ordered a pint of Elgoods, he sent up a silent prayer that Inspector Rafferty didn't somehow get to hear of it. For a man of his age and rank, Rafferty could be extraordinarily childish and would be sure to tease him unmercifully if he learned of his broken non-drinking vow.

  'Not seen you in here before, sir,' the landlord commented. 'Just passing through?'

  'That's right.' Llewellyn took a sip of his beer, surprised to discover that bitter was a misnomer. It was actually rather sweet and the feeling of distaste that had been building quickly waned. 'Attractive countryside round here. It must be delightful in the spring.'

  'Tis that.' One of the old men in the corner spoke up. 'Very popular with young couples is this area.'

  'It certainly appeals to me. Actually,' catching Rafferty's habit, he crossed his fingers against fate's revenge, even though the bulk of what he said was true. 'I'm hoping to marry soon and I was by this way last Thursday evening and noticed a cottage I thought might be ideal for my girlfriend and me. There was no For Sale sign, so I didn't knock and make enquiries — not that there were any lights visible. That's why I came back today, but there's still no one in. Perhaps you know it? It's about a mile up that way.' Llewellyn gestured with his thumb back the way he had come. 'It's set back from the road quite a way.'

  'That'll be Harry Thompson's place,' the landlord told him. 'Doubt he'll sell, though. He'll not be there now. You should have knocked last time you passed it. He's generally at home on a Thursday night.' He turned to the old man who had spoken earlier. 'Doesn't he have that retired copper friend of his over on Thursday nights, Sid?'

  'Ar. That's right. Two Thursdays out of the four, anyway. He's usually on duty the others.' Sid ambled over to the bar, stroking his unshaven chin. 'Though, now I come to think of it, the pair of them passed my place around eight last Thursday evening. Still weren't back when I walked by for me nightly pint at half-nine.' Sid sniggered. 'Maybe Harry fixed his mate up with a blind date.'

  'Blind?' his friend in the corner echoed and commented, 'she'd need to be, and all. That mate of Harry's has a face on him that'd stop a clock. Miserable looking bugger.' The other men laughed.

  'Maybe you should try coming back another time if you're that taken
with the place,' the landlord suggested. 'Though, as I said, I doubt Harry will sell. He lost his wife a few months back so I shouldn't think he'd want the upheaval of moving just yet.'

  Llewellyn nodded, pleased he had learned so much with so little time and effort. It meant he now had ample time to return to the station, pick up WPC Green and drive to Burleigh. Altogether it was turning out to be a very successful day and he spared a thought for Rafferty. Interviewing Massey, his ex-wife and daughter would be difficult, requiring a tact and delicacy that Rafferty rarely displayed. Llewellyn hoped he didn't make a hash of it. Apart from any other consideration, having the inspector stomping about the office in a foul temper was the last thing he needed right now.

  'Another in there, Sid?' the landlord asked.

  The old man was still at the bar clutching his empty pint pot, and Llewellyn, although unused to pub traditions, was quick to guess what was expected of him. 'Allow me,' he said and put a five pound note on the counter.

  'Ta very much.' Sid smiled, exposing a mouth entirely innocent of teeth. 'Don't mind if I do.' He raised his replenished glass and saluted Llewellyn. 'You'll find the natives friendly hereabouts, young man, if you do move this way.'

  'Aye.' The landlord laughed. 'Any man not afraid to put his hand in his pocket can be sure of a welcome from Sid at least.'

  Reassured that there were still some areas of his life under his control, Llewellyn finished his drink, made his farewells to his new friends and returned to the station.

  Liz Green was waiting for him and they wasted no time in heading for Burleigh and his interviews with the Dennington and Figg families. If only everything in life went as smoothly, was his pensive thought as he drove north.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Rafferty's morning, as Llewellyn had predicted, wasn't going quite so smoothly. Feeling Frank Massey would be more communicative if he questioned him alone, he had left Mary Carmody in the car. But, as it turned out, Massey seemed to have no inclination for talking whether it be to one person or twenty-one.

  After Rafferty had explained the reason for his visit, a haunted look came into Massey's eyes. His body visibly trembled and Rafferty was afraid he'd collapse. But Massey managed to get himself together. He let go of the doorpost and, after staring at Rafferty with a mixture of fear and aggression, he turned abruptly on his heel and left Rafferty to follow or not as he pleased.

  Massey had not only gone down in the world in terms of money and social standing, Rafferty realised as he followed the man into the room and shut the door. He had also let himself go. Not altogether surprising, he acknowledged as he sat down on a hard wooden chair. From being a respected academic, a university lecturer, he was now unemployed and had exchanged a comfortable semi-detached house for a bedsitter, success for defeat; Rafferty could smell the sour odour of it in the damp walls, the unwashed body and rumpled, none-too-clean clothes. The fumes of strong lager and cigarette smoke added to the fetid atmosphere.

  Rafferty knew Frank Massey wasn't yet forty, yet already he looked old. His hair, what remained of it, hung lank and greying over his shirt collar and his neck was thin and stringy with the wrinkles from age that were more commonly seen in a much older man. Even his fingers, long and slender like those of an artist, showed the decline and were stained with nicotine, the nails bitten to the quick.

  All this Rafferty took in in a few seconds, conscious of a terrible feeling of pity. He could imagine what a man like Massey would have suffered in prison and his experiences would be unlikely to encourage him to still view the police and the judicial system with any confidence.

  Rafferty couldn't blame him. The poor sap had been confident of justice and when the law had failed him he had attempted to supply it himself and had instead brought that very justice down on his own head. Between them, the law and Maurice Smith had destroyed him: his marriage, his career, his entire life, had been smashed to smithereens. Conscious of this, and aware that his sympathy was already heavily engaged in Massey's favour, he was careful how he proceeded.

  'So what do you want?' Massey's voice was rough, scratchy from too many cigarettes, but underlying the harshness and the rough manner undoubtedly learned in prison for self-protection, were the well-modulated tones of an educated man.

  The battered collection of books that Rafferty saw on the cheap shelving confirmed this; there were literally hundreds of them. He squinted and managed to read a few of the names. There was Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment and The House Of The Dead, Milton's Paradise Lost, and George Orwell's Down And Out In Paris And London. Rafferty hadn't read any of them, but he found it unsurprising that such titles should look the most thumbed of the lot.

  Into Rafferty's mind flashed the thought that his own determination to advance further with his reading had come to a grinding halt because his motives were all wrong. A desire to top Llewellyn's aggravating partiality to literary allusion was proving an insufficient carrot, whereas Massey, as appropriate for a one-time university lecturer on literature, obviously loved books for their own sake. Another unwelcome thought immediately followed; that Llewellyn, who normally spouted superior quotes at him several times a day, had, since his mother's arrival, failed to produce one.

  Thrusting both thoughts to the back of his mind where they could quietly simmer, he turned back to Massey and said, 'I'm sorry about this, sir, but I have to ask you where you were last Thursday evening. In view of your, er, past association with Maurice Smith, we have to check. You must realise this.'

  Massey's throat produced a strangled laugh. 'Only doing my job? Is that what you're saying?'

  Already finding his task as investigating officer repugnant, Rafferty shifted uncomfortably at Massey's taunt. Before he could attempt a reassuring reply, Massey asked, 'Have you got children?'

  Reluctant to admit another area for possible grievance, Rafferty considered lying, but as remembered his proven lack of lie-ability, he just shook his head, Aware he was letting Massey take control of the interview, he tried to regain it. 'Mr Massey, if you could just—'

  But Massey was off on a different tack. 'Do you know, Mr Stubbs – the Inspector in charge of Smith's case – told me I'd gone about getting my revenge all wrong. The attack on Smith, I mean. He told me I should have got myself an alibi organised, then beaten the shit out of him.' Broodingly, Massey stared at the carpet, as though intent on consigning its faded pattern to memory. Then he gave a shuddering sigh and looked up, meeting Rafferty's eyes with a tortured gaze. 'He came and pleaded for me at my trial. Decent chap.'

  As he listened to the strange mixture of prison slang and BBC English, Rafferty found himself agreeing with Stubbs's advice. In Massey's position, if revenge had been his intention, getting a decent alibi organised first was what he'd have done. He could, he knew, have relied on any of his family to lie with the determination of Pinocchio in such a good cause.

  But what was the point in telling Massey that Stubbs's advice had been sound? He was already embittered, why make him feel he had been foolishly naive as well? 'Look, Mr Massey,' he began again. 'All I want to know is where you were last Thursday evening and I'll go.'

  Massey raised his head. His eyes looked haunted, but beneath that and the lager dullness, Rafferty caught the gleam of intelligence. 'That's all you want, is it?' He shook his head. 'I doubt it. When it comes down to it, you're all looking for the big one that will give you promotion. If you think I'll provide you with it, you won't let sympathy get in your way.'

  Rafferty, aware that he was getting nowhere, broke in sharply. 'Have you got an alibi for last Thursday evening, or not?'

  He was immediately sorry as his sharp tone caused Massey's whole body to recommence its uncontrollable trembling and, as Rafferty stared, a tic started up beneath Massey's left eye. His face, already pale, now looked ashen. The man obviously lived on his nerves to an alarming degree. Rafferty, suspecting his aggressive tone had brought back ugly prison memories, immediately felt like a complete heel. He was surprised when M
assey managed to pull himself together sufficiently to frame a reply.

  'As-as it happens, I have got an alibi.'

  'So, where were you?' Rafferty deliberately kept his tone soft. 'Here?'

  Massey shook his head, then winced. 'Have you got an aspirin?'

  Rafferty, suspecting Massey was using delaying tactics while he sorted out his troubled mind, quickly fished a silver foil packet out of his pocket and handed two tablets over. Massey gulped them down and nodded his thanks. 'You were about to tell me where you were,' Rafferty reminded him.

  -I went to see my daughter.'

  'Well, if you were in London and she and your ex-wife can corrob–'

  'They weren't in London. Alice and her mother were at the coast for a short break. I went there, only we had a row and I left.'

  'Where was this?'

  'Place near Clacton, called Jaywick.'

  Rafferty's interest stirred. The coast? In December? And barely more than ten miles from Elmhurst? If this was the best Massey could manage in the alibi line, it was little wonder he had been caught last time. Had the man learned nothing? 'What time was this?'

  Massey shrugged. 'Must have been about half five when I left them.'

  'So where did you go after that?'

  'I just drove around for a couple of hours, then parked in a layby out Great Mannleigh way. I—I needed a drink.'

  Rafferty stared at him. Was the man a complete fool? If that was his idea of an alibi... Great Mannleigh was ten miles from Elmhurst. A short enough drive for a man still looking for revenge.

  He began to wonder just how friendly Massey had become with ex-Inspector Stubbs. Friendly enough for him or Thompson, who was still on the force, to tip him the wink on Smith's whereabouts? But if that were the case, surely this time he'd have the sense to take Stubbs's advice and get himself a decent alibi? Unless, Rafferty cautioned himself, unless Massey was being twice as clever as his police advisor and had figured that the police would expect him to have a good alibi this time – especially after his previous experience, especially if he was guilty.