The Hanging Tree

by Geraldine Evans

  For a change, Llewellyn didn't immediately apply his usual cutting logic to shoot his theory down in flames. All he said was, 'Do you want them both picked up for questioning?'

  Rafferty's conscience juggled with the opposing demands of natural justice and duty. Duty won, but only just. However, still squeamish, he postponed its application. 'It's a bit late to drive up to town. Massey'll keep till morning.'

  Perhaps Llewellyn suspected Rafferty's internal battle where this case was concerned, for he immediately said, 'And the daughter?'

  Rafferty struggled a bit more, before deciding. 'Just Massey. He's the one we've found out in a lie. If we get nothing from him we can speak to his daughter again. Mary Carmody and Hanks can pick him up.' He consulted his watch and got up from his comfortable chair. 'And while it may be too late to journey to the great Metropolis, it's still early enough to take a little drive to see Jes Bullock. Even if he didn't kill Smith, he's certainly hiding some guilty secret. And now that we've got Sam Dally's report on Smith's bruises we might be able to use it to lever it out of him.' The thought was a satisfying one.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Glad of something to get his teeth into at last, Rafferty set off happily. He didn't like Jes Bullock and he was relieved this case had thrown up one suspect who didn't make him feel like the rope in a tug of war contest.

  When they reached Bullock's flat, Rafferty didn't shilly-shally, but came straight to the point. 'Why did you lie to us, Mr Bullock?'

  Jes Bullock stared blankly at him. 'I don't know what you're talking—'

  'I'll explain it to you.’ Rafferty cut off Bullock’s expected denials. ‘You told us your stepson visited you on the Wednesday before he died. Strange that you should forget that, whatever he did on Wednesday, he certainly visited you on the Thursday. He was seen by two witnesses.'

  'Well, I didn't see him.' Bullock thrust a belligerent face inches from Rafferty's. 'Who told you I did? Some lying little toe-rags, was it? Tell me their names and I'll—'

  He'd been drinking. Rafferty could smell the sour lager on his breath and hoped it might make the man more incautious than even nature had intended. 'You'll what?' Rafferty broke in. 'Arrange to have them beaten up like you tried to do with your stepson?'

  Bullock's lips clamped shut and he backed away, but Rafferty was relentless. Aware that he was taking his other frustrations out on Bullock, he was, nevertheless, unable to stop himself. 'We know you offered to pay someone to beat up your stepson, so you needn't trouble to deny it.'

  `Bullock shouted back at him. 'All right, so what if I did? If you know that, you also know that no one took me up on it.' His heavy features, thrust forward aggressively, challenged them to contradict him.

  'Was that when you decided to do it yourself?' Bullock said nothing and Rafferty went on. 'We know you stormed out of the pub, shouting you'd do the job yourself. We also know from the pathology report that your stepson had sustained a number of bruises before death and—'

  'What does that prove?' Bullock broke in. 'He bruised easy and he was always awkward. As a young 'un he'd trip over a matchstick, likely as not. Even now, old as he is – was – he was as likely to bump into the furniture as avoid it. Ask anyone.'

  Rafferty's lips tightened. Damn the man. He knew as well as they did that Maurice Smith's anti-social lifestyle provided few, if any, current witnesses to contradict his assertion. He signalled to Llewellyn to take over the questioning.

  'We understand you were later than usual arriving at the public house the evening your stepson died, Mr Bullock,' Llewellyn quietly began. 'Perhaps you could tell us what delayed you?'

  Suddenly, Bullock lost his temper. Rafferty guessed it would be an unstable element in the man's personality at the best of times.

  'I'm telling you nothing,' he roared. 'I didn't kill him and that's all you need to know. You should try hounding that bunch of mad bitches he had on his tail instead of trying to—' Abruptly, Bullock clammed up.

  Rafferty and Llewellyn exchanged a glance. So, it said, in spite of his previous denials, Bullock had known about the “outing” letter.

  Rafferty silently reviewed what they had so far learned about the letter. The Document Examiner's report had told them that while inevitably the envelope had many prints as it passed through the postal system, the “outing” letter itself had only Smith's prints on it.

  Other checks had revealed no saliva on either the seal or the stamp on the envelope, indicating that it had been sent by someone knowledgeable about DNA and the dangers inherent in leaving bodily fluids behind.

  Taken together with the stencilled address, which negated handwriting identification while ensuring the envelope arrived at its destination without drawing too much attention to itself, it pointed pretty conclusively to the probability that this had, in fact, been the envelope in which the “outing” letter had arrived. And, according to their information, Maurice Smith hadn't received it till after he returned from the Bullocks' on Wednesday evening, as Mrs Penny had taken it in with her own post that morning and forgotten about it till Smith's return.

  So, Rafferty now mused, if, as Bullock claimed, he hadn't seen Smith at all on the Thursday, how had he known about this letter? Smith hadn't gone out again on the Wednesday night, according to his landlady. She had told them that she often slept badly and that night had been no exception. She had said she had heard Smith pacing about till the early hours. Now, Rafferty asked, 'Do you have a phone, Mr Bullock?'

  Bullock didn't answer straight away, but as the matter could easily be checked, he finally admitted that the flat had neither landline nor mobile.

  'You stepson didn't receive this letter till the Wednesday evening after he returned from his visit to you, so perhaps you can explain how you knew about it?'

  Rafferty could almost see the metaphoric clunking and whirring taking place inside Bullock's brain as he sought to provide an answer that didn't implicate him further. He had already admitted that his stepson's notoriety had caused him and his son a lot of difficulties in the past. Once he had learned of the “outing” threat had he decided enough was enough? He had certainly uttered threats in the pub. Had he gone one further and carried them through himself? After all, as young Darren had said — Maurice was dead.

  Bullock's brow unfurrowed. His air became quite jaunty. 'He dropped a note through the door didn't he? Sometime last Thursday, mentioning this threat he'd received. Of course, I'm only guessing that it was women behind it. Maurice didn't say either way. But, I do read the papers and to my mind, this has got man-hating bitch written all over it, just the same as those other cases I've read about. It's the sort of thing these bloody feminists would go in for. Anyway, he asked my advice as to what he should do.'

  Aware he had been snookered, Rafferty tried to put a brave face on it and continued to stare Bullock down. 'So, where is it, this note?'

  'Threw it away, didn't I? What would I keep it for? Not my problem.'

  'What about your son?' Llewellyn broke in. 'Did he see it? Surely you mentioned it to him.'

  Bullock transferred his truculent gaze to Llewellyn. Again the whirring and clicking were evident as Bullock presumably decided whether to strengthen the lie by committing his son to confirm it, or whether to brazen it out. Given his belligerent personality, it wasn’t surprising when brazen won. 'Why would I do that? Not his problem either, was it? He never saw it and I never mentioned it to him. Saw no reason to.'

  Rafferty took over again. 'When did you find this note? Morning? Afternoon?'

  Bullock shrugged. 'Afternoon. Found it on the mat when I got in.'

  'Was this before or after your threats in the pub?' Rafferty questioned.

  Bullock ignored him and went on with his explanation as to what he had done with the note as if Rafferty had never interrupted.

  'Screwed it up and threw it over the balcony when I'd read it, didn't I? Nothing to do with me.'

  'Oh, come on!' Rafferty countered. 'Nothing to do with you? If y
ou felt that way why did you try to get him beaten up that very day?'

  Bullock's lips drew back. Rafferty could practically see the words hovering. But then he clamped his lips shut. Rafferty cursed inwardly as Bullock showed he still had sufficient wit to say nothing.

  'He asked for your advice,' Llewellyn pointed out reasonably into the sudden silence. 'Are you saying you never tried to contact him?'

  Bullock dropped into an armchair, leaned back and, as if aware that victory was his, demanded softly, 'Why should I? Told you, it was his problem. Nothing to do with me.'

  'Apart from any other considerations, you were his step-father.'

  Bullock scowled and slumped in a chair. 'Hardly my fault. I married his mother — I got him as well. Doesn't make me responsible for him for life.'

  Presumably exhausted at successfully answering so many ticklish questions, Bullock now tried for the sympathy vote as if hoping to waylay any more awkward questions. 'If you'd known what it was like for us in the past you'd understand why I didn't want to know.'

  He reached for another can of lager and sucked on it for comfort, like a baby with a dummy. 'Couldn't even send my lad to school when Maurice was arrested. Killed the Missis, of course. Killed her stone dead, the shame and worry of it. Nobody thinks about the families, do they? Nobody thought what it would be like for us when they let him go.'

  Although Rafferty was reluctant to sympathise with the man, grudgingly he found himself nodding. But sympathy didn't stop him saying, 'You realise I'll need an alibi from you for Thursday evening? It's up to you, of course, but you must understand that it would be better from your point of view to admit that you beat him up earlier that evening and give us the names and addresses of anyone who can give you an alibi for later, than be suspected of anything worse.'

  A crafty look came into Bullock's eye as if he realised Rafferty had deliberately not pointed out the other alternative.

  'Beat him up? My own stepson? Not me, Inspector.' He drained the can of lager, threw it in the general direction of the kitchen and opened another. Apparently, he realised that this late declaration of paternal affection was unbelievable, because he added, 'I admit I shouted my mouth off a bit in the pub. But I was upset at the thought that all the trouble was going to start up again. I didn't really mean it. Course I didn't. I've barely laid a hand on him since he was fifteen. As a matter of fact, I met a few mates to talk business that evening. We're thinking of buying a dog — a greyhound.' He mentioned two names and where they were likely to be found.

  Damn the man, thought Rafferty again as he recognised the names of two persistent troublemakers, both with several convictions. He thought he'd got him rattled enough not to realise he had a get out. He so much wanted Bullock — rather than anyone else — to be guilty of Smith's murder, he'd been over-eager.

  'You ask my mates,' Bullock continued confidently. 'They'll confirm I was with them last Thursday. And none of us saw Maurice. If he came round here that night, as you say, I never saw him. I wasn't in. He must have gone home again.'

  Rafferty's lips clamped shut and he fought to get his own temper under control. The desire to charge Bullock with something, even if it was only assault, was strong. Now, it looked as if he was to be denied even that small satisfaction.

  Although Mrs Penny, Smith's landlady had told them Smith had been at home at seven-thirty that evening, it was only a few minutes’ drive from his flat to the Bullocks' place. He could easily have gone out after she had left the house. Darren had said he had seen Smith leave; he hadn't mentioned seeing him arrive. And, so far, no one else on the estate who had been questioned had admitted seeing Smith arrive either. It could have been as Bullock claimed and that Smith had turned up at the flat only a few minutes before eight and, finding no one home, had left immediately. And unless and until they found someone to say otherwise Bullock was off the hook.

  Brusquely, Rafferty thanked him for his time, turned on his heel and left, trailed by Llewellyn.

  It was only when they turned into the station car park that Rafferty finally remembered who it was that Bullock senior reminded him of. It was Dobson, Fatty Dobson, his old junior school headmaster, and as ardent a sadist as Rafferty had ever encountered.

  Dobson and Bullock both shared that truculent, aggressive air, the menace not far below the surface, though Dobson's had been smoothed off by education. Instinctively, Rafferty sensed they also shared a pleasure in the infliction of pain and he wondered how many beatings Maurice Smith had taken at his stepfather's hands.

  Rafferty, one of the back row rebels as a schoolboy, winced as he remembered his buttocks’ sting after he had paid yet another of his frequent trips to the headmaster's study.

  About to remark to Llewellyn on the similarity between Dobson and Bullock, he wisely kept silent. Llewellyn wouldn't understand his instinctive feeling that Bullock was a thoroughly nasty piece of work; certainly a liar and a bully and probably worse. He doubted the Welshman had ever been on the receiving end of a vicious caning; he'd have been the school swot, at the front of the class, first with his hand in the air and first with the answers. He wouldn't understand Rafferty's instinctive dislike of Bullock at all.

  Rafferty recalled the aftermath of another beating he had suffered at Dobson's hands. It had been the last. The headmaster had never touched him again. The evening of the beating, he had been in the tin bath in front of the fire trying to soothe his wounds. This had been before they had been allocated the Council flat with its proper bathroom and he had been at that self-conscious age that demands privacy. The younger children were in bed, his father was up the pub and his mother, after he had insisted that he was old enough to bathe himself, had been banished to the scullery. He had been climbing out of the tub when Ma had bustled in in her usual busy manner, his request for privacy either forgotten or suspected as a ruse to avoid clean ear inspection. Of course, she had seen the scarlet stripes criss-crossing his buttocks. He'd never forgotten what followed.

  The next morning, she had marched him to the school, his brothers and sisters running behind in an awed silence and straight into the headmaster's study. Before Rafferty had realised her intentions, from the wall, she had grabbed the thinnest, most venomous of Dobson's instruments of torture and set about the headmaster with it, lambasting him across his back, across his legs, across his quivering, jelly-buttocks. Dobson hadn't shown his face in the school for a week. Rafferty chuckled. The memory always amused him. His ma had been lucky Dobson hadn't sued her for assault.

  'What's the joke?' Llewellyn asked, as he finished his careful parking manoeuvres.

  Rafferty glanced at him and his chuckles subsided. 'Nothing. I was just remembering an incident from my schooldays, that's all. You wouldn't appreciate the joke if I told you.'

  Llewellyn shrugged and climbed out of the car without further comment.

  The last of Rafferty's amusement vanished at the thought that, for Maurice Smith, there had been no "Ma" to stand up for him. According to Records’ information on the family, the mother had been a weak, not over-bright woman and had been as much a victim of Bullock as her son. Bullock could have beaten him black and blue if he'd chosen and no one would have tried to stop him. And, Rafferty reminded himself, Smith's body had been black and blue, some of the bruising was confirmed as having occurred before death. And not long before death, either. Such a beating would certainly explain why Darren had said Smith had driven like a maniac. After a beating at the hands of a man like Bullock, it would be surprising if Smith was able to drive at all.

  Rafferty found himself wondering who was the real criminal in all this: Smith, or the stepfather who had treated him little better than a despised cur.

  The worst thing was, he realised as he followed Llewellyn into the Bacon Lane back entrance to the police station, that Bullock would get away with it. And it was his fault. He'd handled the interview badly. He should have brought Bullock to the station to question him. It was too late now. If he had been lying he'd hav
e already contacted his mates from the nearest public phone box and primed them with what they were to say. And his mates, being no friends of the police, would undoubtedly be more than happy to back him up.

  Although he was beginning to share Llewellyn's feeling that it was unlikely that Bullock had actually killed his stepson or had any involvement in subsequent events, Rafferty felt it could be said that Bullock had effected a killing of sorts; a slow, long drawn-out killing of whatever spirit Smith had had, and in so doing, had created another monster

  Rejected by society, rejected and beaten by the nearest thing he had to a family, Maurice Smith had still clung on, desperately seeking a sense of belonging. Had that desperation encouraged him to willingly open his door to his murderer? Massey, for instance? Hoping a plea for forgiveness, for understanding, would be heard, had he instead, been forced to plead for life itself?

  Perhaps, Rafferty thought, as he climbed the stairs to his office and the endless paper mountain that always awaited his return, he'd find out tomorrow when they questioned Massey again.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The next morning, while Mary Carmody and Hanks drove up to London to see Frank Massey, Rafferty, with no great hopes, went through the motions of checking Jes Bullock's alibi. He wasn't surprised when Bullock's friends confirmed his story. According to them, they had all been at the flat of Mick Coffey, another of Bullock's cronies, from about seven-forty till just before nine-thirty on Thursday night, when Bullock had left for his usual drink.

  Rafferty was disinclined to believe them, but he couldn't prove they were lying. Still keen to give Bullock his comeuppance, he had despatched Llewellyn and Lilley to question Coffey's neighbours. But again, as with their inquiries about Smith, the icy weather had kept most people indoors, so their questioning was fruitless. No one had seen Bullock either arrive at the flat or leave it. Nor had anyone seen or heard his car even though it was a sad and rusty Ford, and, according to Bullock's own neighbours, had an engine as wheezy as an asthmatic's chest.