Death Dues

by Evans, Geraldine

  They questioned the other residents again, but they all said the same as Josie McBride.

  ‘Seems Forbes wasn’t getting his men to put the frighteners on his customers,’ said Rafferty as they drove back to the station. ‘Sounds like he decided to do some investigating of his own.’

  ‘There’s no law against it.’

  ‘Mores the pity. I don’t like him conducting his own investigation. I wouldn’t want him to discover something we missed and rub our noses in it.’

  ‘That doesn’t seem likely in view of what the residents said. Besides, it would be better if someone discovered some new evidence. Even if it is the pugnacious Mr Forbes.’

  Rafferty just gave a reluctant nod to this. ‘I suppose so. Let’s pay him that visit, anyway. Let him know we don’t like our turf being invaded any more than he does.’

  Malcolm Forbes didn’t even bother to make them wait while he fielded his brief. He merely bid them a good afternoon and asked what they wanted.

  ‘I hear your men have been questioning the residents of Primrose Avenue,’ Rafferty told him. ‘And I want to know why.’

  Forbes stretched against the high back of his leather chair. His hands rested idly on the arms as he said, ‘The fact that one of my men has been murdered’s not reason enough?’ he countered.

  ‘No. Questioning witnesses and suspects is my job, Mr Forbes, not yours. We’ll find out who killed Mr Harrison. We don’t need your help.’

  Forbes merely laughed as if he found this declaration amusing. ‘So you don’t want to know what my men found out?’

  Rafferty would have preferred to say ‘No’. But he couldn’t allow himself the luxury of hubris. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Tell me. What did they find out?’

  ‘Only that one of Harry Jones’s sons makes a habit of climbing over the factory wall that backs on to the Avenue mornings to get to work and evenings and lunchtimes to go home. Saves walking round the long way.’

  That would be Billy, the younger son who worked at the canning factory.

  ‘Maybe he climbed over at other times, too, and did more than go home for a bacon butty.’

  ‘And who told you that?’

  Forbes was beginning to look bored by the conversation. ‘Do we really need to go into that?’ he asked. ‘The last thing I want is to get anyone into trouble.’

  ‘You seem happy enough to drop one of the Jones boys in it. Anyway, let me worry about that.’

  Forbes shrugged his meaty shoulders. ‘Very well. I understand it was one of the kids who live in the street. At number nine, I believe. I don’t know the brat’s name.’

  Number nine was Tracey Stubbs’s place. Forbes had supplied them with an interesting piece of information. If it was true. He thanked Forbes and left his pawnbroker’s shop, followed by Llewellyn. This information opened yet another line of investigation.

  ‘Let’s go and see Tracey Stubbs and her brood and see what we can learn,’ Rafferty said. ‘Like why her kid didn’t see fit to give us this piece of information.’

  Tracey Stubbs was in the middle of a big wash when they called – getting the kids’ school uniforms and sports kits ready for the new term.

  The house was as much of a tip as it had been the last time they’d called. In the kitchen, a pile of grubby white shirts and blouses awaited their turn in the washing machine. It was currently going through the spin cycle and making one hell of a racket. A tumble dryer was also on the go.

  Rafferty was always amazed when people on benefits seemed able to afford all the gadgets and pay the sky-rocketing bills that resulted. He didn’t have a tumble dryer because they ate money, yet young Tracey was clearly able to afford one. He wished he knew how she did it. And, with a wedding still to pay for, he’d have asked her, were it not for Llewellyn’s presence and the likelihood that the Welshman would say such a question lowered the dignity of his office.

  Rafferty would have suspected Tracey did a bit of amateur soliciting on the side, but he couldn’t see how, with her brood, she’d find the time or the privacy. And surely, no John, no matter how urgent his desire, would want to spill his seed with a bunch of unruly kids threatening to burst in at any moment? Such things tended to put a man off his stroke, as Rafferty, as a teen with five younger siblings, knew from bitter experience from his early courting days.

  He suggested they go into the living room and shut the door behind them to keep the noise in the kitchen.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said, as he, Tracey and Llewellyn settled on chairs. ‘We’ve been having a word with Malcolm Forbes,’ Rafferty told her. ‘And he said that one of your children claims to have seen the younger Jones boy climb over the factory wall. I gather he makes a regular habit of it. I wondered if you knew which one of your children told Forbes’s men about it?’

  She nodded. ‘That’ll be Danny. I heard the bell ring. He answered the door to them and must have been speaking to them for a while before he called me.’

  ‘Could we have a word with him? We won’t keep him long.’

  ‘Sure. Why not? I’ll call him.’ She went to the door and yelled up the stairs.

  Danny took his time and it was another five minutes and two more yells up the stairs before a tousle-headed boy of around eight put in an appearance. Danny had stained shorts, scabby knees and a sulky expression.

  ‘What do you want, Mum?’ he demanded. ‘I was playing on my computer.’

  ‘It’s not what I want, Dan. It’s what these two policemen want.’

  Danny turned sullen dark eyes in their direction and said, ‘Well? What do you want?’

  Were kids scared of anybody these days, apart from the playground bully? Rafferty wondered. In his young days, two coppers appearing on the doorstep was an occasion of terror, followed by the expectation of a good hiding. Not any more, it seemed.

  ‘I wanted to ask you a few questions, Danny,’ Rafferty replied. ‘I understand you told Malcolm Forbes’s men that you had seen the younger Jones boy climbing over the factory wall.’

  ‘That’s right. What of it?’

  ‘I gather he climbs over the wall several times a day to save himself a walk.’

  ‘Suppose. What of it?’ he asked again.

  ‘I wondered if you noticed him do the same thing at other times?’

  ‘I know what you’re getting at. You mean like the day of the murder, don’t you?’

  ‘That’s right. Did you see him climb the wall anytime around three or a bit earlier that Friday?’

  Danny gazed speculatively at Rafferty. ‘Would it be worth something, like? If I did see him?’

  ‘Possibly.’ Maybe Forbes would offer a reward, though Rafferty couldn’t see it. Still, he was all for offering witnesses the occasional carrot.

  Superintendent Bradley hadn’t seen fit to make inroads into his budget in order to offer a reward. And it seemed that Danny knew this from the neighbourhood grapevine. Now, from the sceptical look in his not-so-innocent eyes, it seemed likely that Danny had also dismissed Forbes as a potential money tree. His next words confirmed it.

  ‘Nah. I never saw him then.’

  ‘You’re sure? It could be important, Danny.’

  ‘Course I’m sure. I’d have remembered if I’d seen him. He’d have been the chief suspect, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Maybe. One of them, anyway.’ Rafferty stood up. ‘Thanks Danny. You’ve been very helpful.’ Helpful to himself, anyway, if not the police. Was the little tyke thinking of putting the bite on Billy Harris? Rafferty wondered. Had he seen Billy climb over from the factory just before Jaws Harrison’s estimated time of death?

  Danny shrugged as if helping the police was all in a day’s work to him. ‘Can I go back to my computer game now?’

  Rafferty nodded. As the boy rushed from the room, Rafferty turned to Tracey and thanked her before he and Llewellyn left.

  Billy Jones would still be at work at the factory. However, Rafferty didn’t want to question the boy at his place of work and embarrass him in fr
ont of his workmates. He’d wait till Jones arrived home and question him there. Depending on what he said, they could check out his story with his supervisor later.

  Meanwhile, the questioning in the neighbourhood was still on-going; there would be more statements to be read and digested, so they returned to the station.

  The forensic results on the mugging of Izzy Barber were waiting for them on their return. They’d come back more speedily than Rafferty had expected. The results proved what he had hoped: Barber’s blood had been found on two of the youths’ trainers – those of Jake Sterling and Des Arnott. As he said to Llewellyn, ‘Let them try to “no comment” their way out of that.’

  Billy Jones was at home when they called at the house at six o’clock. At first, he looked set to deny any wall-climbing activities, but when told they had a witness, he changed his mind and admitted it.

  ‘It’s not a crime,’ he told them forcefully, his ruddy complexion becoming a little redder as he said it.

  ‘Not a crime, no,’ Rafferty agreed. ‘But for one thing, your employer might have something to say to you about your unconventional entries and exits from his premises. And for another, you are, of course, aware that we’re investigating a murder. Don’t you think your activities might have interested us?’

  ‘I don’t see why. Jaws was supposed to have been killed sometime around three, as I understand it and I was back at work by two. My time card will verify that if you want to check it.’

  ‘Time cards can be punched by others, Mr Jones. And frequently are.’

  ‘Well, mine wasn’t. You can ask my supervisor if you want. He always stands by the clocking-in machine and makes sure no one clocks anyone else in. Nothing much gets past him.’

  Rafferty nodded. ‘I’ll do that. Was there anything else you failed to tell us?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know. Anything you might have seen that will help us catch the killer.’

  Billy Jones shook his head. ‘I don’t know nothing. Is that all?’

  ‘Yes. That’s all for now. But if your supervisor doesn’t back up what you’ve said, I’ll need to speak to you again.’

  ‘He will. He’ll tell you I was at work from two o’clock onwards.’

  Once beyond the gate, Rafferty said, ‘We’ll check with the supervisor in the morning. For now, let’s call it a day. My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut and my lovely bride will be spitting feathers and vitriol if I don’t go home sharpish.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  The late Peter Allbright wasn’t the only person to suffer despair. When Rafferty arrived home at getting on for nine o’clock that evening, he found Abra in similar straits, though from a different cause.

  ‘My arty photographer rang me earlier. He told me he’s double-booked for our day. He’s got a big society wedding on the second Saturday in June. Guess who won his services? Not us, that’s for sure. He can’t even do the alternative date you said Father Kelly offered us. I’ve contacted every photographer in the area and none of them can do either day.’

  ‘There must be one, surely? Are you certain you’ve tried them all?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. I’ve been through the yellow pages and not one of them can give me a firm booking. A couple said they’d put me in their diary in case they had a cancellation, but that’s not good enough. I want a firm booking for our big day. What are we going to do?’ Abra was almost in tears.

  Rafferty sent up a silent ‘thank you’ to the Almighty for encouraging the expensive arty photographer to bow out. But, left to her own devices, the resourceful Abra would doubtless hunt down an even more expensive arty type and offer her body into the bargain to procure his services for their big day. At least, she might if he didn’t do something and fast.

  Fortunately, just then, Rafferty had a brainwave. It was one that would require him to eat vast quantities of humble pie, but better humble pie than no sustenance at all, which was the likely prospect if the wedding costs escalated any further. ‘Leave it with me,’ he told Abra in his most confident manner. ‘I think I might just have come up with a solution.’

  Rafferty arrived at the station the next morning to discover that another of their wedding arrangements had come adrift. Bill Beard hailed him as he came through from the car park to say Hi, with the unwelcome news that his auntie had had a stroke.

  ‘It looks doubtful if she’ll be doing much at all for the foreseeable future, certainly nothing so demanding of hand and eye coordination as making intricate bouquets and suchlike.’

  ‘Sorry to hear about your aunt, Bill,’ Rafferty commiserated. Though not nearly as sorry as Abra was likely to be when he told her. Things were unravelling fast on his wedding plans. He only needed Llewellyn’s mother-in-law to cry off from doing the cake and he’d be all but back to square one. The church and reception hall at least were organised. Father Kelly at St Boniface was a cousin of sorts and had been close to Ma for years; she’d apparently had little trouble in sweet-talking the priest into providing the hall for nothing and the church and the organist for next to nothing. Father Kelly might even throw in the choir for a bottle of the hard stuff. He liked his tipple did Father Kelly. And just as long as he was sober on the day…

  ‘Any chance of using one of your aunt’s flower arranging friends?’ he asked. ‘I know you mentioned they might be able to help out.’

  ‘I don’t know any of them and my aunt’s not compos mentis enough to give anyone their names. No, I’m afraid it’s back to the drawing board, young Rafferty. Hope it doesn’t mean I won’t get my invite.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Bill. You’ll still get your invite. I’ll see to it.’

  He was weary of his attempts at wedding planning, most of which seemed to go awry as soon as he’d thought something organised and fixed. Now he was back to square one with the flowers and had still failed to find a colleague ready, willing and able to let them have a free holiday home for their honeymoon. He’d even put a mock-serious ‘WANTED’ poster on the board in reception that featured shots of the usual suspects, with a picture of a top-notch villa that he’d got Llewellyn to Photoshop. But all he’d got for that was a few laughs about his cheek and no takers.

  However, he still had hopes on the flower front; for although Bill Beard's aunt was incapacitated, the wedding was still months’ off and there was time for her to regain her health. And even if her health was never fully restored, she should, within several months, have regained sufficient of her wits to let him have the names and phone numbers of some of her ex-florist friends whom he could suborn to get the job done.

  Still, he felt sorry for the old lady. From what Beard had told him his aunt had been a doughty lady before her stroke. It was sad that she should have been struck down and left enfeebled. He found out from Beard the name of the hospital ward and sent her a get well card and a bouquet, half-hoping that the latter should be something less than expertly contrived so as to energize her brain and her critical faculties.

  Of course, with neither flowers nor honeymoon organised, Abra was likely to go off on one when he told her the latest. If he told her. She was still plaguing him about wildly expensive honeymoon destinations. Her fancy was for a long-distance honeymoon destination: Goa or Bali being the current favourites even though the latter had suffered bomb outrages in recent years. He was engaged in trying to persuade her of the charms of destinations nearer to home, such as France or Spain, which were the locations where those amongst his colleagues who had holiday homes had chosen to buy. Though from the dearth of offers of freebies from his colleagues, he had to wonder why he was bothering to push for those destinations.

  At the moment, he was working on Kenneth Drummond, the uniformed inspector. Drummond was currently playing hard to get on the subject of letting him and Abra borrow his south of France holiday villa. But he hadn't said an outright "no", so Rafferty was hopeful Drummond would give in if he kept up the pressure.

  Distracted by the let-down over the flowers
and the photographer, Rafferty wasn’t concentrating too well. It was no good, he decided. He’d have to go out and get the humble pie eating over with. It was cowardly to leave it lying. Besides, if his wedding planning didn’t soon have some triumph to crow about, Abra would take it all back on to her own shoulders at God knew what cost.

  Cousin Nigel’s scowl of greeting changed to a huge smile when Rafferty explained his problem. It was a gloating smile and one that told Rafferty his cousin intended to extract as much satisfaction as he could from his dilemma.

  ‘I thought you said you didn’t want any favours from me? That’s what you said when you threw your mother’s loan back in my face.’

  Rafferty squirmed and admitted, ‘I know I did.’ God, he thought, I’d give anything not to be put in this position. In spite of his cousin’s handsome looks, Nigel gloating wasn’t a pretty sight.

  After several more minutes’ in similar vein, Nigel put his hands behind his immaculately groomed head and leaned back as if surveying a particularly pleasing sight before he admitted, ‘I might be able to help you. Of course, you realise I’ll have to charge you top whack.’

  ‘And how much is top whack?’

  Nigel named his price and Rafferty took a sharp breath as he realised it was more than the most expensive quotation on Abra’s list. But he felt he had little choice; Abra’s selections had all been unable to do their date, so it was Nigel or nothing. Rafferty gritted his teeth to stop the unwise words that were forming in his brain.

  Nigel must have noted the look on his too revealing face, because he said, ‘Of course, I can lower the price for a consideration.’

  ‘A consideration?’ Rafferty’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m still waiting for my invitation to the wedding, dear boy. An oversight, I’m sure.’