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  Arnold had insisted that, apart from Mrs Chakraburty and the several cleaners who had let him down right at the beginning of the contract, the cleaners at Aimhursts had all worked there for most, if not all of the three months he had held the contract. Only Dot Flowers had started later.

  Rafferty, disinclined to believe anything the man said, intended to check Arnold's story with the two workers who remained—Ada Collins and Eric Penn. He half hoped Arnold had been telling fibs. It would be some satisfaction to haul the man into the station and give him a proper grilling.

  Meanwhile, unable to stop scratching at the scab, as they got back in the car after questioning the last shopkeeper, Rafferty glanced across at Llewellyn and asked, “How's Maureen's mother getting on with those wedding lists, then? All done?”

  Llewellyn gave a tiny moue. “I'm afraid not. Unfortunately, my future mother-in-law's trouble is that she doesn't know when to stop. Maureen and I are going over there tonight to try to make her see that a grand reception for four hundred is out of the question.”

  The normally imperturbable Welshman had a decidedly hunted look. Rafferty felt a tiny spasm of guilt that he should be pleased this wedding was causing problems for someone other than himself. Llewellyn's repressed personality and Methodist upbringing would, he was sure, find the thought of such excess thoroughly distasteful.

  Llewellyn had the bit firmly between his compressed lips. “She seems determined to turn this into the wedding of the year. Maureen rang again before we left the station and told me the guest list is now completely out of hand. I don't know who her mother thinks is going to pay for it all. It's some consolation, I suppose, that they won't all accept. According to Maureen, we've already received our first firm refusals. She said her mother was really put out by one or two. Especially those from Mr and Mrs Empson-Palmer, Mrs Toogood, and…”

  Rafferty tuned his mind out from the listing of the great and the good at this point. He had scratched the scab and now wished he hadn't. By the sound of it the revelations of Ma's misdeeds would have a large audience.

  Five minutes later he pulled into the station car park, parked the car across two bays and strode, grim-faced towards the offices. He had a lot to fit in this morning. First, he had to read the reports that had come in during their absence, then he had to write his own reports up. Lastly, he had another little visit to fit in, though this had nothing to do with the murder enquiry. It was entirely for his own private satisfaction.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Rafferty opened his Ma's front door with his own key and slammed into the living room without bothering to shout, “It's only me,” as he usually did.

  He had startled her, he realized as her dyed and permed dark head shot up. But any guilt was quickly squashed by a feeling of irritation. What did he have to feel guilty about? It was Ma who should be feeling guilt-ridden. But did she? Not her. She looked as innocent and butter-wouldn't melt as the mythical white-haired granny she in no way resembled. Obviously untroubled by the Catholic conscience that gave him so much trouble, her plump body was surrounded by a halo of pure white as she knitted a romper suit for the expected great-grandchild.

  “I suppose you've heard the news?” he demanded. “That Llewellyn and Maureen have set the date for their wedding?”

  She gave a satisfied nod. “I have that. Isn't it just grand?” She put on the stern face that he remembered so well from childhood. “And don't bang into the house like an enraged bull, Joseph.You know it's not good for my nerves.”

  Rafferty wished he had nerves as robust. His were currently looking for bolt-holes to crawl into.

  Her bright blue eyes glanced at his worn brown suit much as Llewellyn had. “I'm thinking you'll be wishing, now that it's too late, that you'd taken me up on that bargain suit I had for you at Christmas.”

  Rafferty felt the gorge rise in his throat and he shouted, “Don't mention bloody suits to me, Ma!” I'm up to here with the damn things. You might have told me at the time that you had more than one, but oh no, you kept quiet. And why you had to sell the other one to Llewellyn of all people…! You know how po-faced he can be about dodgy gear. If anyone recognises it-”

  “You worry too much, son,” she told him complacently. With infuriating logic, she added, “And I sold it to Dafyd because I knew it would fit him. Besides, a suit's a suit. It's not as if it's starred in one of those crime programmes on the telly.”

  “No, but it's about to star at Llewellyn's wedding—with Superintendent Bradley as one of the audience. I shouldn't think we'll have long to wait before you, me, and the bridegroom do our own star turn—in the dock for receiving.”

  The knitting needles paused momentarily, then started clicking fast and furious, so Rafferty was sure he had hit the spot. But he knew better than to expect either an apology or sympathy. Being made to feel guilty had always given ma's tongue more stings that a nettlefield. This evening was no exception.

  “I told you you should have gone on the buildings like your Da and brothers,” she observed with a tart disregard for the truth that almost took Rafferty's breath away, neatly turning the argument so his current predicament was his fault. “But would you listen? No, not you. Had to be different. Had to be a policeman. Now look where it's got you.”

  Ma had always had a natural gift for turning the facts on their heads when it suited her argument. It certainly wasn't how Rafferty remembered it and he protested, “But it was you-” he began.

  “That's right. Blame me.” Kitty Rafferty sniffed and wiped a non-existent tear from her eye. “A poor widder-woman, I was. Left all alone with six kids to bring up. Tried to do my best by you all. Did I get any thanks? No, of course I didn't. I never expected any, mothers never do. Many's the time you broke my heart. Many's the time you…“

  As this was an all-too-familiar theme, Rafferty held up his hands in an attempt to halt the flow. “All right, Ma. I'm obviously the world's most thoughtless, ungrateful son. I'm sorry. Jesus,” he muttered under his breath; he knew better than to say the word aloud, it would only start her off again. But it infuriated him that the apology had been forced from him rather than from her. It wasn't how it was meant to be. But somehow, Ma always seemed to get the better of him. Just once he wanted to win both the argument and the high moral ground.

  He had meant to really lay it on the line to her that she had given him a major headache. But his encounter with Ross Arnold and his sweat-shop business ethics had weakened his resolve. It had reminded him of the many sacrifices she had made after his dad had died. He and his brothers and sisters had all still been young. He remembered some of the jobs Ma had taken; sewing in a sack factory; packing in a sweet factory; on her feet all day in all weathers on a market stall…But she'd still, somehow, found time to bake cakes and puddings. Still somehow managed to produce tasty meals from the cheapest ingredients.

  He'd remembered, too, that even Ma's love of “bargains” had sprung from the need to provide for them. Endless money worries, desperation and sheer necessity had forced her to buy dodgy gear and working in the market had placed her in the way of lots of such merchandise. Nobody in their right mind would have turned their noses up under such circumstances and Ma had always been very practical. So how could he come the heavy-handed son now, when desperation no longer drove her purchases?

  Feeling a complete heel—as no doubt crafty Kitty had intended—he returned from his trip down memory lane to find that at least his unwarranted apology had had the desired effect and the knitting needles had slowed to a more hypnotic rhythm. Rafferty, who had begun to feel half-mesmerised by their eye-blurring speed, blinked and broke the spell.

  Although his Ma would never admit to feeling guilty, she did have the grace to look a little abashed. However, she soon recovered and set about a sturdy defence.

  “Anyway,” she asked. “who's going to identify Llewellyn's suit if your superintendent does decide to ask awkward questions? Sure and my tailor friend has taken off now that the insurance has paid
out, so he won't be around to answer anybody's questions. I'd put it out of your mind, son.”

  It seemed she had. For now, she held up the half-finished romper suit and said, “What do you think? It's a new pattern I'm trying, but my first great-grandchild should have something special.”

  Her quick recovery deflated any further impulse Rafferty might have had to take her to task and he gazed with lacklustre eyes from the suit she held up, to the pattern. It would certainly be fancy enough for little Lord Fauntelroy himself when it was finished, he thought disgustedly. Not only would it have satin quilting attached to the wrists and chest, it would also, he noted, sport a big satin bow at the neck.

  Its fancy-work brought home to him that his Ma was taking the Great Granny Stakes even more seriously than his father had taken The Oaks, The Grand National and The Derby combined.

  And he'd thought The Grandmother Cup important enough in her general scheme of things. With twelve grandchildren to her credit, Ma had won that by a furlong last year, leaving the rest of the neighbourhood grannies trailing. But this year, Mrs Thingy's daughter-in-law three doors down had had twins and Her-Next-Door's daughter had had triplets.

  Ma had taken umbrage at this, insisting it was hardly sporting, especially as she hadn't even troubled to get a husband first. “Calls herself “Mrs” Williams,” Ma had sniffed. “She's not, of course. Occasionally she manages to drag the father round her mother's just to keep up the pretence for the neighbours. I don't know who she thinks she's fooling, as I know for a fact he's still living on All Saints Avenue with the real Mrs Williams.”

  His Ma knew all the street scandal and that of the area for a good half-mile round. His “Uncle” Pat jokingly referred to her as The News of the World.

  Rafferty felt an upsurge of his earlier irritation and was half-tempted to remind her that the object of her pride—the first great-grandchild which was due in the summer—was also going to be born out of wedlock. But he thought better of it when he recalled how much the news had upset her. Ma had moral principles as high as Llewellyn's on some things and he didn't want a return of the upset and disappointment she'd suffered when she'd first learned of his niece, Gemma's pregnancy, just before Christmas.

  Rafferty's heart seemed to do another belly-flop dive to the pit of his stomach as she brought up the subject closest to her heart. “You're my eldest,” she reminded him, as if he needed telling. “Just wait till you produce a son. If I have anything to do with it, he'll have six suits a day and ten for Sundays.”

  But, as there appeared no immediate likelihood of him producing a winning argument never mind a son, even Ma had to accept the fact. Her next comment made clear that she didn't find this easy.

  “Though I wish you'd get a move on. Her-Next-Door is always asking after you. ‘Has poor Joseph found himself a steady girlfriend yet?’ is her favourite refrain.”

  “Is it?” he asked shortly. He hadn't come here to listen to a lecture, he reminded himself. He'd come to give one. But, as usual, Ma had managed to twist things round to her advantage.

  It was obvious that Her-Next-Door had annoyed Ma, because she dropped a stitch. With a “Tshaw”, she picked it up again before adding, “It's always ‘Poor Joseph’ with her, as though she thought there was something wrong with you.” She peered interrogatively up at him over her knitting. “There's not, is there?”

  Rafferty scowled. “For God's sake, Ma! There's nothing the matter with me that staying out of the dock won't cure. And as for that old bat next door, why don't you just tell her I've set up a love-next with the Archbishop of Canterbury next time she asks?”

  His Ma, the lover of iffy “bargains”, gazed disapprovingly at him over her new bi-focals. “I know you're upset, Joseph, but that's no reason to blaspheme.”

  Ma thought the Church of England capable of anything and she certainly didn't approve of her son mentioning the name of their big chief in the same breath as that of The Almighty. In her opinion, the Church of England and The Almighty had little enough to do with one another as it was.

  “For your information,” Rafferty told her, “no, I haven't started dressing to the left in my old age, if that's what you're hinting at.”

  Kitty Rafferty smiled and went back to her knitting. “That's good, son. So I suppose I can look forward to you giving me a grandson sometime in the future?”

  Rafferty's lips tightened. It was unfortunate for him that, in The Grandma Stakes, he was ma's biggest handicap; an eleven-and-a-half stone handicap. His two brothers were at least married, but he hadn't even got a filly lined up under starter's orders. Her-Next-Door, with her growing brood of grandchildren, was edging up on the stand side and looked set to overtake. No wonder she was starting to get under Ma's defences.

  He was sorely tempted to remind her that Her-Next-Door would have something else to occupy her mind if—no—when—Superintendent Bradley sniffed out the truth about Llewellyn's wedding suit. And it wouldn't be when ‘Poor Joseph’ was going to get himself a steady girlfriend.

  After a night filled with exhausting equestrian dreams saddled up and ridden hard for the finish by an over-exuberant jockey Ma, Rafferty overslept and woke to aching bones and the realization that, in addition to his other troubles, he'd somehow caught the flu. By the time he finally got to the station, he wasn't in the best of tempers. And the sight of a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Llewellyn did nothing to improve his mood.

  “How's that hunt for possible grudge-holders from Barstaple's past going?” he asked Llewellyn. “Found any matches yet with Aimhurst's or Watts And Cutley's employees?”

  Contrarily, he half-hoped for a negative reply; it would give him the excuse he needed to have a moan. After all, he reasoned, it was Llewellyn's peculiar combination of high morals, low vanity, and naiveté that had helped put him in his current fix. With anybody else, he could have just told them the suit was iffy and to get rid and that would be that. Not with Llewellyn, of course. With him, everything always turned out to be as complicated as one of Ma's knitting patterns. He wasn't surprised when Llewellyn even managed to frustrate his modest, if unreasonable, desire to find fault.

  “Actually, we've turned up quite a number of grudge-holders,” Llewellyn loftily replied. “Though none with any connection with Watts And Cutley or Aimhursts—or, at least, none that we have so far been able to discover.”

  “What? Not even a relief deliveryman or two?”

  “You're not still yearning after a murdering milkman, are you, sir?” Llewellyn asked, raising his eyebrows and gazing at him in that superior schoolmasterly manner that made Rafferty feel even more irritated.

  “No, not really.” He collapsed into his chair. In spite of his bad mood, bad head, and aching bones, Rafferty managed a grin. “But it has a certain poetic charm which I thought would appeal to you.”

  “Indeed.” Llewellyn's po-face all but told him that he, for one, kept his poetical yearnings well away from his police work. “Apart from an irritating tendency to off-key whistling, our particular dairymen appear totally blameless.”

  Rafferty nodded, sneezed loudly and slumped over his desk as Llewellyn continued.

  “Lilley and I did think we'd got something earlier; a young man Barstaple sacked two firms ago who was known to have threatened him. This chap, Anderson, actually worked as a cleaner for Ross Arnold for a while and even did a couple of stints at Aimhurst And Son's offices not long before Mrs Flowers replaced him.”

  Rafferty stopped rummaging around in his desk for painkillers long enough to ask, “So, what's come of it?”

  “Nothing. This particular chap, Michael Anderson, hadn't turned up for work for several days—this is the best part of three months ago—and hasn't been seen since. We discovered he died in the midlands just after new year.”

  Rafferty frowned. “You're sure it was him?” It wasn't that he doubted Llewellyn's findings; far from it, whatever else he might be the Welshman was a competent policeman. But he couldn't help asking. “There was a pos
itive ID?”

  Llewellyn nodded. “His landlord identified him. Besides, he had a record and the prints matched. There was no doubt about it, according to the midlands police who checked the matter out. It seems, from what they found in his room, that Anderson had become something of a drifter since Barstaple sacked him from his last proper job; there were bus tickets and store receipts from all over the country. It was the usual story, I gather; depression, self-neglect, self-abuse and death. But whatever else he might have been, he definitely wasn't Barstaple's murderer.” Llewellyn paused. “As for the other firms Barstaple worked for, so far we've not turned up any other possibles, but it's slow going and-”

  Rafferty broke in. “Okay, I get the picture. Look, I didn't realize when I asked you to check out the employees of the firms that Barstaple freelanced for that there'd be quite so many of them. I suggest you let Lilley continue on his own.”

  Llewellyn nodded. “By the way, remember you asked me to check with Birmingham about Mrs Flowers’ son? According to the officer who checked the matter out for me, nobody by the name of Flowers was admitted to any of Birmingham's hospitals in the last two weeks. No-one of that name had been admitted to any of the hospitals in the surrounding areas either. The difficulty is, of course, that her son might have a different name.”

  Rafferty nodded. “I should think it's almost certain he has. Why should Dot Flowers be any different from the rest of Ross Arnold's workforce? Damn the man. Him and his illegals and dole-cheats are adding an unnecessary complication to this case.”

  “Do you want me to put a trace out for Mrs Flowers? I should be able to get a good description from Mrs Collins and Ross Arnold.”

  Rafferty agreed. “Get them down the station to work on a photofit. Do Mrs Chakraburty at the same time. At least we know what she looks like, so hers can be circulated immediately. We'll hold fire on circulating Mrs Flowers’ photo-fit, though. Birmingham could turn her up at any time and, if her son is in hospital, I don't want to cause her any unnecessary grief. Besides, first I want to check if she was really called Flowers. There can't be that many people with the name in the area.”