Dying For You Page 2

  Rafferty wasn't about to quibble over his cousin's name. ‘Sorry Nigel. I forgot you'd changed your name.’

  ‘Had to, dear boy. When you sell homes to the upper income bracket you've got to adopt their image; they're scarcely going to buy from a Del Boy type. Mirror-imaging, I believe the psychologists call it. See the threads?’ He held out his suit jacket to display the lilac lining. ‘Designer gear. Top-notch stuff.’

  Rafferty didn't doubt it. His cousin had never been one to stint himself. It was lucky for him that the ponced-up Jerry, who had adopted a fancy accent to go with the fancy name, clothes and apartment, was the one the family never talked about -estate agents being lower than all other forms of life - even coppers. Jerry was even more of a pariah than Rafferty, so was unlikely to betray him. He and Jerry, as the family's two unclean bell-ringers, had remained more or less on friendly terms. They managed this trick as long as they didn't see each other too often. Apart from himself, Ma was the only one of the family who didn't treat Jerry as a low life form. But then, as she had told him, it wouldn't be Christian.

  Jerry found another sneer for Rafferty's suit. After he had swept a disparaging glance over it, he suggested, ‘you'd better borrow one of mine while you're at it. We're about the same size and if you're going to sign up with this top-notch dating agency using my name I don't want you letting the side down. Only you'd better treat it with more care than you treat your own.’

  ‘I will,’ Rafferty swore. ‘The slightest speck and I'll take it to the dry cleaner's and make it disappear.’

  ‘You'd better. I'll drop it, the keys to my apartment and my documents in tonight before I set off for York.’

  Rafferty's scuffed black shoes earned an additional comment. ‘And for God's sake invest in some decent footwear while you're at it.’

  Rafferty nodded. Now he'd got his way, he was prepared to agree to anything. They soon settled the details. And that evening, Nigel dropped everything off as promised. He had even produced another mobile phone for him.

  ‘I thought it better if you supplied that agency with a different mobile number from your usual one. Save any complications, you being a pi–‘ Jerry broke off before he completed the word pig, and went smoothly on. ‘I've taped the number on the back. It's one of my old mobiles, but you needn't worry about giving it back. Nobody uses this type any more.’

  Rafferty did, but as there was only so much sneering a man could take he kept quiet about that. And as he caught the phone that Jerry threw to him, scrutinized it and realized it was exactly the same as his own, he slipped it in his pocket without another word. Nigel, of course, had an all-singing, all dancing mobile that was so tiny Rafferty would have worried about it disappearing through the hole in his pocket lining. It even took pictures and could probably launch a moon-rocket if asked.

  ‘Just don't drag it out when there are people about,’ Nigel instructed. ‘I've got an image to maintain. And if you're going to borrow my name you're going to have to make an effort to keep up appearances.’

  Rafferty, the proud possessor of new Italian suit, shoes, silk shirt, plus a new identity, sat in his flat after Jerry had left and dialled the Made In Heaven dating agency on Jerry's old mobile and made an appointment.

  The shock of Bill Beard's revelation about Estelle's murder had taken a few minutes to fully sink in. The worst horror was that Estelle, who had been so full of life and hopes for the future should now be lying in the morgue, her delightful monkey face and sinuous body badly hacked about by some sadist. A sadist, moreover, as the increasingly self-pitying Rafferty told himself, who might as well have personally selected him as the fall-guy; with his false identity he fitted the frame as if it had been tailor-made

  Reluctant to admit to paranoia along with his other troubles, Rafferty saw – through the grief he felt for Estelle and the anxiety he felt for himself – that he had to get a grip. It was essential he cover his tracks, not only for his own sake, but for his cousin's sake also; after all, it was his name that was being bandied about as being that of a suspected murderer.

  The reminder caused Rafferty to suffer a moment's breathless horror at his cousin's likely reaction to this news, before he thrust the worry aside. Another one soon replaced it. For all he knew Jerry would be unable to supply a solid alibi. If that turned out to be the case, he'd have no choice but to ‘fess up. Even if his own conscience didn't make sure he did so, Jerry certainly would.

  All these thoughts as they followed one another at break-neck pace through his mind were important enough, but even more important than these considerations was the one that Estelle was entitled to justice and Rafferty, in his Nigel Blythe persona, had pre-murder knowledge of both the victim and the other members of the Made In Heaven dating agency. Maybe he had subconsciously learned more about them all than even he was aware. Certainly more than they would be willing to reveal to the poorly Harry Simpson, the officer assigned to the case. Somehow, he would have to harness that knowledge and use it to find Estelle's murderer without letting anyone know he had been present at the dating agency party to acquire it.

  But, in order to be able to do that he had to stay both out of suspicion and out of jail. And he hadn't much time to make sure of either.

  He sat in his office, thinking furiously. Idea after idea was discarded. It was ten minutes later when he finally hit on the solution. During his exploratory chat with Beard, Rafferty had learned that Harry Simpson and the team were still at the murder scene. And, although Simpson had quickly discovered from her flatmate that Estelle had attended the Made In Heaven dating agency ‘Getting-To-Know-You’ party at The Elmhurst hotel's annexe on Saturday evening, Beard, who had a leisurely way with orders, hadn't yet arranged for anyone to get round to Nigel's address. It gave Rafferty the opportunity to stage a timely burglary.

  He glanced at his watch. One thing at least was going his way. Today was his usual day for taking his Ma to the supermarket. Although he normally took her in the evening she would be unlikely to argue if he changed the time, especially as the neighbours who, like her, were mostly retired, would be more likely to see her eldest son taking her out. Though, this time she'd have to forego the drink he usually took her for. Because, before the shopping, she was going with him to Jerry's flat, where, she would have to bear witness, if it became necessary, that Jerry's flat had been broken into.

  Again, Ma was unlikely to refuse him. Rafferty knew she had been itching to see inside the place since Jerry had bought it, but invitations to most of the family hadn't been forthcoming. Rafferty had been one of a select few who had received an invite and that was only because, with their respective professions, he and Jerry shared the tarnish of being beyond the pale and occasionally had a drink and a commiseration together.

  Fortunately, he had the keys to Jerry's fancy apartment and, to Ma, could use the ready lie that he had promised Jerry he would keep an eye on the place while he was away. That particular business would only take a few minutes; he would be able to rely on his ma dawdling as she admired the plush decor in the luxuriously appointed entrance hall. It would give him a few minutes breathing space, which was all he would need.

  He would have to get rid of Jerry's passport and credit card. Rafferty sighed as he realized that, like Jerry's documents, his expensive designer suit was also going to have to be sacrificed. He had promised he would look after the suit and make sure any stains disappeared. He hadn't expected to have to make the entire suit disappear. But he couldn't risk someone recognizing it – especially if Jerry was in it at the time and looking almost as much like ‘Nigel Blythe’ as Rafferty did. He'd have to stump up for a replacement. To be on the safe side, the Italian leather shoes and the silk shirt he had purchased to wear with the suit would also have to go.

  He had already lost Estelle Meredith. He couldn't help but wonder how much more his failed quest for love would cost him before the real killer was found and charged

  He dropped into the station reception to speak to Bill Bea
rd, whom he dragged from his immersion in The Mirror to check on the situation vis-à-vis Nigel's apartment. ‘So what's been found at this Blythe's home?’ he asked Bill's bent head. ‘Anything useful?’

  Beard looked up from his newspaper for long enough to say, ‘Haven't despatched anyone yet. I'm waiting for a couple of the lads to be freed up from the murder scene. You know how short-staffed we are.’

  Rafferty nodded. ‘I've got to go out. Just got a call from one of my snouts,’ he confided.

  Beard, who had returned to his Mirror crossword, just grunted.

  ‘If anyone asks for me tell then I'll be back in an hour.’ Or two. ‘Bill? Are you listening, or what?’

  ‘Both.’ Beard raised his head from his paper for a moment. ‘I'm listening and or what-ing. Hang on a mo,’ he added as Rafferty made to leave. Beard's finger traced a line of print in the paper. ‘Thirteen down - enclosed place, four letters. Begins with ‘c’?’

  To Rafferty, in the frame for murder, the answer came only too-readily to mind. ‘Cell,’ he said, with feeling. He only hoped he could avoid entering the answer to thirteen down.

  As soon as he had dropped his Ma back home after they had ‘discovered’ the burglary, Rafferty stopped at a phone-box. He had told Ma he would report the burglary, but he hadn't thought his plan through to this aspect. Now, of course, he realized that reporting the burglary was the last thing he should do. It would be extremely unwise.

  This thinking on the hoof was a tricky business, he discovered. No wonder killers who murdered in an unpremeditated way so often got caught. There was no way he could afford to have his name connected with Jerry's. But amongst his many cousins there were a few more naturally obliging than others. Terry Tierney for one. Fortunately Terry was at home and ready to oblige - for a consideration.

  Once he had organised the burglary and the reporting of same, Rafferty had some minutes’ leisure to think back on how he had managed to land himself in such a mess. Like most of the little problems of life that seemed to land in his lap, he had found it simplicity itself.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Rafferty hovered on the pavement opposite Made In Heaven's Hope Street office, garnering courage while he essayed fascination with the pharmacy's window display. Finally, alert for familiar faces, he crossed the road and walked under the agency's sign of cherubs playing hide and seek amongst billowing white clouds and through the rose-tinted glass of the dating agency's door.

  Inside, was a large and airy outer office, its walls hung with dreamy, soft-focus wedding photographs. Half-a-dozen easy chairs in soft pastel shades were grouped around low coffee tables bestrewn with magazines that followed the walls’ romantic theme.

  All the faux-romantic ambience made Rafferty want to turn tail and run. Maybe he would have done, but the pink-suited buxom blonde behind the reception desk raised her head from her magazine for long enough to smile at him with eyes that didn't focus properly on his face and asked if she could help him.

  ‘I've got a 2.00 p m appointment with Ms Durward,’ Rafferty took a deep breath. ‘Name of Blythe. Nigel Blythe.’

  The receptionist, her nose inches from the appointment diary, found his name and ticked it off. ‘Ms Durward will be free shortly. Please take a seat.’

  Rafferty selected an easy chair with its back to the window, picked up one of the magazines and began to flick through the pages. Much like the ‘wedded bliss’ pictures on the walls the magazine featured impossibly beautiful brides, gazing adoringly at their equally handsome grooms. He closed the magazine with a snap loud enough to cause the receptionist to raise her head from her own magazine and gaze in his general direction.

  Just then, a young man appeared from a short corridor off reception. He was good-looking with a cock-of-the-walk stride. The receptionist welcomed him fulsomely, calling him ‘Darius‘. He called her ‘Isobel’ and continued a conversation about his recent travels that must have started when he had first arrived. Isobel's sole contribution to the conversation was a liberal application of ‘absolutely's and ‘fab's and ‘groovey's every time there was a tiny pause. But as Darius seemed principally interested in talking about himself there were few enough of these. Thankfully, Darius must have had other urgent monologue engagements that day because he left shortly after.

  Once he had gone, Isobel turned her attentions to Rafferty. Artlessly, she confided, ‘Darius is the son of one of Mummy's friends. He lives in the most wonderful style. Don't know how he affords it as according to his file he doesn't work and has no private means at all. Well, apart from the little importing firm he told me about.’ She giggled. ‘Said he'd let me have some coke at cost. Wasn't that darling of him?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Rafferty.

  The intercom on Isobel's desk beeped, Isobel confirmed Nigel Blythe had arrived and was asked to send him through.

  Rafferty walked along the short corridor, found the office, knocked and was bidden to enter, Caroline Durward stood up and came round her desk to introduce herself. Rafferty placed her around the mid-thirties. Tall, three or four inches under Rafferty's six foot, she was a little overweight, but it was extra poundage she carried with dignity. On the plain side, with a prominent nose, her make-up, though heavy, had been expertly applied to make the most of her assets of flawless skin and clear grey eyes. In contrast to the romantic decor, she wore a business-like skirt suit in a brisk navy. She invited him to sit in front of her desk - a delicate-looking construction with ormolu gilding, the obligatory computer perched incongruously on top.

  After he had handed over the form that had been posted to him for completion at home she glanced quickly through it and told him with a smile, ‘That seems to be in order.’

  Rafferty shifted uncomfortably on his chair as Caroline Durward began to enter ‘his’ details on the computer, for although her manner was friendly, she put him in mind of Miss Robson, the deputy head from his junior school days. She had shared Ms Durward's well-modulated diction. It hadn't stopped her from putting the fear of God into the young Rafferty and his classmates— literally, as she was the Religious Instruction teacher. She had insisted they learn great tracts of the bible by heart and would send the blackboard rubber flying towards the head of the child who failed. So while half of Rafferty was trying to remember he was meant to be a cool middle-class dude, the other half prepared to duck.

  A tiny frown marred the previous smooth perfection of Caroline's forehead. Rafferty guessed she had come to the section of his form that was liberally daubed with correction fluid. And as she glanced at Nigel's passport photograph, Rafferty presented her with his best ‘Nigel’ profile and gazed around him at the walls of the office which were decorated with yet more wedding photographs. He suspected they were mock-ups. Sensibly, he had made enquiries and discovered the agency had only been set up six months previously; scarcely time enough for so much wedded bliss to have occurred, he thought. There was even one such photo on Caroline Durward's desk, but as this one lost the dreamy soft-focus and featured a plain bride who was undoubtedly the younger version of Caroline Durward, with a groom whose eyes were so screwed up against the sun that his features were distorted, he guessed this marriage was real enough.

  By now, Caroline Durward had bravely fought her way to the end of his form and had ‘his’ details entered on her computer. She looked brightly at him and said, ‘Now, Mr Blythe - or may I call you Nigel?’ At Rafferty's nod, she said, ‘Do call me Caroline. We like to keep things informal here.’ She went on to enlarge upon the information he had received through the post. ‘As our literature states, we're a small, select agency. We serve the professional classes.’

  Rafferty kept his face straight as Caroline's rather heavy features darted an unconscious little moue towards his unprofessionally completed form, before she continued, even more brightly. ‘Apart from the guarantee of a minimum of two introductions, you'll be able to attend our regular parties and other functions – trips to the theatre, weekends away in Paris, Amsterdam and so on
, so you will have the opportunity to meet as many of our members as care to attend. We also have many action-packed trips and weekends for our more physically-inclined clientele. I see from your form, Nigel, you're not much into physical pursuits.’

  This last helped a tiny line force its way through the make-up. Tiny flakes of powder sat on top of it as if for emphasis. Rafferty began to feel he was becoming something of a disappointment to Caroline Durward. Quickly, he assured her, ‘I was sporty when I was younger. But nowadays I get little time.’

  ‘Time – always a problem for our members. Most of them lead such hectic lives. That's where we come in, of course. Like that old advert that claimed its product took the waiting out of wanting we try to do the same. And as an independent agency rather than part of a large chain, we're able to offer that important personal touch. We keep our gatherings small, usually no more than fifty, occasionally as many as a hundred, but never more than that. We mostly hold our regular ‘Getting-To-Know-You’ parties at my own home, so much more intimate than the usual hotel function rooms.’

  Rafferty had a picture in his mind of 100 people crammed way-too-intimately into a standard three-bed semi. But Caroline soon reassured him.

  ‘Of course, my home, New Hall, is large enough to offer intimacy to such numbers without a crush. I think you'll find it attractive. Most people seem to. But its main advantage is that it makes for much more discretion than the more usual busy hotel locations, though we also make use of facilities at local 4-star hotels, like The Elmhurst. We find their annexe convenient as it's set in its own grounds apart from the main hotel so gives the privacy our members require.’

  Rafferty relaxed so much under Caroline's practiced sales patter that he forgot his reservations and told her he was happy to sign up.