Dying For You Page 8

  Rafferty let out a silent, relieved sigh when after a couple of phone calls Llewellyn established that Isobel was safe and well in Suffolk. But his relief was short-lived, as next Llewellyn turned his attention to Rafferty's cousin.

  ‘This Nigel Blythe,’ he began.

  Rafferty looked up and asked warily, ‘What about him?’

  ‘According to the files, he seems to have disappeared. He's not at home. At least, he's not at the address he gave the agency, though as there seems to have been a delay in checking there he must have had ample time to make his escape.’

  Rafferty, who had failed to update the reports, sat back and told him, ‘Actually, Mr Blythe's back now.’ He didn't need to add that he was still chasing the paperwork as Llewellyn knew him of old. ‘He was away from home for a while, in York, or so I understand.’ Rafferty forced himself to act naturally, and to ask, ‘But do you think it's suspicious that Blythe was absent from home at the very time he's suspected of involvement in the deaths of two young women?’

  Llewellyn gave the tiniest shrug. ‘It's just that April's an odd time of year to holiday in England, if that's the reason he was in York’

  ‘You've just come back from an April holiday yourself.’

  ‘Honeymoon,’ Llewellyn corrected. ‘Hardly the same thing, especially since we went to Greece, our decision to get married was sudden and we had to take the date the Registrar could give us.’

  Their decision to get married had been all too sudden from Rafferty's point of view. He would, he suspected, never forget the panic the news had brought. ‘Anyway, April's perhaps not such a strange month to holiday if you're an estate agent, like this Nigel Blythe. I presume they have to take their holidays in the quiet times, before the house buying and selling market hots up. Besides, he wasn't on holiday. I spoke to him on the phone.’ He had, too, officially. He had felt he had to try to follow his normal routine during the investigation. To do otherwise would look odd. He'd got another ear-bashing for his pains when he'd broken the news that Nigel was now in the frame for two murders, not one. ‘He said he was at some estate agents’ jamboree.’

  Rafferty could feel Llewellyn studying him and wondered what he'd said to give himself away this time. Feverishly, he checked over what he'd said. Relieved to discover he'd said nothing to give himself way as a Nigel impersonator. So why was Llewellyn staring at him as if he couldn't believe his eyes?

  Rafferty ran his hand over his head and realized his hair needed its No 1 scalping redone. And as he looked down and saw his father's spectacles sitting on his desk, he felt a moment of horror. He'd taken them off to clean them and in his shock about Isobel Goddard seemingly going missing, he'd forgotten to replace them. Now, without the glasses and with his hair growing again, had Llewellyn connected him with one of the less accurate photo-fits of ‘Nigel’ that hung on the white board in the Incident Room? For a few, fleeting, heart stopping seconds, Rafferty held his breath.

  Then Llewellyn, his mood strangely playful, remarked, apropos of nothing at all as far as Rafferty could see. ‘The cure seems to have taken.’

  It was Rafferty's turn to stare. ‘Cure?’ he asked. ‘What cure? ‘What are you talking about?’

  Llewellyn's lips turned slightly upwards. Whatever it was, it was obviously a good joke by the Welshman's dry standards.

  ‘Don't you remember? At my wedding, you swore on some holy water your mother brought to the Register Office to sprinkle over us after our nuptials, that you'd give up producing outlandish theories on all future investigations.’

  Llewellyn's thinly handsome face twitched into a smile. ‘Your Catholicism must be less lapsed than you thought for such a holy water swearing to be honoured. I've never known you to be so lacking in ready theories. Normally, you'd have seized on a suspect such as this Nigel Blythe and come up with all sorts of wild theories. Especially as the man's an estate agent.’

  Llewellyn had learned that estate agents were not Rafferty's favourite people. The one through whom he had bought his flat had played fast and loose with him, getting him to raise his offer price several times by telling him he had another prospect keen to buy. It was only after his purchase had gone through that Rafferty had discovered the estate agent's deceit. There had been no other prospect as the seller had gleefully informed him.

  Rafferty, who had no recollection of any holy water swearing, managed a wry grin. But he had been so relieved everything had gone off smoothly that he had got out of his head at the reception. The ceremony and pretty well everything else was just a blur in his memory. Still, his forgotten vow served a useful purpose. How else could he explain his uncharacteristic behaviour?

  He managed a bright, ‘I can do solemn swearings, Dafyd. Bloody brought up on the things, wasn't I? What with baptism and weekly confessions, confirmation and that Soldier of Christ malarkey, solemn swearings are like mother's milk to a good little lapsed Catholic lad like me.’

  Rafferty now decided that the best approach to the inevitable ‘Nigel Blythe’ questions from Llewellyn was the bold one. Taking the tentative, careful route had never been his style and Llewellyn had spotted it immediately. Just as well he had made such an uncharacteristic statement about ending wild theorising at the wedding reception. But Llewellyn knew him well enough not to expect such a vow to last.

  After checking his memory to remind himself whether or not he had actually learned officially about the burglary, he mentioned it to Llewellyn.

  ‘A burglary?’ Llewellyn repeated. ‘Staged by an obliging friend after the first murder, do you think?’

  Rafferty was non-committal on this. But it really was sod's law, he thought. Here he was, doing his damndest to foreswear wild theorising in the absence of any proven facts to back his theories, only to have the normally irritatingly logical Llewellyn take up the slack. But then Nigel Blythe had featured strongly thus far and between Harry Simpson's ill-health and Rafferty's taking over and official familiarisation with the case, his alibis had yet to be checked.

  ‘This burglary is certainly a convenient excuse for the even more conveniently absent Mr Blythe,’ Llewellyn went on. ‘When is this burglary supposed to have taken place?’

  ‘Nobody knows. The neighbours could tell us nothing.’ Thankfully. ‘A Mr Tierney reported the break-in. Says he's some sort of cousin of this Nigel Blythe and that Blythe had asked him to keep an eye on his apartment while he was way. Tierney said Blythe had told him he was attending this estate agents’ do in York and the hotel confirmed he arrived before the first victim, Jenny Warburton must have died.’

  Rafferty felt a fleeting pang of loss as he spoke Jenny's name. Why hadn't he escorted her to her car? he asked himself again. If he had, she would still be alive.

  ‘This Mr Tierney told me he rang Blythe on his mobile to let him know about the burglary and that Blythe was on his way home. I've spoken to him since of course, but I felt I needed to get on top of all the reports before I saw him. If it's true, as he claims, that his passport's been stolen, he's not likely to be going anywhere. But I wanted to wait till your return before questioning him in person.’

  Llewellyn looked quietly pleased at this as if Rafferty had just paid him a fulsome compliment. Perhaps he had. ‘The first thing we need to do is find out if Blythe's alibi holds water. If it does, we'd better forget the thought that the answers are going to fall into our laps. If he is telling the truth, this case is still wide open. I'd like you to conduct the interview with Blythe, Dafyd. I'll act the role of silent observer. Maybe, if he is involved in these killings, it'll rattle him.’

  The rattling of Jerry/Nigel was not top of Rafferty's agenda. The last thing he wanted was to further upset the cousin who held his future in his greedy estate agent's paws, especially after his earlier threat to ‘drop him in it’. But, scared of what he or his still indignant cousin might inadvertently let slip after finding he was now chief suspect in a double murder investigation, he daren't question him himself. What if he was to call him Jerry by mistak
e? Letting Llewellyn do the questioning was the safer option as it would also be likely to make cousin Jerry more wary and careful in his answers. Hopefully, the whole procedure would be quickly over. All Jerry had to do was supply the details of the women who he said would alibi him and he'd be home free.

  Rafferty took a piece of paper from the file in front of him and handed it to Llewellyn. ‘Give him a ring,’ he said. ‘Let him know we're coming.’ Rafferty had, of course, already forewarned his cousin. ‘It's not as if he can't be expecting us. And as Superintendent Bradley used to be so fond of telling us, politeness costs nothing.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Rafferty hadn't seen Jerry since before the Lonely Hearts nightmare began. His stomach curdled at the thought of seeing him now because his cousin's phone-rage over his predicament had been bad enough, but in his increasingly lurid dreams Jerry met him and Llewellyn with an exposé of spittle-flecked fury.

  Rafferty handed the car keys to a surprised Llewellyn, got in the car and spent the journey trying to figure out what he could say should his nightmare became reality. But he still had no answer by the time they reached Jerry's apartment building and had been buzzed in. Even Jerry's failure to say anything as he opened the door to his apartment failed to soothe because the hard, accusatory stare he directed at Rafferty spoke volumes and promised more.

  But to his surprise, after Jerry had listened with a bored, patrician air that implied his current predicament was tedious beyond belief while Llewellyn made the introductions, his cousin simply turned on his heel and led them into his apartment before he spoke.

  ‘Really, it's too ridiculous.’ After inviting them to sit down, Jerry, being the new Nigel, remained standing so he could lean the arm of his expensive suit in elegant insouciance in front of what Rafferty knew to be an Italian marble fireplace. ‘I can't begin to take it seriously.’

  Rafferty was relieved to hear it. And as Jerry shot his black silk cuffs with their gold, monogrammed cuff links, he conceded that Nigel, Jerry Kelly as was, did bored patrician even better than Isobel Goddard did rich. To distract himself from the worry that Jerry – Nigel – he must make himself think of him as Nigel – would soon tire of his effete aristo game-playing and revert to type, he mused on what piece of aristocratic flummery Nigel would come up with next; his own heraldic device perhaps? Crossed builder's hods and a bar sinister would be the most appropriate for the Kelly family; with a noose over all in remembrance of their several shared ancestors who had taken the long drop.

  After having worried himself into nervous exhaustion about their reception, Nigel's play-acting grated on Rafferty. He longed to prick his cousin's posing bubble, but he quickly thrust the temptation away. He needed to keep Nigel sweet. Besides, he should be grateful his cousin not only showed no sign of making good his threat, but that he had used his practiced estate agent charm to such effect that two married women were prepared to put their reputations on the line to provide him with alibis in a double murder investigation.

  Languidly, Nigel gave the names and addresses of the women he claimed could alibi him. ‘I think I can say with confidence that these ladies will confirm what I said. You'll find that one or other of them is able to vouch for me over a period of hours on Friday and Saturday evenings, certainly from seven in the evening till around midnight.’ As he laid careful fingers against his Clintonesque coiffure, careful not to disturb its sleek chestnut sweep, he added, ‘Discretion will be called for as these ladies are both married.’

  As was Nigel, since, to Rafferty's certain knowledge, his divorce had not yet come through, though Nigel didn't trouble to mention that.

  With the alibis now officially supplied, some of the shoulder-shrugging confidence that emanated from Nigel transplanted itself to Rafferty. Freed from the worry that Nigel's alibis might be mere mirages and that his cousin really had no reason, other than spite, to drop him in it, Rafferty felt some of the tension drain away. And as he glanced over at his faux-aristocrat cousin and caught another glimpse of the equally faux-aristocratic cufflinks, he felt a snigger coming on. Because, for Rafferty, who so often seemed to be the one who landed head first in the dung heap, it was rather satisfying that for once, Nigel should find himself in a similar position. Fortunately, he was able to turn the snigger into a coughing fit that had Llewellyn urgently searching out the kitchen for a glass of water. But even as Llewellyn followed Nigel's pointing finger, Rafferty's amusement died a natural death. Because Nigel's trouble was only temporary and was as nothing compared to his own. And once Llewellyn had disappeared from sight, Nigel, clearly not fooled by Rafferty's snigger-turned-cough, took the opportunity to remind him of the fact.

  Dropping the air of languid ennui he had adopted on being cast in the role of murder suspect, Nigel reverted to type and hissed in a furious whisper, ‘I don't know what you think you've got to snigger about. In spite of your best efforts, you're the one really in the frame for these murders and don't you forget it, ‘cos I won't. I can prove where I was on both nights, which is more than can be said for you. And at least I can get myself laid without having to sign up with dating agencies under borrowed names and borrowed documents like some poor, desperate, lonely gits I could name.’

  Rafferty found it a salutary reminder. His amusement was but a memory by the time Llewellyn returned. Rafferty tossed back the water before he told Nigel, ‘I'll speak to these women, Mr Blythe, and make sure they can verify what you say about your whereabouts. I'll get back to you as soon as I can.’

  Nigel, still lounging nonchalantly on the marble mantelpiece, waved a languid hand and murmured, ‘Whatever.’

  Scarcely able to believe he was still free of suspicion, Rafferty made for the door as the bored aristo, Jerry Kelly, left them to find their own way out.

  Before he drove up to York to interview the providers of Nigel's alibis, Rafferty called the team together in the Incident Room. He looked round at the assembled faces: DC Jonathon Lilley, intelligent and studying hard for his sergeant's exams; PCs Lizzie Green, much the same age as the two dead girls and keen as Lilley to find their murderer and Timothy Smales, still wet behind the ears but now a little older and wiser after getting a few more investigations under his belt, Hanks, DS Mary Carmody and the rest. All were anticipating an announcement that Nigel Blythe was well and truly in the frame and all they had to do was prove his guilt.

  Careful to position himself far from the board bearing the witnesses’ photo fit descriptions of ‘Nigel Blythe’, Rafferty took a deep breath, crossed his fingers behind his back and said, ‘It looks like we may not be in for an easy ride after all as Nigel Blythe claims he has alibis. If they check out, we'll need to find the look-alike who stole his identity. Certainly, the Mr Blythe Sergeant Llewellyn and I spoke to earlier seemed confident of his alibis – isn't that so, Sergeant?’

  Llewellyn had been unusually quiet during the return journey. And when Rafferty discovered what had been occupying his mind he was not best pleased.

  ‘A little bit too confident, perhaps,’ Llewellyn now suggested. ‘I wondered if these alibis might not have been pre-arranged.’

  Rafferty had no wish to go down that particular road. But he felt obliged to speak up for his cousin and his alibis. ‘I can't believe that any woman – certainly no one-night-stand as these two would seem to be – would provide a false alibi for a man suspected of two brutal murders.’

  Having successfully shot Llewellyn's theory out of the sky, Rafferty waited for the flurry of speculation and moans to die down. Normally, he would have shared the disappointment that the easy solution was replaced by the hard slog of routine; but this time Rafferty was just relieved that he hadn't yet turned into that solution. ‘Accept it,’ he told them. ‘Think of the overtime.’

  He ignored the muttered, ‘yeah, and all of the unpaid variety, if I know Bradley,’ which issued from several sets of lips. ‘Too much has been taken for granted already in this case.’ He sent up a silent plea for forgiveness to the sick Harry
Simpson who had saved his everything, before he continued. ‘I want every witness, particularly those who were at either party, questioned again.’

  This brought more sotto voce grumbles. ‘I know it's a lot of work, a lot of repetition, but it must be done. Before we nail the murderer or murderers we need to be confident that any potential suspect has been rightly eliminated and not just because someone got sloppy in the belief that the case was already in the bag.’

  ‘Both murders happened in closed-environments, sir,’ Mary Carmody pointed out. ‘The simplest option is to take DNA samples from everyone present.’

  ‘True,’ Rafferty agreed. ‘I put the idea to Superintendent Bradley, but he wasn't keen.’

  Even though the DNA route would probably be less expensive in the long run, ‘Long Pockets’ Bradley had rejected the idea out of hand. The super shared Scrooge's financial outlook and was reluctant to spend money on things that efficient detective work should provide. ‘Maybe he'll reconsider when we've managed to reduce the list of suspects. But to turn from the realms of fantasy to reality, Sergeant Llewellyn has allocated a list of witnesses for each team to re-interview. Timings are going to be vital. Any alibi not substantiated by more than one person must be discounted. It's been known for killers to work in tandem covering for one another, so check and double check.’

  As the team took the lists and began to head for the door, Rafferty shouted after them, ‘I shall want the results on my desk first thing in the morning. Smales, you stay here. I've got another job for you.’

  Typically, Llewellyn had reserved for Rafferty and himself the list featuring Caroline Durward, Isobel, Farnell, Bliss, Dryden and Gifford. He had sat across a desk from Caroline for the best part of half-an-hour and as the others had also had ample time to study him, they were the ones Rafferty most wanted to avoid – certainly until he had more beard growth and another No 1 haircut.