RAFFERTY & LLEWELLYN BOXED SET: BOOKS 1 - 4

by Geraldine Evans

  She looked at him as if not quite certain she had heard aright. 'What are you saying, Andrew?’

  His expression raw, he said simply, 'that I still love you.' His voice hoarse with the intensity of his emotions, he added, 'that I don't want you to leave me, now or ever.'

  'Oh Andrew. My love.' With a sob, Mary Galvin flung herself into her husband's arms and they clung together with a kind of fierce desperation.

  Quietly, Rafferty signalled to Llewellyn and they let themselves out of the cottage. He wondered if it was possible that they had staged that touching little scene for his benefit. They'd certainly had plenty of time to plan it and he thought Mary Galvin's mind was sufficiently cool for the job.

  But even if their emotional display had been genuine and not merely intended to divert suspicion from Andrew Galvin, it still didn't bring him any closer to making an arrest. Sourly, he reflected that the case would have caused him a damn sight less trouble if Melville-Briggs had been the one to be found murdered.

  Chapter Fifteen

  RAFFERTY HAD KEPT AWAY from the hospital all the next day so he wouldn't be tempted to interview Melville-Briggs again. Not that he had anything new to tackle him with, anyway. He didn't even have any solid proof that the, so far, untraced Miranda and the girl in the pub were one and the same. Even if the girl in the pub proved to be this Miranda, it added nothing to the investigation, rather it confused matters. Given Dr Melville-Briggs's womanising, there might be any number of unexplained females, however tenuously connected with the case, still to come out of the woodwork.

  But even if a couple of battalions of women appeared, none of them would be Linda Wilks. Dr. Melville-Briggs hadn't murdered her and he'd better accept it if he was ever to solve the case.

  It wasn't as though he was short of other candidates for the crime; if anything, he had an over-abundance of them, and would have been happier if their numbers were less and the pointers to someone's—anyone's, guilt more conclusive. But as wishful thinking wasn't going to solve the murder, he decided to ring through to the station to see if, by some miracle, the killer had decided to come in to confess. His radio was on the blink, he’d left his mobile in his dank little office at the hospital, and when he finally found a phone that worked, it was to find a message from his mother awaited him rather than a murderer's confession. She had been trying to contact him for several hours, apparently.

  'You're sure she didn't say what she wanted?' he asked the desk sergeant.

  'She said it was a private matter. You want to get round there, Sir. She sounded a bit breathless to me— agitated like. Didn't she have those heart palpitations last year? Anyway, she said you were to go as soon as you got the message.'

  The heart palpitations had turned out to be nothing more than indigestion. Rafferty wondered briefly why she hadn't phoned one of his sisters and then shrugged. He'd find out soon enough. He hoped it wasn't a ruse and that he wouldn't discover Maureen concealed in the cupboard under the stairs when he got there. She could be as crafty as any double-dealing diplomat, his ma.

  Still, she wasn't getting any younger and she'd never summoned him off a job before. Perhaps this time she really was ill. He'd left Llewellyn holding the fort in the office so he instructed, 'Tell my sergeant I'll ring him if it looks as though I'm going to be a while.'

  Rafferty left the call-box and put his foot down all the way to his mother's house, but when he got there he found her sitting in her favourite chair by the window, watching the world go by and looking a damn sight more hale and hearty than he felt himself. His eyes flickered suspiciously when he saw she was in her best navy-blue Crimplene dress and his ear cocked for the sound of footsteps emerging from the cupboard under the stairs. 'What's going on, Ma?' he demanded. He felt hot and cross and not in the mood for any romantic games.

  She stood up, arms akimbo and he didn't need his policeman's nose to sniff trouble.

  'What's going on?' she repeated caustically. 'Little enough from what I hear,' she went on. 'Where've you been? I've been ringing that station all morning.'

  'My radio's on the blink so they couldn't get hold of me, and I forgot to charge my mobile. Anyway, I'm here now. What's the problem?'

  'The same one,' she told him flatly. 'Jack.'

  Jailhouse Jack! He'd forgotten all about him. He must have been charged by now, Rafferty realised guiltily He’d probably be in the remand cells at the Harcombe nick – their local prisons being full to the brim with other ne’er-do-wells – awaiting trial about the stolen whisky.

  'You said you'd see to it, Joseph, but you haven't. According to Deirdre you haven't been near nor by. I was that ashamed when she told me. So much for my son, The Inspector,' she mocked. 'And to think I promised Deirdre she could rely on you. Do you want the poor thing left standing at the altar?'

  'It won't come to that, Ma,' he muttered feebly.

  'No?' Her voice was sharp with annoyance. 'It seems it will if you've got anything to do with it. I was going to go to the station myself and wait for you if you didn't turn up.'

  'I'll see to it, Ma,' he vowed desperately. 'I'll see to it this afternoon, I promise.'

  'Yes, well,' she sniffed. 'See that you do. I promised the poor girl,' she repeated. 'Would you make me go back on my word?'

  His mother had always had the knack of making him feel like a guilty schoolboy, he reflected. Perhaps all mothers were the same, but his was expert at cutting him down to size. At the moment, he felt about twelve years old and he scowled, but that, of course, only encouraged her to rub salt into the wounds.

  'Why couldn't you have been a builder like the rest of the family?’ she demanded plaintively, 'then at least I might have been able to get hold of you when I wanted you. But oh no, you were set on becoming a policeman, wouldn't listen to your mother.'

  She made it sound as though he had joined the police solely from a perverse desire to annoy her, yet having a son in the police force had been almost entirely her idea. The free boots for his expensively large feet had held a strong appeal for a widow with five younger children to feed and clothe.

  'Now look at you.' His mother was in full spate. 'Not only have you no time to ring your mother, but you're in charge of trying to catch a dangerous murderer at that loony bin. I don't like it, Joseph. I don't like it at all.'

  He was getting progressively less keen on it himself as the case went on, but he wasn't prepared to admit it to his mother. 'There's more than me standing between chaos and the forces of law and order, Ma,' he remarked soothingly.

  'That's as may be, Joseph’ – Rafferty didn’t fail to notice the second use of his full first moniker – ‘but I'd feel much easier in my mind. If you must be a policeman, if you had a wife to look after you. A nice sensible girl. Like your Uncle Pat's girl, Maureen, for instance.’

  Here we go again, Rafferty thought with a sigh. However, to his relief, having put across her feelings in her usual forceful fashion, she relented and for once, didn't pursue the point.

  'I don't suppose you've eaten?' Another guilty flush crossed his features. 'I thought not. The kettle's on.' She looked closely at him. 'How's your murder going, anyway? Any nearer to catching the wicked creature?'

  'No,' he admitted flatly.

  'Well, it's early days yet. Look at some of the cases you read about, drag on for weeks they do.'

  Rafferty managed a weak smile. 'Thanks, Ma. You're a real Job's comforter. That's sure to keep the Superintendent sweet when next he wants a report on my progress.'

  'Well, if he thinks he can do any better, let him try,'

  That was the trouble, Rafferty reflected grimly. He just might. 'I ought to be going, Ma.'

  'A few more minutes aren't going to make any difference.' she insisted. 'Let that Superintendent cool his heels for a bit. You might as well take your wedding present while you're here.' She pointed to a beautifully wrapped parcel sitting on an occasional table by the kitchen door.

  'What is it?'

  'A slow cooker.'
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  'How much do I owe you?'

  'Ten pounds.'

  'That's cheap, isn't it?' he asked suspiciously. 'It's not knocked-off, is it? Because, if it is—'

  'Of course it's not,' exclaimed his mother vehemently. 'It's bankrupt stock. With so many businesses going to the wall these days, there's a lot of bargains about.'

  Bargains—the very word made him uneasy. His ma's love of "bargains" didn't stop at the January sales unfortunately and, although, like most of the rest of the family, she was honest enough after her own lights, she saw nothing wrong in buying the occasional questionable item.

  Everybody did it, she defended herself when he tried to remonstrate with her. But of course, with so many relatives working on building sites – which seemed to positively breed illicit items – she had more opportunities than most. Little had changed it seemed. Why should she pay over the odds, she had often demanded, just because her son was in the Police Force? And her on a widow's pension.

  She knew how to turn the knife, his ma. No wonder he'd been glad to leave home early and move into the section house. He could hardly have arrested his own mother for receiving, yet neither could he pretend to uphold the forces of law and order when his dinner was heated in a "hot" infra-red grill. He sighed. A policeman's lot in the Rafferty family was not a happy one.

  An hour later he was finally able to escape, after finishing his tea and picking up his present and promising, once more, that he would see to Jack straightaway. At least, by doing as he was bid in this it would give his mother one less excuse to persuade him into her parlour for matchmaking purposes and he might be able to get on with solving the murder in relative peace.

  RAFFERTY POPPED HIS head round the door of his office. 'I've got to go out again. Some checking up to do,' he explained quickly, shutting the door behind him before Llewellyn could offer to come with him. This was one task he wanted to see to by himself.

  He turned into the car park at the Harcombe police station, ready, if not wholly willing, to do his familial duty. But as he knew he'd never hear the end of it if he didn't at least make the attempt, he gritted his teeth and put a good face on it.

  'Morning, Tom,' he greeted the desk sergeant with false bonhomie in an attempt to cover his awkwardness. 'I rang earlier about a fellow called Jack Delaney. The constable who answered the phone told me he'd been charged and was back in the cells on remand. I'd like a word with him.'

  'Oh yes?' The sergeant eased his bulk off the counter and looked at Rafferty with interest. 'I didn't know you were involved in this case, Inspector. You know Brown's back from that case up north and has taken over the investigation?'

  Rafferty hadn't, and now he swore silently. The desk sergeant whistled and obtained the services of the nearest constable to escort Rafferty down to the cells. 'Brown's in his office,' the sergeant told him slyly. 'You'll want to see him, of course. Out of courtesy, like.'

  'Of course,' Rafferty muttered, trying to stop himself from glaring at his persecutor. In his late forties, the desk sergeant was only hanging on for his pension. He knew all about the little feud between Rafferty and Rick Brown, and, having long since given up on getting beyond the rank of sergeant, it amused him to pass the years till retirement fomenting trouble amongst his superiors, the "clever young buggers", as he called them. He wasn't partisan; he despised them all without particularity.

  Affecting an air of unconcern, Rafferty said, 'I'll see chummy first,' and followed the constable down to the cells. Before he'd learned that Brown was in charge of the case, he'd still had a faint hope of emerging from the station with his pure policeman image virgo intacta. But once he discovered their distant family ties, Brown would plunder his most secret cranny with all the finesse of a mad rapist. Rafferty knew well enough that Rick Brown was still looking for an opportunity to get his own back and here he was with no choice but to present it to him, gift-wrapped.

  The constable unlocked the door of the cell and let Rafferty in, banging the door shut behind him. Luckily, Jack waited till then to express his joy at their reunion, leaping to his feet as relief chasing the worry from his face. 'Long time no see. Sure an' you're a sight for sore eyes. Are they lettin' me go then?'

  'No. Not yet.'

  The expression on Jack's face was that of one whose trust had been irretrievably shattered. 'But Deirdre said... I thought you'd come to get me out,' he reproached. 'What's goin' on?'

  If it hadn't been for Jack's fiancée, Rafferty’s cousin, Deirdre, a sensible girl who didn't deserve such a husband, he wouldn't have bothered his head about his gormless relative’s fate. But he consoled himself with the thought that Jack was taking his bride back to Dublin with him after the wedding. It could be worse. 'Why don't you tell me all about it, ‘he encouraged now.

  With a face as deceptively blameless as a choirboy's, Jack chorused in his peculiar high-pitched voice, 'They're fitting me up, Jar, I didn't do it, as God's me witness.'

  'Let's save God for the real witness-box, shall we?' Rafferty suggested tightly, annoyed by Jack's use of his old childhood nickname. 'I'm sure he's got enough on his plate at the moment worrying about your nuptials. Right. Where and when is the crime of the century supposed to have taken place and what were you doing at the time?'

  'It was last Friday night, way over near Colchester. But I wasn't anywhere near there.'

  Rafferty's drooping head jerked up at this. 'You mean the night of the murder?'

  'Was that the same night?' Jack grinned, his troubles evidently forgotten. 'Well, well, you were kept busy then, one way and another. Poor old JAR. Still,' he added airily, 'if you will join the pigs you've only yourself to blame.'

  Rafferty looked pityingly at him. The eejit didn't even have the nous to keep his usual insults to himself. Now he said flatly, 'If you want this particular pig to squeak in your defence, you'd better remember your manners.'

  The tactlessness of his remark must even have penetrated Jack's thick skull, for he murmured, 'Sorry, Joseph,' in a suitably chastened manner. 'Slip of the tongue.'

  'Try not to have any more,' Rafferty advised, 'or there's a good chance I might have a slip of the foot and slide right back out that door, leaving you this side of it. Wedding or no wedding. Now,' he sat down on the thin mattress, 'why don't we make ourselves comfortable? Then you can tell me the rest.'

  'I didn't do it, Joe, honest, I didn't. Admittedly, the money would have come in useful for the honeymoon, but I was casin' a joint out at Elmhurst that night.'

  'And that's your defence, is it?' Rafferty sighed. 'It won't do. It won't do at all. Let's start again. You were out for a walk on a particularly fine spring night...'

  Surprisingly, Jack caught his drift. 'Right. I was out for this walk, like, me and Deirdre and—'

  'Hold on, hold on. Let's get this straight. Do you usually take your fiancée out with you when you look over a likely prospect?' It seemed a strange thing to do, but then, with Jack, anything was possible, the dafter the better.

  'It was only a general once-over,' Jack defended himself from the slur of unchivalrous behaviour. 'We'd been to the pub by the loony-bin. Deirdre knows the landlord, and I fancied me chances of gettin' afters.'

  Rafferty's instincts went into overdrive at this. 'What time was this?' he demanded. 'What time did you leave the pub I mean?'

  Unnerved, Jack was, for a moment or two, incapable of getting his small vocabulary together, but at last he managed it. 'I dunno. About half eleven or thereabouts, I s'pose.' He pulled a face. 'Deirdre knocked the idea of afters on the head. Shame, as it was a good night, too. Anyhow, sure an' we was walkin' back up the road to where I'd left me car and—'

  'You hadn't left it in the pub car park then?'

  'Course not! Do you think I'm daft?' Rafferty forbore to comment. 'I'd had a few drinks, hadn't I? It was after hours and the landlord's late with his back-handers this month. Deirdre was worried the cops might pounce out of spite. You know how the bastards...' Jack's voice trailed away and a sheepish g
rin decorated his face. 'Sorry,' he mumbled. 'Anyway, the car was up the road, across the way from the madhouse on that patch of waste ground.'

  Rafferty broke in. 'Why didn't you tell the police you'd been in the pub with a bar-full of witnesses at the time someone was ripping off the lorry?'

  'I told you,' he explained patiently. 'It was after hours. I'd have got them all in shtook, wouldn't I?'

  Apparently Jack's capacity for making instant friends hadn't changed either. He thought the whole world was his bosom buddy.

  'I'd a still been there meself, only Deirdre kept on at me till I agreed to leave.'

  Rafferty reminded himself that he was related to this cretinous individual, even if only distantly, and counted to ten before he allowed himself to reply. 'I see. So in your opinion, it's better to go down for another five stretch than to nark on your mates for after-hours drinking?' It wasn't as if they'd been that much over time, but perhaps his cousin had a point. Back-handers were a way of life and some of the uniformed branch could be most unpleasant about any delay in receiving their dues.

  Jack nodded, quite impervious to the sarcasm. 'That's right. I'll tell you somethin' else, an' all. Deirdre said I'd 'ad enough to drink – you know how women do – anyway, when I saw the bleedin' monk I thought she might 'ave a point. Perhaps I ought to lay orf it for a bit. What do you think?'

  'Monk? What monk was this then? Friar Tuck?' Rafferty was beginning to wonder if the low-wattage light bulb of his cousin's intelligence hadn't finally flickered out altogether.

  'I dunno,' Jack answered in all seriousness. 'He 'ad his hood over 'is 'ead. I only saw 'im for a second. Gave me quite a turn, I can tell you. Thought I was gettin’ them whatdoyoumacallits—the DTs'.

  Rafferty decided to humour him. 'This monk,' he asked patiently, 'where did he go?'