RAFFERTY & LLEWELLYN BOXED SET: BOOKS 1 - 4

by Geraldine Evans

  From what Charles had said, Barbara had knocked him sideways. He had never experienced such a depth of love for anyone. In dying, Barbara had taken away the hope that she would change her mind. Without that hope, the longed for reward of her love, would he have bothered to put himself and his children through the upheaval of a divorce? If he hadn't overheard his wife's lies about Barbara, he might easily have left things as they were, and simply thrown himself even more into his business life.

  Rafferty suspected Hilary Shore would have been willing to risk a great deal to ensure the status quo, to avoid a life where she could expect to be either shunned or patronised. How ironic if, in order to keep her husband and her position, she had killed Barbara, but had then lost it all, anyway.

  Rafferty glanced up from his musings to discover that Llewellyn was staring into space, a more morose expression than usual on his face. He deduced that his sergeant's thought processes had followed a similar line to his own and had also failed to come up with a conclusive reason for pinning a murder on any one of them.

  'Cheer up, Dafyd. It could be worse. We nearly had another theory on the murder to add to the growing pile, but I managed to work out, all by myself, that it was a non-starter.'

  He explained the theory about the marigold that his Ma had sparked off and how he had, at first, believed it could put Thomson more firmly in the frame. He kept to himself the message about Llewellyn's choice of yellow roses as a birthday gift for Maureen—he might be glad of that little pearl the next time Llewellyn got uppity.

  'No-one can say I'm not prepared to consider all the angles,' Rafferty grinned. 'But I think that one's a little off the wall, as our American cousins say. Can you imagine a man like Thomson saying anything with flowers? The Poet Laureate, he's not. Though, to clear his name off the list once and for all, I'll get onto the Ministry of Agriculture and find out exactly where Thomson stood with regard to that meadow. I want to see if he received any compensation for not being able to use it. If he did, he had no axe to grind, and therefore, no reason for murdering that particular victim.'

  'Still, it's an interesting idea,' Llewellyn remarked, as if anxious that Rafferty's least likely theory shouldn't have too easy a death. 'And a countryman would be more likely to be familiar with the language of flowers. Learned at his mother's knee, perhaps?'

  'Have you seen his mother?'

  Llewellyn shook his head. 'She was out when I called to question Thomson, if you remember.'

  'Terrible old woman. If she'd lived a few hundred years ago, she'd have been burnt as a witch. Even so, I doubt she'd have much knowledge of something like the language of flowers.' He snorted. 'She seemed to find the English language difficult enough. The only use either of them is likely to have for flowers would be to poison someone with 'em. A dose of deadly nightshade would be more in their line.'

  'Mmm.' Llewellyn stroked his jaw, gazed thoughtfully into space, and proceeded, to Rafferty's dismay, to launch into another lecture. 'Bit obvious perhaps? Especially when there are other, more seemingly innocuous plants she could use. It's surprising how many ordinary plants and flowers are poisonous. For instance, did you know that the leaves of tomatoes and rhubarb are dangerous when eaten? Even the superfluous parts of the common old potato can do unpleasant things to the stomach.'

  Irritated, Rafferty wondered if there was a subject Llewellyn didn't know something about. Better still, one that he wasn't prepared to lecture him on?

  So much for his attempt to inject a bit of cheer into the proceedings. Conscious that they were no further forward in catching the murderer than they had been from day one, and that both Superintendent Bradley and the media were becoming daily more critical of his handling of the case, Rafferty had no qualms about pricking the Welshman's knowledge bubble. 'As the victim was smothered, not poisoned, I don't see that it much matters, do you?'

  Llewellyn chose to ignore Rafferty's sarcasm. 'Charles Shore's mobile phone went missing before the murder,' he began. 'I know his wife took it for granted that the au pair had borrowed it, as it was found in her room, but it could just as easily have been taken by another member of the household and put in the Italian girl's room to hide the fact. It might be worth checking what numbers were called on it the day of the murder.

  Dammit, thought Rafferty, he'd meant to do that. It was annoying that he'd forgotten all about it.

  'It's certainly a coincidence that it went missing the day before the murder,' Llewellyn went on. 'I'll have a chat with the au pair and...' Rafferty grinned as his sergeant's voice petered out.

  'Have you just remembered that our Carlotta eats innocent young Welshmen for breakfast? Perhaps Mrs Griffiths will agree to chaperone you? Go on,' he teased. 'You'll be safe enough. After all,' he added, mischievously, 'you're practically engaged to Maureen.' At this, Llewellyn's lugubrious countenance looked even more worried, and Rafferty exploded, 'Oh, for Christ's sake! All right, I'll speak to the wretched girl. While I'm doing that, and in order to clear Thomson off the suspect's list once and for all, you can contact the bureaucrats at the Ministry. I want you to ask about the EU Set Aside Policy. See if Thomson lost out financially by being unable to plant crops in that meadow.'

  He'd intended to ring them himself, but the prospect of playing pass the parcel – him being the parcel – with a lot of bureaucrats was more than he could stomach. Anyway, Llewellyn probably had a contact there from his university days. 'If you're right and she didn't borrow the phone, then whoever did, could have been the person who left the message for Barbara Longman.'

  'That possibility had occurred to me, sir,' said Llewellyn. 'And, apart from Mrs Griffiths, who was the only person who would know where to find her when she left the house?'

  'The person who left the message,' Rafferty replied obligingly. 'It's worth looking into, as we haven't been able to trace this so-called chap from the Conservation Society who was supposed to have left the message. All their members and their friends and relations deny phoning here that afternoon.'

  He took the car keys from Llewellyn. 'Seeing as you're going to be idling at the office while I've got the unenviable task of chatting up the lovely Carlotta, when you've persuaded the servants at Whitehall to be civil, you can also find out which company Charles leased his mobile phone from. Get on to them and ask them to check their records for the numbers rung on it last Thursday. It'll be interesting if the Shores' home number does show up.'

  Before Llewellyn had a chance to even open his mouth, Rafferty decided to pass on his Ma's grievance now rather than later. He thought it was about time he got some satisfaction out of this blasted case. 'By the way, what on earth possessed you to buy Maureen yellow roses for her birthday? Surely, with all that useless knowledge you've got stuffed in your head, you know they symbolise the waning of love?'

  Llewellyn's jaw dropped.

  Happy that he'd had the final word for a change, Rafferty turned and closed the office door firmly behind him before the Welshman managed to find his voice.

  Chapter Fifteen

  'I RANG THE MINISTRY,' said Llewellyn, later that day, when Rafferty had returned to the office. 'And according to the chap I spoke to, the Set Aside regulations can be abused. Farmers are supposed to leave fields fallow on a rotation basis, but some set aside their least fertile land permanently—land that would be unproductive and unlikely to be used for crops anyway.'

  'And were you able to find out if friend Thomson claims this compensation?'

  Llewellyn nodded. 'The chap at the Ministry checked and got back to me just before you returned. Thomson's received compensation since the regulations were implemented. And, according to one of his neighbours, it's for the same piece of land—Tiffey Meadow. He boasts about it, apparently.'

  'I bet it amused him to make an issue out of it with the Conservation Society, when he didn't want to plant in it anyway.' Rafferty frowned. 'I wonder if – as the meadow is protected under The Wildlife and Countryside Act – whether he's entitled to claim compensation un
der the Set Aside rules?'

  'Do you want me to get back onto the Ministry and find out?'

  Rafferty shook his head. 'No. It's not important. He might be an unpleasant bugger, but I'm not going to bring myself down to his level by grassing on him to the bureaucrats. Let them do their own dirty work. You've found out what I wanted to know. Namely, that whether he's entitled to the compensation or not, Thomson hasn't been losing out financially from being unable to use that meadow. Rather takes away any strong motive for being more than gratuitously unpleasant to Mrs Longman, doesn't it? By the way, I had a word with little Carlotta. She was adamant that she hadn't taken the mobile phone. Became quite passionate about it, with lots of heaving bosom, lyrical Italian, and enough tears to raise the water table. Amazing sight. Did you manage to find out if anyone used the mobile phone to dial the Shores' home number that day?'

  Llewellyn nodded. 'They did. And I found out something else as well.'

  'Oh yes?' Llewellyn looked remarkably pleased with himself, Rafferty noticed. As far as he was aware, they had no reasons to be cheerful; their discoveries so far were hardly earth shattering, as the Super had already told him, at considerable length. But then, the Welshman was naturally contrary. He was probably only looking forward to breaking more bad news, Rafferty told himself grimly, painfully aware that he was running out of ideas and short on proof for the ones he did have. None of the family cars had been seen near the meadow. No-one had seen anything.

  'You know you were interested in the language of flowers, sir—Joseph?' Llewellyn went on.

  'Was interested, you mean. I told you that little idea was a dead duck.' And he would prefer to give it a decent burial. To stop Llewellyn harping on about it, he observed sharply, 'As you discovered Thomson was compensated for not planting in that meadow, the Language of Flowers theory is nothing more than a red herring.' Another one—if he went on like this, he consoled himself, he could always start a fish farm with the bloody things. 'I suggest we forget that damn marigold. We've got plenty of other things to occupy us. I doubt if we'll ever discover what it was doing in the victim's hands, anyway.'

  Undiscouraged, Llewellyn persisted. 'Actually, I think I may have done just that.'

  Warily, Rafferty raised his head. 'Oh?'

  As if attempting to peer over a lecture hall lectern, Llewellyn raised himself to his full height of 5' 9" before he continued. 'As we know, that particular variety of marigold doesn't grow in Tiffey Meadow. It's a cultivated, not a wild variety, which means that Barbara Longman couldn't have pulled it up as she struggled with her killer. It's obvious that someone brought it to the meadow, but why would the victim do such a thing? She was only stopping off there on her way to the rehearsal of the play. She was presumably in a hurry, so was hardly likely to pause to pick flowers from her garden. The only feasible explanation, as far as I can see, is that her murderer must have picked it, brought it to the scene and deliberately put it between her fingers.'

  Rafferty frowned. 'But who? Why? Tell me that and I might be prepared to listen. We've discounted Thomson. Can you suggest anyone else in this case to whom flowers hold such great significance?'

  'Who else but the victim herself?'

  The Welshman's usually sallow cheeks were flushed. Rafferty had seldom seen him so keyed up, and he began to catch a little of his sergeant's enthusiasm himself. 'Go on, then,' he encouraged. 'Tell me the rest of this great discovery of yours. If I don't get some definite answers soon, I think I'll burst.'

  But Llewellyn wasn't to be rushed. He apparently intended to savour his moment of triumph. 'As to the why—I've got an acquaintance at Essex University, who's an expert on Sixteenth Century romantic poetry as well as the Victorian flower language,' he explained. 'According to him, in the language of flowers, the marigold that Barbara clutched signified grief.'

  He met Rafferty's eyes and they gazed at one another for some seconds before Llewellyn added softly. 'My studies of psychology tend me to the belief that the murderer, knowing how important flowers were to Mrs Longman, used the symbolism of the flower in order to seek her absolution for his crime.'

  Slowly, Rafferty nodded. 'Could be. And who's the person most likely to suffer grief from her murder? The one most likely to seek absolution?’

  'Henry. He was an artist, remember, so it seems the sort of thing he would be likely to do. I really can't see Charles Shore doing such a thing, however much he might have loved her. It simply wouldn't be his style.'

  Rafferty's heart began to thump. He forgot his previous doubts in the excitement of Llewellyn's discovery. Slowly, he nodded. 'And it certainly isn't Hilary's style, either. Whether or not there was anything going on between Barbara and Shore, Henry believed there was. When you think about it, even the method of murder fits. Suffocation – when you compare it with our previous case and the victim's battered, destroyed face – seems a pretty gentle murder method.'

  Llewellyn nodded. 'He loved her. He would have wanted her to suffer as little as possible, even if he thought she'd been unfaithful. He probably held a cushion over her face; that way, he wouldn't even have to look at her while he killed her.'

  'It fits. And it certainly explains that flower away very neatly. And to think I swallowed his story... He fooled us both, Dafyd. He must have taken the housekeeper's keys from her bag after all, and driven off in her car.' Hadn't Llewellyn said the inquisitive Mrs Watson couldn't hear traffic noises from her kitchen? He was generous enough to congratulate his sergeant on his thoroughness. 'Well done, Dafyd. If it hadn't been for you...'

  Llewellyn was equally generous. 'But if you hadn't thought of the significance of the flower first...'

  Rafferty grinned sheepishly, aware that he had been ready enough to dismiss it. 'So we're both clever buggers,' he exclaimed, as he got up and clapped his sergeant heartily on the back. Unblushingly, he declared, 'I always knew we'd make a damn good team, Taff, and that's a fact.'

  His self-satisfaction flattened out a few seconds later. If it was true, how the hell did they prove it? But, they mightn't need to, he realised, as he picked up the phone and began to dial. Henry was weak. Surely, with a little pressure, he could be made to crack? For whatever reason he'd killed his wife, Rafferty suspected that, in his heart of hearts, Henry would long to confess. To gain the absolution he apparently craved.

  IT WAS STRANGE HOW history repeated itself, Rafferty reflected as Mrs Griffiths let them in and left them to wait in the library. This had been one of those cases where it had happened frequently; even Charles Shore had commented on it, he remembered. Rafferty had the eerie sensation that a malevolent and ghostly brain had been guiding its path.

  Once again, they waited in the library for Henry to appear. Or rather, not just Henry, for Rafferty had made it clear to the housekeeper that he expected to see the entire household; family, staff, the lot. He wanted plenty of witnesses when Henry confessed, enough to make a later retraction impossible. He was determined that no-one would have cause to accuse them of police brutality when Henry finally admitted the truth.

  Fleetingly, as the minutes ticked by and still no-one came, Rafferty wondered if Mrs Griffiths had chosen not to pass on his message. But then, he reflected, even though she might wish to defy him, she wouldn't dare. Besides, he'd taken the precaution of passing the phone to Llewellyn so he could relay his request, and he didn't think she'd want to get her compatriot in trouble with his boss.

  They shared their waiting time with Charles Shore's young son, Edward. Far more self-possessed than his cousin, he knelt on the floor sticking together a broken computer joystick and studiously ignored them.

  After attempting several friendly overtures, all of which were rebuffed, Rafferty, made irritable by the anxious waiting, gave up, sat back and watched as the excess glue congealed on the ruinously expensive rug. Nose clenched against the overpowering stench, he sourly hoped that when Shore eventually deigned to turn up, he would deliver a painful punishment. All he needed to make the waiting time perfect, wa
s for Llewellyn to start grumbling again about his sinuses. Being more concerned himself with suffering imminent brain damage, he got up and flung open a window.

  To Rafferty's surprise, when Edward squirted yet another long sausage of glue from the tube, the Welshman not only made no complaint about the smell, but actually began to enthuse about the damned stuff to such an extent that Rafferty wondered if he ought to notify medical science of its curative powers.

  'Marvellous, you know, this modern glue. It'll stick anything. I remember, last year, I broke my mother's favourite fountain-pen. She didn't think it would ever work again and nor did I, but we were both wrong, it was as good as new. I was talking to a chemist friend of mine about it and he explained...'

  Rafferty groaned and tried to tune out the drone of Llewellyn's voice. Even if his sergeant had solved the case, Rafferty wasn't sure he wouldn't prefer to hear about Llewellyn's sinus trouble rather than endure another of his lectures.

  Where the devil was Henry Longman and the rest? He had primed himself up for this confrontation and the longer the delay, the more doubts began crowding in. They made him feel guilty as this had been Llewellyn's triumph. You're jealous, Rafferty, his Catholic conscience pricked, that's all that's the matter with you. You're trying to pull holes in Llewellyn's deductions just so you can feel superior. The trouble was, there was still one tiny point that Llewellyn's explanation didn't cover.

  Denying his conscience's unfair conclusion, Rafferty took a deep, glue-coated breath, and persuaded his mind to stop dwelling on his doubts about the case, by letting his eyes flicker from Edward and his growing river of glue, over to Maximillian Shore's portrait and the egotistical Latin quotation beneath. The arrogance of the wording still irritated him. Wasn't it typical of a man like Maximillian Shore to choose such a motto?

  Rafferty had been staring intently into old Maximillian's painted eyes for several minutes, still hoping to clear up the lingering doubts, when suddenly, he saw what should have been obvious to him virtually from the start. How could he have been so blind?