RAFFERTY & LLEWELLYN BOXED SET: BOOKS 1 - 4

by Geraldine Evans

  Rafferty grinned and joked, 'Love, that many splendored thing, hey? Where does it all go? Sounds like she shared my old man's views on holy wedlock; that two hours before you die is time enough to get hitched.' He stopped abruptly, appalled to find himself talking about love with Llewellyn. It was not a sensible move. Llewellyn's next words confirmed it.

  'Clever trick to manage,' Llewellyn muttered and added half to himself. 'Maybe I should bear it in mind.'

  'No,' Rafferty hastily answered. 'The two hours before you die philosophy is only for cynics like my old man and worn down women like Mrs Massey. You're too young and innocent to follow such a creed. Anyway,' he finished with a forced cheerfulness. 'It's too late. Ma's bought her hat.'

  Fortunately, Llewellyn didn't take the opportunity to confide any other thoughts he might have on love, splendored or otherwise. And Rafferty, already hung about with an uneasy feeling that his well-intentioned nose-poking had dragged a divisive Mrs Llewellyn too early into the lovers' embrace, hastily broke the silence before it encouraged such confidences.

  'To get back to the task in hand,’ he said briskly. ‘I want the number of Massey's car circulated. If he's left the country as seems likely, it may be dumped at one of the air or sea ports. Get on to them, Daff. You know the drill. We need to know if Massey has left the country, and if so, where he's headed for. Does he speak any foreign languages do you know?'

  'Only a smattering of schoolboy French, according to his wife.'

  'What about family or friends? Any contacts abroad?'

  'None. Unless Elizabeth Probyn knows of any. There are the Walkers, of course—the family who emigrated to Australia after their daughter killed herself. Might be worth getting in touch with them, or at least with their local police. Their daughter was another of Smith's victims; an even more tragic victim than the rest. It could create a bond.'

  'I'd rather not trouble the Walkers at this stage. They've been through enough. For the moment just let their local police know the situation. Send them a description of Massey and ask them to keep an eye out for any sudden visitors to the house. It's a long shot. I doubt that Massey would be able to find the money to get to the other side of the world, especially at Christmas, when it's high summer and the most expensive time of the year to get there.'

  'Unless Elizabeth Probyn helped him.'

  Rafferty's eyes narrowed. 'You've changed your tune. Just a few days ago you thought the sun shone out of her—'

  'No,' Llewellyn corrected. 'I merely pointed out that she's not the ogre you seem to think her. It's called being impartial.'

  'You can call it what you like,' Rafferty butted in. 'I've got another name for it altogether.'

  Llewellyn's thin lips became thinner and Rafferty, regretting his taunt, didn't clarify his statement. Instead, he muttered, 'If you'll stop putting the temptation to be otherwise in my path, I'll try to be impartial.'

  I'll even try to keep my cool when I question her, he added silently to himself. Though, considering the delicacy of the questions he had to put to her and her likely reaction, he didn't hold out much hope of succeeding.

  After flicking through his desk diary and checking Elizabeth Probyn's office number, he dialled and spoke to her secretary. The secretary told him her boss had taken a few days' leave. He shared the news with Llewellyn, joked, 'perhaps she’s done a bunk with Massey.’ When this sally met with a poker face that still managed to reprove, Rafferty added, ‘the secretary suggested I try her at home. She even gave me the number. Funny, I'd have sworn I was on the black list.'

  But Elizabeth Probyn wasn't at home, either. Rafferty cocked a hopeful eyebrow at Llewellyn. 'Maybe I was right after all and she has gone off with Massey.'

  Llewellyn didn’t bother to point out that Rafferty's impartiality had died a quick death; the tiny downward quirk of his lips said it for him. However, he did say he thought it unlikely.

  So did Rafferty, but, try as he might, he found it impossible to entirely abandon the fantasy that the ever so correct Elizabeth Probyn had finally blotted her copybook and eloped with one of the criminals she seemed so fond of.

  'Didn't her cleaning lady say her daughter's in hospital? She'd hardly take off, if so.'

  'I'd forgotten that.' With a regretful sigh, Rafferty put the tattered rags of his fantasy behind him. 'I bet she's at the hospital now.'

  He picked up the phone and dialled the number for Elmhurst Hospital where he guessed Elizabeth Probyn’s daughter would be found. After fighting his way past the robotic instructions to press this or that button, he got through to Admissions and managed to speak to a human being. But they had no record of a Miss Probyn as a patient.

  'Probably at some fancy private clinic,' he muttered, as he replaced the receiver. 'I suppose it will wait till she returns home.' Anyway, he realised, the likelihood of Ms Probyn Senior having any involvement in Massey's disappearance was slim at best, and huge quantities of wishful thinking were unlikely to fatten it.

  Putting Elizabeth Probyn to the back of his mind, he busied himself with overseeing their inquiries into Massey's whereabouts, checking out the usual mistaken identifications of car and man that such a search always brought.

  It was after eight before he gave Elizabeth Probyn another thought. But when he tried her number again, there was still no answer. 'Maybe, she's run off with Massey, after all,' he muttered to himself.

  But, true to form, Llewellyn immediately robbed him of such a self-indulgent thought. 'I've just remembered,' he said. 'She's appearing in The Scottish Play at the church hall. If you recall she gave me two tickets. I imagine you'll find her there.'

  Rafferty nodded. He'd forgotten. Llewellyn had tossed the tickets to him, evidently of the opinion that Rafferty was in greater need of exposure to culture than himself. What had he done with them? He rummaged in his pockets, finally finding them in the lining where they had fallen through a hole and been idly screwed into a ball by fidgety fingers. He smoothed them out. 'Bingo. It's the last night. I'll get along there, then.'

  He glanced at the clock. With any luck, he'd catch her in the interval. He hoped so, anyway. He didn't relish having to sit through a great dollop of Shakespeare in order to question her.

  Llewellyn, ever keen to encourage Rafferty's limited interest in the arts, suggested he did just that. 'Although they're only an amateur group, they're very good. I saw them last year in their production of A Midsummer Night's Dream. Why not stay and watch the play to the end? It is only for a few hours and if Massey turns up you can be back here in a matter of minutes. It's not as if anything else is breaking.'

  'You know I'd like nothing better, Daff,' Rafferty hastily assured him. 'But, as Ma says, life shouldn't be given over entirely to the pursuit of pleasure. Duty must come first.'

  To forestall any acerbic comment from Llewellyn concerning this previously unsuspected rectitude, Rafferty picked up the mobile phone from his desk, stuffed it in his torn pocket and headed for the door. 'You can contact me on this if anything comes up.'

  AS RAFFERTY DROVE OFF, he thought about Frank Massey. Things looked black for him, all right. The man was a fool to do a bunk; but was he a guilty fool? The question occupied him all the way to the church hall, which took some time as he hit every red light on the way.

  To his annoyance, he arrived too late for the interval and the doorman, a self-important Jobsworth, refused to let him wait backstage.

  'Can't do that,' he was told, as, with arms folded over the brown overall, Jobsworth's tiny, piggy-pink eyes subjected him to a top-to-toe examination. Rafferty realised he'd failed the test when Jobsworth told him tartly, 'Get too many so-called theatre lovers back here already. Light-fingered the lot of them. Now I don't let nobody back here unless they're vouched for. More than my job's worth. You got anybody to vouch for you?'

  Rafferty rallied and whipped out his warrant card. 'Only the Essex Police Service.'

  Jobsworth nodded sagely, as if he'd suspected as much. It soon became clear he had no h
igher opinion of police honesty than he did of the theatre lovers’.

  'Had some of your lot in here last week,' he informed Rafferty. He sniffed and looked down his nose. 'Unruly bunch. Discovered my spare uniform cap was missing after they’d left. You can be sure I'll do my best to make certain they can never hire this hall again.'

  Rafferty gave up and conceded victory to Jobsworth. Resigned to either waiting in the car or sitting to watch the play, he realised that if he didn't want to risk missing Elizabeth Probyn altogether, he'd have to do the latter.

  The hall was packed. He spotted one empty seat halfway down a row on the right-hand side. Accompanied by tuts from the theatre-lovers, he crept towards his seat, throwing apologies left and right as he stumbled over feet. Subsiding into his chair with a sigh of relief, he squinted at his neighbour's programme.

  As Llewellyn had reminded him, they were doing Macbeth, the play that dare not speak its name and he stifled another sigh. For although he had never seen the play, he'd heard enough about it from his highbrow sergeant to know that it contained plenty of blood and gore; just what he needed in the middle of a murder inquiry.

  He gazed up at the stage, but under the actors' wigs, costumes and stage make up, he couldn't pick out Elizabeth Probyn. Eventually, after another sideways sneak at his neighbour's programme, he twigged that she was playing Lady Macbeth, whose character had already committed suicide. Thank God for that, anyway. Steeling himself for further tuts and muttered, 'Well, really’s!', of the usual British theatre audience, he got up and made for the door, dispensing more apologies as he went.

  Luckily, Jobsworth had taken himself off to be obnoxious elsewhere and Rafferty had no trouble finding the dressing room of the female members of the cast. He knocked on the door and Elizabeth Probyn opened it. Surprisingly, she was alone. Unsurprisingly, she didn't seem pleased to see him.

  'I didn't have you down as a theatre lover, Inspector,' she coolly commented as she turned back to the mirror and sat down. 'Did Sergeant Llewellyn bring you?'

  'No.' Irritated by the implication, especially as it was true, that he'd have to be brought to culture like a horse to water, he instantly bridled and then checked himself. 'He gave me the tickets though.’ He forced an unwilling grin. ‘He knows I'm a sucker for culture.'

  'Really?'

  Too late, he realised he had laid himself open to an enquiry as to why such a self-proclaimed culture-vulture would voluntarily abandon the last part of the play. Fortunately, if she had the impulse to ask such an awkward question she managed to control it and simply resumed collecting various tubes and jars and packing them away in a bag.

  'You're here on an autograph hunt, perhaps?' she dryly suggested. 'Or did you just want to congratulate me on my performance?'

  'What?' Rafferty stared at her. 'Oh. Yes. Sorry.' Not having actually witnessed her performance, he judged it tactful to lie and hope she wouldn't question him. 'You were very good. Actually,' he began, 'I wanted to speak to you about another matter.' He paused, unsure how to go on, and only too aware of her prickly personality. He always seemed to have the knack of rubbing her up the wrong way and, given the subject matter, this encounter was even more likely to follow the usual wrong-rubbing course than most of their previous ones.

  'Another matter?' she encouraged.

  'Er, yes.' Maybe he should have let Llewellyn tackle this one after all and be blowed to professional courtesy. But it was too late now, so, taking a deep breath, he blundered on. 'We've just heard that Frank Massey, one of the suspects in the Smith murder case, has done a runner.'

  In the mirror, her eyebrows rose and Rafferty deduced from her expression that she had guessed why he was here and wasn't going to make it easy for him. 'So? What has that to do with me?'

  ‘His ex-wife told us you and Massey had been quite close at one time and had recently become reacquainted. I wondered—'

  She didn't give him time to finish. 'You wondered whether I might know where he had gone? Really, Inspector, the implication of that leaves me quite breathless. Let me assure you that I remember my position and the responsibilities it carries even if you do not.'

  'I'm sorry. But you must see that I had to ask?'

  She dropped the make-up bag and turned to face him. 'Why? In case I still carried a torch for my first love, you mean?' The idea seemed to amuse her, for she gave a twisted smile. 'What a romantic heart you must have, Inspector Rafferty. I'd never have guessed. I wish I could help you, but I have no idea where Frank Massey is. He didn't confide in me. He certainly didn't ask for my help.' She turned back to the mirror and consulted the watch sitting on the table. 'Now, is that all? Because I'm due to go and take the curtain call with the rest of the cast.'

  He had little choice but to accept his dismissal. Anyway, he was inclined to believe she was telling the truth. She looked weary, with dark shadows under her eyes and as if running off with Frank Massey was the furthest thought in her mind. What would a woman like Elizabeth Probyn want with a wreck like Massey, anyway? She would, he told himself, probably despise him even more than she does me.

  Still, he had a feeling she was keeping something back, something that perhaps she didn't consider important enough or sufficiently relevant to mention. The trouble was, he doubted she would be co-operative if he were to question her further now. Pausing at the door, he nevertheless made a tentative attempt to encourage her confidences.

  'If you should happen to think of anything, anything at all that might help us, I'd be grateful. Whether it concerns Frank Massey's long-forgotten haunts, any long-lost friends he might have in foreign places, or anything else.'

  She inclined her head imperiously, as though she were still in the role of Lady Macbeth. 'As I said before, Inspector, I wish I could help you. I really do. Naturally, if anything occurs to me, I'll contact you.'

  She adjusted her queenly headdress and softly added, 'What a pity the police didn't do their job properly all those years ago. I know that, inexperienced as I was, ex-Inspector Stubbs thought he could lay all the blame at my door for the failure to secure a conviction. He certainly tried his best to do so.

  'But if he hadn't botched Smith's interview in the first place, he'd wouldn't have had to look round for a scapegoat in an attempt to salvage his career, and he'd have saved everyone a lot of grief into the bargain; the victims who came forward as well as the one who didn't; Frank Massey, who wouldn't now be on the run; you, who would avoid the embarrassment of asking me insulting questions; and me, who'd be saved the indignity of answering them.'

  Touché. Thankfully, the ringing of his mobile phone saved him from ignominious dismissal, and gave him the excuse he was looking for to make a more dignified exit. Waving the ringing phone at her stiff, mirrored face, he decamped into the corridor only to find Jobsworth bearing down on him.

  IT WAS LLEWELLYN ON the phone. They'd found Massey's car. It had been abandoned in the port town of Harwich.

  'Harwich,' Rafferty muttered. He scowled as he strained to hear Llewellyn over Jobsworth's loud reproaches. 'Whose ferries operate from there?'

  'I've checked,' Llewellyn told him. 'Sealink and Scandinavian Ferries both run services from there; Sealink to the Hook of Holland and the Scandinavian line to Esbjerg and Gothenburg.'

  'Could be he's headed somewhere else altogether. Left the car at Harwich to fool us and took a train to Portsmouth, Dover, New Haven, Felixstowe or some other sea or airport. He could still be just about anywhere.'

  'I gather Ms Probyn wasn't able to help you then?'

  Rafferty grimaced. His answer was brief and to the point. 'I'll be back there in five minutes. You've spoken to the ferry staff?'

  Llewellyn confirmed it. 'None of those we've so far been able to question noticed a single man fitting Massey's description. Of course, they're busy at this time of the year and I don't imagine they had time to notice individuals, anyway.'

  'All we can do is keep plugging.' He paused and tried to wave Jobsworth away. Apart from the oddness o
f Smith letting Massey into his flat at all, there was still another question he remembered that had yet to be answered. Hopefully, he asked it. 'I don't suppose that neighbour of Smith's has found the note with the registration number of that Zephyr yet?'

  He supposed right.

  'No. I rang him earlier. A Christmas party was obviously in full swing though, so I doubt either he or his wife has tried too hard.'

  Rafferty swore. 'What's the matter with the bloody man? Surely he realises how important that piece of paper could be? Get on to him again, Dafyd. Put the fear of God into him if you have to, but make him promise to have a thorough look for it first thing tomorrow morning.'

  Llewellyn said he'd try and with that Rafferty had to be content, though putting the fear of God into anyone wasn't exactly the Welshman's strong suit.

  He broke the connection, put his face close up against the still expostulating Jobsworth and muttered a few choice Anglo-Saxon expletives before he strode out to the car park and got in his car, his only satisfaction the fact that he'd managed to miss the bulk of the wretched play.

  Chapter Fifteen

  CHRISTMAS EVE DAWNED with a hard frost, and when Rafferty went out to start his car, he found he'd not only neglected to cover the windscreen, but had also used the last of his de-icer. Cursing, he set to scraping the glass, bruising his knuckles in the process. Few of his neighbours had stirred. Lucky devils had probably already started their holiday.

  The thought made him realise that they probably wouldn't be the only ones putting their feet up. The search for Frank Massey might as well go on hold for all the chance they'd have of finding him over the Christmas period. Policemen, too, liked to put their feet up; somehow he doubted his Continental opposite numbers would stir out of their warm stations in numbers for anything less than a full-scale riot.

  Anyway, he reminded himself, just because Frank Massey had lied to them and then taken off, didn't automatically make him guilty of murder; stupidity yes, blind panic yes, murder—not necessarily.