The pleasure in the morning vanished as he remembered he would soon form part of the visiting hordes himself, and he turned glumly away from admiring the lacy patterns on his office window, sat down and tried to concentrate on the latest reports. There were few enough of them, and as they brought nothing in the way of new areas of investigation, his mind was soon free to return to the problem of Llewellyn. Again he questioned his wisdom in issuing the invitation to Llewellyn’s mother.
He put off leaving for as long as he could, but eventually he could prevaricate no longer. His Ma had already had him on the phone several times asking when he could be expected as she'd put the dinner back twice and if he didn't get a move on it would surely be spoilt.
Slowly, like a man going to his execution, Rafferty put on his coat, quietly shut the office door behind him and headed towards his nemesis.
RAFFERTY HAD IMAGINED Llewellyn's mother, when he had found the courage to think of her at all, as being as long and thin and forbidding as those tall black hats Welsh women traditionally wore. So, when he finally met her, he was prepared for the worst. Although surprised to find that Mrs Llewellyn was a rather elegant woman, tall, small-featured and, at fifty-five, still pretty, he had more than half-expected her to have a sharp tongue and decidedly old-fashioned attitudes. And, with the introductions barely over, she didn't disappoint him, though the attack came from an angle he hadn't expected.
Tapping him on the arm, she said, 'I understand you've been introducing my son to the local public houses. He's told me all about it, and I have to say I'm surprised. I never thought to live to see the day when he entered what his father always called Dens of Iniquity.'
Rafferty threw an accusatory look at Llewellyn, who was sitting on the sofa with Maureen, before he attempted to defend himself. 'I'm sorry if you don't approve, Mrs Llewellyn,' he began, looking desperately round his family for some moral support. But they all seemed to find his predicament fascinating. Conversations died, and everywhere he looked he met bright eyes and elbow nudges. They were enjoying his discomfiture, he realised indignantly. Taking a deep breath, he attempted to defend himself. 'I didn't mean,' he began. 'That is, I can assure you he didn't—'
A howl of laughter went up round the room as she tapped him on the arm again and said simply, 'I hope you'll take me, too, while I'm here, if you can find the time. Dafyd might have taken a vow of abstinence to please his father.' For the first time, Rafferty noted the laughter in her eyes, as she added, 'but I didn't. I imagine he knew I was a lost cause as far as that went.'
Another howl of laughter went up. Even young Gemma, whey-faced and unnaturally quiet in the corner of the room, managed a tiny smile.
'Your face, Joe. It's a picture.' Maggie, the eldest of his three sisters ,and the one he had always felt closest to, teased him before she took pity on him and explained. 'Gloria was a dancer before she met Dafyd's father. Case of opposites attracting, you might say.'
Gloria. Rafferty repeated the name to himself and realised it was the first time he'd heard Mrs Llewellyn's forename. Pity he hadn't heard it before; then his imagination mightn't have worked overtime turning her into a monster. He'd known a few Gloria’s in his time, and they'd all known how to enjoy life.
'Dafyd takes after his father, apparently,' Maggie advised him.
'Who'd have guessed it?' Rafferty muttered. Obviously Dafyd's likeness to his father was in character not looks, for he and his mother were both dark and remarkably similar, superficially at least. But, as Rafferty began to discover, where his sergeant was all long-faced seriousness shot through with the occasional dry wit, she was lightness and laughter. She smiled often and obviously enjoyed a good joke as much as any of the other Gloria’s he had known. And not only did she and his Ma appear to have reached a remarkable level of understanding and friendship, but Maureen and her prospective mother-in-law also seemed delighted with one another. There was no trace of the imagined breach. It had all been in his mind. But something had put it there. And that something had undoubtedly been Llewellyn. He resolved to have a quiet word with his sergeant as soon as he got the chance.
'I don't know quite what he expected when he saw you, Gloria,' Kitty Rafferty commented mischievously. 'Some kind of fire-breathing Welsh dragon, I dare say.'
Rafferty managed a sheepish grin. 'Not at all,' he insisted. 'Take no notice of Ma,' he advised Gloria. 'She's always had this tendency to exaggerate.'
As the conversation in the rest of the room returned to its previous volume, he turned back to Gloria and confided, 'though Ma's right. I was a bit apprehensive about meeting you. Especially as your visit was my idea and I was more or less responsible for getting Dafyd and Maureen together in the first place. I was afraid—' He paused, reluctant to admit just what he had been afraid of.
Gloria continued for him. 'You were afraid that, as Dafyd's my only son, I'd come between them.'
'I suppose so. It's just that Dafyd's talk of his childhood coloured my expectations, especially when he mentioned that you didn't even have a television. I suppose I thought—'
'He thought you must be a terribly dour, humourless woman, Gloria,' Ma chipped in again. 'And isn't he ashamed of himself now.' She darted a glance at Gemma before confiding, 'Gloria's been that sympathetic, Joseph. Her visit and good sense has made us all feel so much better about the baby.
'Anyway.' She got to her feet. 'I must dish up. No, you stay there Gloria,' she insisted when Mrs Llewellyn went to get up and help. 'Perhaps you can persuade Joseph that he's too old to be still playing the field. Maybe, if you tell him it's time he settled down, he'd listen.'
Gloria smiled at him when his Ma had bustled off to the kitchen. 'Don't worry. I wouldn't dream of telling you any such thing. And, actually, I do have a television set. Just don't tell Dafyd.’ They shared a conspiratorial smile. ‘He adored his father and, even now, he would upset if he thought I wasn't living up to his father's high-minded principles. I'd rather he didn't realise I'm just a fallible mortal like everyone else, so, whenever I know Dafyd's coming for a visit, I hide the TV. It's only a small portable, so it's quickly enough done. That and the radio go under my bed.'
Her gaze strayed to the upright figure of her son, as he sat chatting to Maureen and Maggie, and she added softly, 'his father was killed by a hit and run driver—drunk, the police thought. The man was never caught. I think it was that which prompted him to join the police. He never actually said, but I think he wanted to try to make sure that other people received the justice that we were denied. Promise me you won't tell him my secret?'
‘May the Lord curse me with a far-arsed wife and a huge brood from her child-bearing hips, if I do,’ Rafferty promised, hand on heart. Gloria grinned and winked.
Just then his Ma carried the turkey in. It was the plumpest turkey he had ever seen and as the aroma of the well-stuffed bird wafted past his nostrils, his mouth watered, making more speech impossible. His sisters followed on with dishes piled high with vegetables and everyone came to the table.
There were eighteen round the dinner table this year; it was fortunate that his sister, Maggie, lived only a few doors away and had cooked a second turkey and all the trimmings. Fortunate, too, that Ma had had the two downstairs rooms knocked into one. As it was, the younger children were seated round a painter's board and trestle. It was covered with a large white linen sheet and made as festive as the table proper with crackers and tinsel garlands and snow-sprayed pine cones that marched across the cloth, stuck down with double-sided Sellotape.
Rafferty smiled. Ma always went to town at Christmas and the tables were a glorious riot of over-the-topness.
As soon as Ma had said Grace, everyone set to with a will. Even Maureen's mother, no doubt given the jollop of something as Ma had threatened, soon became as lively as any of the drunks overnighting in Elmhurst's nick, and began teasing an embarrassed Maureen and recounting such tales of her own courtship days that she had Rafferty's "Uncle" Pat blushing for shame.
The p
arty was still going strong at midnight, the tables pushed back against the wall and the ancient radiogram by now piled with romantic ballads for the close-dancing couples. Ma and Gloria, both widowed for many years, were up dancing with a couple of Ma's gentleman neighbours who had popped in and Rafferty and young Gemma were the only wallflowers.
Even in the now dimmed lighting, he could see that her pretty face was still as unhappy and strained as it had been for most of the day. She had been the first grandchild in the family and had been a bit spoiled by them all. Rafferty, a couple of years out of his teens when she had been born, had fussed over her as much as anyone. Of course, as the rest of the grandchildren arrived, the novelty had worn off. But Gemma remained special to him.
He sighed. And now she was going to be a mother herself. His attempts during the day to try to cheer her up hadn't succeeded. How could they? What did a single, childless man of thirty-eight say to a young girl of sixteen who was soon to be responsible for a new life? But she looked so wretched, that he knew he had to have another try and he made his way through the crush of bodies.
'All right, Moppet?' he asked.
She shrugged.
It was apparent she didn't want to talk. She'd probably listened to enough advice and admonishment to last through a dozen pregnancies as the women of the family thrashed out her future. Instead, he said, 'What do you say we take a twirl and show these shufflers how it should be done?'
That brought a smile as he'd known it would. Gemma had been dance-mad until just lately; ballroom, Latin-American, jive; every time Rafferty had seen her, she'd inveigled him into partnering her, till he'd become pretty adept a dancer himself.
Now, before she could refuse him, he grabbed her hand, shouted, 'Make way for the champions,' and after putting one of Ma's livelier records under the needle of her ancient radiogram, led her into a much-practised jive that cleared the floor and brought a welcome sparkle to Gemma's eyes.
'See,' Rafferty gasped into her ear as the record came to an end and he struggled to regain his breath, 'being a single parent is not the end of the world. You can bring up kids alone and still find time to enjoy yourself. I mean—look at Ma.'
Kitty Rafferty, mother of six, grandmother to twelve, and soon to be a great-grandmother, was now ensconced on the middle of the settee, a gentleman friend on either side of her and flirting like mad with both of them.
Gemma giggled. It was the first time Rafferty had heard her usually infectious giggle all day. Relieved, he put the same record on for a second spin, whirled her around, turned her with a flourish that Nureyev in his heyday would have died for and set off back up the room.
IT WAS MUCH LATER WHEN Rafferty sought out Llewellyn. By now, emboldened by his success with Gemma, and more than his share of Jameson's whiskey, he was ready to put the rest of the world to rights. He followed the Welshman when he went to the bathroom and demanded a few answers when he came out. After all he had been put through, he felt he deserved them. He fixed Llewellyn with a bleary-eyed stare and said, 'I don't get it. Your mum's come down, met Maureen, they get on like a house on fire—so why have you been looking as miserable as a doctored poodle all week?'
'Surely you can guess?'
'I wouldn't ask if I could. Come on, out with it, man.'
Llewellyn hesitated. Then he blurted out, 'It's Maureen. She's your cousin. So tell me, how would you go about asking 'Daisy' the cow if she'll consent to your putting a ring through her nose?'
Rafferty gave a shout of laughter, but quickly sobered when he saw Llewellyn was serious. 'You mean you haven't even asked her yet? What the hell have you been doing all this time?'
'Trying to pluck up the courage,' Llewellyn finally confessed. 'A task not made any easier by the fact that both your mother and mine seem to assume that asking her is a mere formality. I even tried seeking your advice several times,' he admitted, 'but each time I tried you seemed to cut me off.' Rafferty shuffled his feet guiltily. 'You know Maureen. She's a woman with very modern, feminist ideas. She may not even want to get married.'
'You must at least have pinned her down to a general opinion on the subject?'
Llewellyn shook his head. 'Not exactly.'
Exasperated, Rafferty exclaimed, 'For God's sake, man, why ever not? Perhaps if you and Maureen had socked old Socrates and his mates into touch once in a while and discussed the basics, you might know where you stood. Maureen's not stupid. Do you think she doesn't know that both your mother and mine have got you married off already? Especially when Ma hasn't stopped teasing the poor girl about wedding bells all day. And then when her mother chimed in about keeping the guest list small and “select”' – which he guessed meant as few Raffertys as possible – 'I wouldn't have thought she could have much doubt of the way the wind's blowing.'
'I realise that,' Llewellyn retorted. 'But even you must have noticed she looked more embarrassed than pleased about it and immediately changed the subject. What does that tell you?'
'What does that tell me?' Rafferty repeated incredulously, as through his mind, in swift succession, were paraded all the tortures he'd suffered because of Llewellyn's wimpish wooing. That they'd stemmed almost entirely from his own over-active imagination, he disregarded.
'I'll tell you what it tells me.' He realised he was shouting and lowered his voice. 'Has it not occurred to that over-sized intellectual brain of yours that the poor girl was embarrassed – not, as you seem to think – because she doesn't want to marry you, but because you haven't bloody asked her!'
He again dragged his voice down to a loud whisper, and demanded, 'What else do you expect her to be when she must think you don't want to marry her? I'd be bloody mortified in her position.'
While Llewellyn absorbed this, Rafferty thrust his advice home with the poke of an index finger in the chest. 'Do everyone a favour, find the courage of your convictions and ask her.' Rafferty's eyes narrowed. 'Or do you expect Maureen to do the asking? Let me tell you something, Mo might be a modern sort of girl with plenty to say for herself on other matters, but on this subject she's likely to be as traditional as my Ma. Besides, it's hardly good for a girl's ego to have to confess to her friends, her workmates, her snotty-nosed mother, for God's sake, that she had to do the asking.'
Rafferty paused for breath, then went on. 'Do you think that mother of hers wouldn't rub her nose in it every time they had a falling out? And Maureen would blame you. Ask her. That's my last word on the subject. Now.' Rafferty removed his body from its doorframe prop, staggered a little and aimed himself at the front door. 'I'm going home.'
AS RAFFERTY DRIFTED off to sleep, Gemma's face kept passing in and out of his dreams, each time, gazing pensively at him from the frame of a photograph. It was as if, in his dream, she was trying to tell him something.
The dream moved on, became tangled up in the lives of the other young girls involved in the case, their emotions, their vulnerabilities. Perhaps it was the combination of those things that set his mind on the correct path at last. But, all at once, in his sleeping state, anyway, he had the answer.
Of course, it had faded by morning, but certainly, when the phone woke him at seven and groggily, he surfaced from an alcoholic sleep, stretched out a hand and sent the bedside lamp clattering to the floor, he was aware of a vague sense of having dredged up something vital. He shook his head to clear it, winced, finally found the phone and said, 'Ugh?'
He sat up pretty quickly when he absorbed what the voice was saying in his ear. When his head had stopped spinning, he said, 'they're sure it's Massey?'
He listened for a while, asked a few more questions, then hung up. Rubbing his hands over his face, he tried to think. Phone Llewellyn, his brain instructed.
Llewellyn was already up, that much was obvious. He heard Maureen's voice in the background and despite his throbbing head, he managed a grin. 'Been keeping a welcome in that there hillside?' he asked Llewellyn. The Welshman refused to dignify his question with a reply, so Rafferty shrugged and continued. 'G
uess what? The station's just been on. Massey's turned up—only trouble is, he's dead. Hanged himself in some Dutch barn.'
'Hanged, you say?'
It was obvious that the method of suicide Massey had chosen had stirred up Llewellyn's suspicions.
Rafferty paused to accommodate them, then continued. 'According to the Dutch police, he's been living rough for the last few days. The farmer said he saw this wild man in the woods near his place and reported it, but the police took their own sweet time in looking into the matter. Unfortunately, in the meantime, Massey must have made up his mind to end it all. The farmer found him early this morning hanging from the beam in his barn.'
'So, apart from the usual mopping-up operations, the investigation's over?'
'What?' Something went click in Rafferty's brain and the dream of the night returned in its entirety. 'No,' he said. 'The poor bastard didn't do it. Massey isn't the one who killed Smith.' That was another poor B entirely, he thought and I'm the poor sap who has to make the arrest.
Already depressed in body by alcohol, the thought depressed his spirit and he wondered again if he was really cut out for police work. 'I think the poor sod was just terrified of being on the receiving end of another piece of injustice. After all, he had no reason to think the law would get it right this time any more than they did last time.
'No,' he repeated, 'Massey didn't do it. I've finally figured out who did.' He paused and crossed his fingers. 'At least I think I have. I've got a few things to check out first. I'll see you at the station in forty minutes and I'll explain then.'
Rafferty replaced the receiver before Llewellyn could ask any more questions and slumped on the bed. Was it his fault that Massey had killed himself? Had he driven an innocent man to suicide? Maybe if he'd been smarter, quicker to work out the clues that had been there all the time, the poor bastard might still be alive.
RAFFERTY & LLEWELLYN BOXED SET: BOOKS 1 - 4 Page 86
