Slowly, his hand reached out again for the phone.
Chapter Seventeen
THE ELMHURST PRIVATE Sanatorium might now be called "Green Lawns" and be under different ownership, but as Llewellyn drove through the gates, Rafferty saw that the place looked much the same as he remembered from when it had been the scene of an earlier murder.
The hushed air that, in a noisy modern world, only the wealthy or those with triple glazing could afford, still hovered over the manicured lawns, their well-nourished lushness contrasted by the light dressing of December snow.
Even the gate-porter to whom they had shown their identification was the same. Rafferty searched his memory for his name. Then it came to him. Gilbert—that was it. From what he knew of the man, he was surprised he still had his job.
After enquiring at the reception desk they were directed down a thickly carpeted corridor to the rear of the Georgian house which accommodated the administrative offices, and into the much more recently added wings which contained the private rooms.
Elizabeth Probyn didn't look up when the door opened, but simply went on spooning the breakfast cereal into the girl's mouth, tenderly, carefully, making sure none was spilt. She didn't turn her head when he called her name, but continued to deliver spoon from bowl to mouth as though it were the most important thing in the world to her. It probably was.
A silence took hold, which Rafferty forced himself to break with a careful warning. 'I feel I ought to tell you, Ms Probyn, that we know pretty well everything now.'
Still, she said nothing.
Rafferty had never had occasion to caution a Chief Crown Prosecutor before, though there had been many a time when he'd wanted to, particularly this one. That desire had faded. He'd disliked and resented her, for so long, that the feeling of pity that had replaced such emotions didn't sit comfortably. Still, it was strong and threatened to unman him. He wished he could forget what he knew, what his phone calls had confirmed, sweep it under some wide, grey carpet out of sight of man's justice. But he couldn't. He reminded himself that he had fantasised about arresting this woman. And now—now it was the hardest, most gut-wrenching thing he had ever had to do.
He found his voice again. 'This is your daughter?'
She nodded. 'How did you find out?'
'It was the pictures that led me to the rest.'
'Pictures?'
'The photographs of your daughter in your home. It suddenly struck me you only had pictures of her as a new-born baby and as a young woman, with nothing in between, no photographic tracing of all the stages from toddler to school photographs in her uniform. I wondered why. Then it came to me. You only had early pictures and more recent ones because you hadn't seen her in between. Had no idea what had happened to her in between because she'd been adopted. Only then, when she reached eighteen, she traced you. And you found out what had happened to her: that she'd been Maurice Smith's fifth victim.
'Suddenly, it all made sense; most of it, anyway—the security you had installed and why, your daughter's “woman's trouble”; emotional and mental rather than physical, the fact that Smith had no qualms about letting his killer into his flat, and the ritual stringing up of his body.'
Her head swivelled and she glanced briefly at him, before turning back to the girl. 'I underestimated you, Inspector. You seem to have worked it out very well.'
'Frank Massey was the father?'
Her bowed head acknowledged it. 'He wanted me to have an abortion. We rowed about it, and I didn't see him again till my delayed return to college after the long summer holidays, after the birth, after the adoption. I told him I'd had the abortion he'd been pressing for.' She faltered, went on. 'He still doesn't know he had another daughter.'
Rafferty's breath suddenly quickened as he remembered she didn't know Massey was dead, that now he'd never know about his other daughter.
'I doubt I would ever have told him about her, but then Sheena — my daughter — traced me, wanted to know who her father was, to meet him. Only before I could bring myself to confess the truth to Frank, Sheena met Maurice Smith again. God knows she was a nervy enough girl before that, distraught whenever I had to leave her alone in the house. I hadn't known he had moved to Elmhurst. There was no reason I should, of course, but if I had known, I could have saved her from the trauma of meeting him again. I'd persuaded her to go shopping with the daughter of a friend of mine. I wanted to spoil her, buy her new clothes.'
She took a shaky breath and continued. 'She bumped into Maurice Smith in the town centre. Smith, the beast who raped her when she was a little girl. Sheena had little trouble recognising him: His is the face in her nightmares, after all. She became hysterical and ran home. I was at work, of course. She was alone for hours. My friend’s daughter went home and fetched her mother, but Sheena refused to answer my friend's pleas that she open the front door. So my friend rang me and I came home. She'd locked herself in the bathroom and we had to break the door down.'
Gently, she pushed the dark hair off her daughter's forehead. 'We found her much as she is now. It was only later, after the doctor had been and sedated her, that I got the full story of what had happened from my friend's daughter.'
She clutched the now empty cereal bowl and gazed at Sheena, who sat cradling a Raggedy-Ann doll in her lap, whispering to it in a lisping childlike voice.
'The doctors say she relapsed into childhood, a childhood before nightmares of Smith shattered her sleep and cloaked her days. She seems...happier there.'
Rafferty cautioned her again before she said any more. But she ignored the caution. She seemed to have a need to talk, to make him and Llewellyn understand.
'She's my only child. I'd been told after her birth that it was unlikely I could have another baby, so you can imagine my joy when she traced me. Imagine, too, my horror when, shortly after our reunion, she broke down and told me she had been another of Smith's victims. I'd had no idea till then that he'd attacked a fifth young girl.' She raised her eyes to Rafferty's. 'How did you know there had been a fifth victim? I thought no one knew.'
'Stubbs mentioned it. He and Thompson went to see Smith after the trial. He told them then. Of course, even Smith had no idea who the girl was—she was just some little girl with a fiddle. Neither she nor her parents had come forward, there was nothing Stubbs could do. There was no point in mentioning it to anyone, including you. He confirmed when I rang him this morning that you hadn't been told.'
She nodded. 'And you found yourself wondering how I knew there had been a fifth victim.' Suddenly she smiled. 'She's inherited my love of music. Piano's her thing now, rather than the violin, so I bought her the best instrument I could find. I—I hoped we could practise together.' Her voice faltered and the smile faded. 'I doubt we'll ever do that now.' Tenderly, she again smoothed her daughter's dark hair from her forehead. 'She told me she was coming out of her music lesson when Smith accosted her.'
Again, she faltered for a moment and as she went on, her voice hardened 'Her adoptive parents reacted in the worst possible way when she told them what had happened to her. At first they refused to believe her, told her she was wicked to tell such lies. Even when she recognised his face in the newspapers when he was charged with the rape of the other little girls and finally accepted she hadn't been lying, they refused to come forward, refused to let her speak of it, even. She was made to feel it had been her fault. She said they had told her she was never to tell anyone about it because it was so shameful. Hardly surprising she never got over it.'
Silence descended again. The only sound was Sheena's voice chattering to her doll. Now, in the silence, Rafferty could make out what she was saying, and he wondered how Elizabeth Probyn could bear it as Sheena whispered the same words over and over again, 'Naughty girl to tell such lies. You must be punished. Naughty girl to tell such lies. You must be punished. Naughty girl—'
'Frank Massey went missing,' he burst out, unable to stand the dreadful repetition. He wanted to get it over with, all of it and
get out of this room with its claustrophobia, its misery. 'You remember I told you?'
'Yes.'
He hesitated, then it came out in a rush. 'I'm afraid I've bad news. We found him—or rather, a Dutch farmer found him. In his barn.' Again, he hesitated, but then forced himself to go on. 'He'd hanged himself.'
She didn't seem surprised. 'Poor Frank. Ironic when you think about it. He wanted me to kill our baby; instead my actions have resulted in his death.' Sighing, she added, 'He wasn't strong either mentally or emotionally.' Her gaze rested sadly on the girl. 'I'm afraid Sheena takes after him. He couldn't take prison. I know he had some kind of breakdown. Archie Stubbs made sure I knew that; I suppose he still wanted to punish me.
'Thankfully, Stubbs was unaware of our earlier affair. After he learned that Smith had been murdered Frank was terrified that he might be charged with his killing, might end up in prison again, especially as he had no alibi. He rang me, wanted my reassurance. I did my best to convince him he was safe, that the police would believe him, that no one would think he had anything to do with it. Obviously, he didn't believe me. Perhaps I didn't try hard enough.' Her eyes shadowed. 'Maybe Archie Stubbs wasn’t the only one keen to punish the guilty and I still wanted to hurt him, to punish him for his weakness when I was young, pregnant and frightened.'
Quickly now, as though she wanted to get it over, she told them the rest. Ellen Kemp, the eldest of the three breakaway RSG women had given birth to her daughter, Jenny, at the same time as the young Elizabeth Osborne had had Sheena. They'd been in adjoining beds, and had kept in touch ever since. She told them that, by following Ellen Kemp's daughter's progress, she felt she was following that of her own daughter; the first words, the first steps, the first venture into the wider world.
‘When my daughter traced me and told me what had happened to her, I contacted Ellen Kemp for advice, in the hope that her expert counselling might help my daughter. But, after Sheena had encountered Smith for the second time in her life, it was too late, the damage had gone too deep.’
'It was then that Ms Kemp and her friends sent Smith the “outing” letter?' Rafferty questioned.
She nodded. 'Though I only learned about that later. I didn't realise they were watching his flat to make sure he didn't escape the punishment Ellen and her friends had decided upon. Ellen was the one watching the flat when I went there that night. She saw Smith open the front door and let me in. Saw me come out again, down the fire escape this time, and guessed, from what I’d told her previously, that it was Smith's body I was struggling to get down the stairs. I'd bought rubbish sacks to cover him; fitting, I thought.
'Anyway, Ellen told me afterwards that she had assumed I had simply stunned Smith. She followed me, hoping to prevent me doing anything worse. She was too late, of course. I'd already killed him at the flat. The stringing up afterwards was something, like the rubbish sacks, I just felt fitting. Symbolic. By the time she reached Dedman Wood, I had already driven off.
'Ellen took Smith’s body down and put it in the boot of her car; instinctively she felt she had to hide it. Only, of course, it wasn't her car. It belonged to one of the other women. And when she told them what she had done, they persuaded her to put the body back, without the hood or wrist binding. They panicked, hoped it would be thought Smith had killed himself. Of course, they didn't realise I had stabbed him. I can't imagine they examined him too closely, and his dark clothes would have hidden any bloodstains.'
Rafferty nodded. He had been right. The RSG women had acted exactly as he had outlined to Mary Carmody. The realisation brought little satisfaction. He had been right, too, in the supposition that it had been one of Smith's victims they had helped. Elizabeth Probyn, Ellen Kemp's friend for eighteen years and her daughter's "Aunt Beth", had been as much Smith's victim as any of the raped girls.
Llewellyn's throat-clearing broke the silence. 'There is one thing – no – two, I don't understand.' She waited expectantly. 'Why he opened the door to you and how you knew his landlady would be out that night.'
'As for the latter, surely you haven't forgotten my "treasure", my cleaning lady? I learned of the reunion from her. Her mother was going, she told me. She also told me, not once, but a dozen times, the names of her acquaintances who were also to attend the reunion. Mrs Chadden likes to talk. It gives her a perfect excuse to avoid doing any work. And, of course, by then, I'd found out where Smith lived, the name of his landlady and as much about him and his habits as possible. I knew that Thursday would be perfect.'
'It was you who rang Social Services and got his address?' Llewellyn asked and when she nodded, he reminded her of his other query.
'As far as Smith knew, Sergeant, I was a representative of the law, not a vengeful parent. When he saw me through the spy hole in his front door he didn't see me as a threat. He remembered me from the trial: I still had my old security pass in my maiden name. I showed him that, told him I was researching for a book about men like himself and the raw deal he and other victims of justice had.
'He swallowed it whole, was pathetically eager to talk. He told me that his stepfather had beaten him up that very evening when he'd gone over there to see him. He was feeling sorry for himself and wanted a sympathetic ear. I did my best to oblige.'
Rafferty, glad to learn that he had been right, too, about the beating Smith’s stepfather had administered, was only sorry that it was hearsay evidence and inadmissible.
'So, as I said, I was sympathetic, did my best to gain his trust, just as he had set out to gain my daughter's trust and the trust of those other little girls. It helped that I'm well-spoken. I don't suppose he imagined that a woman with a correct BBC accent would be capable of violence. He got quite chatty.
‘Of course, I couldn't afford to let his self-pitying rambles go on too long. I had to get back to the church hall before I was missed. I only had the interval and the last act of the play to accomplish my plan. I couldn't afford to waste time, still, I had to let him talk for a few minutes to gain his confidence. I'd brought a tape recorder with me and set it up on the table in front of his armchair.
'After a little while he seemed happy just to chat into the microphone, telling me about his grievances, while I wandered round the room. It was how I was able to get behind him. He had no suspicions. None at all. My one regret is that he died too quickly, happily pouring out his complaints into the tape recorder.'
Her gaze was steady as she met Rafferty's. 'I had to do it, Inspector, you of all people must realise that. You were right about the injustices of the British legal system. I know that now.'
Her voice was bitter, full of a passion Rafferty had never before heard in her voice. He hadn't believed her capable of such a depth of emotion.
'The law wouldn't give my daughter justice. I knew that. Who better? Maurice Smith destroyed my child, and by that act he also destroyed my belief in the law. Worse, under it all, I was conscious that I was the one who had helped him destroy her, I the one who had failed her. First at her birth, when I was too weak, too scared to stand up to my parents when they insisted on adoption. Then at Smith's trial, when by my own eagerness to make a name for myself I not only deprived those other little girls of justice, but also, unknowingly, convinced my own daughter that her adoptive parents had been right all along. In her mind, if Smith was innocent, then the rape must have been her fault. I knew I had to avenge her. No one else would.'
Rafferty placed a hand on her shoulder. 'I'm sorry.' The words were, he knew, woefully inadequate.
She made no reply, just sat, gazing at her daughter. She seemed beyond pain now; like her daughter, she had retreated from the real world. Who could blame her?
Quickly, he told Llewellyn to summon a nurse. He didn't want to leave her daughter alone. He wanted to reassure Elizabeth Probyn that Sheena would be looked after. But they both knew that this place cost a fortune. Once Elizabeth Probyn's money was gone, her daughter would be moved from this quiet sanctuary to the less-than-sanctified bedlam of a Nati
onal Health Service psychiatric ward.
He took refuge in silence. When the nurse came, Rafferty took Elizabeth Probyn's arm. Surprisingly, she didn't resist, just kissed her daughter, once, on the forehead, and allowed herself to be led away. Of course, she knew that if she resisted, if she cried or struggled she would only upset the girl.
She had done her duty as she saw it, and in so doing, had destroyed herself. Rafferty had long ago lost belief in the infallibility of the law. But she had believed in it, he knew, believed in it implicitly, even after the Smith case. But then had come the knowledge, the discovery that her own daughter had been one of Smith's victims. It had torn the foundations out of her world. She looked empty, anchorless, beyond reach. He had no choice. He had come this far, he had to go on. As he spoke the words of the caution, he had never hated his job more.
He may have done his policeman's duty, but in his heart, he still felt he had perpetuated an injustice. What made it worse was that his arrest of Elizabeth Probyn would, after all the sensational coverage Smith's murder had received in the media, mean that the investigation would get a thorough raking over from his large family. He knew they would feel he'd have done better to ignore the clues and let natural justice prevail. He couldn't help thinking they had a point. What, after all, would Elizabeth Probyn's arrest achieve apart from more misery?
Predictably, he could hear Llewellyn's answer echoing in his head, saying: it removed the stain of suspicion from others involved in the case. He supposed he'd have to be satisfied with that.
Chapter Eighteen
IT WAS MUCH LATER THAT day, after Ellen Kemp and her friends had been brought to the station and charged, when Rafferty and Llewellyn were getting ready to go home, that the phone rang. Rafferty had been prepared to let it ring, but Llewellyn, never one to ignore duty's call, picked it up. The conversation didn't take long.
RAFFERTY & LLEWELLYN BOXED SET: BOOKS 1 - 4 Page 87
