Love Lies Bleeding

by Evans, Geraldine

  ‘I knew Fliss more than him. She spent quite a bit of time here. I think she regarded my house as a refuge and me as some sort of stand-in mother. Though Fliss never talked about her family — I got the impression she was alone in the world. I've always found Felicity a very private person. There was something about her that made you keep such curious questions to yourself. I think she deliberately kept other people at arm's length because she was worried about what she might inadvertently let slip about her abusive marriage. Anyway, as I said, with no mother of her own in evidence and with a mother-in-law who was far from motherly, Felicity seems to have volunteered me for the job. Apart from her husband, I think I'm the person Felicity is closest to.’

  ‘Obviously, we need to contact Mr Raine's family,’ Rafferty said. ‘If you know the address of his parents, it might speed things up.’

  ‘Stephanie Raine, Raymond's mother, lives in that large, detached Georgian house on the corner of Watling Street, not far from the swimming pool. I was driving past with Fliss one day and she happened to point it out to me.’

  Rafferty nodded. He knew the house. It was a perfect period piece. He lusted after ownership each time he passed it.

  ‘It's no more than five minutes’ drive away, which most women would regard as too close for comfort when it came to their mothers-in-law. It certainly was for Felicity: Stephanie Raine — she's a widow, by the way, and a pretty glamorous one — was in Felicity and Raymond's house pretty much every day, far more often than a sensible mother-in-law would judge to be wise. She even had her own key to the front door. Felicity must often have become fed up with it and with the way she fussed over Raymond, always kissing him and touching him. She wouldn't let him alone. Inappropriate, I'd call it.’

  Elaine Enderby said that Stephanie Raine had been in her son and daughter-in-law's house nearly every day, yet clearly she had been conspicuous by her absence since her son's death, now nearly half a week past. She couldn't have shown her face, for if she had she would have found her son's body lying dead in the living room. But for it being August and the height of the holiday season, Rafferty would have found her failure to visit more than a little curious, but given the holiday aspect he didn't, for the moment at least, attach any significance to her failure to put in an appearance.

  ‘What did Felicity feel about her mother-in-law's behaviour?’ Rafferty asked. ‘And what about Raymond himself? How did he feel about it?’

  ‘I never noticed Raymond object. His mother's possessive behaviour seemed to amuse him more than anything — one of those male ego things, I suppose. As for Fliss, she rarely referred to it. She's never been one to talk about feelings much. Though I certainly got the impression that Stephanie was jealous of Fliss. I heard them out in the garden a few times during the summer when I was passing in the lane with the dogs and Stephanie could be sugary-sweet towards Fliss, but the sugar always had a double entendre taint to it. Taken one way, what she said could be complimentary, but taken another, it could be insulting. I always got the impression that Ray's mother put on an act in front of him and that she behaved in an entirely different manner when she and Fliss were alone.’

  ‘And do you know if Mrs Raine Junior was aware of her mother-in-law's true feelings towards her? And if so, did she confide in her husband?’

  ‘Oh, Fliss was aware of them, all right. She might be a pretty blonde, but that doesn't mean she's stupid. As to whether she confided in Ray …’ Mrs Enderby shrugged. ‘Somehow, I doubt it. Felicity wasn't the confiding type. I often got the impression from Fliss that she felt part of a menage à trois with her husband and mother-in-law. As I said, Stephanie Raine was always very possessive of Raymond.

  ‘But that's often the way with only-children, boys particularly, isn't it? Though she doesn't look old enough to be the mother of a man of Raymond's age. But she's not poor. Felicity told me that her father-in-law had left Stephanie pretty comfortable financially, so no doubt she's had the occasional nip and tuck to keep the years at bay.’

  After another ten minutes they had learned as much as Mrs Enderby could tell them about the Raines. Pausing to give Mrs Enderby a card and to remind her to contact them if she thought of anything else, they left the calm of her kitchen and walked back to the murder scene. But before they reached the house, Rafferty veered off in the direction of the trees that Elaine Enderby had mentioned.The soil here was still damp from the heavy rain earlier in the week; it was shaded by the trees and would receive little drying sunlight. Tyre marks were clearly visible. He pointed them out to Llewellyn.

  ‘Get one of the team from the house to take shots and casts of these tracks,’ he instructed. His gaze rested on one of the trees as out of the corner of his eye he noticed some damage to the trunk. He walked over and hunkered down. ‘Looks like blue paint here,’ he told Llewellyn. ‘I'll want more shots and samples of the paint; and this pile of cigarette butts our waiting mystery man presumably smoked will need to be bagged, too. If by some miracle Felicity Raine should turn out to be innocent, this man could be a suspect. It's clear he had a keen interest in either one or both of the Raines. I'd certainly like to question him as soon as possible, even if only to eliminate him from the inquiry.’

  While he waited for Llewellyn to return with one of the SOCOs in tow, he wondered at his own pleasure at securing a glimmer of hope for Felicity Raine. Was he, too, guilty of letting a pretty face interfere with his judgment?

  Perhaps he was, but — although she had readily admitted to killing her husband, the fact that she couldn't remember doing so left that tiny element of doubt to niggle away at him.

  Maybe she was right and she would recall the deed itself in due course. But if she didn't, he wanted to be sure in his own mind that she had killed him, rather than been set up to take the rap by some third party.

  He'd be happier when they traced the man Mrs Enderby had noticed sitting in his car in the lane outside the Raines’ home. He must have had a compelling reason for such determined watchfulness. Perhaps this mysterious, waiting stranger had had murder in mind?

  Llewellyn returned then, trailing one of the SOCOs and Lance Edwards the photographer, and Rafferty put aside his speculation.

  Time would reveal this man's identity. Maybe, when they had that, they would learn the reason for his presence outside the Raines’ home and whether he had a motive for murder. He just hoped they found him sooner rather than later.

  Chapter Three

  Rafferty called the station and arranged for Mary Carmody, his sensible thirtysomething DS, to accompany him to the home of Mrs Raine Senior to break the news of her son's violent death. He left Llewellyn to supervise the routine work at the scene.

  Only five minutes later, as Elaine Enderby had promised, they drew up outside another large, detached property. Unlike her son's picturesque, rambling riverside home, Stephanie Raine's was a conventional Georgian property with no lumps of stone meandering in a haphazard manner off from the main structure. Here all was formality and the clean lines that were Rafferty's preferred building style. The conservative simplicity of the house gave him a perhaps unreasonable hope that when she learned of Raymond's death, Stephanie Raine's reaction would be as conservative as her home and that her grief would be contained and borne with a dignity that would make his and Mary Carmody's task less harrowing than was sometimes the case.

  The oak front door was huge and pitted with scars as if it had been under siege in the past. It didn't really go with the house, but its heavy iron furniture was, like the house, clearly designed to impress. Perhaps a previous scion of the Raine family had liberated it from the local medieval priory during the Tudor years of religious plunder.

  Rafferty's loud knock on the stout oak door must have reverberated within with a resonance impossible to ignore, for it was quickly opened by a young woman who, to judge from her charming accent and eccentric English, he took to be a French au pair.

  His confidence ebbed a little at this discovery; he had hoped, after they had b
roken the news of her son's murder, that in her grief Stephanie Raine would receive the support of some middle-aged housekeeper with a body and heart as stout and native-bred as the oak door that guarded the entrance.

  Slowly, so the young woman didn't misunderstand him, Rafferty explained who they were and that they needed to speak to Mrs Raine. ‘I'm afraid we have come to break some bad news to her. Is she at home?’

  The young woman's eyes rounded in curiosity at this. But before she had a chance to do more than nod to confirm that Mrs Raine was at home, an irritable, disembodied voice floated down the curved staircase.

  ‘Who is it, Michelle?’ this voice demanded. ‘How many times must I tell you not to leave my friends standing on the doorstep?’

  As Rafferty looked up, the owner of the voice reached the first-floor-landing banister and peered over.

  Rafferty gained an impression of blonde beauty of a certain age, and recalled that Elaine Enderby had described Stephanie Raine as glamorous. She was still in her night attire — en déshabille was the expression he remembered Llewellyn had used to describe a similarly diaphanous cream silk negligee.

  ‘I don't know you,’ this vision informed him. ‘What do you want? If you're selling something—’

  `Ce sont les gendarmes, Stephanie,’ Michelle told her in a loud stage whisper. ‘They are come to crack open the bad news.’

  There was a brief silence before Stephanie Raine, her voice suddenly shrill, demanded, ‘Bad news? What bad news?’

  She didn't wait for an answer, but hurried down the stairs as quickly as her mule-heeled slippers and trailing negligee allowed.

  She was a striking woman, Rafferty noted as she reached them, even if she wasn't quite the vision of loveliness she had seemed to be at a distance. But for a woman who was of an age to be mother to Raymond, who looked to be in his early thirties, she appeared remarkably radiant, with a becoming blush to her cheeks. He looked for a sagging jaw or lined forehead and found neither, and concluded that Elaine Enderby must be correct in her suspicion that Stephanie Raine had treated herself to some timely nips and tucks.

  Mary Carmody persuaded Mrs Raine into the drawing room, which opened on to the formal entrance hall, and gently led her to a chair.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked as she waved away the hovering, touchy-feely Michelle and addressed herself to Rafferty. ‘For God's sake, tell me what's happened!’

  ‘I'm afraid the bad news concerns your son,’ he told her. ‘He—’

  ‘My son?’ she queried as if she was unable to take in what she was hearing. ‘But—’

  ‘Yes. I'm afraid Mr Raine has been involved in an incident. A violent incident at his home,’ Rafferty began.

  ‘But he's all right? Ray's OK?’

  When her questions brought only an uncomfortable silence, she stridently demanded, ‘Tell me, for God's sake. Don't sit there like stuffed dummies.’

  Rafferty cleared the frog from his throat, took a deep breath and said in a rush, ‘I'm afraid your son's dead, Mrs Raine. He died in a violent assault at his home on Monday morning.’

  ‘No!’ Something like a wail issued from Stephanie Raine's throat. She gripped the arms of her chair and stared at him with suddenly tear-washed eyes.

  Just behind Stephanie, Michelle's hands flew to her mouth and she let off a stream of shocked exclamations.

  ‘Mon Dieu. But how can this be? Monsieur Raymond, 'e was ‘ere only the day after yesterday.’ She frowned at this obviously inaccurate statement, clearly annoyed that her limited grasp of English had so deteriorated in the face of the shock of Rafferty's news. She apologised and said, ‘My English, which I have such pride taken, she vanish. Of course, it was not the day after yesterday. Quel idiot! It is not possible avec Madame en lit — in bed — with the influenza. Raymond ‘e ‘as the fear of contagion so 'e would not visit.’

  Michelle's words at least told Rafferty why Stephanie Raine had not in the last few days made what Elaine Enderby had claimed were daily visits to her son's home.

  Stephanie, perhaps affronted that her au pair's words implied her son had been a weakling, gathered herself together sufficiently to rebut the slur. ‘It's not that at all. Ray runs the family business. He can't — couldn't — her voice broke on the word — ‘afford to be ill. Now, please be quiet, Michelle. Your twittering isn't helpful.’ She pointed to a chair some ten feet distant and said, ‘Go and sit over there. I can't bear you hovering over me all the time.’

  Mrs Raine turned back to Rafferty. As she wiped the tears from her cheeks, she sat up straight and tried to compose herself. ‘So what happened? Was he attacked during a burglary?’

  ‘We have no reason to think so. In fact he—’

  ‘Just a minute,’ Mrs Raine instructed as she stared at him with a frown.

  Rafferty, who had geared himself up to the difficult explanation that Felicity Raine had confessed to killing her husband, stumbled to a halt. He wondered what was coming next. Apart from her instant correction of Michelle, Stephanie Raine had so far made little reaction to their news.

  But now, as if she had taken a few seconds to absorb what he had said, she repeated, ‘You said Ray died on Monday morning?’

  Rafferty nodded.

  ‘But, but today's Thursday.’ Mrs Raine's gaze narrowed and the shrill note returned to her voice. ‘You mean you've taken over three days to come and tell me that Ray's dead?’ She stared at him as if she couldn't believe her ears.

  Rafferty sensed that understandable fury was about to replace her grief. He quickly broke in and explained the reason for the delay before Stephanie Raine had a chance to get over her shock and unleash the rage.

  ‘He was only found an hour or so ago, Mrs Raine. We came as soon as we learned your identity and your address.’

  ‘But why didn't Felicity — his wife’ — she almost spat the word — ‘tell you my address? Come to that, why hasn't she even contacted me? Surely—?’

  ‘Mrs Felicity Raine has been in hospital.’ Rafferty was brief in his explanation while he quickly considered how much it would be wise to divulge at this time.

  ‘In hospital?’ she repeated. ‘Was she also attacked, then?’

  Reluctantly, wondering what deluge he would set about his head, Rafferty said, ‘No. Felicity Raine wasn't attacked. But she's in a state of shock and it was thought best to hospitalise her.’ Rafferty paused, again uncertain how best to proceed. How did one break the news that a woman's only son was dead and probably, given Felicity Raine's ready confession, killed at the hand of his wife?

  In the end, he decided to keep it plain and simple. Time enough later, he thought, for fuller explanations. Now, he cleared his throat and told her as plainly as he could, ‘I'm afraid there's more bad new, Mrs Raine. Your daughter-in-law has confessed to murdering her husband.’

  ‘What?’ Stephanie Raine leapt to her feet, belying her invalid status. Her eyes seemed to spark with a malevolent fury at this news. ‘You're saying that that little bitch killed Ray? Yet you're letting her loll around in a hospital bed pretending shock as if she's a grief-stricken widow rather than a vicious murderer? I can't believe I'm hearing this. Why isn't she locked up in a cell where she belongs?’

  Whatever reaction he had expected, it wasn't this loud demand for instant punishment that echoed round the large elegant drawing room. Stephanie Raine, the veins standing out on her neck, was now far from being the vision of beauty Rafferty had been deceived into seeing from the twenty-foot distance of the first-floor landing.

  She hadn't paused to ask how Felicity had explained her deed, or even if she might have had cause to attack Raymond. Her first instinct had been to curse the younger woman.

  ‘Your daughter-in-law is confused and distraught, Mrs Raine,’ Rafferty began. ‘For all we know to the contrary at the moment, Mr Raine's death might just be a terrible accident and your daughter-in-law may have confessed from a sense of guilt. But until we're sure she knows what she's saying—’

  Stephanie waved
away his explanation. ‘How did she kill him? Where?’

  ‘Your son was found in the living room with a kitchen knife in his chest. It would have been a quick death,’ he added in an attempt at consolation, an attempt that clearly failed.

  Stephanie spluttered with hysterical laughter and said, ‘It sounds an unlikely accident to me. What was she doing in the living room with a kitchen knife? God, but you men can be such fools. I suppose she used her well-practiced, doe-eyed innocent act to fool you? Wait till I get my hands on her.’ Stephanie Raine's scarlet-painted and astonishingly long fingernails curled as if in anticipation of tearing her daughter-in-law limb from limb.

  From her words, Rafferty thought it unlikely he would need too many guesses as to her likely reaction should they manage to gain the mitigating proof that Raymond Raine had been a wife beater. But perhaps he was being unfair to her; he had never had a close family member killed in such a violent manner. Unsure how best to deal with this hate-filled outpouring, Rafferty attempted to apply reason.

  ‘Please, Mrs Raine. I know you've just had a bad shock, but try to calm yourself or—’

  ‘Calm myself? Calm myself?’ she repeated in a voice that rose to equal her apparent astonishment at what she was hearing. ‘You sit there being stoical in the face of someone else's grief, and tell me to calm myself? Are you mad? Or just stupid? Have you any idea what it's like having you tell me I now have to bury Ray when only fifteen months ago I danced at his wedding?’

  She turned, snatched up a framed photograph that rested on a small side table nearby and thrust it under his nose. ‘Take a look. Such a happy day — or so everyone thought.’

  Rafferty took the picture. Felicity really was the radiant bride, her face aglow with happiness, her blonde hair crowned with a ring of tiny white rosebuds that secured a little wisp of a veil beneath. Her dress was a floaty, calf-length creation with a demure, sweetheart neckline which revealed the glint of gold and diamond at her throat.