Love Lies Bleeding

by Evans, Geraldine

  ‘So what is it, then?’

  ‘I can't tell you. I promised to keep it to myself. Look, I can't talk now. I have to go. The train's in. Besides, the signal's not good—’

  Abruptly, Rafferty's mobile cut off. He stared at it in frustrated bewilderment. The sudden cut-off and the unsatisfactory and mysterious conversation that had preceded it filled him with anxiety. He rang the restaurant and cancelled the booking, wondering, as he started the car and drove home, whether he would get a black mark against his name for cancelling so late.

  He shrugged heroically. What did it matter? There were plenty more restaurants in town. Besides, he had more important things to worry about; one was the gnawing conviction that the family problem Abra had mentioned was pure invention and that he would find she had emptied the flat of her possessions and left him, having finally decided she couldn't forgive him for his lack of support earlier in the year.

  Abra's clothes were still there at least — most of them anyway, Rafferty discovered as he flung open the wardrobe doors.

  He sank on to the double bed and stared into space. What family emergency could Gloria have that required her niece, Abra's, presence, rather than that of Dafyd, her only son? And one that it was clear Llewellyn knew nothing about? What could be so urgent that it required her to cancel their special meal and go haring off into the night?

  He had thought — felt — that Abra had finally started to come round. She'd been much more loving towards him lately. His belly grew warm at the memory. But now, inexplicably, she seemed to be drawing away from him again. Surely she couldn't have taken that much offence at his thoughtless remarks about Felicity Raine's attractions? Or had that just tipped the balance away from him?

  Although he'd rung her mobile twice since the abrupt ending to their conversation, it had been switched off each time and all he had been able to do was leave messages, messages that even to his own ears sounded that note of pathos that she disliked so much. She hadn't returned either of them.

  What had he done this time? he wondered miserably as -instead of the anticipated romantic meal with all the trimmings — he contemplated a lonely evening and an even lonelier night. He had always thought Abra a reasonable woman -well, he amended, as reasonable as a man with Kitty Rafferty for a mother could think any woman. He wouldn't have thought her capable of deliberately punishing him for one unguarded remark. But he was beginning to think that was what she had done.

  He found himself clutching Abra's pillow and he pressed his nose against it, breathing in her scent. It was a way to feel close to her as he stared, hollow-eyed, through the window into a night from which all hint of the earlier warm sunset had vanished.

  By the next day, Felicity Raine had been declared fit for further questioning and, in spite of having retracted her confession, she had been charged and remanded in custody.

  During the interview, she was asked whether she or her late husband had noticed the man in the car opposite their home. She denied it; denied also receiving the note that Elaine Enderby had said she had pushed under the Raines’ door.

  This last claim certainly seemed likely to be true because after he had dispatched PC Timothy Smales to their house, he'd found this note lodged under the Raines’ front doormat.

  By Saturday, having still heard nothing from Abra, but having heard plenty from Sam Dally during the endurance test of the post-mortem and Sam's macabre and long-drawn-out descriptions of the processes of death, Rafferty was feeling increasingly desperate. So when he heard the phone insistently ringing in his office, he raced along the second-floor corridor to answer it.

  But his hope that it was Abra calling, the Abra he hadn't heard from since she'd boarded the train for Wales, was dashed as, to his disappointment, he heard Sam Dally's Highland burr at the other end.

  He covered his disappointment as well as he could by putting on a cheerful voice, unwilling to have Sam sense it and bait him. ‘Hi, Sam,’ he said. ‘I hope you've rung to tell me you've got the toxicology reports.’

  ‘They're all present and correct. Including the results of the tests on the milk in the two bottles delivered to the Raines’ on the day of the murder,’ Sam confirmed. ‘Unusually prescient of you, Rafferty, that you ordered tests on the food and drink the Raines consumed that day. Both bottles of milk had Mogadon in them.’

  ‘Mogadon,’ Rafferty repeated as he tried to quell the little burst of excitement that filled him — almost, but not quite, quelling the disappointment at Abra's failure to contact him. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I'm sure,’ Sam Dally replied testily. ‘I've got the lab results in front of me and unlike you, my dear inspector, I am capable of understanding forensic reports. And while the quantity in neither bottle was sufficient to kill the average-sized person it could certainly render them unconscious, especially if, like Mr Raine, you drank an entire pint in one go. Surprisingly, given that they're both what used to be called Young and Upwardly Mobile, neither of them tested positive for illegal drugs — or other legal drugs, either, for that matter. Tests on the blood sample taken from Mrs Raine when she was admitted reveal a quantity of the same drug was present in her system.

  ‘You might be interested to know,’ Sam added, ‘that Mogadon is a proprietary, prescription-only preparation of the Benzodiazepin drug nitrazepam used to treat insomnia -in other words, it's a powerful sleeping tablet.

  ‘Anyway, its presence in her system could explain her earlier amnesia as that's one of the potential side-effects of the drug, though I suppose it's possible that shock could also have had an effect on her memory.’

  Even as Dally mentioned the possibility, Rafferty noted the element of doubt in his voice.

  ‘It might be an idea to check with their GP if he prescribed sleeping tablets for either of them,’ Sam suggested.

  Rafferty sighed inwardly as he recognised that ‘helpful’ note he knew so well. He could practically hear Sam salivating as he added another little job to Rafferty's growing list of things to do, which, in a murder inquiry, amounted to a veritable Everest of checks and double-checks.

  At least they now had the answer to one question, and the answer had been in Felicity's favour. For when Llewellyn had contacted the Probate Office, they had told him they had received no request for copies of the wills of the deceased Raine brothers from Felicity or, for that matter, from any other family member.

  They were still waiting for the Australian police to get back to them on whether Andrew Armstrong, the third Raine-family cousin, had left the country recently.

  Llewellyn had been allocated the job of tracking down the man Elaine and Jim Enderby had said had sat in his car watching the Raines’ house; that task was still on-going.

  Although Sam's suggestion that he check with the Raines’ GP sounded a simple enough task, in reality of course, as Sam well knew, it could turn out to be extremely time-consuming. Because if the Raines’ GP replied in the negative to the question of whether he had supplied either of the couple with the drug, they would have to ask the same question of the GPs of all Felicity and Raymond Raine's friends, relations and casual acquaintances. No wonder the sly old dog was gloating …

  ‘No prescription drugs were found in the Raines’ house,’ Rafferty told Sam. He had specifically asked the team to check. Though, now I think of it, that's unusual. Most people have the remnants of prescription medication littering their bathroom cabinets for months, if not years.’

  ‘True. But maybe the Raines were just healthier than you, Rafferty. Not to mention neater, younger and, like yours truly, better-looking.’

  ‘We can't all have your rich endowment of life's bounties, Sam.’

  ‘Also true. But the late Mr Raine could certainly have given me a run for my money in the health and beauty stakes. He was one of the finest physical specimens I've had on my table for a long while. Makes you realise how many people let themselves go.

  This from the plump Dally, Rafferty marvelled. ‘Tell me, Sam, were the quan
tities of the drug found in Mrs Raine's blood roughly the same as found in her husband?’

  ‘Well no. Obviously not. If you ever listened, Rafferty, you might have heard me tell you that the husband downed a pint of milk. Mrs Raine had nothing like as much in her system, but of course she's half his weight and size so a smaller quantity would be all that was needed to render her comatose. I presume she watched her weight like most young women and wouldn't dream of drinking a pint of milk all at once like her husband.’

  Dally went on, in his ever-helpful fashion, ‘It seems to me that — if neither of the Raines was prescribed the drug by their doctor — if you trace which of their friends, relations or casual acquaintances took the drug, you could be well on your way to finding out whether Mrs Raine — or any of your other suspects for that matter — had access to it.’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks, Sam.’ Why didn't I think of that? Rafferty asked himself in silent response to Sam Dally's statement of the bleeding obvious. He was thoughtful as he thanked Sam for his earlier information and hung up.

  From Felicity's now retracted confession, to the earlier -as he had supposed — open-and-shut nature of the case, to the previous dearth of other potential suspects, everything was now the opposite of what it had first seemed.

  Raymond Raine's death had been convenient for both Mike Raine and Stephanie, yet, as he'd already noted, the only member of the Raine family who had clearly been mconvenienced (and worse) was Felicity.

  And if someone else had administered the drug to both the Raines, the question why arose. So they could murder Raymond Raine and make it look as if Felicity had killed him? Certainly, the only fingerprints found on the knife that had killed Raymond were Felicity's. Her prints — and those of Raymond and the milkman — were the only ones on the milk bottles delivered on the morning of Raine's murder and subsequently laced with Mogadon.

  Of course that didn't preclude the possibility that some third party had gained access to the house after drugging the milk and had then worn gloves to stab the drug-comatose Raymond and position an unconscious Felicity so incriminatingly on top of her husband's corpse with her hand — even more incriminatingly — wrapped around the handle of the knife.

  Rafferty didn't know whether his conjecture was correct. Still, he thought, taken with what Jonas Singleton had told them was her lack of a financial inducement to commit murder, it brought another element of doubt in the case against her.

  It would certainly be a curious thing for Felicity to deliberately take a sleeping pill before murdering her much stronger husband. Why would she take something liable to render her drowsy at a time when she would need all her wits about her? But this was one question to which he felt confident Llewellyn would be able to provide the answer. He thought he could probably guess what it would be, too.

  As by now Felicity Raine had appeared before the magistrates and been remanded in custody — and with Llewellyn still busy on the Renault Clio front — Rafferty was accompanied on the prison visit by DS Mary Carmody, who had finally been freed from her support of Stephanie Raine and Michelle, the au pair, by the arrival of one of Stephanie's cousins.

  ‘So what did you find out?’ Rafferty asked her after she had reported to his office to tell him of her discoveries.

  ‘Michelle Ginôt shares Mrs Enderby's belief that Raymond Raine beat his wife, although she said that when she suggested this to Stephanie, she ridiculed the idea. Actually,Stephanie Raine called me up to her bedroom and told me that because Michelle and Felicity had become very friendly, what the au pair said in her support of Felicity couldn't be relied upon.’

  ‘And what Stephanie Raine says in detraction can’ Rafferty murmured to himself.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Nothing. Go on.’

  ‘Michelle didn't deny that she and Felicity had become friends. Certainly, while I was there, Michelle admitted they had shared a few girls’ nights in her flat over the garage. Michelle told me she liked to cook and that she and Felicity had shared several dinners there.’

  ‘And what do you think? Do you think it likely Michelle would lie about Raymond being abusive, for Felicity's sake?’

  Mary Carmody hesitated before she admitted, ‘I don't know. It's difficult to know who to believe as they both seem to have their own axes to grind — Stephanie out of hatred of Felicity and Michelle out of friendship for a woman she believes has been grievously wronged.’

  Rafferty nodded. There again, in Michelle's support, they had the same tale from Elaine Enderby and Sandrine Agnew. But while the information Mary Carmody had provided was interesting, it did little to provide a useful pointer to the identity of the murderer.

  He rose from his seat and said, ‘You can go home and get a few hours’ rest afterwards, but first, as Llewellyn's still tied up on another strand of the investigation, I'll need you to accompany me to the prison for another chat with Felicity Raine.’

  Rafferty was keen to ask Felicity if she had any recollection of taking the drug Sam Dally had told him about.

  But when they arrived at the prison and Felicity was brought to them, it immediately became apparent that she was as unable to answer that question as she was unable to recall the physical act of killing her husband.

  ‘I don't know where I got the sleeping tablets from,’ she told him in a voice made wretched by unhappiness and frustration. ‘I don't even remember taking them, but I suppose I must have done as you say that the blood test revealed the drug's presence in my body.’

  She frowned before she slowly revealed, ‘My mother-in-law takes sleeping tablets, but I can't remember what sort. Maybe I helped myself to some from her bathroom cabinet?’

  She gave a helpless shrug. ‘I must have done so, mustn't I? I just wish I could remember that and the … the … well, you know.’ With a catch in her voice, she said, ‘I'm beginning to wonder if I'm going mad. How can I not remember killing Raymond? It doesn't make any kind of sense. Poor Ray.’

  She sighed as her eyes filled with tears. She immediately apologised for them. ‘You must think them veritable crocodile tears. It's stupid, I know, but I don't even know whether I'm crying for myself or Raymond.’ She gave a rueful, watery smile. ‘Perhaps my tears are for both of us; that our marriage should end like this, with Raymond dead and me as chief suspect. My solicitor told me I was foolish to make a confession given the circumstances.’

  A confession she had since retracted, thanks to the good offices of that same solicitor.

  Having managed no logical progression on why Felicity should have taken sleeping tablets, Rafferty decided, when he got back to his office, to approach the question of the sleeping tablets from the opposing viewpoint: why would someone choose to give the drug to both the Raines? So they could murder Mr Raine and arrange things so that it looked like Felicity Raine had killed him, as he had earlier thought a possibility? Unless he was to ignore his growing doubts and return to the belief that Felicity was guilty as charged, he could think of no logical alternative.

  But as Llewellyn often implied — more than implied — that his logic was mostly of the illogical sort, he was keen to put the question to Llewellyn and see what he could come up with. Fortunately, by the time Rafferty got back, Llewellyn had returned to the station between his various Renault Clio pursuits. And he, of course, had no difficulty in coming up with an eminently logical explanation.

  ‘I presume you've considered the possibility that Mrs Raine administered the drugs to her husband and subsequently swallowed a small quantity herself in an attempt to fool us into believing her to be no more than an innocent dupe of some third party?’

  ‘Of course,’ Rafferty was quick to agree. What his clever sergeant was implying, Rafferty told himself, was that Mrs Raine was attempting to encourage him, beguiled by her beauty as was Llewellyn's implicit implication, to leap to the wrong conclusions.

  He hoped he wasn't that gullible. He also hoped — believed — that he wasn't yet ready to dismiss any possibility, as he waspishly informed
Llewellyn.

  Llewellyn's brown eyes regarded him steadily for several seconds without comment, before he continued on his analytical way. ‘She could have acquired the drug from some casual acquaintance or via the internet as you yourself suggested, where prescription drugs are readily obtainable. She could have slipped previously crushed drugs into the milk herself, knowing her husband's daily ritual of drinking an entire pint at breakfast, waited for the drugs to take effect, killed him and only then drunk a quantity of the drug-laced milk herself, knowing traces of its presence would show up in any test. I imagine Dr Dally would have mentioned if he had been able to discern from the toxicology results whether there had been any major time difference in their separate consumption?’

  Rafferty nodded and told him that, no, Dally hadn't mentioned anything of the sort.

  ‘Anyway, as, if my scenario proves correct, there would probably have been no greater than half an hour's delay before Mrs Raine took her own draught, it seems unlikely,’ Llewellyn added.

  Rafferty again found himself agreeing. The logical mind was, he was sure, a thing of wonder. But it seemed, to him, to contain precious little humanity. No wonder — whatever trouble she had managed to get herself into — that Gloria Llewellyn was unwilling to have Dafyd find out about it.

  However, for Llewellyn, the consideration of his humanity or otherwise clearly held no deterrent to his relentless logical pursuit of the evidence. He was currently — with his wife Maureen's encouragement — studying for his upward progression on the police promotion ladder; Rafferty had little doubt that the Welshman would soon leave him trailing. It was unlikely that Maureen would be satisfied until Llewellyn reached the rank of chief constable . . ‘So,’ Llewellyn continued, ‘as that particular avenue of investigation is unrewarding, another might prove more fruitful — tracing the source of the Mogadon. Admittedly, if Mrs Raine obtained the drugs from some casual acquaintance who has since moved out of her life, we may never discover the identity of the supplier, but, on the other hand, if she obtained them on the internet …’