Blood on the Bones
Lapsed Catholic DI Joe Rafferty wasn't best pleased when he learned their latest case was at the local RC Convent, where a body had been discovered in a shallow grave in the grounds. The nuns' order was a closed, contemplative one, and access to their house and grounds, with its surrounding 8 foot high walls, far from easy.
Rafferty was inclined to think this was an inside job. Prejudiced by his rigid schooling, he didn't find it as hard as his DS, Dafyd Llewellyn, to believe that nuns were capable of murder. But then, events meant that the suspects stretched to include the nuns' doctor and the priest — who turned out to be none other than Father Roberto Kelly, ‘the greatest sinner in the parish’.
It was, for Rafferty, a difficult case from the start, not helped by the fact that he had received a blackmail letter that very morning. Convinced that one of the nuns had killed the man, Rafferty's question: ‘why’, required him to dig deep into the past and to the mores of an earlier generation.
The Rafferty and Llewellyn
Mystery Series
DI Joe Rafferty, working-class lapsed Catholic, is cursed by coming from a family who think - if he must be a copper - he might at least have the decency to be a bent one. When you add the middle-class, moralistic intellectual DS Dafyd Llewellyn to the brew the result is murder with plenty of laughs.
* * *
Dead Before Morning
Down Among the Dead Men
Death Line
The Hanging Tree
Absolute Poison
Dying For You
Bad Blood
Love Lies Bleeding
Blood on the Bones
A Thrust to the Vitals
Death Dues
All the Lonely People
Death Dance
Deadly Reunion
Kith and Kill
* * *
DEAD BEFORE MORNING
‘This often comic tale sharpens the appetite for more.’
Publishers Weekly
‘Terrific read. Loved Rafferty's relationship with his family.’
Rebecca Dahlke, Allmystery E Newsletter
‘Evans’ humour seriously added to my enjoyment of her book. The series has stand out central characters and clever plots’
Aunt Agatha's Bookshop, Ann Arbor
ABSOLUTE POISON
‘Well, this was a real find. Geraldine Evans knows how to make a character leap off the pages at you.’
Lizzie Hayes, Mystery Women
‘An ingeniously constructed plot, deft dialogue, well-drawn characters, and a few humorous touches, make this an enjoyably intriguing read.’
Emily Melton, Booklist
DYING FOR YOU
‘Evans brings wit and insight to this tale of looking for love in all the wrong places.’
Starred Review from Kirkus
‘It's bad enough being suspected of a double murder, worse still when it's your alter ego being pursued and it's the pits when you are the policeman in charge of supposedly catching yourself. I savoured this book and I'm keen to read the rest in the series asap.’
Eurocrime
BAD BLOOD
‘A spirited mix of detection, family drama and social commentary.’
Kirkus Reviews
‘Another excellent spirited mix of detection and family drama with plenty of suspects to muse over. It's another page-turner from Geraldine Evans in my opinion the English crime writing queen herself.’
R C Bridgestock
LOVE LIES BLEEDING
‘This cleverly-plotted tale has plenty of humour. It's another page-turner from Geraldine Evans and is crime writing at its best. A must for all lovers of the genre.’
Mystery Women
‘Evans concocts a plausible story with unforeseen plot twists, believable characters, and a satisfying ending. Solid fare for fans of British procedurals.’
Emily Melton
BLOOD ON THE BONES
‘Clever plotting and polished prose make for a cracking good British police procedural.’
Booklist
‘As always with a Rafferty/Llewellyn story, Geraldine Evans keeps you guessing and provides a pleasing vein of humour throughout. This is a well-plotted tale with an unusual theme. Clever and unexpected twists make the story a delight and, as always, the ending remains a surprise until the very last page.’
Mystery Women
DEADLY REUNION
‘This is another excellent entry in this marvellous series. The characters spring off the page. The dialogue is sparkling, great interplay between the two detectives, and the mystery intriguing to the end.’
Eurocrime
‘An excellent mystery. I enjoy police procedurals and picked up this latest one by Geraldine Evans. The writing is seamless, the detective work believable. The mystery goes right to the end with lots of twists and red herrings. Wonderful characters. I especially enjoyed the relationship between Rafferty and his family members and would love to see more of them in the next book…’
Booklist
Other Books by Geraldine Evans
The Casey and Catt Mystery Series
Up in Flames
A Killing Karma
Historical Novel
Reluctant Queen
Romantic Novel
Land of Dreams
Blood on the Bones
A Rafferty & Llewellyn Mystery
by
Geraldine Evans
Blood on the Bones
Copyright © 2006 and 2011 by Geraldine Evans
Discover other titles by Geraldine Evans at www.geraldineevans.com
Published by Geraldine Evans
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
This book is a work of fiction. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination.
Except for text references by reviewers, the reproduction of this work in any form is forbidden without permission from the publisher.
Cover Design by Rickhardt Capidamonte
Digital Editions produced by BookNook.biz.
eBook design by Rickhardt Capidamonte
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
About the Author
Other eBooks
Blood on the Bones
A Rafferty & Llewellyn Mystery
Chapter One
‘Nuns?’
As Detective Inspector Joseph Rafferty considered what his DS, Dafyd Llewellyn had said, he was filled with so many emotions, he was momentarily incapable of voicing any further words. Which was probably just as well.
But while he waited for one emotion to gain ascendancy, he surreptitiously palmed and pocketed the letter he had received in that morning's post. And even though he had read and re-read it a dozen times since its receipt, the letter's contents still made him go cold all over. He had been worrying about it all day and had yet to decide on a response.
Now, whether he wanted to or not, after the news which Lle
wellyn had so calmly delivered, he knew he had to put the letter out of his mind. His sergeant was still standing in front of him, presumably expecting some further response and eyeing him as if he was an exhibit in one of the museums he and his new wife, Maureen, preferred instead of having a good laugh in the pub like the rest of the team. Rafferty didn't know which of the morning's two messages was the worst: the paper one the postman had delivered or the verbal one Dafyd had just presented to him.
For the moment he was forced to put on a brave face about the latter one at least and be thankful that neither Llewellyn, nor anyone else, knew anything about what the postman had brought. So, although dismayed at Llewellyn's news, and not feeling much like it, Rafferty forced the disbelieving grin that he knew was expected, gazed at Llewellyn's serious, thinly-handsome face, and asked, with little expectation of an affirmative reply, ‘You're having a laugh. Right?’
But when Llewellyn – never one of the Essex station's jokers at the best of times – simply stood impassively, his intelligent brown gaze patient as he waited for Rafferty to face up to this latest dilemma, Rafferty added on a plaintive note: ‘Aren't you?’
Llewellyn shook his head and with the merest hint of empathy visible in his eyes, added, ‘The Mother Superior of the Carmelite Monastery of the Immaculate Conception rang the emergency services to report that one of the sisters had found a body buried in a shallow grave in their grounds. PCs Green and Smales were despatched. They've just radioed through to confirm that there is a body at the location. One that's been partially disinterred.’
He paused, clearly awaiting some further response. And when Rafferty remained silent, he added quietly, ‘It's the Roman Catholic convent out past Tiffey Reach and Northway.’
Unwillingly, as though to do so would confirm that which he would rather not have confirmed, Rafferty nodded a gloomy acknowledgement. ‘I know where it is.’
But even as he made this despondent reply, a far more likely explanation for the body's presence in the convent's grounds occurred to him and he brightened considerably. Maybe, he would, after all, be able to escape heading up an investigation into the nuns' just-discovered cadaver. The thought was a cheering one. ‘Most likely the body of one of the nuns from way-back-when, who died from natural causes,’ he told Llewellyn, unable to hide the relief his deductions had brought him. ‘Seems to me that such holy ladies, what with their vows of poverty and all, would be likely to have given their dear departed only simple interments years ago. Such burials would certainly save them plenty of the old moolah.’
Llewellyn let him down gently. 'I think not, sir. For one thing, Constable Lizzie Green said the corpse was wearing a man's watch, and one that looked expensive. And for another, from what they were able to see of the skull, she said it looked as if it had sustained damage consistent with a blow of some sort. And then, there was no coffin. The body was just laid, naked, in the earth. I don't think a group of holy and modest nuns would give one of their number such a casual burial, do you?'
Rafferty didn't. But unwilling to be so quickly deprived of his escape clause, he muttered, ‘Maybe he just genuflected too low in a bout of over-enthusiastic religious fervour and bashed his brains out on a stone floor.’ But even as he uttered the thought, he accepted that he was just clutching at straws like some desperate yokel. Llewellyn's next words confirmed this suspicion.
‘The damage was to the back of the skull, not the front, according to Constable Green and was inflicted with sufficient force for the victim to suffer severe trauma.’
He's not the only one, thought Rafferty morosely, after Llewellyn had revealed the latest details of what, as he had said, sounded horribly like a suspicious death. One moreover, that was, after all, destined to turn into his investigatory baby.
‘Lizzie Green said they've secured the scene and will await our arrival and that of the Scene of Crime team and the pathologist.’
Rafferty nodded absently, but said nothing. He was miles–years away. Back in the south London boyhood and youth that had not been improved by religion's harsh, unforgiving hand. Some of those old Catholic teachers certainly knew how to administer a caning. And he should know, having been on the receiving end more times than he could count. Strange that all that praying didn't manage to make them kinder human beings, he thought. Why, he remembered – But Llewellyn's voice dragged him back from his unpleasant memories.
‘Sir?’
The addition of the question mark to Llewellyn's address wasn't lost on Rafferty. He put his reverie behind him for long enough to go: ‘Mm?’
‘Would you like me to contact Dr Dally and the Scene of Crime team? Or will you do it?’
Rafferty waved a hand. ‘You do it.’ No way did he want to give Sam Dally a chance to laugh at his predicament. Certainly not until he'd figured out how he was going to handle it. He gazed into space as Llewellyn turned his back and picked up a phone. ‘Nuns,’ he muttered again, under his breath this time. What were a bunch of penguin dressers doing getting mixed up in a suspicious death?
And what had he done to deserve getting dumped with a case in a Roman Catholic convent? he asked himself self-pityingly. Of all the locations for their latest corpse to turn up, this really was Divine punishment at its most inspired. Any location that held even a sniff of Catholicism was normally a place to be given a wide berth by the long since and gladly lapsed Rafferty. It was grim to think he'd now have to voluntarily return to his religious roots.
Then he gave a fatalistic shrug. One thing at least: the nuns' cadaver would help take his mind off his unwelcome letter, if only insofar as a second trauma lessens the pain of the first one.
It was some minutes later, after several low and discreet exchanges, when Llewellyn put the phone down and turned round.
‘I managed to contact Dr Dally,’ he reported. ‘He's confirmed he'll shortly make his way to the scene.’
Rafferty nodded grimly. ‘I bet he can't wait. I could hear him laughing from here.’
Sensibly, Llewellyn refrained from making any comment on Dally or his amusement and just continued. ‘The SOCOs are also on their way.’ Quietly, he added, ‘As I suppose we ought to be.’
As his sergeant walked to the door and held it open. Rafferty's fatalism wore off. Now his mouth drooped downward as if he'd suffered a mini stroke. But the only stroke he'd suffered was another one from a supposedly loving God. Morosely, he thought: Oh let joy be unconfined. Because, between his unwelcome letter and the news of the suspicious death at the local RC convent, Rafferty knew deep down to his lapsed Catholic soul, that Sam Dally wasn't the man not to make the most of his opportunity. Purgatory awaited. Several sources of Purgatory, in fact.
And as Llewellyn said: 'Shall we go?', Rafferty knew that these several Purgatories were impatient for his arrival.
He shrugged heroically, like a man with an urgent appointment with the hangman, said: ‘Why not?’ Even though he could think of a round dozen reasons 'why not', he mentioned none of them.
Instead, slowly, as though doom really did dog his heels, he rose from his chair, grabbed his jacket against the lowering October skies, and followed Llewellyn from the office to meet his fate, muttering ‘Nuns!’ in tones of growing horror as he went, and fingering the letter in his pocket that seemed so hot with threat that he imagined he could feel it burning its way through the material of his jacket to singe his flesh.
Certainly, that morning's letter had already made his day far from pleasant. The suspicious death in the Catholic convent seemed likely to complete the job the letter had started. He only hoped he'd enjoyed whatever murky sins he'd indulged in a previous life. Because whatever sins he had committed in that incarnation, he suspected he was shortly to pay for them in this one.
Chapter Two
The rich black soil had been disturbed, by a fox or some other scavenging animal, Rafferty assumed. Its scavenging had exposed the left arm of the corpse in its shallow grave. It was over this limb that one of the nuns had stumbled as she wa
lked in the convent's grounds, head presumably bent deep over some devotional book.
The fast-fading light of the mild, early October evening would have provided a gentler, more welcome illumination. Denied such gentleness by the powerful police lighting that left nothing to the imagination, Rafferty stared at the grave and the stark and gruesome remains of the partially disinterred corpse. Its pared to the bone white forearm protruded from the earth and pointed accusingly to the sky, as if blaming the Almighty for his current predicament.
But even Rafferty couldn't blame the Almighty for the fact of the man's death or its location. It had been a human hand, not that of God, which had struck the killing blow and then set about concealing the body.
The bite marks left by the snacking fox were clearly visible on the bones of the forearm above the heavy, man's watch with its cracked glass. Even after its immersion in the damp soil, it was still possible to see that the watch had been an expensive one as PC Lizzie Green had said. Maybe it had been a gift and would have an inscription on the back marking some birthday or wedding anniversary?
Rafferty supposed he could hope that the latter proved to be true. But he wasn't about to bank on it.
The hands of the watch had stopped at twelve o'clock, he noted. Twelve noon? Or twelve midnight? he wondered. Had the man been killed at the witching hour, when handsome princes once again became frogs and smart carriages metamorphosed back to pumpkins? This man would be returning to nothing at all but the soil and oblivion. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. A tiny shiver passed through his body at the thought. Unless, that was, Paradise existed and he was one of the Chosen, in which case the immortals had already claimed him as their own and left his soul's shell for them.
But the religious incantations for this man's death would certainly have to wait, even if some god or devil had already whisked his soul off to eternal reward or punishment. And as his fingers thrust into his jacket pocket and he touched that morning's letter, Rafferty was unwillingly reminded of its existence. The discovery of the convent's cadaver had brought only a temporary amnesia and again his fingers drew back as if they, perhaps like their cadaver, felt the flames of Lucifer's hellish pit.
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